There and Back Again

Posted on September 13, 2026 by catelabarrecoach

[This post has been sitting in my draft folder since late June. It’s not about coaching or wellness or caregiving. It’s about a cat. When we lost Liam, I needed to write this, but felt I didn’t need to post it. Today, I’m ready to share. Thank you and give your fur babies hugs from me.]

Pets have a special place in our hearts. They fill us up with their sweet love and nothing is quite as heartbreaking as losing them.

Our fur babies have all been special, but none has been as unique or puzzling as our Snowshoe Siamese, Liam.

Our first experience with Snowshoe Siamese cats was our little Max, purchased at a farmstand with the official papers of a pedigree. He was smart and sweet and chattered and meowed and brought us great joy. We were smitten with the breed. When we lost him, we were crushed and I began a search for another. This time, we’d look for a rescue.

Liam was housed at a shelter not far away. It’s possible he was a cousin to Max. He and his cat sibling and dog bro were orphaned and surrendered to the shelter when their human parent died in the early days of the Covid pandemic. He was not bonded to his cat sibling, so we felt comfortable adopting him and hoping he would become friends with Oliver, our lonely grey cat, who had been left as a single cat by the loss of Max.

Liam was 10 years old, considered a senior. He was an indoor/outdoor cat**, also a deterrent to adoption. Once out, it is difficult to keep a cat in. As handsome as he was, pedigree and all, we thought there was a chance he would linger long in the shelter. Since Ollie was 11 and allowed to venture outdoors supervised or on a lead, why not give him a chance?

After the initial slow and somewhat rocky introduction, Ollie and Liam became good friends, sometimes grooming and sleeping close to each other. Liam was a talker, a squeaky, annoying, Siamese voice that only a mother could love. When he was at the window viewing the outdoor world, he chattered at the birds and critters. Though Liam proved to be mostly easy going, he didn’t suffer fools. There were spots on his body you COULD NOT touch without a nip or a scratch. Unlike Ollie, he wasn’t afraid of our visiting grand dogs and always let them know with a hearty hiss and swipe who was alpha in our house. He enjoyed lap time on his terms, always an honor to the chosen human, and found the very best spots of sunlight to nap on cold winter days.

After a full year plus of acclimating to his new home, he began to insist on venturing outdoors. He and Ollie were buds and I never worried about him wandering, because Oliver was a homebody.

When Ollie died of cancer early in 2024, it seemed we were a content family of seniors, two humans, one feline. A bit boring, but we were okay. Liam would venture out and back again. He always came when we called at curfew, checked in frequently throughout the day, and his midday snooze was usually on the bed. We never left the house if he wasn’t indoors.

Months after we lost Oliver, the spring itch of kitten season hit. Why not get Liam a baby brother? We would keep him as an indoor cat only. We were planning a trip to Maine in early June and would finalize our kitten plan upon our return. A friend agreed to stay at our house and keep watch over Liam. A plan was in place.

The day before our return home, our friend and house/cat sitter called in a panic. Liam had not come home the day before. She had looked and called everywhere. We are in a rural and farming area of meadows and fields. Homes are spread out and sparce. She searched the blueberry farm next door, as well as the barn and vacant old farmhouse across the road. She was at her wit’s end. While she continued to look, I spent the next few hours posting on social media including a local “pet connection” sponsored by an Albany TV station. I called and sent texts to the neighbors I knew, asked them to spread the word, and prepared to return home certain he would be back.

Arriving home, fully prepared to see him, we were devasted to find an empty home and front porch. As the days passed, I decided to contact a highly recommended “cat communicator” who told me Liam was dead. (Who does that? Okay, I said I wanted to know. But really?) I still didn’t give up. Each night before bed, I called out the front door for him. I expanded the search with flyers in mailboxes. There’s nothing like a missing pet to bring a neighborhood together. I had more support than I ever could’ve imagined.

The kitten plan was still in place. Twelve days after Liam’s disappearance, we adopted a tabby from a rescue. Jasper. Tiny. Cute. Energetic. Adapting well to our home. Little did we know that he came with a little extra something. (RINGWORM. But that’s another story.)

Twenty four hours later, I received a private Facebook message from a woman who lived about a mile away. She and her neighbor had night photos of a cat on a security and trail cams. Was it Liam?

YES! It was Liam. He had traveled more than a mile from home and was alive!

My neighbors, Monica and Cathy, were delighted to help. Yes, I could set a trap. Yes, they would keep an eye out and monitor cameras. Monica worked for a local organization that searched for missing dogs. This would be her first CAT! She walked me through how to create a highly visible flyer to go up on telephone poles and Cathy offered her printing services at her realty office. With Monica’s help, the flyers went up in the two mile radius of where he was spotted. Monica set up more trail cams in strategic places on their adjoining properties. I contacted their neighbor up the road to check her cameras and got permission to search their barns.

And we waited. And searched. And waited. And searched. And waited.

