Cafe 42 Blog

Today’s Great Divide

250 yrs later, we’re back to Civil War…

My father is a fervent Republican. My mother was a Democrat. I once saw him put his fist through the maple cabinet an inch from my mother’s head because her vote was going to cancel his in the second Reagan election. Though he never hit her, connected anyway, he often shouted, slammed things, threw things, even at me, when he encountered resistance (reason) when espousing his conservative views.

My father doesn’t believe Global Warming is real or caused by us in any way (absolving himself of conserving resources).

My father believes all non-believers — atheists and agnostics — are dangerous fools to be converted.

My dad distrusts all Muslims.

My dad believes in trickle-down economics, though it’s been proven again and again it makes the rich richer while wiping out the middle class.

My father doesn’t believe in gun control. “If they come for me, I’ll stop them at the door.” He quotes the NRA with fervor! “Take away what kind of guns we get to own, and you chip away at the foundation of the 2nd Amendment,” he preaches.

I remind him he can’t stop a tank with an AK-47. I implore him to examine history, and context, that the right to bear arms our forefathers were talking about were pistols and shotguns that took three minutes to load and didn’t fire straight or would blow up in your face. Automatic assault weapons were neither considered, nor anticipated when the 2nd Amendment was written.

He scoffs. As his daughter, and a woman, I am clueless.

As a mother of two amazing, spectacular children, I am horrified, not only by mass shootings on school campuses, but everywhere else, every time an assault weapon is used against our own because the NRA wants to stay rich. And our government officials, Republican senators in particular, ostensibly “by the people, for the people,” are paid off by gun lobbyists to let them.

I grew up in L.A., on the Valley side of the Hollywood Hills. I went to school with writers, producers, directors’ kids, all fairly to extremely liberal. My father was the outlier in our neighborhood and among my parents’ colleagues and friends. The Great Divide between the Republicans and Democrats, fueled by Reagan pushing religion, conservatism, then ignited by Bush Jr’s Christian administration, and then concretized in lies, ignorance, and hate by Trump, didn’t exist yet. My parents lived together in relative peace, except around election times.

We have become a polarized nation and this serves no one here. On the personal level, it has divided me from my family. My siblings, like my father, are fervent Republicans. My sister, disgusted we’re raising our kids without religion, decided she’d had enough of my liberal leanings and checked out of our lives entirely, leaving our kids deeply hurt their aunt had abandoned them. My brother used to forward me emails from his Born-Again community that Obama was a Jew-hating Muslim who believed it’s okay to kill babies. Trump Made Men Great Again by empowering them to strip women of our rights. My brother’s ignorance is only eclipsed by his blind faith in his Christian leaders’ conservative rhetoric.

The chasm in our morality and our philosophies is so diametrically opposed at this point that the rare times I talk with my father our dialog quickly sours, then invariably turns contentious. I’ve told him time and again I won’t discuss politics with him, but he insists on little digs, like, “Do you care about your kids?” He has not spoken with our children, his grandkids, in 7 years, or acknowledged them in any way, not birthdays, no calls, ever, and virtually never inquirers about them when I call him, which I always do because he doesn’t call me.

Truth is, it’s getting harder and harder to call him. Over two decades after my mom’s death, my father is undaunted by age or illness in his quest to spread conservative lies. He’s a true believer (as are most hard-core Republicans) because believing is easier than thinking. Being told what is right and wrong, good or bad, is simpler than considering the complexities of our behavior, and our obligations to each other and the world we inhabit.

My remaining family believes women should not have the right of choice with our own bodies.

My father and siblings believe gays should not have the legal, nor moral right to marry. They believe homosexuality is a mental illness.

My family espouses they believe in “less government,” preaching the Republican’s canonical tagline, but want to govern (restrict) women’s choice and limit our birth control resources; govern who is allowed to marry; limit healthcare to those who can afford it; allow corporations to buy politicians for corporate profit. They’d prefer to believe the GOP rhetoric that Global Warming isn’t happening and support the ‘rights’ of Big Oil to drill and frack our planet to death, instead of investing in renewable energy for our kids, and the welfare of Earth forward.

I’ve been wondering when it’s time to say goodbye to family, even before they die. I’ve been grieving my sister’s departure from our lives since her exit 15 yrs ago. The little connection I retain with my brother and father seems… over. My kids have no relationship with either. We have virtually no common ground and share little time that doesn’t quickly turn combative. So really, what’s the point of trying to stay in touch? Harsh? You bet. Ugly? Yeah. I’m profoundly saddened that we’ve come to this impasse. Hurts. A lot, knowing almost half our nation feels as my family does. And I am mystified, disgusted, and shamed by their gullibility in choosing blind faith over science, thought, and reason.

We are again on the precipice of our survival as one nation, but this time the war isn’t with rifles that blow up in our faces. Now we must recognize the enemy is ourselves — choosing ignorance over reason because it’s easier to binge-watch Netflix, peruse Instagram, or stream gameplay on Twitch than it is to think.

My daughter, a recent college grad, told me most of her friends — this new round of young voters — didn’t vote in this last election. They were ‘taking a stand,’ showing how they feel about our government, they claimed, neglecting to understand without voting they essentially voted in Trump. They were told not to vote by Republican ads targeted at them through social media, and blindly believe their feeds, not knowing, or even caring that what they are scrolling through is personally targeted at them, and designed to manipulate them to buy, try, subscribe, and believe in snake oil.

The chasm between us will continue to grow with more believers buying into the derisive rhetoric of their online feeds, their religious leaders, politicians, Google’s search results, and ‘personalized’ targeted marketing on social media platforms and apps. More families are finding themselves on opposite sides of an ideological divide that will likely tear them apart, like mine, unless we STOP believing and start thinking what is right, not only for ourselves and our family, but broader, more complex considerations that include finding and creating ways to help our neighbors, community, this country, and our planet to thrive.

What Makes a Leader?

The MILGRAM EXPERIMENT revealed some profound truths about all of us

Shortly after WW2, Stanley Milgram, a Yale professor did what has come to be known as an ‘obedience’ experiment. (Trailer of docudrama:)

According to Milgram, while self-interest is part of our nature,  most of us are fundamentally FOLLOWERS. His famous study revealed it is common human behavior to listen without question to people who appear smart, successful, or seem like true believers. We follow our parents, friends, society at large. Influencers, like actors, podcasters, musicians; and authority figures like doctors, therapists, even politicians draw FOLLOWERS. We accept, even participate in bad medicine, injustice, inequity, intolerance, racism, sexism, sometimes murder and even slaughter of millions following the status quo.

Milgram was a Jew. He wanted to find out what motivated Germans to turn on neighbors. Why would 90% of German citizens allow the slaughter of children on the same soccer team as their kids? Or passively watch the displacement and murder of Jews they once shared meals, holidays, and birthday celebrations? Why would Germans agree, and even support genocide, rape, disembowelment while conscious, torture beyond any sense of sanity? Milgram wanted to know.

The MILGRAM EXPERIMENT, as it’s now called, revealed some striking and profound truths about all of us.

It PROVED that most humans are FOLLOWERS, highly obedient to authority figures and willing to harm others without reason besides being told to do so.

Humans are social creatures. We follow the flock, the crowd, influencers, salesmen, priests.

We FOLLOW because it’s easier than THINKING.

We blindly follow our parents’ beliefs in fantasies like God, or Jesus, with no proof either exist, or evidence that Christ was ever born. None whatsoever, though tax rolls have been found at Christ’s (ostensible) time, without mention of Mary, Joseph, or Jesus at all.

