You guys. This is a bit of a personal story, so bear with me.
My aunt has had terrible arthritis for awhile now. “Go to the doctor,” we all told her. “They can give you relief.”
No, she said. Absolutely not.
And that was that.
She’s a stubborn woman. She was raised hard, by a hard man. She lived hard. As a young woman, when I knew her best, she was wild. If something made her mad, she’d curse and holler in anger, then, within minutes, be over it— something would strike her as funny, and she’d throw her head back and laug so loud the lamps shook. She had a temper like a lioness, a temper she never took out on me but heaven help the horses she broke, wild young things she turned into barrel racers. When I was ten and she was thirty or so, I watched her toss bales from the back of a pickup truck into the highest loft of a horse barn like they were puffballs, her white tank top streaked with sweat, a Marlboro Red perched on her lips, the wind whipping her hair. Her biceps were deeply contoured, her skin tanned. I was terrified, in the best way— enamored with, and in love with, her power.
Years passed. The arthritis took hold. She stopped training wild horses, and then stopped throwing hay bales, then stopped walking the dog, then stopped moving much at all. It just hurt too much. Then she started struggling to breathe. It’s the cigarettes, she thought. She’d been smoking them for fifty- five years.
She had a panic attack.
Then another. And another.
Finally, on a night she could only breathe in teaspoon-sized breaths, her husband insisted they go to the emergency room.
They did a few tests.
It wasn’t arthritis. It had never been arthritis.
It wasn’t a panic attack. It had never been a panic attack.
It was a gigantic tumor on her kidneys, a tumor that had metastasized into her bones.
“It’s bad,” they said. “We will call an oncologist.”
“No,” she said.
“But there is chemo and radiation—”
She shook her head. “No. I’m going home.”
“If you deny treatment, you will die,” they said. “Within months.”
“Okay,” she said. “Can I go now?”
And so that’s how I’m going to lose my aunt.
This is not a sad story. My aunt has lived her life on one set of terms: Hers. There is a great deal of acceptance— we’re all relieved she’ll be able to manage her upcoming death that way, too.
My father and I drove to Virginia recently to see her, and she’s as she always was— calmer now, but more contemplative, and still smart and strong.
But watching her, I was reminded about how we are all carrying something. My aunt. Your neighbor. Your friend’s friend, whose daughter can’t find a job. His cousin, who is up against addiction. That teacher’s mother, losing her fight with Alzheimer’s. The assistant principal’s kid, in residential treatment. Our own personal stories of pain and illness and sickness. Communities who are unsettled, anxious, or angry. The heavy weight of political wrangling, the despair of watching the news and the helplessness of feeling helpless.
It’s a tough thing, being in the people business, leading through heavy things.
But listen.
I’m going to stay positive. I was once accused— publicly, on Twitter, to thousands of people— of “toxic positivity.”
I was crushed at the time.
But I realize now that what they called 'toxic positivity' was actually just my refusal to surrender to the dark.
As principals, you are the keepers of everyone else's stories—the tumors, the stress, the addictions, the broken homes, and the silent struggles. You can’t fix every story, just like I can’t fix my aunt’s story. But you can choose to be the person who holds the light while others are sitting in the dark. That isn't toxic. It’s necessary. It’s how we survive the 'people business' without losing ourselves.
The secondary stress is real, but it doesn’t have to drag us under.
Let’s stay positive— not because we are blind to the bad, but because we are the ones who have to lead the way out of it.
Stay curious and stay hopeful,
Jen
P.S. I don’t use A.I. for these newsletters. Except for spell check— spell check is my faaaaavorite writing tool!
P.P.S. Listen, I know my newsletter has been sad the last couple weeks. I’m aiming for cheer next week! Still, if my newsletter speaks to you in some way, please refer your friends and colleagues. You can send them this unique link, and if you refer ten colleagues, I’ll send you a free book!