Little Jasper got more acclimated to his new surroundings. We were entertained by his kittenness. Is there anything cuter than a kitten with a catnip mouse in his mouth hopping sideways across the tile floor? Every day I would take my morning walk in the direction Liam had ventured, periodically calling out to him. I took my car to the area later in the day to call and call. My son helped me, but finally convinced me it was futile to search through fields. Instead, he would set me up with security and trail cams.

Each night, before going to bed, I went on the front porch and called for Liam, told him it was safe to come home. That he had a baby brother.

Early on July 3rd, Jasper was hopping about in his usual way. Happy with the world as he knew it. He stopped short suddenly. His whole body did that Halloween cat thing! Arched back, tail puffed, completely still. I followed his gaze and there, on the front porch, was Liam! Returned!

I rushed Jasper into the half bath, yelled to Win that Liam was home, and let him in. He couldn’t stop meowing! He was a mess. Lost his tick collar and ID collar, had scratches all over him, as well as a few ticks. We hustled him into the master suite, as it certainly wasn’t time to meet baby Jasper. Quarantine, for now. Food, water, and litter box in our room while he recovered and so we could have him checked by the vet. He had been gone for 22 days! Outdoors during brutal hot weather, horrific thunderstorms, torrential downpours!

How did he manage? Where did he go? Was he looking for us? Was he trying to get back to his former home thinking he had been abandoned? Was he chased by a fox or coyote? Did he then go the wrong way trying to find his way back? Did he follow my scent home? Did someone recognize him and return him because his face was plastered on our mailbox?

We will never know. It is the stuff of imagination, fantasies, and children’s books.

The nicknames followed. LeeLee the Adventurer. Liam the Secret Keeper. LeeLee the Searcher. Leebo Baggins, cousin to Frodo, Bilbo’s other nephew, whose 22 day travel took him There and Back Again.

Two years have passed since Liam’s great adventure. Two young tabby cats have joined our family. Liam, extremely tolerant as he is, never really bonded with Jasper, so we adopted another kitten last year to play with Jasper and leave the old Hobbit-cat to his cantankerous ways. To our surprise, Liam actually began to play with both of them, calling them, taunting them with his Siamese-ness, racing around the house reclaiming his inner kitten.

I am heartbroken to report that Liam left us on the first day of Summer, after a short decline, two years since his great adventure. Liam has taken his secret to the Rainbow Bridge. I like to picture him meeting his former human person, a tragic victim of Covid. As well as his pet siblings, including Oliver. I hope there is such a place. There is nothing I would like more than to meet my sweet Liam again. Rest in peace, dear kitty. We loved you so and miss you still.

** About indoor/outdoor cats: I grew up with cats. We lived in a wooded area of Westchester County, NY, and my parents allowed our cats indoor/outdoor access. There was a cat door in our basement for them to come and go if we weren’t there to let them in. I never gave the consequences a thought, even when on occasion a beloved cat disappeared. After a brief stent of city and suburban living, I moved to rural Upstate NY, where I began my own cat parenting. It never occurred to me to raise them differently until I experienced first hand the dangers to cats who go outdoors from coyotes and cars. Plus a cat’s instinct insists that they hunt. Mouse? Okay. Yes, please. Songbird? NOT okay. I used bells on my cats, which seemed to help warn the birds. Our current kitties will be kept indoors. If we didn’t have our second story porch with windows looking out to trees and meadows to entertain our tabbies, I would consider a catio. Look it up! Meow!

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Right Now, It’s Like This*

Posted on April 30, 2026 by catelabarrecoach

I am weary. Weary enough that I have been thinking about this post periodically for a couple months but have felt to weary to write it.

Weary, you ask? Why? I am a care partner for my husband who has Lewy Body Dementia (LBD) and Parkinson’s Disease (PD). It has been just over four years since his diagnosis and for at least four years prior, we searched for answers to explain his weird combination of symptoms. An eight year journey that has gotten progressively more difficult for both of us.

Weary enough that it is too much to go into the challenges or the feelings or the day-to-day sameness or sudden NOT sameness brought on by “Screwy Lewy”.

I have narrowed my focus and drawn in my energy. Gave up volunteering as a Master Gardener. Did not schedule any on-line workshops. Canceled my summer retreat. Stepped down from the presidency of my local library board. I hope to stay on to fulfill my term as a trustee. And I continue to serve on the library foundation board. I am grateful to have a few private coaching clients. I am fulfilled.

My daily meditation, walks, support groups, Pilates, friends, loving family, and incredibly grateful husband all help to keep me centered and grounded.

Throughout the day, I remind myself of something I learned from meditation teacher Sharon Salzburg. I can’t control all the events in my life. (Shit happens. Oh boy, does shit ever happen.) My power lies in how I choose to relate and respond to what happens.

So, as my therapist and some friends encourage me to NOT give up facilitating retreats, a wiser part of me knows that I am ready to do just that. I’ve held the space for groups for thirty years, starting as a Reiki Master Teacher. And, as a life coach, I still hold space for individuals on their personal healing journeys. That, too, will end someday, but not today.

For now, this is enough. I am enough. I will use my/our “resources” to hire help, clean our house, clean up the gardens, make repairs and necessary changes for our comfort and safety. And get additional help to support me and Win in this final adventure of our lives together. We have enough until we don’t.