We adopt behavior that we don’t like — that’s not the best of us — with justifications like “everyone does it!” Engaged with your cellphone while driving today? Most who do don’t THINK they’re really increasing their odds of killing themselves or someone else by upwards of 25%.

Intoxicants, from drink to weed will not cure cancer. Alcohol is toxic for the body. Smoking weed is carcinogenic — cancer causing. And mental ‘health’ pharms are addictive and eat the crap out of your liver, among a host of other side effects. Hey, but everyone does them, right?

What Makes a Leader?

While Milgram’s experiment revealed most humans are FOLLOWERS, following a herd, whether family, friends, priests, or govts, SOME PEOPLE, a few outliers, do not. In fact, they lead the human flock.

Hitler did. Trump does. Oligarchs, like Musk, are LEADERS to many who live vicariously through them, or are delusional enough to believe they too can become a trillionaire. On the other side, Susan B. Anthony, FDR, MLK all moved this nation towards a more equitable country.

What does this diverse cast have in common? They became LEADERS because they offered identity, an enemy, reduced complexity to clarity, inspired and empowered at moments when people felt lost. They gave directionto the populas of FOLLOWERS when their govt and institutions failed them. And each of the aforementioned LEADERS reached the masses by mastering marketing through the dominant media of their era, from newsprint, to radio, to TV, to today’s digital communications.

Are you a FOLLOWER or LEADER? If you’re thinking: I’M A LEADER, you’re likely lying to yourself. Humans lie to ourselves (and others) a lot! Like following, lying is part of our nature.

WATCH the Milgram experiment. The odds are you’d be one of the 65% who tortured an unseen man with electric shocks to death, simply because someone politely asked you to do so. Not threatening, not aggressive. Just “Please continue,” was what the white-coated admin in the study told them. And the 65% claimed they were just ‘following directions’ that allowed them to deliver shocks to someone they didn’t know, that became more and more painful until they were lethal.

Milgram’s study proves most people would rather follow—listen, even to bad advice, than lead—THINK for themselves. We’re looking for guidance, direction, belief outside ourselves. And while this fact of our nature may seem a death sentence, there are still 35% of the participants in the study that walked away when the admin dressed as a doctor said, “Please continue,” to torture an unseen person in the room next door with electric shocks. In fact, many told the guy, as the admin was always a man, to fuck off when he demanded they “Please continue, per your agreement,” as they were leaving.

The Milgram Experiment gives us a window into our own psyche by proving humans are generally FOLLOWERS. Armed with this knowledge, we can THINK, examine, recognize when we’re blindly going along with the flock. And we can choose not to.

Emotional Intelligence

Do you FEEL before you THINK?
Or do your THOUGHTS generate your FEELINGS?

Psychology is split on this. Old world believed it was THOUGHT first, i.e. behavioral/cognitive therapy. New world has finally come around to what seems to me so blatantly obvious:

The Human Psyche:
FEELINGS lead to THOUGHTS, and THOUGHTS lead to ACTIONS.

Human beings are FEELING creatures FIRST and foremost. Being ALIVE means FEELING, even if just in the physical realm — feeling healthy, sick, in pain, tired, hungry, full, cold, hot…etc.

Infants don’t ‘think.’ New parents like to pretend they do, anthropomorphize their babies by projecting all kinds of genius behavior from their infant. But after raising two kids and caring for many of family and friends, the fact is they don’t really start to think until close to a year into living. They sure FEEL a lot though! Hungry. Cold. Scared. These feelings are so overwhelming that infants will cry, even wail until they’re fed. Warm. Comforted. Babies start to smile at 2–3 months in response to external cues, like someone smiling at them, or making cooing sounds. These smiles reflect the BASE FEELINGS of happy, content, sated, without a lot of thought behind these emotions. It takes infants between 6–9 months to laugh in response to games like peek-a-boo. Again, not a lot of thinking going on for that game.

THOUGHTS are constructed with words, language to express them, even to yourself inside your head. No language. No actual thoughts. Most infants are basically mute until almost a year old, and then the only words they express for months are simple monikers like ‘Mom. Dad. Dog.’ Not a lot of thought there either. Clearly. The neurological wiring of an infant’s brain isn’t connected enough to understand language, therefore they’re unable to form the complexities of ‘thought’ yet.

Everything ALIVE here FEELS the physical realm to varying degrees. Even foliage requires sustenance to live, and on the most rudimentary levels FEELS healthy, sick, hungry, thirsty…etc.

Extract the physical realm from FEELINGS, and we are left with EMOTIONS.

There are a few BASE emotions that connect all humans, but beyond us, it connects most mammals here. My dog feels the same BASE emotions I do. Sometimes Ellie’s sad. Happy. Scared. Excited. These are foundational emotions, generally from LEVEL1 through LEVEL3. But humans are the most complex brains on the planet (we know of). The more complex the brain, the more it seems to create additional layers—L3+—of EMOTIONS atop the foundational sets.

Hierarchy of Emotions:

L1 BASE Emotions:

  • Good (positive)
  • Bad (negative)

L2 BASE Emotions (common to us all—’roots’ of our emotional palette):

  • Good: Happy/Glad, Sated/Content, Excited
  • Bad: Scared, Sad, Hurt (Anger is L3, an emotional response to Hurt)

L3+ COMPLEX Emotions (atop L2):

Humans never really feel neutral. It may feel in any given moment we’re not feeling anything, but this is a missed perception. Most of us go through our days unaware of how we are FEELING except in exceptional or volatile situations where emotions typically ‘run high,’ like a celebration, or the end of a relationship.

Absorbed in your work means you are engaged, interested, maybe even passionate about it, all ‘good’ feelings. Conscious or not, you are never feeling nothing at all.

Getting down to how we really FEEL takes work because humans lie to ourselves, and subsequently others. Our complex brains weave all kinds of fantasies to make ourselves feel smarter, talented, capable, valuable, in control of ourselves and our destinies.

To control our ACTIONS, it is essential to understand your actual, true EMOTIONS first, and then with THOUGHT (language) define the reasons for what you’re FEELING.

FEELINGS spark THOUGHTS which ignite ACTIONS/Behavior.

Most of us go through life never really understanding that our emotions, i.e. our FEELINGS (not our thoughts) are controlling our daily decisions.

Do you consistently drink too much? Eat too much? Do whatever too much, so much that it’s hurting more than helping you? You’ve tried to stop or modify your behavior, but you keep going back to destructive habits.

To change any of your behavior, you first must understand the FEELINGS that are motivating the THOUGHTS that are generating the ACTION that is preventing you from becoming who you want to be. The only way you’ll never repeat a destructive behavior/action is to let yourself FEEL [and remember] that sticky, grotesque, choking, powerfully negative emotion of shame. Avoid the action, avoid the feeling.

Being ALIVE means FEELING, so at any given moment, like NOW, ask yourself: What am I FEELING right now? Good? Bad? Happy? Sad? After defining the FEELINGS — L1-L3 and beyond — now THINK about what is generating them. The more in touch with your FEELINGS/EMOTIONS you become, the better you’ll be able to THINK about what you need and why, then put those THOUGHTS into productive ACTIONS to live the life you choose.

The Tragedy in Comedy

Why are some jokes universally funny to large swaths of people?

For my husband’s birthday, I took him and our two adult kids to a comedy show last weekend. There were around 30 people in the club that easily held 100 or more. The headliner was a Black guy, and I’m identifying his race with purpose. He’d won the distinction of ‘Winner of the Seattle International Comedy Competition,’ or so the stamp on his sales page said. Yet the club was two thirds empty, and after the show I could see why.

