Thyme Sullivan

Photo: Thyme Sullivan

PERIOD. TAMPON. MENSTRUATION.  

THESE AREN’T WHISPER WORDS ANYMORE (WE CAN EVEN SAY THESE WORDS AROUND BOYS NOW). YET, THYME SULLIVAN HAD TO SPELL IT OUT TO AN INDUSTRY THAT SHOULDN’T NEED AN EXPLANATION. LIVING CRUE SAT WITH THYME, CEO AND CO-FOUNDER OF TOP THE ORGANIC PROJECT, TO DISCUSS THE CHALLENGES OF BEING AN INDUSTRY LEADER, ENTREPRENEUR, MOM, PARTNER, WIFE, ADVOCATE, AND SALESPERSON WHILE ALSO BEING A WOMAN. IN 2021. THYME HIT THE FORBES NEXT 1000 WHILE TOP’S MISSION—TO BRING GIRLS AND WOMEN ORGANIC PERIOD PRODUCTS THAT ALSO KEEP OUR PLANET HEALTHY—BEGAN TO CHANGE THE WORLD. ONE GIRL AT A TIME.

The conversation begins here:

Nestlé, Pepsi, Coke. Dunkin, corporate. I’m sure you were dominated by men in these companies. 

Absolutely. Because there was no entrepreneurship when we were graduating college, you were supposed to go get a job. Looking back, my grandmother dropped out of college because she got pregnant. That’s what you did. She had a bunch of babies, because she was Catholic. That’s what you did. And it wasn’t the best path for her. Then my mom went to college, but then didn’t finish college immediately because she got pregnant. When she went to work outside the home she was met with adversity because you were supposed to stay home with your  kids. 

We thought in our generation that we were so blessed because we get to go to college and have corporate jobs, and we get to put our careers first and it would be amazing. But, in the industry I was in, it was very male-dominated and the few women who were there were so convinced that they were competing for just a few board seats, that they weren’t kind to each other; they wouldn’t help each other out. They only looked out for themselves. Guys never did that. I had some really great bosses and I had some really tough ones. 

“I remember having a boss that when I had a banner year and my male counterparts got better raises and bonuses and I asked why, he said, “You don’t need it, your husband is a Director.” ”

And I said, “That has nothing to do with it!” I was the only woman on an executive team and you know I miss the first day of school, the last day of school, both my kids’ birthdays, Halloween. It was unnecessary. I could have a meeting Tuesday or Wednesday and I would leave Tuesday morning on the earliest flight to get there in time, and then peel out of there after the meeting to get home. Whereas every other guy on my team would leave usually Sunday, sometimes Monday, and they would golf and get a steak dinner and they wouldn’t leave after the meeting. They would leave on Friday. They would be gone for a full week for a two-day meeting, every single time. 

As a woman, if you weren’t networking with your boss and everybody and spending that whole week going out for a steak and beers, which is the last thing you wanted to do with an infant at home, you couldn’t get ahead. It was just tough, it was really, really tough. I remember having my baby and I was up at 5 in the morning to run on the treadmill so that  my suit still fit. Then I have to get my kids ready and off to daycare, both of them at the time, and then it was over an hour commute and by the time I get to my desk it was 9:30 and people are giving me the side-eye like you’re a big slacker, and I’ve been up since 5 in the morning! And I thought this is not sustainable! There’s nothing about the working culture that was built around women. And I think the only silver lining coming out of this last year is that people are realizing we don’t have to be in the office all the time. I still have people asking, “Hey, do you want to have coffee?” and I’m all “No! Pick up the phone!” The only thing that drives me nuts now is no one can just pick up the phone and call someone, everything has to be set. If you call somebody and they answer they act like they just got electrocuted [laughing] and I just want to have a conversation. And every time I schedule a call it turns into a Zoom and then I have to comb my hair. 

Really what happened is when my job was eliminated, I couldn’t relocate, and again, this is a very old-school thought in business that they thought you weren’t committed to the company if you weren’t willing to relocate around the country. But my husband works here and we are from around here, and my kids go to school here. I had a good severance package and it gave me time to reflect and really think about what I wanted. I was about to start with Kimberly Clark and I know I could’ve gotten the same type of job with much better pay, because I was grossly underpaid, and I remember I had mentors and I said “I’ll do eventually the same thing I did with Nestle and I did with Pepsi and I did with Coke.” Someone who knew me very well said, “You can do it, you will do great, and in six months you are going to be bored.” It’s true. I think that happens if you always had that entrepreneurial spirit and that creative spirit. 

There’s no encouraging risk-taking in corporate America. They want you to stay in line and follow the rules. You couldn’t take a risk because it wasn’t rewarding; it just wasn’t worth it. My cofounder and I both had long careers and it was the hardest thing to untrain that muscle and take risks, to make decisions a lot more quickly and to just own it and be ourselves. 

Who was in your head while you were pushing forward with this business plan?

Sarah Blakely. Always. We were the recipients of the Red Backpack. She texts us every Monday. She’s built this community. Here was yesterday’s: “Happy Monday. Don’t be a lady, be a legend.”  I heard, ”Be a lady,” a lot. That word has a lot of mixed emotions for me. There’s nothing wrong with being gracious and kind, we should all strive to be those things. But somehow [that word] felt more like “don’t speak up” and “quiet who you really are” so I say go for the legend instead. The reason I like her is because she never said she’s the smartest person in the room, but she figures it out. She carved her own path. When people told her, “You’re gonna have to go to war to be an entrepreneur,” she said, “I don’t want to go to war, I want to build a better culture and do things differently.” She gives back. She is exactly who she is on her personal Instagram as she is in her corporate life. She has a messy life that she lets everyone in. She let everybody see her messy house during COVID. She makes pancakes with her kids on Sunday on Instagram Live. She’s just relatable. So many women look at her and they say, “I can do that too,” because he has four kids and a messy life and she’s a billionaire. So even as a billionaire you can still have a messy life and stuff still gets crazy in your household and that’s totally normal.  We had done a podcast and the host said, “he reason why this is gonna be a great podcast is because women are going to find you and Denielle very relatable and maybe they’ll get the courage to do it because you literally just figure it out.” We did. There’s been so many challenges but we’re just both very curious and both creative and both great connectors. I was just on the phone with her and talking about all these great connections because now we realize we need employees and HR and payroll and all of the things that are so far out of our sphere, so we just call other entrepreneurs. 

Let’s talk about relatable. I remember when I was young, looking up to my boss and thinking I can’t wait to rise to that level. And then I saw them as just, well, women! I thought I don’t emulate you at all. Your house is a mess. That’s not what I’m dreaming of, because I want St. John’s Suits, right?

Perfectly coiffed. And to make a life versus a living.

“I’m trying to show my daughter that I can have girlfriends and I can go to yoga. I just think that [there] was not enough permission for women to have a life outside of work. They always say “work like you’re not a parent and parent like you don’t work.” That’s insane.”

It’s just not natural. I hate the “How do you do the work-life balance?” Don’t ever use that again. That’s a lie. It’s an integration. Our lives have merged with what we do because we really love it. But that’s a really silly term. And anybody who says it doesn’t really live it. It’s not reality. 

When I read your Linkedin profile, your two-word title jumped right out at me: Speaker and Storyteller. Probably the best titles I’ve ever heard. 

I have decided that is what my next chapter is going to be. 

Nobody listens unless it’s a good story. 

Everything begins with a good story. One of the things we got with the grant from Sarah Blakely is a subscription to MasterClass. My first was with David Sedaris. I think everything is about storytelling. I remember this woman said, ‘I just wanna tell you, I greatly admire what you’re doing because I don’t know a lot of women who would put on a tampon suit and put themselves on social media. I know that took a lot of courage but what you’re doing is so important.’ Nobody would listen to us. It wasn’t until we really put ourselves out there in this very fearless way [that] people would listen. It makes it easier to have a conversation. Now it’s nothing. Because it was always just my girlfriends saying, “Tell me about this tampon business you’re going to start.” Now I would go anywhere in this suit. My husband and kids don’t even care anymore. My son is a senior in high school and I was really worried at first. Was this going to be a problem for him with his peers? But he says no, it’s making it so normal. I went to a grad party and I put a check and a card in a gift bag with one of each of our products. The girl said I love your product and your company so much. Everywhere I go, I bring a little gift bag. Our biggest sellers are our first period box and our new mom box. Our first period box is so huge because of our partnership with Girlology and really giving this present of knowledge, so she knows what’s normal and not normal. And in a community where she can ask questions because it’s scary for them. 

And the new mom box. We have had so many new moms tell us they get home from the hospital and the pads were so uncomfortable — the ones that came from the hospital — or so big and I was so unhappy. We need something that’s more comfortable and actually works. So our box has an eye mask and a door hanger and a journal.  

Why did we not talk about this for so long? Once a month for 40 years this happens to us.

We’re working with this organization of female pediatricians. They’re saying, think about when our kids are in 5th grade and they go to get ‘the talk’ and they split up the girls and the boys. Now the boys go through school and have girlfriends and know nothing about it. They end up being buyers at supermarkets and don’t know what women want. The other thing is we’re learning about single dads. They don’t know what to do. You know, 40% of marriages in the US end up in divorce and these single dads have no idea what to do. So we’re becoming a resource and changing that. There’s so many pieces of it. It was the environment. It was transparent. It was organic. It was about bringing plant-based and better quality. But then it became period poverty. Period poverty in the US is now one in every four girls have missed school because they didn’t have access to period products. Everything you talk about equality and empowerment — it’s not talking to her when she’s 30, it’s talking to her when she’s 12 and maybe missing school. I brought my daughter to one of the first donation events at a charter school and the school nurse sat her down and explained to her that she has a budget that allows her to buy period products for about the first two months of the school year. Then, her budget is depleted. If she doesn’t go to the club store on the weekend to buy products, the girls stop coming to school for a week every month because period products are not covered by food stamps and families have to make hard choices. If you’re at a charter school, somebody advocated to get you there, you care about your grades. So how do you ever have quality education and come out when you’re missing a quarter of your education? It’s insane! Every generation is making it better for the next one. These girls, the Gen Zs, they’re going to change the world. They put up with no crap. All the things that drive me crazy are going to make her successful. 

They will. One of the things we can do to help that is to stop whispering the words that our mothers and grandmothers did. Like “period” and “tampon.”

“Right. We need to amplify their voices. There is a 16 year old girl in Nevada who literally wrote the legislation to provide free feminine care in schools. She is 16. She is just incredible. ”

What we found is an even bigger part of our social impact. There’s measurable environmental impact with plastic that we’re making within communities, and then how many women we can empower by providing not just donations, but community pricing. It really does make an impact because it makes products with more dignity that are better performing, that are more comfortable, and that are sustainable. They are completely biodegradable. We can have an even bigger reach by partnering with all these different community organizations. We get calls all the time [from] girls who have done fundraisers for their birthdays. High school girls who want to supply products to their school. That’s been such an incredible byproduct of what we’re doing. Our Director of Corporate Social Responsibility and Partnerships was the Director of Healthy Communities for Providence, RI, so we did a donation to the city of Providence. Providing free feminine care had a measurable increase in attendance for girls. She’s helping us develop this program. 

It’s amazing to me that you have a Director of Corporate Responsibility in this stage of your company. 

That was one of the first things we did because it’s part of our core values.                                  

[phone rings] 

Do you need to take that? 

These calls go straight to the 800-83-tampon number.

What kind of calls do you get on that? 

Everything. That’s how we got into Wegmans. The buyer at Wegmans saw us on social media and reached out to her distributor and said, “Find these ladies and see if they want to be in our stores.”  It came through on a Friday afternoon on this number. So they called this number and I thought, Am I being punked? We had a call from a distributor in Virginia who said a college that he works with has a sustainability committee and they asked him to find organic feminine care. He said, “I googled it and found you and I can’t believe you answered the phone.” 

Our pillars are organic, it’s about being transparent, it’s about the ingredients — which funny enough, there is no transparency in this category right now, which is crazy. It’s about the giveback. It’s to make it more accessible by our retail strategy. And now we’re launching with Sprouts and we’re launching with HEB. And we’re finding with our Amazon sales the pockets of the country where we’re really strong. Now there’s all these other parts of the business with  direct to consumer and e-commerce. A lot of different places which are making it accessible because there wasn’t a chance to choose better. 

Women like you are teaching our daughters to choose better. 

It’s always been dictated for us, right? This is just the way it is. I really think there is something to them truly believing that they can change the world and do anything and everything. They’re not waiting until they get out of school to make change. There are girls all over the country that are not taking no for an answer and they’re not staying in line and apologizing. 