I will go to Maine for a week of respite in June and that will be enough. For now.

Right now, it’s like this*. And this, too, will change.

* An edit a day after this post. I must give credit for the phrase: right now, it’s like this. Thank you to Jay Michaelson — writer, journalist, professor, rabbi, activist, and meditation teacher — for this alternate phrase to: it is what it is. Right now feels fluid, implies change. It is what it is, to me, implies finality. Since there is no finish until I take my last breath (and then, who knows?), I’ll stick with right now, it’s like this.

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More than Self-Care: the missing piece

Posted on January 30, 2025 by catelabarrecoach

Early mornings, before dawn, is my favorite time of day. My husband is still sleeping peacefully and the world is so quiet. I savor this time: Coffee in hand, I start with meditation. And now, daily, a practice is self-compassion. More below…

Today, I also indulged in a mineral bath and massage at the historic Roosevelt Baths and Spa in Saratoga Spa State Park. https://www.gideonputnam.com/roosevelt-baths-and-spa I forgot what being truly relaxed feels like. The perfect temperature mineral water, soft lighting, pleasant music, and the expert touch of my massage therapist. Bliss. It hasn’t been that long since I enjoyed this treat, yet today it felt different. No guilt.

As a caregiver, self-care is a necessity and can also feel terribly self-indulgent. A few posts back, I wrote a blog about how it’s better to feel a little guilty than resentful. Ultimately, when I don’t practice self-care, the resentment is directed toward me for not honoring my need for rest and nurturing. Guilt feels yucky too. Not as horrible as resentment, but not good either.

What was different today since the last time I was at the spa is that I have been practicing self-compassion on a daily basis. For a decade I have given self-compassion hearty lip service, encouraging clients and friends alike to give themselves a break and practice a little self-compassion. But was I doing it? Apparently not very well.

My inner critic was constantly on my ass about all the ways that I suck and all the things I need to do better. Though it would seem logical that at times we all need a good kick in the pants from our inner drill sergeant, for me that motivation was brief, half-hearted and, yes, half-assed.

This winter, I got serious about this self-compassion thing, knowing that I needed to build a practice not just preach about it. I took a course entitled Self-Compassion for Caregivers with Dr. Kristin Neff https://self-compassion.org/ Powerful stuff. What was affirmed, more than anything, is that in order to be compassionate for the suffering of another, in this case my husband, I needed to be compassionate for my own suffering.

This transformed into a daily practice. Along with practicing loving-kindness meditation (Metta) https://www.insightmeditationcenter.org/metta-readings/ I affirm that I am worthy of my own love and care. That my suffering is no more or no less important than anyone else’s suffering. Pain is pain. When I hear my inner critic start up her whiny rant, I know something is off and that even she needs my love and care. (I don’t think we can get rid of our inner critics, by the way, but the voice can become less intrusive.) I treat myself as I would a dear friend. When my fear and insufficiency are triggered, I take a deep breath and place my hand on my heart and say to myself, “It’s okay, Cate. This is hard. You can do hard things. Take a moment. Take a breath. I love you” The loving words vary, but in my consistency over weeks, I am noticing that I really am kinder to myself. The result? I am kinder to my husband, who couldn’t be more loving or grateful for my care, even when I am a little bitchy.

I don’t know where the resentment and guilt went, but, for now, they are gone. Perhaps gobbled up by love.

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Rock Bottom, Addition…

Posted on November 7, 2024 by catelabarrecoach

Update: March 23, 2025: I am an opinionated person. I am a human being with strong feelings about what I see has man’s inhumanity to man. I have veered away from being political in my blog. I’m a certified coach, after all, I’m supposed to be impartial. I can hold a place for you in my heart, even if we disagree. I know that we can find common ground through our shared values, even if we don’t practice those values in the same way.

I just received an email from an acquaintance who has received my newsletter for a decade or more. She read this post, written in the heat of the election results, and was deeply offended. So be it. I cannot and will not please everyone. I may want to actually read it again someday, so have filed her long email in my vitriol folder. Maybe she sees the following post as vitriol. Honestly, I get it. If I were to write this today with some space and 60 days into this administration, it would definitely be different. And I will not change it.

Read the following ONLY if you’re okay with the reality that we are all entitled to our opinions and that may not agree. I believe we can still respect one another and our differing views.

Written soon after our last presidential election: For those of you whose candidate won the presidential election, congratulations. May you find peace in the outcome. For the rest of us, please give us time to process what we are experiencing as a devastating loss.

As a straight, white woman, arriving into a family with some means, I was born with privilege. Not as much as my brother, but still. I cannot speak for others, so these words are simply my small way of offering hope.

I feel Kamala offered much hope and encouragement in her concession speech when she implored us to not give up. To be the stars in the dark night sky. To shine our lights.

And I want to say more.

In my late teens and early 20s, I started “experimenting” (as they say) with drugs. It all began with an innocent enough prescription from my doctor to help me lose weight. Amphetamines. It worked. Taking this drug made me feel powerful, engaged, and strong.