Standup comedy is likely one of the hardest forms of entertainment, so I give the comedian a lot of grace when they aren’t funny, often chuckling, along with equally gracious attendees, to help support the performer. The lineup at this club last weekend made it particularly hard to laugh at their routines.

The three warm up acts, in order, were a Black trans woman, a White man with cerebral palsy, and a gay Black woman who was so stoned, by her admission on stage, she kept laughing at her own ‘jokes.’ All three barely got even polite chuckles from the small crowd, including me. They bombed. Hard. And here’s why…

The first Black comedian up there started out by grabbing her crotch and telling the audience of mostly upwardly mobile White and Black couples that her “Big titties, and THIS,” meaning her pussy, were what made her special, valuable as a Black woman in America. Then she goes on to slam anyone who isn’t woke enough to not only respect, but vocally support the trans community. “Ya all so racist you won’t stand up for these Black titties?” She didn’t seem to understand that being at least 300 pounds, with her pants falling below the crack in her ass, and crass in the extreme—meaning to be offensive—wasn’t funny. It’s also likely why she seemed to feel her value was in her choice to become transgender, and not what she contributes to humanity. Instead of humor—delivering a moment of lightness to people’s lives—she radiated resentment, hate.

The White comic with cerebral palsy was hard to understand with his speech impediment, but what I did get was all his ‘jokes’ were about his disability. “Everyone thinks I’m drunk,” was his opening line. “But I’m not.” (It would have been funnier if he’d said he was.) He went on to tell the audience he’d had cerebral palsy since infancy, and how people in public avoid him because he walks funny and holds his body weird. It wasn’t physical comedy. He was clearly disabled. He described how people look away, like the reality of him will infect them. It was supposed to land funny, but really, it was just tragic.

The last comedian was stoned out of her mind, and beyond her: “everyone disses me because I’m a gay Black woman,” started laughing before finishing most of her ‘jokes.’

The headliner was considerably better than the warm up acts. His funniest bit was noting how tall he was, and how annoyed he gets with everyone always asking him to get stuff off top shelves in markets, and he’d like to turn that around and ask shorter people to please get him that item off the bottom shelf. But even he used racism way too often as his ‘jokes’ that came off more as bitter, angry commentary than something funny.

What is a joke?

My daughter says I suck at sarcasm, and it’s true. I think it’s fundamentally mean-spirited.

My father-in-law used to spout cruel ‘jokes’ about his wife constantly, little jabs of a knife—‘Oh, she hates to cook, which is good for all of us,’—death of intimacy by a thousand cuts.

There are private jokes—humorous shared experiences that are periodically recalled together.

But what is universally funny? Why did the tall and short joke land so well that the entire audience burst into laughter for the first time that evening?

Tall or short, we can all relate. Race doesn’t matter. Gender doesn’t either. Sexual preference isn’t part of the joke. The things that generally divide us didn’t exist in his story. It was just funny. Now every time I see a tall guy in the market I’ll smile with the memory of that joke. So will a lot of the audience. The comic spread a moment of lightness with that joke. You can call him out for being ‘tallest,’ or making fun of short people (which he didn’t, just people shorter than his 6’5”). But really? That’s a bit too woke, don’t ya think.

It is the comedian’s job on stage to get their audience to laugh—gift them that moment of lightness. Sometimes humor can be controversial, challenge us to view things differently, but only if we’re not offended, or bored. And attacking the audience for being racist, sexist, transphobic, isn’t funny. Especially to an audience of mostly young professionals in tech, medicine, or management, regardless of their race or sexual orientation.

If the cerebral palsy guy had tapped into the universal feeling of being ignored—on the outside looking in, which most of us have felt (and many frequently); or the trans woman had surfaced what it feels like to be judged by our gender—male or female—those types of jokes would likely have landed a laugh. There’s lightness in laughing at ourselves. Not so much when we’re called out for “All White people” think this or that about Blacks, and “all straight people are overtly or secretly homophobic.”

While I’ll agree we are all born sexist, racist—fundamentally afraid of ‘the other’—I didn’t spend $50 a ticket to be berated that humans (with the exception of the ‘comedians’) are flawed.

Black, White, Asian, Latino, gay, trans, straight, young and old, we all share FEELINGS in common, as being alive means FEELING. Good, bad, happy, sad…etc., humans all feel the SAME THINGS to varying degrees, our feelings evoked by stimuli/input. Universal humor taps into our sameness, feelings we all share, even when pointing out our differences. Social awkwardness, handling rejection, tripping over our own feet are embarrassing moments we’ve all experience, and can easily be woven with commentary on racism:

Saw this stunner coming out of Starbucks yesterday so I put on my cool, ya know, casually glancing her way, then when she noticed me I flashed her my signature grin (and he does, comically). And I’m thinking I’m all hot shit cuz I got her attention, and that’s when I tripped on a cracked sidewalk and almost face-wiped.

I popped back up feeling like a fuckin idiot and catch her smiling before she turned away. Then this old guy sitting on the bench in front of Starbucks says outta nowhere, “Tragic, really. Another clear case of systemic bias.”

What’d you say man?!” I’m like seriously pissed assuming he meant because I’m Black and she was White.

He looked at me deadpan. “Sidewalks have a long history of discrimination against dudes flagrantly struttin their stuff.

😉

On Raising a Doctor

“I saw someone die today, Mom,” my daughter told me on the phone, her voice four octaves higher than normal, like she’d been sucking on helium.

“Where are you?” I heard street noise in the background.

“I’m on the 101. I’m driving home from the hospital.” Again, her voice was…off—too high, too cheery. “I saw her die, Mom. She was fine, then she flatlined and died.”

“You OK?”

“I am.” She was practically giggling. “Really. It was bizarre, for sure, but I’m fine.”

She didn’t sound fine. “Honey, I want you to get off the freeway at the next exit and pull over so we can talk about this.” I was in my office, a thousand miles away.

“I’m telling you, I’m fine. I can handle this, when I’m a doctor,” she insisted in that squeaky voice. “I was cleaning her room, and we were talking about her daughter at UCSD—” her voice cracked right then and she stopped talking.

“Jade, I want you to get off the freeway. Right now. How far to the next exit?”

“I’m taking it right now.”

“Pull over on a side street, and shut off your car, then talk to me.”

I raised our kids with an open forum, not the surface, pc-level shit most people spout. The ‘I’m fine! Biz is great! Everything’s dandy’ bullshit my parents and colleagues pushed down my throat daily wasn’t going to fly in the family I created (or my friendships that stick). “Talk to me,” is my personal mantra.

“OK. I pulled over,” my daughter said, her voice deeper now, though still not exactly normal.

“Good. Now turn off your car and tell me what happened.”

“She just had gallbladder surgery, just like you did last yea—year.” Her voice cracked, like a teen boy entering manhood. “She was fine…” Gasping breaths and I could hear, even feel her anxiety attack coming on. “Her daughter was in the hallway…When she flatlined a bunch of nurses came in and then doctors and they were shocking her and it didn’t work then they did it again and again and I just stood there, holding the trashcan I just emptied.” And I heard my beautiful daughter sobbing on the other end of the phone, and I was a thousand miles away from being able to hold her.

Honey, I’m right here. You’re OK. Deep breaths. Breathe with me. Breathe in… Breathe out… It must have been really hard to witness that. I can’t imagine it. It’s why I never wanted to be a doctor,” I say deadpan to lighten the mood but could still hear her struggling to catch her breath. “OK. Let’s do some box breathing.” And we did, all four sides, in and out. In and out.

“Her daughter was my age,” she said, weeping as she spoke. “It could have been you, Mom. It could have been you and I can’t lose you yet.”

“I’m right here, baby. I’m healthy, and I’m active and I’m here for you.”