One of your tag lines is “Empowerment should never be a luxury.”  Where does that come from? 

I’m always asking people, not David Sedaris questions, but questions like “What is your superpower?” And they look at me like If I can’t turn invisible or I can’t fly then say “I don’t have any.” I say, “Everyone has superpowers. I don’t get bitten by mosquitoes and I always find a perfect parking spot.” If you ask somebody in a young age group, they give you such a raw and wonderful answer. It’s not always “I’m great at lacrosse.” They’ll have a much different answer. It’s a great question because I think that everybody needs to really believe that there’s something special and different [about themselves]. 

Who were the naysayers? When were you rubbing your eyes with frustration? 

It was 100% raising money. It was so awful. That first summer that we were in business,  And we thought for sure with our pedigree, you know, I had Coke and Pepsi and Nestle and [Denielle] had Kate Spade and Ann Taylor and Coach and Talbots.  we got all suited up and went out and met with probably 50 venture capitalists. We didn’t raise a nickel. Every single one said no. We’ve never had so much rejection in our lives. In 2019, 2.7% of venture capital went to women. Last year it was  2.2%. It’s extremely hard to raise money as a female. It’s probably the best thing that ever happened to us because it made us sit down and reflect on who we were talking to. They just didn’t get it. It was a bunch of young, white guys who went to Ivy League schools and all played lacrosse together. And they literally sat across from us in a very patronizing way and said “there’s already tampons.” What’s your defensibility. It was dismissive. It was horrible we actually jokingly called it “The summer of unlove.” And then we had to really dig deep. We had a friend at UMass reach out about putting an article in their magazine and she asked “do you need help?” and I said “We need money.” Denielle was like “You’re so shameless!” and I said “You know, if you don’t ask, you don’t get. They can say no.” She told us about a fund at UMass where they invest in alumni making social impact. So they ended up being the lead investor on our seed round and the rest was friends and family. So we at least had one lead that could formalize it and help us understand our valuation, and so on. They were all Angel investors. We just did a second round and what is so incredible is that now we have some traction and we could be little picky and one of our advisers introduced us to a woman in Boston who is a big angel investor and she was one of the first ones who said “hey look, this is what’s wrong with your pitch. Here’s what investors are thinking about. Here’s what you need to do differently.” She helped us craft our pitch and put us in front of groups that were mainly women who could connect with what we were doing and how we were doing it. 

Probably the worst thing anybody said to us during the first round was “You girls are mom’s, are you sure you’re going to have the time to dedicate to doing this?” And I practically had to hold Denielle down so that she didn’t jump across the table. It wasn’t very long ago. 

I can talk forever about fundraising. It’s awful, awful, awful, awful, awful, super awful for women. It’s hard and it’s super exhausting. I mean, you put yourself out there it’s really, really crazy. But I wouldn’t change it for anything. But this brand is part of what we do. But if we someday can invest in other women  and make it easier for them like they invested in us, and we can send that elevator back down--that’s when we win. If you can sit on boards--there are very few women qualified to be in boards and if you would ask me when I was at Nestlé managing a billion dollars in revenue, and asked me to be on a board I would have said “hell yeah!” but i wasn’t ready… You’ve got to develop more women that can go in and make real change on boards because it’s never going to happen with the same regime that’s out there right now. There’s never going to be business that are built for working moms and for real diversity. There’s just so much to do and it’s really hard to be doing it. But it’s so worth it. 

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TOPS WOMANIFESTO:

We believe that every girl and woman
deserves healthy, organic, tampons and pads
that are good for your bodies —and your planet.

We believe you have a right to know what goes in and on your bodies
and a period should never interfere with your ability to be the very best version of yourself.

You can swim, you can sing, you can jump on a trampoline, wear white jeans before, during, and after Labor Day.
And if the mood strikes, run a race in a tampon suit.

You can accomplish anything because you have superpowers to do amazing things.
And together, that’s just what we’ll do.

Hope Edelman

TWENTY YEARS AGO, THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR WROTE THE BOOK ON HEALING AFTER THE LOSS OF A MOTHER AT A YOUNG AGE. TODAY, SHE IS OLDER THAN HER MOTHER LIVED TO SEE, BUT THE GRIEF FOLLOWS HER AND VISITS HER LIKE A NEW, OLD FRIEND.

The conversation begins here:

I was taken aback a bit when I read in your book that a psychologist, maybe 50 years ago, questioned if children and youth are capable of being grief stricken. That seemed unbelievable. Human nature hasn’t changed so what made us, as a culture, finally decide to start taking care of our kids?

That’s a good question. We could say we’re going through a national trauma right now. There are  more than 750,000 people who’ve died of Covid to date and we’re not having the same kind of response that occurred after 9/11, when there was a surge of patriotism and everyone coming together against a perceived common enemy. Our perceived enemy now is a virus that a third of the population, or close to it, doesn’t believe is really as harmful as it is. 

I’m going to go back a little bit and talk with you about the history of grief theory, because I think that’s relevant. Back in the 19th century, grief was very much considered a social and communal experience. People came together, they mourned together, they supported the grievers. If you look at the Victorian mourning rituals they were very elaborate. The way people decorated the front door told you if a family was in mourning. Those people were handled more gently in the community. You could look at them and know that they were in mourning particularly by the way they dressed. The men wore black arm bands. The women went from black clothing to gray and purple, for high mourning and low mourning. We don’t have any of that today.

Part of the reason these rituals disappeared is because of the one-two punch of World War I followed by the Spanish Flu Pandemic of 1918 to 1919. Too many people were dying very quickly. During World War I people were dying far from home. We couldn’t have funerals with a body because people were buried at the battlefields overseas.  And with the Spanish flu pandemic, there was so much death that if people adhered to the existing mourning rituals they would constantly be in mourning. They would’ve been mourning for two or three people at once. It also coincided with the rise of psychoanalysis and Freud’s work on mourning, where it was described as an individual interior process. This was also happening as modernism came along, which was all about progress and efficiency and getting people back to work quickly for productivity. And feminism, where women were saying they don’t want to be responsible for all of the family mourning rituals. And the medicalization of death where it was moved from the home to the hospital and taken out of the religious community and undertakers into more commercial and professional funeral homes.

So all of that happened at the same time. There wasn’t one reason, it was a convergence of events. We went through that sort of as a spin cycle. and got spit out on the other side with very truncated mourning rituals and the belief that grief happens in a sequence of stages. That it is an individual interior process. We really lost the sense of communal support. 

So that existed well into the 1960s and 1970s. But around the late 1980s, early 1990s, another shift started to occur. Grief began to be viewed again as a relational process. Meaning, in relation with other people, but also in relation to the departed loved ones. Part of the idea with the psychoanalytic model of grief is that we have to break bonds with the past. We have to detach from our loved ones. We have to get over it, we have to move on, we have to leave them behind. A huge movement started around the early 1990s, which was called “continuing bonds.” Psychologist began noticing that—especially because they were noticing it in children at the Harvard Children Bereavement Study, this is the work of Bill Worden and Phyllis Silverman—they noticed that those kids were staying attached to the parents who died. Internally, they were still having relationships with them. And then they noticed that the surviving spouses were also finding a way to stay connected to the loved ones who had died. And then other psychologists started noticing this among their clients and asking questions and discovering that pretty much everyone was doing this. They just weren’t talking about it, because they had been taught that was an aberrant way to grieve.

“Now in grief there are new ideas: let’s find ways to stay connected to our loved ones who died. We have to have a new kind of inner relationship with them that we can carry forward. All that was happening right before 9/11. ”

Coincidentally, I was working on “Motherless Daughters” from 1991 to 1993 and the book came out in 1994. So it was part of that movement, though I didn’t know it at the time. “Motherless Daughters” was also all about how you don’t ever get over the death of a mother. How we learn to integrate it and carry it forward. It was a radical position to take at the time. Because I really thought, because I’d been marinated in the five stages of grief myself, that I would write this book and tell them how to get over the death of their mothers. As I started interviewing them I discovered no one was getting over it; they were still carrying this wound decades later but they had learned how to live with it. Some of them had even figured out how to leverage it into a sense of individual personal meaning and purpose. But they still went through cycles where they would have these grief spikes years or even decades later. So that was described in “Motherless Daughters” and it became part of that movement. 

Regarding 9/11, I also think, as with any nation under attack, we rallied together and we thought of all those people as innocents. They all died at once and on the same day, so that was another big shock to the system. I am intrigued and mystified why we are not having the same collective response to Covid deaths because so many more people have died. It’s been over an 18-month period, but you would still think that a culture that had at least started to offer and understand the importance of grief support back in 2001 would be rallying to the cause in 2020 and 2021. We are seeing a lot of activity in the bereavement community itself, trying to get those services out there. But it’s a slow moving ship to get people to understand that grief is something they can talk about—that these uncomfortable feelings are important to process. and that doing it in a social setting is one of the most beneficial ways to be able to carry your story forward.

Would you agree that perhaps some of this attitude about this pandemic, maybe some minds would be changed, if the stories were told more publicly? Creating some empathy and making others think well maybe this is a little bit more than what I thought. 

It’s possible, you know, when we see someone on the news or on Twitter telling the detailed story of a loved one who suffered or died. Covid deaths have happened on such a mass scale, it becomes theoretical. We are still losing something like 2,000 people a day and you know, people are saying, “Well it’s less than last year.” What are we thinking? That’s 2,000 people a day! A Penn State study said that for every Covid death there are nine close loved ones who will mourn. So 2,000 deaths a day means 18,000 mourners are being created every day in this country. That’s a staggering number. I am utterly perplexed at why there hasn’t been a greater cultural movement to not just offer broad support to these people but to try to prevent 18,000 new mourners a day in any way that we can. 

In your studies, have you seen something that you can pinpoint what makes it inappropriate to share [personal stories]?

I think it requires a willingness to be vulnerable in public. And [it’s] particularly difficult for men. I think it has to do with just the taboo and the fear of death itself. If only we knew what happened after we died. We have different pockets, you know, in this culture that have different belief systems. And some are fairly certain that they know what happens next and others are insistent that nothing happens, that we just enter the void. It’s an existential crisis to even think about it. There’s no discernible or definitive answer. And so I think when we see someone grieving because someone has died the observers then enter a state of discomfort themselves. It’s not hard to imagine being in that state yourself or your loved ones feeling that way about you. Death is the great mystery. It may be an incredible adventure. I don’t know, I don’t profess to have any idea. It’s so uncertain and unknown and ambiguous. We’re not a culture that’s good with ambiguity. I think we often just push away anything that reminds us of the ambiguousness of death. 

So we’re not there to support each other as mourners. And a lot of people are uncomfortable because they feel like they’re inadequate. They don’t know what to say. They don’t know what to do. This is where we find so many people sliding into platitudes that are incredibly unhelpful to a mourner. Like “She’s in a better place now” or any sentence that begins with “at least.” Like “At least she didn’t have to suffer” or “At least you got to say goodbye.” These are not helpful statements. For mourners, it all about just sitting and listening and saying, “What would you like to talk about?” “I’m here to listen.” or “I wish that I could lessen your pain. If there’s any way that I can do that, let me know.” Or just companioning them through grief. Even if it makes you uncomfortable as a listener. 

I’ve often read about being so overwhelmed and unprepared in a traumatic event or witnessing one, it paralyzes your brain and you just don’t know what to say or do. So we don’t. We don’t do anything. We don’t know how to deal with it anymore.

Because we internalized it so well. That coincided with the medical position of death, when it was taken out of the home and put into the hospital. People used to die at home, they were cared for by loved ones. They washed the body after death and laid it out in the parlor. Children grew up accepting death as a natural part of family life, and when it was removed and institutionalized and put in the hands of hospitals, doctors, medical establishments, and funeral homes, we lost the interpersonal connection with the death rituals. I think that’s a big part of it. It became something distant and scary. 

Mourning became pathologized at the same time. When my great grandmother lost her mother in the late 19th century, it’s hard to imagine that people told her she was grieving right or wrong. There hadn’t been studies on what was pathological or not. But starting around the 1940s and moving forward in the U.S. and in the western world—and most of what I’m talking about is in Western culture—there began to be studies on how people mourned. We started seeing terms like “absence of mourning,” “pathological mourning,” “abnormal.” These were terms that had not been applied to grief or mourning before. So when you have someone who is in aberrant or abnormal grief, that implies there is a normal way to grieve. But the normal way to grieve in this culture was to get back to work quickly. Not show your emotions. To soldier up and press forward. There’s nothing normal about that behavior. It’s normalized in the culture so that those who were really having a hard time and really missing their loved one had to hide it, suppress it. They were labeled as a pathological mourner and that’s where things got really screwy. I thought that with Covid we might see some changes. I and a number of people I know in the bereavement world have been doing our best to try to contextualize what we’re seeing so that it’s not considered abnormal. I see small, small pockets of progress. But a very slow moving ship this culture, especially when they’re dealing with uncomfortable feelings. 