Sadly, I didn’t stop there. I don’t recall whether I could no longer get the drugs or if it was just “easier” to continue on to cocaine and heroine off the street. It wasn’t long before I hit my personal rock bottom. Among many lessons, I realized no one was coming to save me. I looked up from the very bottom of the hole I had dug and saw a bright light in the darkness. My North Star. Love. The light of love pulled me out of that hole. Love for myself. My precious life. The people around me who mattered to me.

I pray to my agnostic source that we remember that we are born worthy of love, receiving it, expressing it, seeing it as a beacon in ourselves and others. I pray that I not fall once again into a dark hole of despair, numbing my pain, where I’m not okay with who I am and with what I believe is possible for us as a people.

I pray that the source that binds us all to one another – this human family – wakes us up to our commonalities instead of our differences. That we do not become the monsters over here that fight the monsters over there. The other. All of us. We must stop this craziness.

I work hard to not hate those of you who voted for the winner of this election. I do believe you are misguided. I pray that you wake up from the trance, the drug, of the MAGA cult-like, hate-filled message. That when you hit rock bottom and there is no one coming to save you, that you rediscover the love that’s always been available in your heart. I pray that you find a way to deprogram the hateful misogynistic, racist, xenophobic, homophobic, Islamophobic, all the “othering” that separates you from your neighbor. Your neighbor who, by the way, did not eat your cat and does not vilify you. Please, please, stop drinking the Kool-Aid. Your recovery is ahead. You can do this. The world needs the light of your love, not your darkness.

I will do my best to hold on to hope for us all to find love again. I will do this by having good boundaries with myself. No network news broadcasts in my diet, because I get infuriated by the feeding frenzy, the othering, the them-and-us. I don’t want to be that person. I’ve gone cold turkey and just like quitting heroine and cocaine, it’s much easier than I thought it would be.

Practicing my value of kindness insists that I catch myself when I go to a hateful place. This begins with kindness for my own precious self, even when I feel my hateful self try to gain an upper hand. As I continue my network news fast. I won’t be on social media either. Just can’t. My psyche and heart need a rest.

Love is all that matters, no matter what. Find your North Star. Find the love in your heart. It’s there. You’ve got this.

PS I haven’t written or posted a blog in over a year. The last time I did, I consulted an AI app to help me write. UGH. Totally shut me down. Why bother writing when robot intelligence can do a better job? Well, I’m over it. It’s just little ole me, I’m just good enough, no AI, TYVM. I hope my thoughts help you find comfort and hope in these crazy times. I appreciate the few minutes of your precious time that you set aside to read this.

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Care for the Caregiver

Posted on July 7, 2023 by catelabarrecoach

“If you face the choice between feeling guilt and resentment, choose the guilt every time.” —Gabor Maté from the book: When the Body Says No, The Cost of Hidden Stress

Merriam-Webster, Guilt: the fact of having committed a breach of conduct especially violating law and involving a penalty

For me: The feeling I get when I’ve done something bad/wrong (my behavior) or what I want to do is bad, wrong, or outside of what others or the culture expects of me.

Merriam-Webster, Resentment: a feeling of indignant displeasure or persistent ill will at something regarded as a wrong, insult, or injury.

For me: This isn’t fair. What have I done to deserve this? (Resentment toward a person, the Universe, or fate.)

Caregiving is a life-altering experience. I know. I cared for both of my parents over a five year period. One, then both simultaneously, then one again. I was 20 years younger, raising a son, managing my own business, and divorced. (My current husband was in the picture and was with us for my dad’s final year, but we were not yet married.) Days after my dad died, the call came that my future mother-in-law needed care and we began again. Classic sandwich generation. I kept it all together, rarely feeling resentful. I anticipated that caregiving for my parents would fall to me and prayed it would never be needed. I just made the choice each day when I got out of bed that I could “do it” and I did with grace most of the time, if not always ease. I was tired, but not exhausted. I asked for and received lots of help.

I never anticipated being in this place again. I thought I had done my karmic caregiver’s duty. Then my incredibly strong, healthy, vibrant, “get ‘er done” type A personality husband got sick. Not just sick, terminally ill with a brain disease that is slowly taking him away. It’s different with a spouse. Massively different. This is NOT what our true love/partnership, encore marriage, semi-retirement years were supposed to look like. He was forced into full retirement. I’ve made the choice to cut back to have time with him and time for me.

You may be taking care of your spouse right now. You may not be experiencing any resentment. Not one moment when you’ve thought, WTF, WHY ME? WHY US? WHY AREN’T THE KIDS, SIBS, fill-in-the-blank HELPING US? After all, you’ve been called to this. You have a purpose, you’ve taken it on. Your spouse needs you. It’s a choice. I get it. Maybe you LOVE caregiving. It’s giving you a purpose. I’m making the same choice. Every day. I love my spouse, but I don’t love caregiving.