“Does this mean I’ll make a lousy doctor?”

Of course, I said it made her human—the best kind of doctor. Maybe too human, but I didn’t say that. I listened as she unraveled from giddy shock. She told me how one of the nurses asked her to get a sheet to cover the dead woman, then helped the nurse place it over the body. She saw the doctor talking to the daughter crying in the hallway.

“She kept asking the doctor, ‘What? What do you mean?’ like she didn’t believe him that her mom was dead. She wasn’t suppose to die, Mom. And now she’s dead. And I don’t want it to be you.”

“It isn’t me, Jade. I’m right here.”

Now!” she almost yelled. “But what if you never get to know my kids, like that daughter today, or your mom?”

I listened, empathized, and helped quell her fears for another half hour before she was calm enough to get back on the road and go home to her shared apartment off-campus. She’d have roommates to talk to there, two young women also pursuing the medical pathway at UCSD. I told her to call or text me when she got home, just to check in she got home safely, and fifteen minutes later she texted she did.

Heavy sigh of relief, but in the distance, far beyond my grateful nod my daughter was safe to an almighty I don’t believe in, I felt…annoyed. I never wanted to be a doctor. Never played one as a kid. Didn’t like them because every time I had to see them either I, or someone I cared about was sick. And they’re so sure of themselves they don’t listen beyond test results, and half the time don’t know what they’re talking about even though they pretend they do. I don’t like doctors. And my daughter is on her way to becoming one.

I try to keep my personal disdain for her career choice to myself, but beyond my distaste for the medical community, I hate blood and gore. I can’t look at it on TV or in the movies. I have to look away because it literally makes me feel like I’m going to vomit. I won’t let her describe to me the process of guillotining rats for her spine research lab assistant position on campus, but on the phone I did remind her she got used to doing it after a few times.

My daughter’s wanted to become a doctor since she was child. At 10, when we allowed her an email account [under her choice of pseudonym], her first address was doctorscientistsoccer@. She got accolades when she told teachers to girl scout leaders she wanted to be a doctor, but that seemed to be the extent of her interest in medicine. She played soccer but I never saw her play doctor. People in wheelchairs or maimed or missing body parts scared her when she was young, and no matter what I said she would not engage with them. If a movie involved a child losing one or both parents, or parents losing their kid, she’d come undone—start crying that would sometimes escalate into a full-blown anxiety attack. She ran up to her room sobbing towards the end of Dances With Wolves when the wolf was killed.

Handling illness and loss didn’t exactly seem to be our daughter’s forte. Becoming a doctor requires compartmentalizing your feelings—locking yours away to deal with the patient or situation at hand. And maybe she could learn this skill over time, but I don’t want my daughter burying her emotions, denying her feelings, and becoming the automaton most doctors I’ve met seem to be. And let’s not forget, spending her career jumping through hoops of insurance companies to give patients the care they need without killing them financially. I wish for my daughter so much more than a lifetime of attending to others’ suffering.

I’ve never ever wanted to journey down the path of practicing medicine, yet I feel like I’ve been unwittingly roped into it. Along with her undergrad degree in Biology, volunteering at Palomar hospital was resume building for medical school. Before the death of this mom, she called me often to unload—overwhelmed by the coursework, or the illness she saw at the dermatology clinic she worked for, or torn over the moral quandary of ‘murdering rats’ in the lab.

Becoming a doctor requires more education than becoming a rocket scientist. I never considered endeavoring down such a very long, hard, expensive career path, self-doubt assuring me I’d fail if I attempted it. Since she’s ventured down the medical road, I’ve been our daughter’s emotional and financial support system through her undergrad degree; four, nail-biting waiting for scores, MCATs; spent months helping her edit countless essays for various med school applications. And right when I think maybe I can get a break from all this, she’ll be on pins and needles for the next 6 to 8 months waiting to hear where, if, she’s been accepted to study for four more years before another four to seven years of residency. And even when, if, she gets in, it’ll cost her $300k in student loans on top of the $100k we’ll give her. Becoming a doctor is very expensive!

When she was little, she used to build these incredible structures—towers 8 ft high out of Magnatiles. She has a great sense of physics and I used to imagine she’d get over saying she wanted to be a doctor when she realized what it takes to get there, and the hardship of constantly dealing with people in pain and corporate corruption. She’d become a civil engineer or architect, create structures of beauty and utility, and still live well.

I set up an open forum of communication for the family I created because I never had it in my own growing up. My ‘turn that frown upside down,’ or ‘make lemonade out of lemons’ mother denied every negative feeling of mine, of hers, until her deathbed when she spewed hate at her husband, my narcissist of a father, for two straight weeks before the cancer silenced her.

The next 2 to 3 months are going to be tense at home. We’re all waiting to hear from medical schools my daughter applied to that are interested enough to ask for ‘secondaries’—school‑specific applications requiring their own essays and fees. Assuming she gets requests for secondaries, I’ll have to work with her for another 2 months helping her edit more essays for each school. Then we have to wait another 3 to 5 months to hear if she’s been accepted anywhere.

My daughter is going to be a doctor. Oh joy!

Not so much…

Assuming she gets into a med school, I’m going to have to hear about gruesome details of human anatomy, disease, diagnosis, pain, death, and many of her experiences through residency. Except I never wanted to be a doctor, or walk the path of becoming one. And I still don’t. Just the thought of blood, cutting someone open in surgery, makes me ill. But a part of me, the adult part with a broader view than my personal gratification, understands my daughter is honoring my vision by choosing to devote her life to the welfare of others, and I’ll do whatever I can to support her achieving this goal.

I can hear the chorus of non-breeders and parents more devoted to their work than the kids they create dissing me for helicopter parenting. But the road to becoming a doctor, or even a rocket scientist isn’t like becoming a soldier or real estate broker where the barrier to entry is extremely low. “Emotional support from family is one of the strongest predictors of admissions and persistence in medical school,” AAMC, AMA, and tons of medical education studies have found.

We play God giving life, having kids. My sister had three. The first two she pursued her own bliss, playing tennis for hours daily, taking two week vacations 3 to 5 times a year leaving her kids with our mother, or a nanny. Her husband, their father, found his value devoting his life to his career. Both their kids struggled academically regardless that they had the financial means for expensive tutors. Both dropped out of college and have no discernible careers. At 46 and 44, they both are always hustling to make ends meet, pay the bills—get by.

My sister had her third child seven years after her daughter. This boy loved the violin from the first time he heard the instrument. My sister gave him one at 5 yrs old and signed him up for lessons. The instructor told her son the proper posture for holding and playing the violin, and for the next decade my sister worked with her son most every day, for an hour or more, coaching him to: “Lift your elbow. Drop your shoulder. Center your chin.” She took him to his lessons, attended his recitals and proudly invited friends and family. A guitarist herself, they played music together often—a bizarrely bonding experience (if you’ve not done it and don’t know). My sister formed a connection with her last child she’d neglected to establish with her first two. She gave her baby her most precious gift—her TIME.

Her son, at 37, is a successful ARTIST—likely the hardest career to attain. He got into the prestigious Berklee School of Music with my sister’s emotional and financial support from applying through attending. He now co-owns a gallery in the posh Wilshire district of L.A. where he showcases famous and up-and-coming artists. He shows and sells his work globally. Financially stable. Happily married with kids. A resounding success by every measure.

Tell me parental support doesn’t really matter and you’re lying to you.

