The next shift–the seismic shift that ultimately changed everything– occurred when my son was six months old and the cancer mom had been living with for twelve years–mutated into a form that was incurable and imminently terminal. That was when I realized I was living in a house of cards of my own creation.

Up until that moment, I was still holding everything and doing a pretty damn good job. But when we learned that the person who was my primary support and cheerleader (even though she lived hundreds of miles away) was going to die, my foundation cracked.

And when my foundation cracked, the lurking shadow of the childhood trauma that I had somehow managed to hold at bay for my whole adult life, settled on and in my chest. Like a giant black hole.

It is shocking to me now that for three more years I was able to rally my energy, focus and capacity to show up at work and help carry our vision forward. No one knew that I was crumbling from the inside. That adrenaline, cortisol and anxiety fueled me (and intense athletic pursuits like Crossfit and triathlons) during the day and that within months of mom’s death I would start to collapse under the weight of depression at nights and on weekends.

I was using the same old strategies–performance, hustle, perfectionism, and never stop moving–plus now copious amounts of wine to try to survive it all.

My body–my nervous system–was locked in survival mode. I hadn’t been sleeping through the night for several years. Now I was having recurring nightmares that I was being hunted by an assassin. The endurance exercise I had used to channel some of my stress started to break my body down.

Even as I “crushed” my professional goals, there was no pleasure, joy, play, peace or satisfaction. Just emptiness, exhaustion, and terror that the darkness would completely overtake me if I stopped moving.

I couldn’t distinguish between mission critical action and the things that didn’t really matter in the larger scheme of things. Everything felt like a non-negotiable, potentially “make or break” situation.

Eventually there was anger too. Rage at all the ways I felt unseen and unsupported. The ways that I abandoned my own needs, the ways that I had contorted myself to take care of everyone else. The kind of righteous anger that makes you not care so much if you hurt other people.

And disillusionment. I had “done all the things”. I had awards and recognition and other people’s admiration in spades. “How do you do it all (so well)?!” They would ask. And I would smile. But I didn’t feel satisfaction. I didn’t feel happy. I didn’t feel held. I didn’t feel truly seen. I didn’t feel loved. I didn’t feel safe.

My ability to show up as the leader I needed to be to help carry the vision forward faltered. I cannot tell you when it first happened. But I know that it did. And when you are the leader, and there are cracks in your capacity to hold the vision, that failure has a ripple effect on everyone who is carrying the vision with you.

I used a boat analogy all the time in this role … we all have to be rowing in the same direction and if someone does not have the capacity to row with us in alignment with the mission, vision, values and strategic direction then we will either start spinning in the water or water will start to leak into the seams of the boat. We will either exhaust ourselves from spinning in place or the boat will sink.

We gave everyone permission to communicate to the team if they needed to take their oar out of the water …. to rest, to recalibrate, to tend to other matters in their lives, or maybe because they figured out that we weren’t the boat for them. We just asked them to communicate with us so that we could reallocate resources as needed. By the time it occurred to me to take my own oar out of the water (and to exit the boat), it was too late.

Come back tomorrow for Part Three of the story…

Love,

Booth