Having experienced (a-set-plus-one) parental caregiving and coaching dozens of women individually and in groups, I’ve learned some lessons that I now need to put into practice. Again. I CANNOT do this unless I remember the oxygen mask. It’s about saving me so I can be here for him. I need to recognize when I start to feel drained by caregiving or resentful about the situation and change something.

So where does the guilt come in and why is the discomfort of guilt better than resentment? Some of us (me) feel guilty taking time for ourselves (myself) when the needs of another appear to be more important. Humph.

So we (I) feel resentment at the situation. This sucks. Then I remember: Resentment is like drinking poison and expecting the rat to die. I may think that I only resent the disease or fate. Never do I resent my loved one. It’s still resentment. Ultimately I will resent MYSELF for being hyper-attentive to another and not being attentive to my needs and self-care. This is when I take gulps of resentment poison.

Guilt feels bad for a little while. Resentment festers.

How many people can you name who were caregivers and got sick or died before their loved one for whom they were caring? If you haven’t known at least ONE, you haven’t lived long enough or aren’t paying attention. It’s everywhere. A dramatic case in point: My cardiologist told me that they suddenly had to care for his father-in-law, who had moderate Alzheimer’s disease. His mom-in-law got sick and died within days of her being admitted to the hospital. He shared that had her illness been treated sooner, she may have survived the crisis. She had been covering up for her husband, taking care of everything 24/7, asking for no help. Not even the doctor in the family recognized it. She was so good at perfecting the cover up. Heartbreaking. Maybe she wasn’t a bit resentful. Maybe she just put off going to the doctor. Maybe she was exhausted. She forgot about the oxygen mask rule.

This will not be me. Not exhausted, nor putting off, nor resentful will I be! Don’t let it be you. I am doing the best I can AND that doesn’t mean being a perfect caregiver for my loved one.

My self-care practice while caregiving is ongoing, just as it was before caregiving. Now it’s on steroids. I’m creating self-care moments and days. I’m getting clearer about my priorities. I shifting my perspective when I notice the poisonous resentment gremlin popping its head. I ask myself: “What’s this about?” “What do I need to do for me today?” “Do I need to ask for help?” I may only be able to spend time in my garden or take a walk. I may be able to schedule a lunch date with a friend. I may feel a little guilty not giving every moment to my husband. But I won’t be poisoning my soul with resentment.

I try my best to plan ahead, whether a date for the two of us or a date for me without hubby, even though I know “the best laid plans, etc…” Especially with THIS disease. (As my engineer husband would say often: “Plan and adjust.” It’s become my mantra.) Yesterday, I took myself to Wiawaka on beautiful Lake George. I was home to have a delicious dinner with the love of my life. At this point in our journey, he knows and understands that I need this. Right now, he’s “well enough” for me to leave for part of the day. Me first. Remember the oxygen mask instructions. It’s real.

I felt a little bit guilty as I packed the car with sunscreen, chair, lunch, and my floaty. (Good. Guilt is good. Resentment bad, self-resentment very, very bad.) I returned refreshed, smiling, and ready to enjoy our evening together. My husband was fine. In this moment, all is well.

Thank you for sticking it out to the end. Follow along on this journey with me by signing up to be notified by email when I post. I’ll be sharing more about care for the caregiver and our journey through Lewy Body Dementia and Parkinson’s disease.



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Lewy-the-Elephant

Posted on June 20, 2023 by catelabarrecoach

There was a time, in another century, when divorce and cancer were spoken in whispers. I don’t know why each are spoken freely now, but perhaps it has to do with the prevalence of marriages that end in divorce and the medical strides made to cure cancer.

Dementia is still spoken in whispers. There is no cure. And there is NOTHING worse than losing your MIND. It is our very personhood, without it, who and what are we? It’s treated as a moral failure, “What could I possibly have done to deserve this?” Or, “That will never happen to me! I take good care of myself!” Yet more and more older adults are and will be diagnosed with the number one cause of dementia, Alzheimer’s Disease. Everyone has heard of it. Big press these days and still an incredibly uncomfortable conversation when it hits a family near you.

There is a good chance you haven’t heard of Lewy Body Disease.

Why do you need to know? Because Lewy Body Brain Disease is the second leading cause of dementia, hits younger adults as well as older, and two thirds of those who are diagnosed had a previous misdiagnosis.

Robin Williams died because he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease and though this was accurate, Lewy Body Dementia was missed. With the best possible care available in this country, the true cause of his illness was missed. You can watch the 44 minute film about his struggle here: https://www.mediflix.com/channels/lewy-body-dementia-association/video/1393

Why am I writing about it? Because my dear husband insists that everyone know about this disease to avoid suffering through misdiagnosis, as he did during the first five years of his troubling cognitive symptoms. Though he had dozens of doctor appointments for different specialties, including neurology, it was missed. He was finally diagnosed in April of 2022, after a long, frustrating journey.

We are in this together. With support groups, therapists, and doctors, as well as loving family and friends who aren’t afraid to talk about the elephant in the living room, Lewy. It’s living with us now. We will not ignore it.