You were 14 when your mother passed?

I was 15 when my mother was diagnosed with cancer and it was late stage breast cancer. It had already spread far beyond the breast at that point and she lived for another 16 months. She died soon after my 17th birthday. It was the summer before my senior year in high school. Although she was dying for 16 months, the children in the family – and she – were told that she was getting better. So we all thought that this was a temporary state of being and that we’d go back to normal. It was a big shock to the children when she died. Her decline was a very, very steep decline. It happened in the course of about a week. And so it was traumatic in that respect. Even though it was a long-term illness, the kids experienced it more as a sudden death. So there was a lot of trauma around that, especially at the end, and as a result I barely remember anything from the fall semester of my senior year in high school. 

“I always wondered, Why do I have so much white space? Friends show me photos of parties I went to and things I did and I have no memory. It’s like looking at a stranger. I realize only now that that was a trauma response. ”

That I was traumatized and I probably wasn’t storing memories properly, which happens when you’re going through trauma. I can start remembering things more in the second semester and then towards the spring of my senior year. She died and it was 1981, and there was no grief support available in the community – nothing for children at all. My extended family was not particularly well-versed in how to handle three children who just lost their mother. We were living with our father, my parents were still married. but he had had very minimal input into child-raising. It was very much a traditional division of labor. Mom took care of the house and the kids, and dad went to work every day and earned the income. So it was a very bumpy adjustment period. 

My father also drank heavily, which created a complicating factor, and was very frustrated and angry about the position that he was in. That alienated him and us from other family members because he was very volatile. So we really had to struggle through this alone. A year later I went to college. I didn’t start doing grief work for about another six or seven years. I wound up in a writing program and I started writing essays about losing my mom and then decided to write a book about it. 

It’s funny, I was reading a journal the other day, and I’m not a consistent journaler, but I’ve had spurts where I have recorded long periods, months of my life. I was going through some journals in my office recently looking for something from 1985. And I decided, I’m gonna put all my journals in chronological order. There were around 20 notebooks. And I found one – I want to show it to you just because it’s fun, right? I just found this notebook, it says, “May 18, ‘91 to August 1, ‘91 plus some 1992.” I was journaling very extensively. But in 1991 I was in Iowa city in graduate school when I was visiting my mentor, my advisor. We were talking about me potentially writing a book. I was reading this [entry] where they all want me to write this book and  it says: 

“I said yes I want to do it but the amount of work it’s likely to entail completely freaks me out. At first I went around tasting the idea as it rolled off my tongue: I’m thinking of writing a book! A book! A book! But as I speak with more people and make more contacts, I feel myself gravitating closer and closer to it as a reality. Other people get excited [and] they start counting on me; that’s a part of it, too. It’s a little like breaking my engagement [which I had done a few years earlier]. Once I told so many people I was going to do it, I felt committed to doing it like a psychological set up to turn a difficult decision into an eventuality.”

So I see the genesis of this book. I obviously was ambivalent about doing it and I was right, it was a hell of a lot of work. But clearly I decided to do it. I sold “Motherless Daughters” when I was a graduate student and the very first edition came out spring of 1994. And that’s what launched my career. I have always wanted to be a writer. I didn’t set out to be a spokesperson for early loss. I was not intending to stay in the bereavement field. I just wanted to write a book that I thought would help women. I had a Master’s in Nonfiction. I thought I would teach writing. I was in love with the personal essay and short memoirs. But the response to that book was so enormous that it swept me away and I’ve been working in the bereavement field ever since. I’m fortunate to have, I think, the most passionate and grateful and generous readers that an author could hope for. I have made many, many friends within the community over the years and worked with thousands of women. Now I lead retreats and really get to know women in a very intimate fashion. I’ve been doing that since 2016. In 2015 I became a coach so that I could work one-on-one with women and anyone who has experienced early loss. The majority of my clients are women who lost their mothers because that’s what I was known for. I am still writing and I still teach writing, but that’s more my side hustle now. The bereavement work is really first and foremost, especially post-Covid because there’s such a need for it now. I feel like with the knowledge that I have and the experience that I’ve accumulated, how can I not be out there trying to reduce suffering in the world when there’s so much more of it than there was only a few years ago? 

When you were putting it out into the world that you were potentially going to write a book, did you know what the subject was going to be?

I did, yes. I was in a writing class at the University of Iowa with Mary Swander, who is a visiting professor. She has since become the poet laureate of Iowa. She is a novelist and a poet, a non fiction writer and now a podcaster. She was teaching a course on portraiture. We would spend the entire semester researching a writing about one person. It could be a creative portrait, it could be someone we know, or someone we didn’t know. If it was someone we didn’t know, it was more of a challenge but that was completely legit. We read Gay Talese’s “Portrait of Frank Sinatra,” Joan Didion’s “Portrait of John Wayne,” you know, we were to just pick someone who you wanted to spend some time with, someone who had had an influence on you. So, because his music had been the soundtrack of my adolescence growing up in New York, just over the New Jersey border, I started writing this portrait of Bruce Springsteen. But my high school boyfriend kept showing up in the stories and then I just started writing about our relationship. Then what came up was that I had started dating him about 10 months after my mother died and my attachment to him was very much a result of still being in active grief about the loss of my mom. Having no one to talk to about it, I started writing about my mother dying. I remember going to Mary’s office and saying, “Look I’m not even writing about Springsteen anymore, he’s barely a part of the story. Should I drop the class? Should I just write about Springsteen? What should I do?” She said, “No. You just keep going, you’re writing really good material. Just keep going.”

“I said, “This is the first time I’ve written about losing my mom. I’ve been looking for a book about mother loss but every damn book out there assumes that you’re in your 30s or 40s or 50s when your mother dies. Why don’t any of them write for those of us who were children or teenagers when our moms died? I’m getting to a point where I’m so fed up I think I should just write it myself!””

I’m not even sure I really meant it. But Mary said, “If you decide to do that, I will help you because I was 21 when my mom died and I took care of her myself.” I thought OK. I have my first advocate. 

Also, my mentor and my advisor, who is a man, had been orphaned at a young age so he understood the lifelong effects of losing a parent when you were young. He helped me write the book proposal. I went to the bookstore and literally bought a book called “How to Write a Book Proposal” and I just followed the guidelines. I wrote some sample chapters. Also, my boyfriend in grad school broke up with me that summer before Mary’s class, so I just holed up in my house so that I didn’t have to keep running into him and his new girlfriend in a small town and I wrote a book proposal. So, yeah, I knew what I wanted to write about. I was clear on that from the start and the original table of contents changed a bit, but it’s pretty close. 

Mary said, “Take your tape recorder and just go out and start interviewing people. Here’s how you can find people to interview. Here’s how you put the word out.” Women were so eager to tell their stories because no one had asked them. They had been silenced. Their stories have been suppressed. I remember that summer I was teaching high school students at the Northwestern University campus and I put up – before the Internet, which makes me feel like, you know, a relic – but I put up, on a bulletin board, sheets of paper with little pull tabs at the bottom. I put one up in a café and one up in a feminist bookstore in Evanston, Illinois. “I’m writing a book about women who lost mothers when they were younger. Share your story.” I biked back the next day and every tab had been pulled on both of those bulletin boards, and then the phone calls started coming in and loading up the answering machine, because we had answering machine tapes back then. This is like a historical document! And I biked all over Evanston that summer interviewing women. I went to peoples’ backyards and in cafés and in their living rooms, and I would just push play on my tape recorder. I didn’t even have to ask questions, the stories just poured out of them because they’ve been thinking about it and they’ve been living with it for so long and no one had given them permission to tell it. And they would say “That was so cathartic; thank you so much for listening.” and the stories were beautiful and detailed. So then I would transcribe them and read the stories and use inductive reasoning. I started saying, OK well you know here is a common theme, that should be a chapter, right? hat happens when you become a mother? That should be a chapter, and how it affects your female identity, that’s a chapter, and what age you were when your mom died – that’s really important, that should be its own chapter. And that’s how the table of contents came into focus.

One woman talked about how she stopped in the middle of a crosswalk and it hit her again and she couldn’t move. 

That was me. That happened in Knoxville, Tennessee. I had just ended an engagement to a man that I really loved and wanted to marry, but couldn’t. I was too young and there were complicating factors. But I was crossing the street and I remember the sun shining on the glass building in just the right way that it blinded me, and something about that moment just made me break down in the middle of the street sobbing. I was so sad about the end of the engagement but it brought up this resurgence of grief from my mom which I had not been willing to touch for seven years. And then I went to therapy for the first time to talk about losing my mother. 

So that was your moment. How many of those have you had in and as you go through milestones in your life. Those blinding moments? 

That’s a good question. I call those episodes “new old grief.” Which is when we experience an old loss in a new way and in that moment I think it was the break up of my engagement – at the end of my engagement where I felt I had a loss of a love relationship and felt abandoned and alone. Even though I was the one who made the decision, I felt so bereft. I had had  this love attachment and it was going to unravel now. And that was so reminiscent of how I felt when my mother died that it sent me back to re-grieve a huge piece of that loss. 

Another episode of new old grief I had was when I was shopping for my wedding dress. I was driving back from a doctors appointment and I was just passing a bridal store and I thought, I’ll stop in and see if they have any dresses there. And I went in and I found my dress and I tried it on and I was all alone and there were other women in there with their mom, and their aunts, and their sisters. And I was all alone. Another moment is when I became a mother. After my daughter was born, I looked at her through the eyes of a mother and I could feel maternal love. My mother’s first child was a girl and so is mine, and she’s named after my mother. I just felt so sad,  not for me – although I was kind of sad and angry that I didn’t have a mom to help me because all my friends in my yoga class, all their moms came in to help them and I had to figure it out on my own – but I was so sad that my mom didn’t get to meet her first grandchild and that my daughter would never know her grandmother in the physical world. So that was a big grief episode. 

Another episode of new old grief, a big one for me, was turning 42 The age that my mom died. That was hugely impactful. A lot of women will delay making plans or getting married or having children until after they pass that age because they want to make sure they’re going to survive beyond their mother’s age. I was really concerned that I would get breast cancer and die at 42 like my mom. So, turning 42 and then in that year, you know, being so vigilant and feeling so fragile and  vulnerable that whole year. Then turning 43 and passing her age and becoming older than her, that was big. Because you know when I was 17, 42 seemed old. I was like oh my mom, she went to college, she got married, she had children, she did all these things that seem so distant to me I didn’t have any concept of how incredibly young 42 is. How old are the two of you? Are you older than 42? Yes? It’s a freaking baby! To me she was so old and it’s so shifted my perspective, you know? I’ve lived 15 years past my mom now and it’s incomprehensible that I’m 15 years older than my mom got to be and I’m getting to have the female experiences later in life that she never got to have. Including divorcing, which was something that I think might have happened in her marriage had it continued because it was becoming troubled toward the end. I turned 42. I had a five-year-old and a nine-year-old. She also had a nine year old when she died. It made me so sad to realize how much life my mom had missed out on and how she  really only got to live half a life. That was soul crushing for me. So, that might have been my last big “aha” moment.

One of the women in your book who pulled that little tab said she spent so much time in her childhood being the girl who lost her mother in the town she lived in. The first time she went away, she lost that identity. 

You know it’sinteresting because we talk about this at the retreats. In my case, I didn’t want to be the girl who lost her mom, so I went to college and I didn’t even tell anybody that I lost my mom. At that age I wanted to be like everyone else. You don’t want to be an object of pity or be treated special. But there is also a subset of women for whom having lost her mom and gotten all that attention makes them feel very special, and it’s hard for them to let go of that feeling of being different, and because of that, it can often shape into feeling special and like you’re deserving of special treatment. When we leave Motherless Daughters retreats—and I say “we” because I always have a co-facilitator. Claire Bidwell Smith and I did the first eight of them together and then I’ve always had co-facilitators for the others,but when a motherless daughters retreat begins, in the past before Covid, we would have 23 to 26 women at a time. The story that they’ve been carrying for a long time was often: I’m all alone, nobody understands me, nobody knows what I’ve been through. That has become part of their identity—that they are different from other women in some way. And that when they walk into a room they are always the odd one out. Then they sit in the circle the very first night, and we go around and we do very light introductions, and then the next day we get into much  deeper story sharing. But you can watch their faces and their bodies change as they discover Oh, my story is going to have to change. I’m not gonna be able to say that nobody understands me anymore because now there are  25 other women in the room who actually do understand me. Their countenances  change and you can see  relief flood their bodies— and it’s beautiful to watch. They feel like Finally, I found my tribe. One woman at a retreat burst into tears and just said, “Where have you been all my life? Where have all of you been? I’ve needed you so much.” I get teared up even thinking about that. But we share with them or we impress upon them “your story is still unique. Nobody else shares your exact story.” But yeah, it’s an identity shift when they realize oh I am one of a group now. I’m not all alone in the world with my story and my pain. 