I always wanted kids, not only to raise them better than my parents did, but to create human beings that were better than me—kinder, more receptive, perceptive, smarter choices and actions for themselves and the lives they touch. I had this notion that if each gen raised their children better than the last, people could rise above our petty prejudices and squabbles and learn from each other, work together and reach our true creative, compassionate potential. Our children’s children’s children wouldn’t know poverty, inequity, blind faith or hate. Imagine what we could create…

Thing is, most don’t share my vision, so absorbed in their day-to-day they can’t see the forests [we’re killing] through the trees [on their block]. And that’s a shame, really. Contrary to popular perception, our individual lives don’t really matter in the long run. Regardless of how famous you become, or the amount of money you make, or even your memories from life experiences, it all goes when you die. You may be remembered by family, friends or fans for a while, but even your memory will fade for most everyone in short order. The greatest contribution we can make in our lifetime is in service to others. Raising kids, supporting parents, friends, colleagues, strangers, we create a better world when we invest our time, energy, and heart into each other.

© 2026 J. Cafesin

On Being Human

Talked to an old friend yesterday. We hadn’t spoken for almost a decade. No particular reason. Life took over and we lost touch. The last time we spoke, 10 yrs back, he told me his wife had quit her job as a restaurant manager and was very happy to be home, fixing up their house, shopping, cooking, doing things she never had time to do when working.

Ten years later, she is still not working. The house is now fixed up. There are no children, and she has no other responsibilities. When I asked my friend what his wife does with her days, he told me she enjoys working out, watching TV, and she plays a lot of Candy Crush.

My mother-in-law lost her husband of 53 yrs a few years back, a year after they closed the small business they had together from the beginning of their marriage. With no business to maintain, no kids to care for, and only sparse time with grown grandchildren, I assumed she’d find her niche in volunteering, perhaps invest time into her community, teach literacy at her local library, or maybe the hospice her husband spent most of his last days.

I don’t like sick people, she told me upon inquiry. And she has no interest in teaching, anyone, anything, she insisted, clearly annoyed at my suggestions. I’ve worked my whole life. It’s my turn to do what I want.

What does she do all day? Plays Solitaire, watches TV, or goes to plays and the movies with friends and family, when they’re available, which isn’t often. Most elderly folks she knows are helping their kids with the grandkids, or volunteering — giving back for a lifetime of privilege.

On the phone with my old friend, I intimated his wife has too much to contribute to kill time playing Candy Crush. But my friend disagreed. His wife enjoys her days now, no longer under constant pressure to perform. She’s allowed to relax after working most of her life, he told me. 

She’s 53 yrs old, I countered. She’s been relaxing for almost a decade now. So? He was perturbed by my observation. They don’t need her income. He makes enough to support them both, so no harm, right?

Wrong.

We are ALL born owing humanity for the life we have. My mother sacrificed a career to raise three kids and provide us with a warm, clean household. My father worked hard to support our family financially, keep food on the table and secure a home in a safe neighborhood with good schools.

I’ve heard parents called ‘breeders,’ by people who claim to never want kids. The absurdity of their derogatory comment is they couldn’t voice it without being alive, having been bred by their parents before them.

Without those who worked hard before us, there would be no humanity at all. My mother-in-law, my friend’s wife, you, or I wouldn’t exist without the hard work of those before us. From the lightbulb to the internet, we stand on the shoulders of those who have contributed to the life we now live.

Our system that seemingly runs itself — doesn’t. We actually have to work at making it work. And playing Solitaire or Candy Crush all day does nothing for society. With everything given something is owed. Every day we are alive we owe each other and those who will precede us. We are obligated to gift, nurture, and protect life forward, and make sure our children have a planet to live on similar to the one gifted to us.

We are ALL responsible to make the world better. Contributing to a worthy cause we believe in, or inventing solutions to make our lives more productive, or managing a restaurant or small business, we all must continually contribute to humanity for the human race to survive, and thrive.

What Happened at MIX

Why Tech WON’T Fix Your Business

A while back, a friend asked me what I thought about him taking a job offer at MIX.

“They’re the reboot of StumbledUpon,” he’d told me. “They want me to improve their recommendation engine, to keep the users they have with better recs, and to get new users by recommending them ‘better’ content.”

Hmm…MIX is a failing content curation platform started by Garrett Camp, co-founder of Uber.It has no valuable differentiators from Instagram or Pinterest, or even the dopamine rush of StumbleUpon’s random discovery model known as ‘intermittent reinforcement’— the most addictive reward system known in behavioral psychology.

“This is yet another startup looking for you to save them with tech,” I told him. He’d been down this road many times. As a seasoned data scientist, failing businesses reach out to his ML, NLP, and AI programming background, looking for him to come in and fix them—code collaborative filters and recommendation algorithms that will attract and retain users. But an AI rec engine isn’t going to fix MIX.

“Their platform is a marketing play,” I told my friend before he accepted the position. “This isn’t a tech fix. StumbledUpon at least was unique in its random “stumble” feature that made the site successful. Now MIX is trying to play catch up as just another content curation site. They need to continually come up with solid differentiators to attract users away from competitors, and tightly targeted ad campaigns to brand and sell their ever evolving unique features. And all that’s marketing.”

“A better rec engine could attract and keep users,” my wide-eyed developer assured me, stroked from landing the gig.

“What does a ‘better rec engine’ even mean? MIX can’t recommend content it doesn’t have. Neither can any other platform. Netflix rec engine sucks because they can only recommend movies in their library—content they have the rights to stream—and there are rarely any in their collection I’d like to see that I haven’t seen already.”

My friend glared at me because he was one of the original developers of Netflix’s rec engine. But he didn’t dispute the accuracy of my assertion.

“You asked me what I thought about you working for MIX, and I think it’s a bad idea. Job won’t last a year unless Garrett figures out he needs marketing now, not blowing capital on tech. I guarantee you, MIX needs campaigns that show unique benefits to attract users because they need content, and only when they have a lot of it will they then need you.”

Six weeks after my friend was hired, he was fired, along with the entire rec team. Bleeding cash from AI developer salaries, equipment and servers, Garrett was right to do so, even though he’d authorized every job req for his team of data science engineers. They were shocked to be abruptly terminated, as was an H1B employee, who, suddenly unemployed, found himself at risk of being deported back to India.

MIX has never had the reach that Instagram has, nor the communities Reddit, LinkedIn, or Facebook have built. They don’t need an AI correlation/recommendation engine at this point in their development. Almost a decade into MIX’s launch, they still don’t have enough users or sticky content to garner retention or quality affiliate advertisers.

Garrett Camp, the CEO, should have seen all of this coming had he been performing weekly competitive analysis, but his background is data science. He thinks, like so many developers, that all business problems can be solved with more tech. He got lucky with StumbledUpon, launched in 2002, the same time Google was getting popular. He got funding from Accel, one of the biggest VC firms in the Valley, which launched his trajectory into the entrepreneurial community.

StumbledUpon did not innovate, up their game with unique horizontal or vertical features, benefits, or new offerings. A few months after it launched, I got on it for a year or two, until Google provided the search results I wanted. MIX’s value became nominal, so I stopped using it. My behavior is typical. Retention, and sustained growth are continuous hurdles for most SaaS offerings.

StumbledUpon integrated Garrett into the startup and VC communities, which propelled him to his next, now infamous startup, Uber. And Garrett designed and built the first prototype UberCab, but he wasn’t the guy who made it a unicorn. That was Travis Kalanick, his co-founder. Travis studied coding in college but wasn’t a coder. He was a business guy, a salesman—the #1 job of a [good] CEO. Out of nine startups Garrett founded to date, all but Uber, and Eco (pivoted) have collapsed. This is typical for engineer-founded and run startups, which is likely why he gave job recs for engineers, instead of building out a pro-marketing team for MIX. Garrett clearly needs another Travis to achieve sustained startup success, or one hell of a marketing team for his content curation platform.