You can read more about the second most prevalent cause of dementia and why it is so difficult to diagnose by exploring this website: https://www.lbda.org/

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When You Know It’s Not OK

Posted on July 14, 2022 by catelabarrecoach

We like it when our patients are their own advocates, the nurse says to me when I say, I wouldn’t have had this testing done if I hadn’t requested an appointment. There were no red flags except I KNEW I needed follow-up with my cardiologist when my blood pressure inched up. No one told me to do this! I was pissed already, but grateful that I had listened to my inner voice.

I hate giving bad news, she says as I cry on the phone, stunned, in shock. I suddenly feel like I need to comfort her, overly nice person that I am. I think much later, when did this become about her!

I google while she’s on the phone, not letting her hang up until I try to understand. I don’t understand. I calm myself. She says, the doctor wants you to start a statin. We’ll check you again in three months.

I wait. And wait. I wait for the report to hit the portal. It’s a few hours that seem like forever.

My calcium score. What I had anticipated would be ZERO is 3334.5 Yes, that’s three thousand, not three hundred. You read it right. Action needed when the score hits ONE HUNDRED.

Code YELLOW, whatever that is. I’m still stunned. 100th percentile. This is not good.

Report reads: Patient is advised to aggressively engage in risk factor modification. Clinical follow-up is recommended.

Risk factors to eliminate: The cigarettes I don’t smoke. The couch that doesn’t get company because I exercise EVERY DAY. The blood sugar that is normal. The cholesterol that is barely above 200. The five pounds I’ve always needed to lose, except when it’s 10 and I lose five. The wine I don’t drink. The blood pressure that’s controlled.

I’ve got it! Take the statin and clinical follow-up! More tests! YES! Information is KEY. What is really happening? Of course, we need more information.

I take a Xanax I had forgotten is in my medicine cabinet and go to bed at 7 PM.

Next morning, on the phone for an appointment with my cardiologist. Receptionist is looking. I wait. Eight minutes while she looks and apologizes. Nothing for months. Not with any provider. Nothing. I ask, Can I be placed on a waiting list? She responds, We don’t have one, you just have to call back. Snarky me says, Well, I guess we’re going to become good friends because you’ll be hearing from me every day!

I muddle through the week. My stepson is visiting. A good distraction. I facilitate a weekend workshop. Ditto. I can’t stay distracted. I google and look for good information. Cleveland Clinic, Johns Hopkins, and the like. No sites trying to sell me their diet or book.

I formulate a plan.

Fast forward one week. I see my GI doc. We have a 20 year relationship. He saw me through TWO treatments for hepatitis C. The first one in 2011 was hell and didn’t take. The second one, the miracle of mRNA, cured me. I still have risk factors for liver disease. We are on hugging terms.

He has a real desk. No, I’m not kidding. I love it. Solid wood. We each take our sides. We talk kids first, spouses next.

My turn. Do you have a good cardiologist? I ask. Yes, he says, he’s great! I toss my test results across his ample desk. He looks at the carotid ultrasound. Sets it aside dismissively. He takes up my cardiac calcium report and says, Holy fuck, and immediately texts his cardiologist while he listens to my story, incredulous that I was treated in such a cavalier manner. By the time I left the office, a nice long visit, I had an appointment scheduled next door less than 24 hours later.

I’m in the process of having aggressive testing and treatment of all parts relating to my cardiovascular system. I have confidence in my team. There is a plan in place with lots of moving parts, but they are on it. I’m on it. I just had a call while typing this, following up on the latest blood work. All is well in my world because I am my own advocate and I don’t suffer being dismissed when it comes to my wellbeing.

When it doesn’t feel right, it isn’t. When you know there’s more that needs to be discovered, there is. Trust yourself. Your head, heart, and gut. Let go of any idea that someone will judge you. That’s about them, not you. They’ve got thousands of patients, you’re the only you you’ve got. Dig in, hunker down, don’t give up. Knowledge is power. And never forget that you’re worth it.

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Structure and Discipline or Control and Addiction?

Posted on April 4, 2022 by catelabarrecoach

You do not rise to the level of your goals. You fall to the level of your systems. Your goal is your desired outcome. Your system is the collection of daily habits that will get you there. – James Clear

View from Indian Head, Upper and Lower Ausable Lakes, Adirondack Mountains, NY

This quote from James Clear, author of Atomic Habits, is a perfect quote for a life coach. We encourage our clients to create structures, rituals, and systems to achieve their goals. We suggest using the SMART (Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Relevant/Realistic, and Time-Bound) method to guarantee a successful outcome. We talk about the importance of discipline, ritual/habits, and schedules. We look at what gets in the way and build some flexibility into the plan.

Where is the line, the tipping point, that if gone unchecked leads from well-intentioned daily actions to an addictive pursuit of control of our behavior, our environment, and the desired outcome? How do we know when our goal becomes the totality of our existence? Our culture values overwork or “exhaustion as a status symbol and productivity as self-worth”, as Brené Brown shares in her book, The Gifts of Imperfection.