Once you realize this is part of my identity, what do you do with that? 

It’s a good question. Well, right before Covid we were starting to create continuation programs so that these women could continue getting to know each other, and a lot of them will go into volunteer work [for organizations that] may need this kind of personal support in order to be better mentors to young people or group leaders for young people. When you do the work on yourself, you process your own emotions and then you can be much more present for the children that you’re working with. So a lot of [the women] will go volunteer at bereavement centers. Some of them choose to write their stories. Every retreat group gets its own Facebook page where they can stay in touch and they often continue meeting. They do retreats together, they do reunions, they support each other in various ways. They go to each other’s weddings, they go to their baby showers, they send gifts. They still remain a support network even if it’s not on a daily basis. 

I’d like to rewind a little bit. You spoke about going from a clinical to a more emotionally supportive transition for kids these days, and now you think of it as more than just medical support. When did that change? And are they doing it right? 

Well, I’m not well-versed in how hospice is handling bereavement services because it’s so varied, it’s so different from place to place. But I can talk with you about grief centers, which started in the 1990s. The Dougy center in Portland started in the 1980s and that is still considered the flagship grief center in the United States. But it didn’t start helping other centers grow until I think about 8 or 10 years later. I did a really interesting podcast with the current Director of the Dougy Center, and she was about 12 when her mom died, and her father brought her to some of the first children’s grief groups at the Center. I believe her mother died the same year as mine, so we had an interesting conversation about what it was like to be a teenager who had gotten that grief support and then what it was like to be a teenager who hadn’t at the same time. She had gotten so much more right with her grief and had met other kids who were grieving the loss of a parent. She didn’t go through that intense period of feeling like she can’t talk about it and she’s all alone and that made a huge difference in her world. 

There still aren’t enough [grief support centers] because there isn’t one in every town. But now they’ve had to go virtual during Covid. They’re able to reach kids who are maybe a little bit outside of their geographic perimeter and who wouldn’t be able to come to in-person groups.  A lot of these places really do a good job training facilitators, laypeople to lead the groups—people who have been through grief themselves and understand the experience. [There’s] good supervision of those volunteers in many cases. I did a training at Our House , which is the big grief  center in Los Angeles. They did an excellent job with their training and helping the kids be in a group with other kids and see that they’re not alone. The programming is often very good – the way they ease the kids into talking to normalize and validate experiences for them so that they don’t feel marginalized, at least for one hour a week. All of that, I think they’re getting right. I think what still needs to happen [relates to] our services that extend beyond the first couple of years after a loss. Most of the centers are there for you if your loss is within the past two years. Beyond that, they don’t typically have the resources to have continuation groups for very long. If you were to call a bereavement center and say, “I’m about to get married, and I’m really sad because my dad died and he’s not here to walk me down the aisle.” one of the first questions will be: How long ago did the death occur? And if you say 15 years, there’s no group for you. What you really want is to sit with other people who understand what it’s like to still be grieving a dad after 15 years and be told that that’s normal and it’s OK. Generally what they’ll give you is a list of private therapists. Even private therapists who are trained to do grief work are often very well-versed in how to handle the acute phase of grief, which is typically the first year or two, and not [the] very long arc of it. Someone may need 20 or 30 years before they feel safe enough or they’re ready enough—or they get new information—that makes them really need grief support for the first time. Grief centers are not offering that right now. I’m working on it. But it’s not there yet

Tell us about the new book that’s coming out in March. 

It’s called “The After Grief” and it’ll be released in paperback in early March. It’s going to come out on  the two-year anniversary of the Covid lockdowns and the rise of the Covid pandemic which is good timing. I believe that after grief begins when you move out of the acute phase of grief, which is full of distress and longing and confusion and disorientation. And so much emotional pain. Then you start feeling like, OK I’m reentering the world. I can find laughter again. I think joy is going to be possible. I’m learning how to integrate this loss. But it’s still there. The cultural message has been: you should be able to move on or get over it. I have people coming to me saying “I’m having trouble letting go, I can’t get over it.” So my first question is “What makes you think that you should be letting go or getting over it? And what would that look like to you? What does that mean to you?” Then we can talk about what they think grief should look like as a cultural construction. That there’s nothing in the world that says that’s the only way it can be or that that is even right or correct. 

The [book] talks about the long arc of loss and how grief is likely to keep showing up in your life decades after the loss itself. It’s about the echo effects and the long-term ramifications of losing someone you love, especially if you’re young.

I have community calls where women can join a  whole community online, women all over the world who come every Tuesday to talk about a different topic. We have a guest speaker and they share what’s going on in their lives, and if they’ve got an anniversary or birthday or a big event coming up. It’s an opportunity to let the group know and get some support. There’s an open discussion at the end where women can talk about whatever is on their minds.  It’s 90 minutes a week, every Tuesday evening and four Tuesdays a month. It started during Covid, but we’re gonna keep it going because hundreds of women signed up and [it’s a] really vibrant community that’s really getting to know each other across the miles. It’s beautiful. [I’ve] actually got to figure out a way for them to meet in person as soon as it’s safe to do that.

All over the world? 

We’ve got women joining us or signed up from Chile, Australia, Russia, Canada, Ireland, Germany, Israel, and Switzerland. A woman in Puerto Rico just joined. 

I find so much comfort in hearing you talk about how these women are supporting each other just by having the open ear to be able to say it out loud. 

Right?! Permission to talk about it. We talk all the time about breaking the silence. Some women will be with us for months before they even raise their hand to talk and others just jump right in. What they really crave is to meet, not just other women who’ve lost their mothers, but women who’ve lost mothers the same way. Women who lost moms to suicide really want to meet other women who lost moms that way, because they feel so marginalized and so stigmatized. Women who were too young to have memories of their mom, it’s a very specific kind of loss because you’re mourning the absence of someone you don’t remember having time [with]. We get testimonies from women saying, “These calls are a lifeline.” “They’ve become my anchor.” “They’ve changed my life.”  And that’s why we’re doing them. It’s an absolute joy and an honor to be able to offer that to these women. I know what it’s like to be alone. To provide it for those women and to know that they’re not going to  have to suffer for as long as other women have had to is  really gratifying.

Hope Edelman has been writing, speaking, and leading workshops and retreats in the bereavement field for more than 25 years. She was 17 when she lost her mother to breast cancer and 40 when her father died, events that inspired her to offer grief education and support to those who cannot otherwise receive it. Her work has been read by more than 1 million readers and  nearly 20K followers on Instagram @Hope_Edelman and Facebook @HopeEdelmanAuthor. She holds a bachelor’s degree in journalism from Northwestern University and a master’s degree in nonfiction writing from the University of Iowa. She is a certified Martha Beck Life Coach and has also done certificate training in narrative therapy.

Hope’s first book, “Motherless Daughters” was a #1 New York Times bestseller and appeared on multiple bestseller lists worldwide. Hope’s most recent book, “The After Grief,” offers an innovative new language for discussing the long arc of loss. She has published six additional books, including “The Possibility of Everything” Her work has been translated into 14 languages and published in 11 countries.

Lorraine Orr

A CHILDHOOD IN AMERICA’S NEWLY-INTEGRATED SOUTH PREPARED HER FOR A LEADING ROLE IN ONE OF THE LARGEST ADVOCACY ORGANIZATIONS IN THE COUNTRY. THIS LEADER CONTINUES THE CYCLE OF SHAPING TOMORROW’S ADVOCATES, BUT WITH HER OWN RULES THAT REALLY ARE JUST BLACK AND WHITE.

The conversation begins here:

Can you tell me a little bit about what that was like in the ‘60s as a young Black woman? You’ve mentioned in the past that your mother and your grandmother were big parts of your life. 

Yeah absolutely. I was born in 1966 and I was the first person in my family born into an integrated hospital. Which was, as I learned later in life, a pretty traumatic event for my mom. And I am probably one of the only people you will find with two birthdays. I was born premature. My mom tells the story about the doctor coming in that night and telling her to brace herself because “that girl you just delivered is not going to make it through the night.” So, I was born on September 28th, but since I lived 24 hours they documented my birth on September 29th. My Mom used to call me to sing happy birthday to me on September 28th. When that doctor finally passed away, I remember her sitting in the living room crying and saying “I’m glad he’s gone.”  

My mom was a teenager when I was born. I was the third of five kids. She was 15 or 16 when she and my dad were married. My brother is the oldest and I have another older sister and they [were] both born in segregated hospitals. I have a couple of other sisters that came after me. So we’re a big family in the South and just like many southern black families it was always church on Sundays and big dinners. We didn’t have a lot coming up. The first time I slept in a bed by myself was when I was in college. Three of us shared a bed. 

The South was an interesting place. I didn’t really understand a lot of it until I got older. There were things that happened throughout our childhood that showed us that we were different. We grew up in a really small town called Mint Hill, North Carolina. It’s not that small anymore, but when we were growing up it was dirt roads and I remember when the first stop light was put in. The street we grew up on was probably 10 or 12 houses or mobile homes on one side of the street were all family. My dad’s dad lived next to us and my dad’s brother lived on the other side of us. Aunts, uncles, cousins lived all the way up the street. We were all there, we grew up together and just ran paths between houses as kids. Generally, we were the only family of color because it was a pretty white community outside of the Orrs and a couple of other families. 

We were a close-knit family, all of us into sports. We grew up watching my dad play baseball almost every weekend. When it came my time to play sports, I gravitated to baseball and was the only girl on the baseball team until middle school. Being athletes shielded us from a lot of things that other people of color were dealing with in the South. But we had our situations as well.

My dad  was just a strong, quiet human being who worked hard to provide for his family. He worked hard but never missed one ball game. Baseball, softball, soccer, basketball, Dad never missed a ball game. He was a huge influence for all of us. Both of our parents were. Especially about what family really is. 

“This one afternoon I remember, three of us in the backseat of the car, Dad driving us down to the little square in town. There was a KKK rally there. They used to recruit openly in some parts of the South in the early ‘70s. I remember him looking at us in the rearview mirror and saying, “Put your heads down and don’t say anything.” It wasn’t fear, it was anger and this need to protect his children who were watching that. ”

And his eyes, as he looked at us and looked down and there’s a guy in the hood throwing pieces of paper at him and calling him “boy.”’ And I just remember when we drove out of that intersection just how angry he was. I’ve seen my dad cry a couple of times. The other one was when his dad died. 

“This one afternoon I remember, three of us in the backseat of the car, Dad driving us down to the little square in town. There was a KKK rally there. They used to recruit openly in some parts of the South in the early ‘70s. I remember him looking at us in the rearview mirror and saying, “Put your heads down and don’t say anything.” It wasn’t fear, it was anger and this need to protect his children...”

There were other times when we were riding our bikes down to the neighborhood dime store where people would run us off the road or people would throw firecrackers at us. But I will say through all the bad, our parents taught us to be strong, to be honest, and to believe in family. And that’s how I live today. I am a strong individual, connected to family. Not only my family—my dad is gone now, my mom is still living, my siblings all live in Charlotte with all of my nieces and nephews. I probably speak with my mom every other day and I talk to my sisters and brothers regularly. We stay well connected as a family because that was something that was ingrained in us. Again, we didn’t have a lot, but today it gives us something to laugh about. Most of us have done well for ourselves and are giving back in our own ways to a cause or career and to our families. 

It sounds like you did have a lot. What strikes me is your description of growing up with your family around you, big Christmases, cousins as best friends. This is a very American story. But living in the South now, in 2021, has the South changed?

I would say it has, but here are still challenges. My wife is a  blonde, blue-eyed person, who moved here from LA (and still struggles living here). We have two children, a boy and a girl, twin who turned 4 in October. There are still some issues as a gay, interracial couple, raising mixed children in the South. For example, recently, we took the kids to a pumpkin patch out in North Georgia. The kids start breaking down because they’re hungry and so we go get food and there was a communal place where everyone sat and there was an elderly white woman who was sitting next to us. She just stared at us. Finally she looks over at me and asks, “How long have you been taking care of the kids?” 