As of this writing, MIX is currently hanging on by a thread, experiencing a significant, multi-year decline in active users and traffic. To avoid becoming among the 90+% of startups that fail, MIX is going to need many users producing ‘quality’—sticky (as in funny, cute, informative, visually arresting, interactive)—content. And to get these users to their site, then get them excited to join, and stay engage on the platform, is NOT a tech fix. It’s a marketing play! Garrett must put a marketing foundation under MIX, go back to the beginning of the marketing process to propel his startup into a thriving, sustainable business.

PRODUCTIZATION (1st phase of the marketing process) of MIX:

  1. Identify Features and Benefits of MIX.
  2. Find and Profile Target Markets and Users.
  3. Discover Competitors.
  4. Identify and/or Create uniquely valuable Differentiators.
  5. Develop Horizontals and Verticals for a pipeline of new releases.

Letting Go of Adult Kids

For as long as I can remember I wanted to be a mom. I was absolutely convinced I could parent better than my mother. My father was the breadwinner — king of our small kingdom — and more into himself than raising the two kids he produced and the one he adopted.

I became a mom at 40, after six pregnancy losses. I grieved every loss as my failing, since I was 37 when we started trying to have a child, but sperm degrades in men over 35. My husband was 40. Three years later, after another loss, I had our daughter. I’ve been a full-time mom since.

Along with being a mom, I’ve run a marketing consulting biz helping entrepreneurs launch ideas into startups. I taught at Cal and Stanford for close to a decade, wrote two marketing books, two novels, and two short story collections. And in all my career, I’ve never, ever, put in the amount of effort, time, money, and heart that it’s taken raising two children.

There are no words to describe the love I feel for my kids. Now in their mid-20s, they are kind people — my #1 goal raising them. They are thinkers. Productive. Grateful. Giving. Loving. I could not be prouder of them. Full stop. And while they are both at home this moment, they are moving on, as they should.

The issue: I am unclear how to let go.

Right now, I’m in my office trying to focus on writing fiction, but my mind keeps drifting to my son. He’s been with the same nonprofit for 4 yrs, and he’s been trying to find another job [on and off] almost as long. He had his first ever on-site interview last week and is waiting to hear back today. I keep listening for the back door of our house to open. He wouldn’t come out to my office a quarter acre from the house if he didn’t get the job. Since I’m not hearing the back door, I’m checking my email obsessively. He’ll email if he doesn’t get it.

Seems like I’m a bit over-invested in my son’s career, and I’ll walk that. But here’s a bit of my investment in this job he’s waiting to hear about:

  • I talked him into taking the in-person interview against his resistance since he’d be spending close to a grand to make it happen.
  • Talked him into flying instead of blowing 3 days driving and his other interviews set up for later in the week. Then I helped him set up a flight to get to his on-site interview.
  • I looked up BART times from SFO to be sure he’d get there on time with a short time frame from landing to getting there.
  • My husband drove him to the airport at 4:30a.m. to make his 7:15 flight, but I was his emotional support on the phone with him from 7:00a.m. until 10:20a.m. that morning. He called when all passengers were kicked off the first flight over an hour and a half delay. He’d be late for his interview if he waited so we worked to find another flight leaving sooner. He found one, got on it, and some guy the flight attendant didn’t like wouldn’t leave the plane when asked. My son, and all the other passengers, sat on that plane half an hour for security to come and escort the guy off. My son was now guaranteed to be late.
  • I dictated a text to send to the hiring manager that he’d be late for the interview, which was trickier than it sounds since he was flying in and they’d assumed he was local.

I won’t even go into the hundreds of hours I’ve spent editing our daughter’s school essays, to the tens of thousands of dollars already spent on her undergraduate degree, to emotionally and financially supporting her through college and four MCAT tests…etc.

I wonder if focusing on our son’s job prospect is an excuse to avoid writing fiction today…

Is my focus on this potential job of his justified by the hours of my life I’ve invested parenting him, and guiding his career?

  • Pushing him constantly to look for a new gig with every complaint about his current job.
  • Helping him write his LinkedIn profile, bio, and micro-messaging to potential hiring managers.
  • Edited his CV, including yr over yr updates.
  • Be his cheerleader to lift his depression with constant rejections.
  • Pushing him to network, go to uni and tech meetups. Socialize more!
  • Fully funding his master’s degree…etc.

I told myself I’d do better than my mother, and so I have. I’ve extended an open forum for our kids to share anything, and ask me anything that strikes them. I’ve challenged them to find their true feelings often masked as anger, or in defense of destructive behavior. By their measure, I am still their best friend. It’s easy to be with them back at home, sharing their day to day. But our daughter will be in med school soon. Whether this job or another, our son will be leaving soon too.

The virtually electric connection I feel with my kids will be lost with distance, and their shifting priorities. Family will take the background to their ‘real lives.’ As it should be, but nonetheless, their independence leaves me a bit lost. Our kids health and welfare have been my #1 priority from the day I knew I was pregnant. Made my body a temple of health before working at pregnancy — killed Diet Coke, all caffeine, weed, processed and fried foods, salty snacks, and passed on desserts. I also ran five miles five days a week. And in an effort to model healthy habits to our kids, I’ve continued working out daily.

My kids have been great motivators for me to model the best of myself — disciplined, motivated, creative, caring, loving freely, fully, without reservation as I do our kids. I will miss talking to them daily, keeping abreast of their lives in real time, hugging them, being their greatest advocate as they find partners to stand beside them.

The hiring manager texted my son early today they’d have a decision about the on-site job he’d interviewed for by 4:00p.m. It’s minutes away and he’s yet to hear anything. Is that bad? Or maybe he’s talking to them now and I don’t know in my office a good distance from his. I keep checking my email and listening for the back door to open. My heart is beating so hard I hear it.

I’m proud of my son for flying down to the interview, staying chill during a nightmare flight, and managing to get to the interview only a few minutes late. I passionately want him to get the job offer! A deserved win after much effort. Great life lesson. If he gets it, he’ll move out, down to the Bay, close to a thousand miles away.

Waiting to hear if he got the job, I’m battling my desire to hang on to the last of these moments we have together. He’ll be upset if he doesn’t get it, and I’ll be here to help pick him up and dust him off and push him to keep looking and applying.

Ultimately, no matter how much I help my kids, or am there for them along the way, I cannot protect them from heartbreak. And as they move on, I am too. I’ll have to find my value, the best of me beyond being their mother. I’d likely be doing just that — engaged in writing fiction right now — if I wasn’t so focused on hearing about our son’s job opp…

Are You Broken Like Me?


Women are inherently maternal—raised to put others before self. This is the cost…

I think I may be broken. Not the quirky, cute type, but really cracked, unable to compartmentalize my desires from those of the people I love. I don’t stand up for what I want because I often lose sight of what that is exactly. I feel an initial desire for or against something and often state it, but that voice is drown out by my husband, or my kids’ objections or justifications in opposition to mine. My desire to please seemingly becomes more gratifying than getting what I thought best or actually wanted.

I don’t like Disneyland, but every year we ended up at the theme park throughout our kids’ formative years. I don’t care for camping, or hiking, or petting zoos, or pumpkin patches, yet was consistently one of the few parent volunteers to chaperon our son’s Boy Scout outings, our daughter’s Girl Scout adventures, and many of their school field trips. I’ve told my husband 17,000 times I want him to plan and execute a romantic getaway for the two of us, yet in 30 years of marriage I’ve been the only one to invest the time to create memorable vacations we both appreciate.