I know what the tipping point feels like for me on a micro and macro level. Micro: When I attempt to micromanage my patient husband and believe this is a sign of caring. Macro: When I push myself to the brink of exhaustion with exercise, over-committing, “dieting”, over-working. At these times I’m experiencing (and fiercely attempting to numb) my sadness (fear of unworthiness). I get to masquerade as the omnipotent do all, be all, and don’t let them see you sweat, powerful woman. UGH!

This exploration is inspired by a recent podcast: “We Can Do Hard Things”, with guest Dr. Brené Brown talking about her latest book and HBO series, Atlas of the Heart. I literally stopped in my tracks on my morning “ritual” of a short hike on nearby trails. Back up. I need to hear that again. Full stop. Mouth drop. I don’t get it. I don’t want to get it. Listened again this morning. Then I read the transcript. I’m trying to get it.

As I twirl with the concept that the extreme effort to control (ourselves, others, environment) fosters disconnection (to ourselves, others, environment), I invite you, reader of my occasional blog, to reflect on the times when you’ve experienced that tipping point. Maybe it was not in pursuit of your conscious goals, but in pursuit of being a loving parent, friend, or partner? When does control masquerade as caring? How do you know you’ve gone overboard and are experiencing disconnection with yourself or others? What do you do about it? If you could do it over, what would love and connection look like in those moments?

This feels like an important conversation, especially in these desperately uncertain times when it’s so tempting to become a complete control freak. As I continue to explore this in my own life, my intention is to be curious and practice self-compassion. If this post inspires self-reflection, I invite you to do the same. This is hard stuff and we can do hard things.

Posted in Brené Brown, compassion, integrative coaching, life coach, self-acceptance, self-compassion, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Snowbirds

Posted on January 16, 2022 by catelabarrecoach
Feeding sunflower seeds to Chickadee, Marcy Dam, Adirondack Mountains, NY

Language both fascinates and niggles me. It gets right into my grill and won’t break free until I get curious about meaning. What really rankles me is when an expression takes hold that makes absolutely no sense. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a language snob. My vocabulary is limited. When I’m reading, you’ll see me grabbing my phone frequently to look up words. AND I use words incorrectly all the time. Here is what’s currently in my grill — SNOWBIRDS. (Figuratively, not literally, phew.)

The definition of snowbirds:

  1. 1.INFORMAL•NORTH AMERICAN a northerner who moves to a warmer southern state in the winter. “at the peak of the tourist season the hotel hosted an additional three hundred snowbirds and backpackers”
  2. 2.a widespread and variable junco with gray or brown upper parts and a white belly.

How, just tell me HOW, the definition of snowbirds as northerners going south for the winter EVER came into common use?

Me, the junco, chickadee, mourning dove, blue jay, nuthatch, tufted titmouse, a variety of finches, owls, hawks, and birds whose names I do not know are the TRUE snowbirds. We stay. In the winter. In the snow.

I LOVE WINTER. I’ve loved winter from the time I no longer had to struggle through the worst of weather, bitter cold and snow, to drive to my job because without me the hospital could not function (or so I was told by my supervisor). Not to mention, personal days were few and frowned upon for such a thing as a little snow!

You could call me a tough old snowbird. Not so. Winter gives me an excuse to be lazy! Once I was self-employed and my own boss, snowstorms brought snow days. Luxurious days of canceling appointments, so that my clients did not risk life and limb to get to my office. I stayed home too. A cup of tea by the hearth. All was well.

Once my son could walk, snow meant building snow caves, snow men, flying down the hill on plastic toboggans, skiing lessons, hot chocolate, homemade soup, homemade bread, extra reading aloud time, twinkle lights, and snuggling by the fire. Snow days were our favorite days! Unexpected and prayed for — unplanned and spontaneous. (As I write this, he is in Vermont snowboarding, despite the brutal below zero Fahrenheit cold. Snowbird.)

There are other reasons why I love winter.

I can venture into the back woods on snowshoes, something I will NEVER attempt if the temperature is above 32F. Why? DEER TICKS — those awful disease carrying parasites that plague the Northeast. UGH. Winter is bug-free. No midges, mosquitos, blackflies, deerflies. Serenely and completely UNBITTEN. I can keep my blood and be disease-free. At least insect diseases, let’s be real.

Mild season? I am frenetic (definition: fast and energetic in a rather wild and uncontrolled way. “A frenetic pace of activity”) from the time the frost is out of the ground until I can no longer put a garden spade in the soil in November. I feel like I HAVE TO be outdoors from sunrise until sunset, because it’s the Northeast! Snow will fly! Make hay while the sun shines! Take photos while the flowers are in bloom!

Speaking of garden spades, I am NOT a great gardener by any stretch of the imagination. I love my flowers and herbs and shrubs and trees. I’m kind of a “free-range” gardener. Overgrown, out of bounds, maybe-I’ll-move-that-NEXT-year kind of gardener. If the Cornell Cooperative Extension Master Gardener program included show-and-tell, I’d be stripped of my certification. Fortunately the only requirement is that I volunteer to inform other home gardeners best practices according to Cornell. Another blessing of winter — my inner garden critic is in hibernation.