And I said, “Well, they’re mine. That’s their other Mom. But, they’re mine.” She sat there and thought about it for a second and then she looked at Candice and said, “How long has she been helping you with your kids?”

Do you think she didn’t understand or didn’t want to accept it? 

I think it’s a little bit of both. And we still get some of that. Not so much in the city of Atlanta. But when we go out to the northern parts of Georgia and other places people yell, they don’t understand the family so much. Although we had a mixed race donor, my kids present as white. But they have big curly hair. So people have a hard time understanding that depending on where we are. Usually here in Atlanta, some people will make the mistake and say, “Oh, where is your dad?” and they will say, “That’s my mama and my mommy.” So we still see some of that. But for the most part, in our circle in our community at work, people know us and we are accepted. I will say it’s still challenging, particularly after last year with the racial reckoning that happened. It was a surprise to many but not to most black folk because we knew it was under the surface. Last year brought a lot to the surface and it was a reckoning for everybody and it was interesting to watch. 

Even in our own organization—our staff has north of 200 people—we’ve been on a journey of understanding our place in the work of racial equity. Part of it is understanding our own unconscious bias and that’s just not with white people—we’ve all internalized racism in crazy ways. But being able to recognize them I think is what has changed in recent years. 

“And my experience as a Black woman who is also gay in the South has brought up some issues of intersectionality. ”

My mom and dad knew I was gay, but it was nothing we ever really talked about as a family; nobody said anything about it. My partners would come and they knew my family. I’m so grateful it’s different now and that people can speak their truths more freely. 

I have been working in Boys & Girls Clubs for north of 30 years now and being able to live my authentic self at work only happened probably 10 years ago or 11 years ago. My wife and I were just dating at the time and I wanted to keep it quiet. She just said, “I don’t live my life like that.” She coached me, “Don’t make a big deal out of it. Just say Candice and I did this over the weekend. I guarantee that it will not be a big deal for everybody else.” But it’s a big deal for me. 

And she was right. As a person born in the mid ‘60s, I had hangups I never thought I would outgrow. Then you think about the South or even our country today, and kids today are very fluid in how they think about relationships. But for a person born in the mid ‘60s, we all had a different dynamic, right? 

I always wanted to be a parent, but never really thought that having children was an option. But my wife always knew she wanted to be a mom. In her mid 20’s she had a dream about having two kids andknew their names already. We tried IVF several times, and we lost our son, Jackson, to a miscarriage at five months.   After that loss, it was so hard on the both of us and we considered adoption, but surrogacy just felt right. I’d heard about it and now most people know about it, but when I was coming up, it was something that celebrities did. But we found a wonderful young woman who carried for us in California. So our kids were born there in October 2017. 

Our kids, they ask questions. They ask about how most of the kids in school have a mommy and daddy. We explain how our family is different. They just say “cool.” And I’m sure they’ll have questions as they get older, but our job is to prepare them to be able to maneuver the world they’re in— in their reality. I have no doubt that they will do just fine. All of this is to say that the world is such a different place now. I think it’s a world that is more accepting. Is it a world that still has its own spot in the dark places? Absolutely. But I think the opportunity and the access I now have and what my children will have is a hell of a lot better than it was 50 years ago, right? 

Today, you’re a mom, an educated woman, a wife and your scope has changed. Do you find yourself feeling what your father did that day in the car?

Yes, I would imagine so. I seem to look at the world through a different lens, and that is, if people don’t understand then I have a responsibility to share my truths, right? My beliefs, my reality? I mean, not to the point where I’m going to sit people down and preach at them. Just to be authentic and honest. And there’s some people I will say whom I’ve met throughout my career who simply just didn’t know. I remember a really powerful conversation with a white woman from the South who called me in the height of everything after George Floyd’s murder and said, “Lorraine, I feel like my whole life was a lie, because the things that I’m learning now about the history of this country and what people went through — nobody ever shared that.” 

“There are some real haters out there, right? That are just this is the way our nation should look and no one else belongs here. You can pretty much sense those people. But what I’ve found is that I try to find the good in everybody. And with my kids, I try to help them understand where people may be coming from to a point, but also how to recognize red flags and how to trust themselves, because I think all women have that flag that goes up, right? ”

But yes, some anger. But, like I said, I also tend to try to educate [people] even kids. When I started my career in Clubs, I started in public housing communities in Greensboro, North Carolina. Most of those kids look like me, and many had the same upbringing that I did in terms of not really having a lot apart from families that loved them. And the responsibility was helping young people maneuver a world that sometimes would not be fair to them. But my mom, my dad, my grandmother, they all taught us that we can do whatever we wanted to do as long as were were honest. My mom, she would tell us, “I’m always going to believe you until you give me a reason not to.”

Unless, back in our day the principal would just swing by the house [laughing]. The town we lived in was really small and our elementary school principal would drive by. He would always toot the horn and wave at my mom. My mom, she was — is — strong when it came to her children. My brother had a hearing problem and I rememberone of the teachers said something to my brother like, “Are you dumb or something?” And I remember I was still at home that day while my mom drove her car down there and literally almost parked the car on the sidewalk and went and had a conversation with that principal. The respect for her and her children changed from that very moment. [laughing]. So she’s a little more aggressive than maybe I would be, but a strong woman who raised her five children and instilled great values.

She’s the youngest of twelve and is the only one living now. And just the tragedy she dealt with. Her brother, Jack, he had fallen out of a tree he was playing in as a kid and was in the hospital. In the old Black hospitals, they had bunked beds and in the middle of the night he rolled over onto the cement floor and died. And her sister was hit killed in a  a hit-and-run. He was a white man. He killed her and faced no consequences. This guy literally would drive up and down past where they grew up. It would always just wreck her every time this car drove by. We never knew what it was as kids. She never told us until we got a bit older what happened to her sister, Francis. What happened to her brother, Jack. 

You think about a woman that was born in 1945, and  my dad who was born in 1942, my mom’s mom was born in 1900. It is just so interesting listening to the stories of the other family and all of the things that they dealt with as sharecroppers. And then as families who found their way. My mom was high school educated. My dad was high school educated and went through the first year of college at Johnson C. Smith and then just left to take care of  his family and worked hard his entire life. My mom stayed home with us until I was in elementary school before she ever went to work and then, when the two other sisters came, she was working, but my grandmother was there. And every afternoon when we came home, my grandmother was there. She cooked a hot meal before and after school, and back then you just put your book bag down and pretended to do your homework and then you were out the door. That was us. People laugh about it now, but you stayed away until the street lights came on when we came home or before the street lights when you heard the grandmother calling your name. Everybody knew whose mom was calling. You dropped what you were doing and everybody took off running and  you went home and ate dinner and went to bed. 

But I always think about all the things we don’t know, didn’t know, that our parents even protected us from. In terms of the challenges they had, growing up in the ‘40s and ‘50s in the segregated South in the ‘60s. 

What would your grandmother say right now looking at you sitting where you are talking as the leader of one of the largest advocacy organizations in the country? Influencing kids that look like you and kids who don’t look like you. And what does your mom say?

Very proud. I have a hard time talking about all that I do, with family — with anybody really. It’s more about doing the right thing and really working hard to make a difference for others than it is about Lorraine Orr, the COO of Boys & Girls Clubs of America. But my mom tells me all the time how proud she is of me. But for me, it’s more about making sure that she has what she needs. 

You said when you first started in the organization you were working with kids who look like you. What do they look like today? 

“Those systemic barriers are still there, but I would say there is certainly a hell of a lot more opportunity for young people today than 50 years ago. ”

Our nation has changed in terms of demographics and we always had a nice balance of Caucasian and Black kids, but now more of a global mix of young people. When I worked in the Clubs, yes, there were home situations that were bad — there was abuse, there may have been some drug use—but nothing like it is today. The onset of social media, wow. There was bullying in the school when I was a kid. When I was in elementary school we were — my family and extended family — we were the majority of Black children in the school before busing. We grew up in a small town. We had gardens. That was me and my mom’s favorite activity. She would go to the farmers market and buy a bushel of peas and we would sit on my front porch and shell peas. 

[laughing] About four years years ago I finally talked her into doing the math on how much time we spent doing that versus 20 bucks I could pay that dude with the machine to shake them all out and then they come in a bag! Anyway, that’s for another story.

So for us in elementary school, the bullying looked a little bit different. It was our accent, our little bit of a southern drawl. It was our clothes, we didn’t have the right tennis shoes. We used to call them cheapers, the ones you could buy in the grocery store. We still laugh about the ones with the rubber bottoms. 

But today what kids deal with. The onset of social media, the proliferation of all of the things around them, not to mention the last 18 months with the pandemic and the increase of mental health crisis. When we were in school we had school counselors, nobody liked to go in there, but it was somebody that was there for you. Now, when we think about the lack of access for services for young people, it exacerbates the challenges that many of our young people are facing today. And I would say this is a dilemma or crisis for the nation, not just for young people. Not just based on zip code or socioeconomic status. This is impacting everyone, some in a much more significant way, but the effects, I believe, will be felt for decades. Particularly the increase in mental health [issues]. 

Think about the larger school districts; during the pandemic, one out of every three kids didn’t come to school at all. What that means from a standpoint of literacy and academic success? The number of young people who will not get to that magic reading at a third grade level—what are the predictions for those young people? And the issues impacting them today are so much more significant than what we faced. Regardless of how the inequities in systemic issues were created or what makes access hard for some. What kids today are dealing with, it is so much more significant. Those systemic barriers are still there, but I would say there is certainly a hell of a lot more opportunity for young people today than 50 years ago. 

So how does that change the way you approach your mission? And have you identified another Lorraine or a future leader, who is coming up in the Club now? I am using you as an adjective. [laughing]

I’ve been called worse! Mentorship today in my role is very different than it was when I was working with kids. It just so happened that recently, a young woman, Sabrina — who has to be in her 30s now — reached out to me. I met Sabrina when I opened a public housing club in 1990.  Just an amazingly talented person in her music ability and how she expressed herself. I just love this kid. I haven’t heard from Sabrina since I left 20 years ago. But recently, someone connected me to Greensboro Housing Authority for a project that I worked on and I get this note from Sabrina. It makes me cry. It says:

Good morning Ms. Orr. When I saw your name on an email that was sent to me this morning, I was elated and wanted to simply say “hello” and a few other things. You don’t understand the impact you made in my life as a child growing up in Morningside Homes.  Thank you so much for being a shining light in my life and for molding me into the woman that I am today... I love you and I’ll continue to do my best to be a mentor in the lives of underserved youth as you were to me.  Please enjoy the rest of your day!

Those are the stories, right? We’re doing this thousands of times, over and over and over. One kid at a time. You see something in them and our job is to move them along the continuum and help them remove the barriers that are there, and help them see the beauty of what this world could be. Regardless of traumatic events. But when you can help them find that ‘thing’ that propels them. For me, I don’t know what that thing was. 

For instance, I thought college was out of reach for me. I never really thought about it until my junior year or senior year in high school. I was a basketball player. A coach, Jean Lojko, from a small college in North Carolina came to recruit our point guard and talked to me afterwards. I was scared to death, but because Jean was interested in fostering my potential, I went to Greensboro College. 

I’d never been away from my family other than for softball tournaments over the weekend. Frankly, I didn’t do a great job like most of the first year, but I pulled it together. They asked me to leave because my grades are so bad aand I called another player, Carol. We met at the library and she called the president and said, “I’ll tutor Lorraine.” That was a wake up call. The coach knew I needed extra care and she and the team provided it. If I fell asleep in the classroom, she knew it by the time I got to the court that afternoon and not only did I pay for it, but the whole team paid for it. Once you make everyone pay for it, you learn quickly what you can’t do anymore!  I never had another academic issue. 

Just this past May I was the commencement speaker at the college and I am joining the board of trustees in January. My coach through college is still a very dear friend and an amazing woman and another person who was invested in me as a person not only as an athlete. 

But this note from Sabrina, it really does solidify why we do what we do at Boys & Girls Clubs professionally. And it’s not just me, there are tens of thousands of us who show up every day for the right reasons. And that is to make sure that every child that comes into the Boys & Girls Clubs has an opportunity. And it is an opportunity, right? You have to, just like me, figure out the gifts and not squander them away. 