It can be argued that I’m getting what I want with my husband happily joining me on the vacations I plan. And it’s true I was glad to turn our kids on to safe, family fun experiences going to theme parks and camping trips annually. So giving in to what I personally don’t like or want to do isn’t only negative. The problem with acquiescing to everyone else is I never know how annoyed, tense, and most recently insane I’ll feel until I’m actively engaged in doing what I fundamentally didn’t want to.

Case in point…

We’re looking to buy a home in specific areas north of San Francisco, within our very tight budget. We mistakenly moved up to the Seattle area 5 yrs ago and have been looking to come home to California since. We’ve yet to find a house we both agree on. Either my husband or I can nix any property, and the other must agree to walk away without resentment. But this rule between us has been getting harder to maintain as the years have passed.

Looking for a home is never easy, especially since this will be our last, the one we leave to our kids so they’ll never know homelessness. I look at Redfin 5x a day. Every few weeks a listing gets our hopes up that ‘this is the one,’ only to have them dashed when we visit the wreck of a house, or get outbid three times over.

Last week we found two homes in the areas we’re looking for within the price range we can afford. One was exactly where we want to be in Petaluma—a rare find with very few homes for sale in that particular neighborhood. It sold within 48 hours of listing. Halfway into our 13 hr journey driving down to see the property, we got a call from our realtor that the house went under contract with another buyer. We offered 100k over asking with contingencies of seeing the property and getting inspections, but the seller went with their first offer which our realtor claimed was also over asking and required no inspections.

The second property was in the low, dry hills of Novato—picture a fire waiting to happen cuz their insurance carrier does! The lot was tempting—over a third of a flat acre—and the cost of the house was at our threshold, but doable. The owners had turned their two bedroom into four, the additional two bedrooms a garage conversion built on a thin concrete slab. No central heating or cooling in over half of the house. In other words, the attractive listing turned out to be cheaply constructed, jury-rigged crap.

The two homes we saw have been typical of our home-buying journey, which is why we’ve yet to actually purchase a home in the very competitive housing markets we want to live. Nonetheless, we decided to extend our stay and see what came up for sale.

We stayed over a week and saw 16 properties, some new listings, some days, even weeks old. Most were overpriced wrecks. A few were clean, and my husband insisted they were “Fine!” He wants to be back in the sunshine. So do I, but these ‘fine’ homes had less than 7000 sq ft lots. Living on top of the neighbors didn’t seem ‘fine’ to me, especially coming from the 1.5 acres we have now.

We went to see a home in Novato, though it had been on the market 11 days. Any property over a week on MLS indicates there are issues with the house. As we perused the interior, we were both impressed by how clean the home was. Good layout, though dark in many rooms, but enough space for our two adult kids, and my husband and I to set up separate offices.

The kids will be moving in a year or less, I told my husband while we walked the small property. And the lot was only 7200 ft. It was in a 3/10 flood zone. It was at the base of a bone dry hill, blocking sunshine and an extreme fire hazard. There was a monthly HOA fee of $200, and the community pool that money funded was almost across the street.

“This house is fine by me. It’s fine for me. It’s big enough for all of us. It’s quiet, and it’s fine.”

It wasn’t ‘fine’ by me, but I could feel his frustration mounting. All he wanted was to move back to the Bay. The 5 yrs we’ve been in Seattle he’s complained non-stop about the grayness. The cold. The dripping rain. I, too, want to come home (I’m native CA), but not just any house in any neighborhood and end up with a house and property we don’t want like we did moving up here.

I listed a few more negatives about the house. The price point was at our limit, and our property taxes and utilities would be at least a third more. And being tied to another HOA for a pool we’d never use was a waste. Standing in the kitchen, I told my husband I did not want the house. He heard me. So did our broker who let us in.

My husband was clearly upset I was rejecting the property. A house I’d rejected earlier that day he’d also said was “Fine!” (It wasn’t fine, and not just to me because it’d been on the market for 35 days.) He ‘suggested’ we go look at the pool area as we were leaving the house, regardless that I’d just said I didn’t want the home. I followed him across the street, still on the page of a no-go, but seeing how upset he was stung.

  • Was I expecting too much home or land for the money we had?
  • Every property comes with problems. Were the issues so bad with this home I couldn’t be happy here?
  • Am I just being gun-shy from the mistake of moving up to Seattle?

We left that house, and while viewing others my husband spent the rest of the day trying to convince me the Novato house was “just fine!”

  • He thinks we can afford it, and if we live very tight, we likely can.
  • He likes how big the house is, with enough space for all of us to live comfortably.
  • The location is good, he reminded me multiple times, an area of Novato I’ve said I like.
  • We’d finally be back in the Bay, in sunny CA. Home!

We saw no other houses worth considering by the end of that day. My husband was tired of looking, and the Novato house had a lot going for it, he reminded me as we headed back to our hotel.

I, too, was exhausted by our endless search but was willing to keep at it, though I could tell my husband was reaching his limit. “If you don’t want this house, I want to stop looking for a year,” he told me earlier in the day. We’d previously agreed to work hard at finding a place before another dark PNW winter. Going back home and have him sour, annoyed, and pouting every gray day there wasn’t working for him, or us. It’s why I agreed to put a bid in on the Novato home. “This isn’t the house,” I told him when we docusigned the paperwork. “We’ll have to move again in a year or two, scale down when the kids move on.”

Earlier, and still, he wasn’t really listening to me. He’d told me time and again he wanted our next home purchase to be our last, but even the threat of moving again didn’t dissuade him from signing the bid.

Twenty hours later, we were dining at a Thai place in Novato and we got a call from our realtor that the sellers accepted our bid.

I put my fork full of crispy noodles down on my plate. I couldn’t breathe. I looked across the table at my smiling husband. I did not smile back. I excused myself and went outside where I paced and tried to regulate my breathing and slow my heart rate. It works, sometimes, if I tell myself to chill. It didn’t work right then.

I couldn’t think to form words. I kept seeing this too dark, too big, too expensive home we were about to buy in my head and there wasn’t one good feeling to latch on to, even the many my husband had iterated.

I went back into the restaurant and managed to tell him we had to leave, pack up our meal and go. I explained I was having a meltdown, a full blown anxiety attack I did not understand, and that I wanted to go over to the house again, see what we just bought. He didn’t question me. We went back to the house and stood on the porch since we couldn’t get in without our realtor who was off celebrating her birthday.

We stayed on the porch through sunset. It was mostly quiet the half hour we were out there. A guy played basketball by himself at the mini park next to the pool, which stayed empty even though it was a holiday weekend. The rhythmic bouncing of his ball was annoying, but oddly calming, as it gave me something to focus on. My husband touted the quiet, the house size, the end of a 5 year search, finally coming home. He dismissed my meltdown as nerves about moving, which, he informed me is right up there on the stress meter as marriage, divorce, and child birth.

I’m scared, I admitted.

“I know,” he’d said. “But we’ll make it work.”

No, we won’t. I don’t want this house. I didn’t say it aloud since I wasn’t totally sure at that point. Instead, I burst into tears and cried the 15 minute drive back to our hotel. My husband said this house is FINE. I agreed to bid on it, said YES, even though I told him a lot of valid reasons we should say NO. Now we were locked into a binding contract that I wasn’t sure we should follow through with or how to get out of.

My brain locked up. Never happened to me before. Even under extreme stress, I usually can think (rationalize?) my way through to clarity. Not this time. My husband drove in silence. I could feel him shutting down as he always does with strong emotions. He’d be no help, and likely a hindrance in me managing my panic attack. He’d castigate me for agreeing to put in a bid. And he’d have been right to do so.

