Introvert or Extrovert? For Me, It Depends on the Day

As a “social” introvert, I am the proverbial walking contradiction. I had a name and a body. I was aware of my outer shell, but it felt incongruent with the inside. Invasion of the Body Snatchers comes to mind. It confused me that I both sought the limelight and wanted to fade into the background. That I wanted to be surrounded by friends and quietly read a book. Or walk out on stage in a play and find every excuse not to attend a networking event. My earliest memories revolve around a suspic

Is “Workism” Keeping Us From Happiness?

Is “Workism” Keeping Us From Happiness? For the last five months, I’ve been taking an admittedly selfish deep dive. Selfish in some ways (because it’s all about me) and selfless in others (because a better me will make me a better wife, friend, well, you get the picture). It’s been a busy five months. I’ve explored past lives, interpreted dreams and envisioned the future. I’ve taken workshops and classes, completed every personality and strengths quiz I could find and hired a well-being consu

5 Ways Perfection Fails Us – Mindful Life –

“Have no fear of perfection. You’ll never reach it.” — Salvador Dali My mom and then-fiance were standing in her kitchen. He leaned against the laminate faux-butcher-block counters, scarred by years of use, as she talked. “She’s a perfectionist,” she told him. “You have to help her, Marshall.” As they talked, I was on my cell phone in her den, dealing with the work crisis du jour. Marshall and I were recently engaged. We were visiting Mom in South Carolina, spending some time with her before

5 Ways Perfection Fails Us – Angela Kuper Copeland –

“Have no fear of perfection. You’ll never reach it.” — Salvador Dali My mom and then-fiance were standing in her kitchen. He leaned against the laminate faux-butcher-block counters, scarred by years of use, as she talked. “She’s a perfectionist,” she told him. “You have to help her, Marshall.” As they talked, I was on my cell phone in her den, dealing with the work crisis du jour. Marshall and I were recently engaged. We were visiting Mom in South Carolina, spending some time with her before

This Winter Solstice, we become New Again.

These celebrations involved dancing to ABBA and filling my cup with “solstice juice.” During that time, work defined me, and I burned the proverbial candle at both ends. I had a full-time communications job, was an English 101 adjunct professor at a local university, and worked as a freelance proofreader for a local publishing company—all at the same time. To add just a little more to my day, I’d get up at 5 a.m. to push myself at the gym. I moved from action to action with little thought for

When your Dream is Motherhood, but Life has other Plans.

I couldn’t have been more than four years old. My older sister and I sat on the set of a local children’s TV show, “Mr. Knozit,” with about a dozen other kids. I waited patiently for Mr. Knozit (a.k.a. news personality Joe Pinner) to ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up. When he finally made his way to me, I whispered my answer: “A mother.” Now, some 45 years later, my first dream for adulthood hasn’t come true. It’s complicated. Life and biology have gotten in my way. Motherhood itself

How to Live Authentically & Let Go of what Doesn’t Serve Us.

Full transparency: Michelle Williams is almost always my inspiration lately. Short hair, long hair, dark locks, or platinum blonde, sophisticated, stylish, not trying too hard. As I sat in the chair, hair wet, anticipating the finished look, I listened to the conversations that swirled around me. “I would never have bangs,” said a lanky redhead in the chair next to mine. Only feet away from her, my burgeoning transformation was going to include heavy, forward-swept bangs. Through the din of

4 Reasons to Stop Faking It.

I’m not talking about faking that. What I fake is much worse than pretending to reach an intense climax during sex. At first glance, I have quite a life. I am married to a wonderful man, work for a wellness franchise, banter with colleagues, live in a beautiful home, and have all my material needs met. I really have nothing to complain about—except I’m not sure who I am. The disconnect goes way back, but I can’t pinpoint a moment. There’s no retracing my steps as if I’m looking for a lost pai