Every kid is going to have to find that and to lean into that. And I see that happen every day with our young people. I lead with integrity —tough, but I’m fair and consistent. And I remind people every day that there are not many people in America who get to wake up everyday and have the opportunity to change the trajectory of a nation. We have that opportunity. The question is, what am I going to do with it? I know it can feel like it puts pressure, and I like the right amount of pressure, that is going to make things move. So mentorship today is also about the leaders that I leave behind in this organization and how they lead. My job is to prepare them, and my legacy to this organization is going to be what I’ll leave behind. “What has Lorraine done?” I ask myself this question all the time. 

When I am done, is this organization going to be better because of my leadership? That’s the legacy move. And it has to be about what I do with the people and how I position this organization going forward. The strategy part of it, the constant pivoting around how the organization should function — some people call it a constant state of change — but it’s a constant evolution because young people and their needs evolve every day. Our affiliates don’t have time to wait for us to get our stuff together. We have to lead. That’s what I teach my team to do every day. Lead with integrity, lead with purpose. And this is all about the mission. Every decision I make, every decision, is through one lens. And that is: What is best for kids? And that’s from hiring to firing, to strategy, to operations. I will never ever waver from that. 

Lorraine Orr serves as Chief Operations Officer for the Boys & Girls Clubs of America. She leads field services and activities across the Boys & Girls Club Movement, with a focus on strengthening the capacity and sustainability of Clubs. She is also responsible for the Movement-wide advancement of youth and Club metrics; programs; and child safety and protection strategies. In addition, she oversees leadership development for Clubs and BGCA national staff.

Bevin Mugford

Photo: Bevin Mugford

UNSPEAKABLE LOSS. UNENDING GRIEF. A MOTHER LOST HER SON. SHE FOUND HER WORDS AND BEGAN TO WRITE A STORY THAT WILL CHANGE THE COURSE OF THE REST OF HER LIFE.  

By Bevin Mugford

It was the second 24 hours. 

The wind and rain swirled outside, and the sky was a melancholic gray.  I sat wedged into the corner of an oversized chair with my knees hugged into my chest.  Looking out the window, I studied the whitecaps as they danced across the surface of the water. The low drone of a helicopter sounded in the distance.  

I looked over to see the Commander enter the room followed by several officers, each wearing a different colored uniform signifying the agency they represented. I searched their faces for a sign of what was to come, but they gave nothing away. I stood and slowly followed the group up the dark and narrow staircase to the second-floor briefing room.  

As I took my place at the table, I felt my body settle into the cold plastic chair, but I also felt a part of me depart to become a witness to the scene unfolding.  I observed two sets of parents anxiously waiting in the silence.  I saw the Coast Guard Commander organizing and distributing papers around the table.  I noticed the officers beside him deliberately avoiding eye contact with each other and with me.  

The Commander started speaking in a low, monotonous voice, not unkind in tone, but with carefully selected phrases and measured pauses.  I listened as he described the hours of the search in detail and held up maps with multi-colored grids crisscrossing the waters of The Sound. He explained that each color represented the search path of one of the 17 vessels deployed on the water or in the air to find my son.  He spoke about the sonar capabilities of the cutter, and pulled out tide charts, current graphs and water temperature readings.   

“As he droned on, a voice inside my head cried out Why are you spending your time telling me about search areas and the capabilities of your equipment?  You’re wasting precious daylight, get back out on the water and search for my son!  But my mouth could not speak the words vibrating in my mind.”

My attention returned to the Commander as he explained the effect of hypothermia on a body submerged in 52-degree water for a prolonged period.  As he spoke, a devastating awareness landed squarely in the center of my chest.  This wasn’t a simple update.  The Commander was building a case for calling off the search.  And then I heard the words:  

“Survival is very unlikely.”  

Silence fell. I looked up and stared at the Commander.  The voice inside my head still wanted a fight, but the awareness in my chest made it hard to breathe.  My arms, legs and feet felt pinned down with the truth he spoke.  But I did not cry.  Crying was acceptance, and I was not ready for that yet.  I slowly stood up, put on my armor of denial and walked out of the room with desperate hope as my welcome companion. 

Miles of road passed by in the dark as I drove home.  Alone. No conversation. No radio for company.  Just silence as an internal wrestling match raged between acceptance and denial.  A deep cold settled into my core.

Arriving home, I climbed the stairs to my bedroom and leaned against the door jamb for support as I slid to the floor, slowly peeling off my sweatshirt and jeans, still damp from the rain.  

I sat. 

Unfeeling. 

Unseeing. 

Alone. 

Naked.

A shaking began. Uncontrollable spasms originating in my core and continuing out into my extremities.  A violent shuddering that would not stop.  As I climbed into bed, the shaking continued.  I tried to burrow deeply under the covers, but I couldn’t escape the tremors.  

I shook.  

Alone.

In the dark.

Staring into the blackness of the night.  

Suddenly, the shaking stopped, and a heat that began in my feet spread through my body. Even my earlobes and fingertips warmed. A sense of calm replaced the seizure-like spasms.  And then I spoke these words softly aloud,

“Spencer is gone.”

The knowing in my body allowed me to speak the truth.

Laying in the dark, eyes open but unseeing, I felt an urgent, almost visceral need to drop deeper into the moment. I knew something transformative was happening, but I didn’t know what.  And I was unsure of how to fully surrender.   

I sat up, switched on the light and fumbled through my bedside table looking for something to write on. Finding a notebook and pen, I furiously wrote until I filled two pages. And when I was finished, I put my pen down, closed my eyes and leaned back on the headboard to rest.

I had never written like that before.  

Two pages. Words of pain. And of gratitude. Words that began to tell the story of Spencer. And words that began to reveal my own.    

As I reached over to place my notebook back in the drawer, I felt a fundamental shift in my internal awareness. I was now a Loss Traveler. And there was a journey ahead. I could see the path laid out before me, though I could not tell where it led. And I knew there was a story that wanted to be told.  

Bevin is author of a weekly “Saturday Meditation” blog and a to-be-published book chronicling her journey through child-loss.  She also writes and hosts a weekly chat series called “Thursday Thrive” where she explores the intersection of our personal and professional lives in the pandemic/post-pandemic era.  

In her day job, Bevin is a speaker, executive coach and training facilitator with over 15 years of experience in leading people, building high-performance teams and creating innovative learning solutions. A Mom of 4, Bevin is a nerdy researcher, meditation novice and CrossFit junkie.  You can follow her writings on Instagram @bevin.Mugford or Facebook @BevinMurchisonMugford and connect with her professionally on LinkedIn @BevinMugford.

Tracey Noonan

ALZHEIMER’S DISEASE SLOWLY ROBBED TRACEY’S FATHER OF HIS MEMORY, OF THE LIFE HE BUILT WITH HIS FAMILY, OF THE RELATIONSHIPS HE FORGED THROUGHOUT HIS LIFETIME. FOR TRACEY, THE DISEASE ROBBED HER OF THE PRIDE SHE SOUGHT FROM HIM THROUGHOUT HER OWN LIFETIME. 

My father Ed, passed away from complications due to Alzheimer’s Disease the Saturday before Easter. Ironically, the day he died was also his 80th birthday.

My relationship with my dad had been rocky to say the least. I was the oldest of three. The only girl.

“My dad refused to send me to college because I was a girl. To say he was a bit behind the times would be an understatement. So imagine the chaos I created when I came home one evening and announced I was pregnant. I was barely 20 years old and not married.”

My mother told me I had to leave the house and that I was a disgrace. My father called me a whore.

I was devastated. My dad was everything to me. As a little girl, I couldn’t wait for him to come home at night. He worked at Polaroid and was one of Dr. Land’s right-hand men. That made me so proud!

My dad was handsome, funny and had a ton of friends. All of whom seemed to have very successful children. My dad would brag about these kids from the other families as if taunting us to keep up with the Joneses, in an academic and business sort of way.

But here’s the irony. By refusing to pay for me to go to school and further my education, he put me in an almost no-win situation. After all … what kind of career does a high school kid pursue in order to stay in the running with these young, upwardly mobile and indulged opponents?

Well … I’ll tell you. 

I managed to start several businesses, on my own while raising kids, on my own.

I was a successful commercial photographer in Boston, working in the advertising industry. I had become a sought-after commodity because of my skill and ability to work with and photograph children.

I bought my first house all by myself. Surely Dad would be proud. Not exactly. Apparently, I bought in the wrong part of town. Not near the country club. I worked even harder to show him what I could do. Well, until digital photography came along …  with no equipment and no computer skills, I was a dinosaur overnight.

Next.

I started and ran an animal talent agency in Boston and worked with all kinds of animal talent for television, print, and the big screen. That is, until it became more of a hassle than it was paying. I don’t think this even qualified in my dad’s mind as a viable career choice. I’m sure he wasn’t bragging about this at the table while out with friends.

Next.

I got my human and equine massage therapy license and worked on riders and their equine partners. Again I was busy but not able to support 4 people. To my father it was another fluff job. Not a career.

Next.

I got my salesperson and then broker’s license to sell real estate. Business was booming until the crash in 2006-2007. Too bad. This was a business he understood and respected. Of course, I didn’t own my own brokerage, so it wasn’t quite good enough. Bummer.

Next.

I got my salesperson and then broker’s license to sell real estate. Business was booming until the crash in 2006-2007. Too bad. This was a business he understood and respected. Of course, I didn’t own my own brokerage, so it wasn’t quite good enough. Bummer.

Next.

I started writing. This I loved. It was creative, liberating, and a way to live vicariously through different people in varying situations. I controlled their universes and their destinies.

Hey, I might have been onto something … but it happened again. Life interrupted. My daughter Dani was diagnosed with Bi-Polar Disease. I needed to find a way to spend time with her, to be sure she was okay. And it was because of this, Wicked Good Cupcakes was born.

From 2011 to the present day, I have busted my ass to build what has become a national brand.

We are the largest shipper of cupcakes in the US. We appeared on Shark Tank.In the 9 years after that episode aired, we made more than $35,000,000 in sales. I have been to the NY Stock Exchange. Rung the bell at the NASDAQ. I have been on countless television shows, met amazing people, traveled all over the country. I’ve been a semi-finalist for three years in a row for the Ernst & Young Entrepreneur of the Year award. I’m represented by Big Speak in LA and travel all over to speak to aspiring entrepreneurs like myself. I’ve franchised my business. We’ve made the Inc. 5000 Fastest Growing Businesses for the past two years. The first year we came in at 511. (So close!) Google has chosen Wicked Good Cupcakes to be a part of this year’s Economic Impact Report, representing Massachusetts. I’ve worn the Red Sox World Series rings and have held the trophies. We were the company that Ellen DeGeneres’ team chose to celebrate her 60th birthday with this year. And this past June my business was acquired by brand Hickory Farms for millions. I’m retired (in theory) and have seemingly no worries.

I could literally go on and on.

I bet you’re wondering what Ed thought of all of this? Well. It was all just a little too late.

“My dad had Alzheimer’s Disease. By the time my family figured it out, his mind was compromised.”

We moved both my parents back North from Florida. My husband Scott and I moved my folks into a home we bought, specifically to have the room to care for them. I hired help. We cared for and financially supported them for almost two years. My success allowed this to happen. And my dad never knew.

Last night, while talking to a friend from my early twenties, she reminded me of a time when we were sitting out at Castle Island on a big rock. I was isolated from my family. I had two young kids and not much else.

She told me that out of the blue, I said, “I’m going to be a millionaire someday.” It was totally random. I had no education and no job. My friend MaryAnn said, “I know you will.” I honestly don’t remember that day, but MaryAnn is as straight up as they come, so I believe her. It made me smile.

I thought about that call and what I had allegedly said all night. I woke up thinking about it. Could it be that I wanted success, not only for my dad but for myself and my kids? Don’t forget, my dad wasn’t really a big part of my life anymore.

Maybe I wanted to be successful for reasons other than pleasing my father and competing with the country club kids. Maybe I knew it was something I needed to do for myself. I like to think so.

The lesson learned:wanting success and financial security is a good thing. Wanting success and financial security for approval and love is not.

My success came later in life. But with it came the security and jobs for my family and our awesome (wicked awesome) co-workers. That’s a very good thing.

Funny that I don’t feel like I’ve “made it” yet. I probably never will. The man whose opinions mattered the most to me is gone.

And now that he has returned back “home” and has shed that dreadful disease, maybe he will finally see the good I’ve done and that I am an equal along with everyone else. Maybe he’ll see that money and success don’t make the person. That’s an intangible quality that is innately within.

In looking back, for me, my greatest success was being there for him when he needed me the most. The rest is just the icing on the cupcake jar.