  • Maybe what he said at the house is right and I’m just panicking over moving.
  • He really wants to move home and so do I. Maybe this is the best we can do.
  • Maybe the house won’t be so bad. It’s big enough, and quiet, even though it’s rather dark and we’re moving home for the sunshine, and the kids are moving out and we don’t need this much space, and it costs too much and we don’t need additional HOA fees, and—
  • Maybe I’m bat shit crazy for agreeing to buy a house I don’t want to please my husband.

He finally asked me what was going on as he pulled into a parking space at our hotel. When I told him I didn’t know and needed some space to figure it out I wasn’t lying because right then there was a war in my head. He went up to our room and I stayed in the car and wept. I struggled to breathe, and see through the blinding headache that felt like my eyes were popping out. I needed help finding clarity since my brain didn’t seem to be functioning so I called a friend.

“Make a list of the pros and cons of buying this house,” she told me after twenty minutes of listening to me freak out with the opposing voices locking up my brain. She helped me realize my full body meltdown to winning the bid was telling me something, and I should at least acknowledge it. Bless her!

Couldn’t help crying again up in our suite as I apologized to my husband for freaking out. I knew I didn’t want the house by then, but was afraid to disappoint him. Instead, I offered up my friend’s suggestion, and my husband worked with me on a pros and cons list. By midnight, it was obvious where buying the house was trending, and even he was moving toward withdrawing our bid. He suggested we decide what to do in the morning since nothing was going to happen at that hour, so we went to bed. Well, sort of, since neither of us really slept.

“You realize this could cost us forty five grand in earnest money?” my husband asked me in the morning when I informed him I was 100% sure I did not want to buy the Novato house.

“It won’t. We have an inspection contingency.” Thank God we did! In popular markets, brokers push buyers to waive all contingencies. In five home purchases, we never have, regardless if there’s ‘pre-inspections’ provided by the sellers.

The moment we docusigned our bid withdrawal my headache began to subside. I could tell my husband was relieved too, especially after our daughter called to inform us the house was priced $200k over comparable homes in the area. We hadn’t run comps before bidding. Our bad!

We left the Bay area the next day. The drive back up the coast I mused we were in the same position as when we came to check out those two houses—still homeless down there. But my husband disagreed. We learned a lot, he insisted.

  • Never bid on a house without an inspection contingency!
  • Always run comps of the area to see if the house is competitively priced.
  • And never, ever agree to buy a house I don’t want.

Easier said than done. Women are inherently maternal—outwardly focused. We’re raised to be caretakers, put others before self. But I, too, learned something on this last trip. Almost instinctively, I want to please so badly I rarely fight for my position in the face of opposition. I eventually (sometimes quickly) cave with resistance to my preferences and desires. And to fix this part of me, I’m gonna have to stand up, even go to battle when necessary to be heard, respected, and come away whole.

What Religion Are You?

When I say I’m an atheist, the very next question most people ask is: “Well, what were you raised? What were your parents?”

Human beings.

Somehow that answer isn’t good enough. They’re looking to place me in a spiritual box and lock me into a religion and all the stereotypes that go along with it.

All my life I’ve been told I’m a Jew — by my parents, by my relatives, by society at large, simply because my parents professed to be Jews. But if I don’t believe in god, or any supreme being, or even higher power; if entropy is what rules my universe, then am I still Jewish?

Jews believe in one god.

I believe in none.

Some would argue I am culturally Jewish, a product of my parentage. But it’s ludicrous I’m considered Jewish solely because my parents were (and technically just my mother need be, according to Jewish law). Let’s get one thing straight. Judaism is NOT a race. It is practiced globally, from members of our Supreme Court to jungle tribes in Africa that pray to one God with ancient Hebrew texts. The thread that holds them together is not racial, or even cultural, but spiritual — a belief system. There are no cultural similarities between the African tribes and our former or current Chief Justices. Take away the religious string and there’s really nothing left of their cultural Judaism.

I adhere to no religion, don’t celebrate any religious holidays, and believe passing down to our children fantastical mythologies that promote intellectual laziness is dangerous at best. Growing up, my family celebrated the major Jewish holidays, though I never cared for the antiquated rituals and sexist roles we all played. Jewish parables were too often warped tales filled with praising their solipsistic god instead of people for their hard-earned achievements. I don’t like brisket, noodle koogle, or most deli foods. And as holidays go, the New Year’s Eve and Thanksgiving always meant the most to me culturally, and the food is far better.

If I’m culturally anything, it’s white, middle-class, American. Like most of us, I grew up with people of my socioeconomic status. I was raised in a relatively safe, suburban neighborhood — religiously, even racially diverse, but everyone made around the same amount of money. More fine grain, I’m culturally a native Californian. We have a whole other way of thinking out here than the rest of the world. Level of intelligence would be my third greatest cultural influence. I find I gravitate to thinkers — those who explore and question.

So how does this make me a Jew?

Liking bagels, or preferring salmon to ham, doesn’t define one culturally. Nor does espousing the virtues of education, or denouncing violence, or promoting empathy. These ideologies are widely held by most of our modern age. I’m not a Taoist because I believe in living a balanced life. And I’m not a Christian because I think Christ, or likely his myth, had a lot of charitable ideas.

What does it mean to say you are Jewish, or Christian, or Mormon, if you don’t embrace their belief system? If you were raised Christian and you didn’t believe in God, or Christ, would you still be considered a Christian? Hell, if you believed in God, but NOT Christ, could you still be a Christian?

What religion are you?

Most would respond with whatever religion we were raised. We practice the rituals our parents bestowed upon us. But the more important question is: What do you believe?

Think about it.

Have you let your parents define your spirituality? Beyond what you’ve been raised, have you considered what religious ideologies you actually believe in, if any? ‘Be kind. Work hard. Love your family and neighbors.’ These cultural beliefs began 200,000 years ago when we were still living in caves and aren’t exclusive to any particular religion. They may have been adopted as Christian, or Jewish morality, but the truth is ‘Be Kind’ stemmed from our need to be social. Humans are social creatures, and greedy, ungrateful, thoughtless behavior does not win friends or attract lovers.

Omitting how you were raised, what do YOU actually believe in?

If you don’t believe the fantastical bible stories, Old or New Testament, are a recounting of historic events, then it’s likely you understand these books were written by literate MEN — the highest echelon of society at the time — to control the masses of illiterate layman with parables that instilled fear. You also likely know that these powerful men imposed rules and roles to maintain the social structure they created, and assigned the administration of this order to an almighty [jealous and vengeful (Nahum 1:2–8)] God whose authority could not (as an ethereal being), and must not be questioned. If you do not believe in this God, or that his adventures in these bibles are real, then you are likely an agnostic or an atheist.

ag·nos·tic (a la Google); noun

  1. a person who believes that nothing is known or can be known of the existence or nature of God or of anything beyond material phenomena; a person who claims neither faith nor disbelief in God.

a·the·ist (a la Google); noun

  1. a person who disbelieves or lacks belief in the existence of God or gods.

You don’t have to subscribe to a religion to be spiritual. You can feel connected to this earth and all that’s here without being a Buddhist. You can believe in charity without being a Christian. You can encourage education without being Jewish. You don’t have to pass on bizarre, horrific tales to frighten children into adhering to rules handed down from men on high thousands of years ago. You can practice and teach values — choose to live a moral life: be kind, generous, honest, empathetic, loving, compassionate, without religion.

Why would you choose to be kind without a vengeful God threatening Hell if you aren’t? You’ve advanced enough in human development to understand each of us must continually contribute to humanity, and this planet we inhabit, for our race to survive, and thrive.