I’ve been thinking a lot lately about grief; well, that’s not quite honest—I’ve also been feeling a lot of grief. I wouldn’t have even called it grief until just recently; I might’ve called it numbness, anger, inexplicable sorrow. Ya know, just down, without even knowing why.

In The Wild Edge of Sorrow: Rituals of Renewal and the Sacred Work of Grief, Francis Weller says that one of the “gates” of grief is around “what our deep-time ancestors experienced as their birthright, namely, the container of the village. We are born expecting a rich and sensuous relationship with the earth and communal rituals of celebration, grief, and healing that keep us in connection with the sacred.”

I am a recovering self-help junkie.

I have consumed an embarrassing number of self-help books, podcasts, seminars, courses, and retreats, not to mention the hours of therapy, coaching, journaling, meditating, and all manner of efforts toward self-realization. For years, I have treated myself as perpetual self-improvement project, always trying to level up: get up earlier, exercise more, cut out sugar, become a better mother, make more money, consume less, create more, strive until I fall over.

This past January, however, I heard a teaching that has radically shifted the way I think about what it means to be the best version of myself.

If you've ever tried meditating, you may share this experience I've had of realizing I’m lost in thought, and then immediately giving myself a proverbial slap on the wrist: Why can't you focus? You're supposed to be meditating! Man, you're so bad at this. You're never going to achieve inner peace.

Going around this little shame-filled merry-go-round again and again does not exactly make meditation a serene or appealing activity.

f you haven't yet, check out my essay published in The New York Times last week: "Death was a Theory, Until I Became A Mother." I am so incredibly grateful to share this work with such a large audience.

The essay reflects on how even my doctorate in existential philosophy did not prepare me for the reckoning with death that I experienced as a mother. But, I left a lot out of that piece. The essay makes no acknowledgement of my race, class, sexuality, physical ability, nationality, etc. and all the privileges my social positions afford, many of which will serve to insulate my child from death and danger. Parents of impoverished and/or black and brown children have to reckon with mortal risks that are significantly higher for their children than for my own.

The "Good Mom" never seems to need anything, least of all help. She effortlessly and endlessly serves her family 24/7 with a serene smile on her face while she prepares Pinterest-worthy holiday crafts. This "Good Mom" makes us mere mortals feel bad when we have, oh, I don't know, basic human needs—and even worse when those needs aren't being met and we require...help.

2020 has taught many of us what it feels like to need help. But, it has also us how much we rely on each other, how interconnected we all are.

Each month, I offer a free Practical Philosophy online class. In October I did a class called, “Fear as Peak Experience.” We discuss how to turn fear from an intolerable bogeyman into manageable sensations, and even how to welcome fear as a peak human experience.

If you missed it, you can watch the class in its entirety here:

I've found something that has helped me manage election and post-election anxiety about the state of our nation. When I find myself spinning catastrophic stories or seething with anger, I take a cue from Kristin Neff's work on self-compassion. I pause, take a breath, and say to myself:

"I'm really in pain about this right now."

Then, I note that the reason I'm in pain is because I care.

I've been thinking a lot about anger these days. COVID, racism, patriarchy, the possible collapse of U.S. democracy—so many things to be angry about. Some part of me believes that if I just feel angry enough that something will change. Like the rage itself—such a powerful emotion—has the power to make things right in the world. I carry it around like a weapon.

I recently had a great conversation with Brandon Baker on his podcast The Coach’s Circle.

In Episode 18, I talk with Brandon about the path that lead me to do the work that I do as a philosophical coach. I talk about my educational background in philosophy and desire to share philosophy with others. I share how my experience of early motherhood really shaped my work and led me to want to help others grapple with the existential crisis of parenthood.

Each month, I offer a free Practical Philosophy online class. The September 2020 class was called, “The Existential Crisis of Parenthood.” There are plenty of classes to learn how to swaddle a baby or how to discipline a toddler, but virtually none to honor and discuss the identity-shifting, earth-shaking experience of becoming a parent.

I had a delightful conversation last month about Creating Meaning Without God with Recovering From Religion, a non-profit that supports people who have left religious faiths, for their RfRx series.

If you missed Make Your Purpose: A Free Practical Philosophy Class, I’m sharing the complete video here. In this class we discuss:

• What it means to live an inherently purposeless life

• Why some people seem to have a strong sense of purpose while others don't

• How to develop a sense of deep meaning and purpose in your own life

• How to be grateful for even the most awful life experiences, and see them as connected to your purpose

Inspired by Cornel West’s differentiation between the concepts of hope and optimism, in this video I discuss why to choose hope, even when everything looks terrible.

I recorded it before the current racial justice protests, but I think it is as useful as ever.

If you weren’t able to attend, I’m sharing the complete video from Choosing Hope: A Practical Philosophy Class. This class teaches you how and why to choose hope, even when the world is terrible. We covered:

• The difference between optimism and hope

• Hope as a decision and a virtue—not a feeling

• How to cultivate hope as a habit

• Why to hope, even when success is not guaranteed, or even likely

  One attendee received live coaching during class, and others asked great questions during our Q & A. Take a look:

As a white person who grew up in suburbia, I felt pretty proud of myself for being at the 2014 police brutality protests in New York City. I’d sat in my living room watching a video of a white police officer choking Eric Garner to death in broad daylight. I watched his mother weep on television, and I—after years of teaching philosophy at one of the most racially diverse schools in the country, where I had come to love so many of my students of color—shook and wept on my couch. Overwhelmed with a need to do something, I walked out into the night to march with others who were as outraged as I was.

I’d come a long way in my own racial justice awakening. Not only did I feel like maybe marching in the streets would change something, I felt visible as a Black ally. I passionately posted photos and videos of the protests on social media, along with quotes from activists of color, with all the appropriate hashtags. I felt like I could say, “I’m one of the good ones.”

Take a look at how to transform fear into a peak experience and a pathway to tenderness, compassion, and healing in this short video.

I originally gave this presentation through 52 Limited, but it’s more relevant now than ever.

In this video, I offer some ethical frameworks from philosophy's thousands of years of wisdom on how to sift through this crisis.