RIP Ed. I love you and miss you like crazy.

Tracey Noonan is the CEO and Co-Founder of Wicked Good Cupcakes, Inc. along with daughter, Dani Vilagie.

***Wicked Good just recently has been newly acquired by privately held brand, Hickory Farms.

Tracey has been an Ernst and Young Entrepreneur of the Year finalist for three years running and is a public speaker, mentor and champion for women owned and operated startups. Tracey also has written a single camera episodic Tv Pilot, with standup comedian friend, Juston McKinney, titled, “What The Family” and two full-length feature films, “Circus Mom” and “Lime Twist,” all three which are being shopped around Hollywood.  Tracey can be followed on her podcast, “Don’t Call me Cupcake” on Apple and Spotify.

Chana Snyder

IT TOOK DECADES FOR CHANA SNYDER TO BE COMFORTABLE CALLING HERSELF AN “ARTIST.” BUT WHEN HER BODY DECIDED TO GO WITH THE “CANCER PATIENT” INSTEAD, SHE HAD TO FIGHT AGAIN TO RE-DRAW THAT LABEL. 

By Chana Snyder

I am an artist. It’s taken me 30 years, give or take, to realize this label and wear it with any measure of confidence. Of course, the multitudes of my life mean wearing other labels as well, and most of them I do so gladly: writer, mother, spouse, hockey fan. Others I wear less enthusiastically. Adult child of an alcoholic. Cancer survivor.

As the saying goes, it’s the journey and not the destination that makes life fulfilling. My journey to creating fine art is full alright: full of overgrown paths and switchbacks and other would-be obstacles. Looking back over the journey shows me how, despite all of life’s better attempts to cover it up or peel it away, the artist label just keeps sticking.

*****

The pencil tin has a vintage, almost other-worldly feel. Of course, the pencils and their case are other-worldly. They are artist-grade Derwent watercolor pencils, imported from England. I am 14, the youngest child of a low income family on Cape Cod. Money is tight in our house. There are few to no circumstances that justify the expense for nice and indulgent things like these pencils, and I know this. I stare at them endlessly, lost somewhere between the luxury and improbability of owning them

I know that I can’t just stare at the pencils, that I must actually use them. I will use them. I am in my fourth summer at the Children’s School of Science in Woods Hole, finally enrolled in the coveted Biological Illustration course reserved for high school students. I’d matured past the Marine Biology and Geology courses that I’d taken as a bookish and gawky pre-teen and was so ready to explore the intersection of science and fine art.

During those all-too-quick weeks, I insatiably consume the instructor’s lessons for rendering anatomy and creating visual records of the natural world: the curve of lily petals, the way light drapes over a scallop shell, the pattern of a monarch’s wings. One of the drawing techniques we learn is pointillism, the tedious hell-on-earth experience of interpreting form and light and shadow with hand-drawn dots. The instructor balances the technical challenge of the lesson with an easy subject matter, pea plants, but still. Dots. One. At. A. Time. I am in heaven. Without realizing, I have let go of the expectations that are shaping me and am leaning on my strengths to do something exciting and enthralling and just for me. I am creating artwork. Real artwork, that exudes skill and confidence and creative essence that I didn’t know was possible.

Summer ends, and I begin high school. Navigating the social and academic traps of being a teenager takes over. Any thought I might have had of pursuing artwork gives way to honors classes and college prep. Outside of school, my home life crumbles into a sinkhole of dysfunction. With my parents’ divorce on the fast-approaching horizon, there simply is no space in my life for anything so seemingly indulgent as fine art. My pencils stay in their tin case.

“Two decades later, I’m a stay-at-home mother of two young kids. I’d gone to college, started a career, married, started a family, and checked off all the boxes of how I’d ever imagined my adult life. I’ve let parenthood and domestic life swallow me, let some of my personal labels fade, but it’s a tradeoff I’m willing to make to break the cycle of dysfunction that smothered my own childhood. Most of the time, my days are busy and my heart is full.”

One day I come across my watercolor pencils and other materials from Biological Illustration. It all stops me in my tracks. The tin, a bit worn now, is a time machine, and transports me right back to being 14. The wondrous feeling of creating work from my observations of the world instantly floods my mind. I stare at the pencils, lost somewhere between nostalgia and possibility.

I know that I can’t just stare at them, that I must actually use them. I will use them. 

*****

“Chana, it’s positive.”

“What is?”

“The test results, the biopsy. It’s cancer.”

“Wait, what? Whose test results? Who has cancer? Mike, what are you talking about??” 

“On September 14, 2012, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I was 35 years old. No family history, no risk factors. I’d never smoked, nursed both my kids, done all the right things. I had no reason to ever even consider that any serious illness, let alone a life-threatening one, would gain entry into my world.”

In the span of that brief phone call, I learned the sickening, tingly, tense sensation of my fight-or- flight response, because I was instantly in the fight of my life. For my life. In one violent motion, my diagnosis ripped away all the labels of my mid-30s persona and replaced them with another: cancer patient.

Or so I thought. As the days following my diagnosis turned into weeks and I circled the wagons of friends and family around me, it became a coping mechanism to hold fast to those labels, hold fast to the things that made me Me. I gripped them close, and refused to let cancer take any of the space I’d reserved for these good and treasured parts of my life.

I was so scared. But I was still me.

I began journaling, because that’s what writers do, use words to make sense of the world. I tended my family in all the ways I knew, because that’s what caretakers do. We hosted Thanksgiving, because we always have and I didn’t want that year to be any different. I didn’t miss a single hockey game with my kids, because hockey is...hockey. If you know, you know.

Lastly, I made a vow to do right by 14-year-old me, who reveled in the drawing skills she learned in Biological Illustration. Skills that had unlocked amazement in her own capability, but that she’d abandoned to survive the gauntlet of high school and the disintegration of her family.

I hate it. I hate all of it. The appointments, the consultations, the phone calls, the updates to family and friends, the IVs and blood draws. Sharing the news with people I don’t want to hurt. Well- meaning doctors and nurses, who want to see me well but have lost touch with their inner patients. How creatively can we torture you, body and mind, all in the sake of imaging and diagnostics? The back-handed compliment that ‘you have beautiful pelvic anatomy’ as the ultrasound tech maneuvers the probe between my legs. Learning from the plastic surgeon that breast conservation, such a great option and so important to so many women, may leave me disfigured. The all-too casual comment that ‘your kids will really have trouble when you lose your eyebrows.’ What about me? What about the trouble I’m having already? Or that I will have when my hair, thick and lush and my defining feature since my first breath, falls out and IS GONE?

How will I be? My tears blur the keyboard and monitor, both beautiful feats of technology that my husband dutifully bought this week out of sympathy and helplessness. Yes, a new computer. Yes, new bedroom furniture. Anything, everything to temporarily make this go away. What he can’t make go away is that my hair will go away. My breast will go away. What of me will be left?

Nine years later, there’s plenty of Me here. Some old Me, some new Me, but all Chana.

No two people go through cancer — or survivorship — the same way. I have good days and bad days. Cancer left its mark on me physically and mentally. It took a few years to wade through the raw anxiety and trauma while I relearned how to feel safe in my own body and within my life. When I wasn’t drowning in fear, I was crushed by survivor’s guilt. I leaned heavily on my therapist who helped me learn to accept my survivorship and live each day with gratitude.

And I clung to the labels of my life just as I had during treatment. My identity was my life raft. I had to focus on my life and not the illness that threatened it. Parenting. Housework (so much housework). Hockey games. And art classes.

The promise I made to my 14-year-old self was top of mind as I settled into post-cancer living. I could no longer put off this thing that was so enriching and fulfilling. That promise buffered many of the insecurities I felt trying my hand at visual art. Imposter syndrome, anyone? It also drew out my 14-year-old determination. Just like Teenager Me, I was determined to learn, determined to grow, determined to survive.

Ironically, my pencils stay in their case. In that first adult art class the instructor introduced us to soft pastels, a dry medium of pure pigment, pure color, pure magic. Pastels are forgiving, immediate, multi-faceted. Exactly what I needed, when I needed it. The tactile nature of the medium is what I love most. Each color of each brand has a slightly different feel, and those nuances of touch make up the essence of the expression and storytelling a pastellist infuses into each piece.

Practicing artwork has taught me to take risks. Make mistakes. Trust myself. It’s shown me how to focus on the big picture and find the values. It’s helped me shed my perfectionist tendencies and not get lost in the details. That label — calling myself an artist — is more like a patch, one that healed and helped me become whole.

Chana Snyder, of Evegreen Artworks works exclusively in pastel. She is a self-taught artist, but has been mentored by artists which include Ruthe Sholler and Donna Rossetti-Bailey. Chana set up her first studio in 2019. Her work has been shown all over Boston’s South Shore as well as on instagram @evergreenartworks and at www.evergreenartworks.weebly.com. 

Lori Childs

IN THIS EXCERPT FROM HER SOON-TO-BE-PUBLISHED MEMOIR, LORI REVEALS HER FIRST MEMORY OF THE ABUSE SHE SUFFERED AT THE HAND OF HER FATHER. READER, KNOW THIS: ANGELS APPEAR AT THE END.

Trigger warning: The following story contains content about child abuse. Please take care while reading.

By Lori Childs

I remember the first time I was beaten by my father. The pictures in my mind lie much deeper than my skin, and unlike my skin they are impossible to shed. These images are an intrinsic element of my fabric that, although I did not realize it then, is the scaffolding of my resilience.

My parents, my brother and I were leaving Disney World in Florida after a long day of waiting in lines for food, rides, and the bathroom. One accomplished magical feats on these rides, like flying over Neverland (only to bear witness to Captain Hook being dismembered as his hand is devoured by a crocodile). I still cringe when I think of spinning on gigantic teacups, practically at the speed of sound, only to leave the ride reeling and wanting to yack on the first creepy, white-gloved, wide-eyed character that approached me, whom I truly believed was once a puppet but was now miraculously a  real boy. As if this wasn’t traumatic enough, we were surrounded by babes of capitalism who shrieked like the Furies at decibels no human ear should rightfully endure, until they got the stuffed beast or mountainous confectionary concoction that their hearts desired. I myself wouldn’t dare ask for what I wanted because (a) I lived in a “NO!” household, and (b) it would not be until the ripe old age of 26 before I found my voice and permitted myself to use it.

So the first pummeling. We left the park in a hurry. It was supper time and my father could not bear the thought of paying Disney prices to feed his family. The plan was to drive to my Uncle Itch’s house who lived in the Orlando Metropolitan area. His name was Ishmael, or Ish for short. When I first learned to speak I interpreted his name as “Itch,” and it stuck. My mother, my brother, and I were secondary thoughts as he raced to the very end of the parking lot (which may as well have been in China) toward the car to avert his hypoglycemia turning him into Godzilla. To match his pace, it felt as if we had to leap like gazelles to catch up. We finally reached the car when I proclaimed that I had to go to the bathroom. Infuriated, he wondered why I didn’t go before we left the park, when he demanded my brother and I do so. 

“I didn’t have to go then,” I said, quivering in my flip-flops.

With pursed lips, a clenched jaw, and lasers shooting out of his eyes he said, slowly enunciating each word, “You. Will. Have. To. Hold. It. Until. We. Get. To. Uncle. Itch’s. House!” He then got in the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and peeled wheel out of Disney World.

“I couldn’t hold it. I peed on the back seat of my father’s 1972 Hunter Green (metallic), gas-guzzling Buick Electra 225 (Custom Limited). Even the interior was green, all but a few faux-wood paneled accents. I was in the nylon brocade back seat of shame, praying that he didn’t discover what I’d done and rub my nose in it like he did when he housebroke the dog.”

The horror of what ensued was far beyond imagination. So he could confidently navigate to his brother’s place, he pulled into a gas station then circled into the back to retrieve the Florida map in the pocket behind the passenger’s seat. He noticed the dark, wet ring expanding under where I sat—and lost it. 