Back to the luxuries of winter TODAY: Guilt-free power naps after lunch whenever possible, cozy evenings by the fire, early to bed, massive novel-reading, extra Netflix, extra meditation, planning the garden (most of which will never get done), pouring over seed catalogs, ordering seeds, watching the true snowbirds at the feeder and seeing a fox trot over the snow in search of breakfast (which may be a chicken at the neighbor’s house), snowshoeing out my back door, taking on-line “self-discovery” classes, coaching by phone, teaching on Zoom (check out the tabs above), planning my in-person summer retreat (ditto tabs), and just calming the EFF down. Nothing feels frenetic. Indoor projects are on a wish list that may get done. Maybe not. Priority #1: Snow shovels handy, plow guy set up for the season. That’s IT.

AND none of the perils of traveling. No horrendous drives down I-95 or other irksome routes to Florida or other warm climes. No getting stuck at the airport due to canceled flights for bad weather or whatever the latest airline excuse may be. Okay, okay, I know, once you get there it’s quite lovely. But me? I’d be in the same pickle. Frenetic. Taking in all the the sites, staying on the beach until my skin blisters, enjoying sidewalk eateries until my shorts don’t fit. OH the PAIN of it! Year round frenetic me.

So to my friends who are MIGRATORY BIRDS and will return north just in time for the last snowstorm (I promise we’ll save you at least one): Have fun for me in the sunshine and warm breezes and I’ll have fun for you watching the snow fly and being compelled to do absolutely NOTHING. Cheers!

Molting Goldfinch, March 2020
Fox looking for breakfast. View from my window this morning as we anticipate the next snow.
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Courageous Feedback

Posted on September 6, 2021 by catelabarrecoach

I’ve been facilitating workshops for decades. My first “front of the room” experience was as a Reiki master, sharing this healing modality with college students, healthcare workers, and even a few nuns. It was a huge stretch for me and deeply fulfilling.

Fast forward a few decades to my training as a life coach and workshop facilitator, I continue to experience live group teaching and learning as a gift and a challenge. “Reading” the energy of a room and trusting the process, while holding a safe space for whatever is needed or wanted, has become second nature. I don’t always get it right. The experience is humbling.

When the pandemic hit, a brand new opportunity presented itself — teaching virtually. Was I up to the task? I definitely questioned whether I had the skills to facilitate a group of 8 in a virtual classroom. As I leaned in to this new format, holding the energetic space became something elusive, foreign, and nearly impossible. I had to trust even more that participants would receive exactly what they needed. It is so different and remains a huge stretch for me. Deep breath.

At the end of a workshop series, there is an on-line evaluation form for participants to fill out for The Daring Way™ team. This informs them and me of my strengths and weaknesses. This is part of the requirement for ongoing licensing to facilitate the curriculum. For the most part, evaluations are darn good. Not perfect. And, as a recovering perfectionist, darn good was “good enough.” I want to be a model of “good enough.”. Still, there is always so much to learn.

At the end of eight weeks it’s too late for me to make adjustments to my facilitation style in a way that benefits individuals or the group as a whole. So I decided to ask for feedback upfront.

In the very first class and each week, I ask participants to please send email feedback. Specifically, if something wasn’t working for them, it would help both of us, all of us, for me to be informed. On occasion I received constructive feedback. It was always helpful and sometimes opened up a broader conversation for group discussion. If it was something I could adjust, I would. If it wasn’t, we could talk about it.

Asking for feedback is courageous. Giving feedback, face to face, or emailed, is very courageous.

At the end of my most recent virtual series, an anonymous email was forwarded to me from my licensing team — someone who had spent 8 consecutive Thursdays, 16 hours of their precious time and energy in my workshop, who detested my style and thought I had no business facilitating groups without a LOT more training and supervision.

I was HORRIFIED! My heart pounded and I began to sweat. I was in a shame storm from this hurtful email. The story* I made up was that I’m incompetent. My greatest fear. It’s true. I suck. One out of many, I rationalized, one out of so many. They’re right. I suck. Then –why do I focus on the one person in the arena who hurls criticism out of so many who benefited? Back to — who do I think I am facilitating groups or coaching at all? Then — who is this cruel person who betrayed my trust? I did ask for ongoing feedback, after all. What a fucking coward!

Rumbling* with vulnerability, shame, blame, self-compassion. Finally – acceptance.

I can’t please everyone. I’m not here to please everyone. I’m here to be me. My authenticity mantra**: “Just be yourself, dear one.”

In the end, just as Brené Brown teaches, it is not the critic who counts. This individual is not the person whose opinion matters. And, frankly, it would have mattered had they come to me that very first or second or third week to share their dissatisfaction. I can “hear” clear feedback. I can’t “hear” anonymous criticism.

*To learn what it means to rumble with your story, read Rising Strong, by Dr. Brené Brown, or attend a workshop offered by a licensed Daring Way™ facilitator. like me!

**To learn about authenticity mantras, read Daring Greatly, by Dr. Brené Brown, or attend a workshop….

Posted in Brené Brown, compassion, life coach, self-acceptance, self-compassion, Uncategorized, understanding, vulnerability | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 10 Comments