With fire in his eyes, he began shouting in my face like a drill sergeant, enlightening the immediate circumference of the gas station on why I was an “irresponsible little bitch who refused to go to the bathroom at the park, and had planned to piss in his new car instead.” The over-modulated tone and misogynistic epithets might not have been so bad had he not been foaming at the mouth and catapulting spit as he verbally tore me a new one. For reasons I wouldn’t understand until years later, my father was deathly afraid of the dentist. He never went for bi-yearly cleanings, and his oral hygiene had much to be desired for he rarely brushed his teeth. The maintenance of the yellowish-greenish tiles in his face consisted of loudly sucking decaying food from his gums, which likely remained from days before. Sometimes he improvised flossing by gliding the top edge of a matchbook cover between them to remove the impacted bits of post-chewed whatever that caused him discomfort in the moment. I once saw him remove his own molar while he was sitting in the living room watching “Hawaii 5-0.” I thought he was picking something out of his back tooth with his fingers as he wiggled, twisted, and slightly moaned, his eyes never leaving the glowing box across the room. Then out came the molar along with a terrific splattering of blood, which he kept sucking and slurping until it clotted. He then deposited the excavated molar in the ashtray on the coffee table in front of him. This was neither here nor there as he continued to shout at me in the gas station parking lot. Having a putrid-smelling mouth barking an inch or so from your face, while excreting spit and who knows what else, is just not fun.

Then came the flying fists. Yes, plural. The fists of a grown man in his 30s who still proudly displayed his high school ring, and that of his Knights of Columbus membership. The high school ring, I feel, symbolized the last great year of freedom he had before he “knocked up some broad” (not my mother), which became one of his badges of narcissistic resentment that he wore as if it were on a Boy Scout sash. 

As the full force of his fists contacted my body, the sting shocked my system so that it became difficult to breathe, much less know where I was in space. My poor little body had never before absorbed such pain, disrespect, and mistrust. The face was the worst. As his enormous Popeye fists came at me, they overpowered me and always found the path through my own arms’ feeble attempt to cover up and protect myself. I can only describe the feeling of being pounded in the head over and over again as metallic. Like an anvil uncontrollably soaring toward you from all directions, and your hands shackled, unable to stop it. The rings certainly amplified the experience. Imagine the diamond head on one of those machines at a mall kiosk that etches sentiments into glass or pewter as it personalizes future yard sale fodder, slicing open your flesh. 

Cut flesh doesn’t immediately hurt. When oxygen reached the open wound, the onset of extreme stinging and the blood from, in this instance my split lip, may as well have been battery acid oozing from my face. It tasted tinny and felt like a burning, red stream rippling down my throat. To make matters worse, my father was a heavy smoker. The brocade material of the car seats was already infused with the stale residue of filterless Lucky Strikes and Captain Black pipe tobacco. When he’d had quite enough, I rested my muddled brain against the back seat, which had a vertical stitch at about every two inches. This created folds in the nylon brocade into which my child’s heart and underdeveloped bladder wished to crawl and hide forever. I’d hoped that escaping into the folds would bring me to the Happiest Place on Earth. Anywhere but Disney World. In fact, years later I discovered that this place was without a doubt the Williams Sonoma Outlet.

What kept me present was the faint smell of toxins from the Buick’s exhaust, along with gasping for air as I seemed to be drowning in my own body fluids. The acrid odor of his foul breath lingering in my nasal passages, mixed with the acidity of the stale tobacco resin seats caused my bruising face to feel as if it were burning right off, especially as the excreting tears and blood and snot and fear began to coagulate and encrust in and around my mouth. As predicted, he was indeed rubbing my face in it.

Although I clearly sensed that I didn’t sign up for this, the enormity of the attack was much too much for a little kid to comprehend. It was ground into the fabric of my soul as dirt becomes one with a baseball uniform on a proper slide into home. Where was my mother? This was too heavy a backpack for me to carry — I was four years old.

I came to the realization in college that I’d also been repeatedly sexually abused by my father. Flashbacks surfaced, which led me to find an angel in my life when I connected with Cheryl, my body psychotherapist. Through a grueling nine years of reliving and processing the abuse, and ultimately realizing how my inner child had protected me for years, I forgave my father, embraced myself, and found my voice. The journey of taking back the parts of me that were stolen without my permission, and shedding that which no longer served me well, was triumphant. That is incredibly powerful. 

My mother was an only child and she was spoiled by her own father. Like many women, back in the ‘50s, she moved from her house to her husband’s house. She wasn’t able to find the base of her own power. She still is very childlike. She never became an adult. My father liked little girls—I believe that childlike quality is what attracted him to my mother. That was their dynamic. 

My mother did not know know what to do about the abuse I was suffering. I remember when I was in the second grade, my parents had a horrible fight, yelling and screaming at each other, before I went to school. I asked my mother “are you going to get a divorce?” I was so hopeful. She said “Maybe.” I was so full of joy. I skipped to school that day. The crossing guard commented “Wow, you’re happy today” and I said “Yes! My parents are getting divorced!” I was so overjoyed. Every year, the only thing I wished for on my birthday was for my parents to divorce. Of course, my mother didn’t have the confidence in herself to be able to do that.

“I am a joy warrior. I’ve experienced the depths of absolute horror. It’s because of this horror that I feel I can appreciate joy a lot more in life. I believe that when you’re that desperate in life and you ask for help, there are angels that come into your life. That continues to happen to me. ”

I was blessed with my husband because we have fun all the time. We are on a mission to consciously have as much fun as possible. We’ve taken our children cross country four times in our camper. This is an absolutely beautiful world with extraordinary surprises around every corner if you turn off the television

This is the first time Lori Childs has told her story outside of her circle of friends. She doesn’t get caught up in her story, she says, she is a joy seeker and looking forward. Lori is a board certified Structural Integration practitioner and lives in Massachusetts with her husband and children. The seek out joy through adventures around the country, as often as possible.

Bonnie Marcus

YES, AGEISM IS REAL. NO, WE DON’T PREPARE OURSELVES FOR IT. MAYBE, JUST MAYBE, WE CAN CHANGE THE WAY WE LOOK AT AGE IN THE WORKPLACE. BONNIE MARCUS DID. BECAUSE BEING A WOMAN, SUBURBAN HOMEMAKER, MOM, AND DIVORCÉ IN THE ‘80S WASN’T ENOUGH OF A BATTLE. [INSERT EYEROLL]

Bonnie Marcus

I started taking ballet lessons when I was four years old. By the time I was six, I was convinced that I was going to be a ballerina when I grew up. Yeah, I know. Many young girls have this dream. It’s nothing unusual. But I didn’t just see myself as the Sugar Plum fairy, I lived it and at the time, everyone encouraged me. At least, for a while. Because, after all, I was six. 

I brought my ballet shoes with me everywhere and offered to dance for friends, relatives, strangers at every opportunity. At my cousin’s wedding, I approached the band leader and requested that he ask everyone on the dance floor to sit down so I could perform. The band played some sweet music, I donned my little pink shoes, and did my thing. One hundred and twenty-five guests politely sat down and watched me dance. 

“How cute.” 

“Such a talent.” 

Their praise didn’t go unnoticed. But really what they meant was, “how precocious”. And I only say that because it’s not politically correct to call out a six-year-old as badass. But truth be told, I was.

I look back now at my six-year-old self and feel great affection for her. That little girl was confident, poised, and wholeheartedly believed she could be whatever she wanted to be. She was ready to conquer the world. But it didn’t last. As the years passed, I buried my badass self for decades to please others.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve definitely had some badass moments, but I recognize that I shortchanged myself on many occasions so people would like me. My fear of failure and rejection also caused me to withdraw. I questioned my talent and purpose. I kept myself small and suffered the consequences personally and professionally.

As far as being a ballerina is concerned, that dream ended over time as my family and teachers warned me that I would never make it as a ballerina. I didn’t look like one. My breasts were too big, my legs too short and at that point in time, pre-Twyla, you had to look like a classic Russian ballerina or sayonara. There was no exception. 

As I entered middle school and high school, I was very self-conscious. The onset of puberty resulted in extra pounds and If there’s one way to kill your badass mindset as a tween or teenager, it’s being chubby. Add braces to that and my confidence was shaken just at the time I became interested in boys. It was painful. But what is very clear to me now is that this was a turning point. I lost my badass self for many years from that point forward. 

With my ballerina dream crushed, I floundered. I was lost in the need to please. I got A’s in high school, even a couple of A+’s, and was the consummate good girl, doing extra credit projects and seeking approval for my work. I thought about being a doctor (now that would have been a badass move) and started college pre-med. Then I considered becoming a sociology professor. But I ended up getting a master’s in early childhood education, marrying, having two children, and teaching kindergarten in the suburbs. I stayed in my good girl comfort zone.

I’m trying not to judge myself too harshly but one reason I got married right out of college was because it was ‘the right thing to do’. My mother convinced me I had to have children before 30 and my parents were horrified that I was living with my boyfriend, future husband, in grad school. Does a good girl do that? No. 

I retreated to my comfort zone without any knowledge of who I really was. I married a good guy, but he was a powerful personality and often overwhelmed me. I was too young. I never lived on my own. Now I was a wife, mother, kindergarten teacher. Yet something started rebelling inside me that I couldn’t ignore. A part of me was screaming to break out of the mold, discover who I was, and explore my potential. I felt stifled and small. Of course, looking back, I realize that I let all that happen to me because I didn’t know myself, because I lost my badass self.

I did a gutsy and most would say foolish (and they did, by the way) thing and filed for a divorce. On my own at 34 with two young children and a job that didn’t pay the bills, I left the security of a marriage to start a new life. It was really hard. I agonized over breaking up my little family but the strong need to find myself prevailed. I moved out of our big beautiful house with the kids, bought another modest house around the corner and looked for a job. 

I interviewed for a medical secretary position. That didn’t go so well. Despite practically begging for the job, I was rejected. But I obviously impressed them because they called me back two weeks later and asked if I wanted to interview for another job. They were opening a cardiac rehab center with a healthcare management company and 30 doctors and needed someone to run it. Was I qualified to do so? No way! Did I let that hold me back from going to the interview, nailing the interview, and getting hired? No way!  My badass energy took over. After a year and a half running that local center, I was promoted and managed 11 centers up and down the east coast. And that was the start of my business career. Pretty badass, right? I was emerging from my good girl cocoon out of the need to survive.

I eventually rose to the C-suite and ran a national company. I helped a healthcare tech start-up raise $18 million in venture capital and managed a large sales team for several companies. I’ve held executive positions in sales and management. When doors opened, I jumped through them. I know all this sounds wonderful, but don’t get me wrong, there was plenty of drama and there were many missteps along the way, especially as a single mom.

“I lost out on promotions. I was let go a couple of times. But here’s the thing: I never let the bad times derail me. Sure, at times I was devastated by failed relationships, failed jobs, poor business decisions, and life in general. Yet my optimistic badass self eventually prevailed every time.”

I started my own business as an executive coach in 2007, wrote two books, and currently write for Forbes and host a weekly podcast, “Badass Women at Any Age.”

Being a badass doesn’t mean I have confidence and bravado 24/7. OMG no. I’m human. We all suffer losses along with the wins. But being a badass to me means owning all of it and emerging stronger because we acknowledge all of our experiences, good, bad, and ugly.

I finally own who I am, warts and all. It’s taken decades to let go of the driving force to please others and find the freedom to be my authentic self. I finally own with pride that I’m a badass. 

And by the way, I’m dancing and performing again.  

Award winning entrepreneur, Forbes contributing writer, and executive coach, Bonnie Marcus, M.Ed., assists professional women to successfully navigate the workplace and position and promote themselves to advance their careers. With 20+ years of sales and management experience, Bonnie’s extensive business background includes CEO of a ServiceMaster company and VP of Sales at Medical Staffing Network and two others national companies in the healthcare and software industries. She has held executive positions in startup companies and Fortune 500 companies. Bonnie started her corporate career at an entry-level position and worked her way up to the top of a national company. Her passion is now to help other women embrace their talent and ambition and step into their full potential and workplace power. Bonnie shares her message globally through speaking engagements, live and virtual workshops, blogging, and her popular podcast, Badass Women at Any Age.

Bonnie’s book, The Politics of Promotion: How High Achieving Women Get Ahead and Stay Ahead, provides a roadmap for women to navigate the complexities of the workplace and position themselves for success. Her second book, Not Done Yet! How Women Over 50 Regain Their Confidence and Claim Their Workplace Power, shines a light on gendered ageism in the workplace and gives women the tools and the voice to defy ageist assumptions to stay marketable and keep their job. 

A certified coach, Bonnie has been honored by Global Gurus as one of the world’s top 30 coaches in 2015-2021. She has been acknowledged as one of the top 100 keynote speakers in 2018 by Databird Research Journal. Bonnie received a BA from Connecticut College and a M.Ed. from New York University. 

Bonnie’s website is www.BonnieMarcusLeadership.com. She can be reached by email at Bonnie@BonnieMarcusLeadership.com and on Twitter and Instagram @selfpromote. Read her articles on Forbes at www.forbes.com/sites/bonniemarcus. Her podcast, Badass Women at Any Age is available on Apple Podcasts.