Finding Your Strengths In Hard Times
Mother and daughter relationships are complicated, and mine is no exception. But throughout it all — throughout the dreaded teen years, throughout the fights, the struggles, the ups and downs — one thing has been the common thread that tied us together:
A true, unconditional, never-ending love of Britney Spears.
We loved Britney in her “Hit Me Baby One More Time” phase. We loved Britney during her getting married to Kevin Federline in matching sweatpants phase. And we even loved Britney in her vulnerable, shaved-head breakdown phase — because it made her human.
So when I worked for Polaroid in the early 2000s, and I was presented an opportunity to sponsor an artist for a concert series, you can guess who I picked. And so I traveled down to New York from Boston so that the world’s biggest Britney fan could go see her show.
That was when I first knew that something was wrong with my mother. She seemed smaller, more frail, and her walk was off-kilter. When I returned to Boston, I started thinking about all the other times I had worried about my mother: That time when I was six years old and she couldn’t figure out how to get out of the ball pit. That time she had carpal tunnel surgery and the numbness in her hands just didn’t go away. I started obsessing over all of it.
One day, she called me and my then-husband and told us the news. At 53 years old, she had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. My husband at the time said, “Sorry to hear that” and went back to playing video games. (That’s only one small part of why he’s now my ex-husband, but that’s a totally different article). I, on the other hand, immediately got to work.
I started learning everything I could about the disease. I realized that my mother had been misdiagnosed for years, and that she was now past the point where we could reverse it. We could only try to stop it where it was. I moved to New York to be closer to her and my family.
Because I had focused so much on learning about the disease, I wasn’t entirely surprised when the mystery ailments that my brother experienced at age 26 were diagnosed as MS too. My mother, of course, was devastated — feeling responsible (even though of course that was not the case). And while I was profoundly sad, I also felt inspired and determined.
I was inspired that they caught this so early. Unlike my mother, my brother had a real chance at stopping the disease. We were also so much further along in the research. These things gave me hope, and I felt determined to put an end to this disease that was impacting my family.
I started volunteering and walking, and in 2007 I was asked to speak at an event called the Women Against MS Luncheon. It was one of my first speaking engagements, so I was quite nervous, particularly because my father was in the audience. (To put this into perspective: My father, a prominent judge, was known as one of the greatest public speakers in New York. It was like presenting in front of Barack Obama, except Barack Obama is your dad. No pressure.) I got up there and spoke, ruffling my papers, but doing a pretty good job for an early speaker.
Afterward, my dad came up to me and said, “You have a gift. You must use it.” Sometimes, it just takes a tiny bit of encouragement to change a life trajectory. I went on, perfecting my craft — speaking both professionally and anywhere I could about how we could stop MS in its tracks.
A few years later, my dad passed away. My brother had moved his family up to New Hampshire for a slower pace of life, and I was now a CEO, a parent of three children, and a frequent keynote speaker. I was also the “go-to person” for my mother. My first fear was that I would now have to take on the responsibility of being her caregiver. Little did I know that many people with MS, even with a level as severe as my mother’s, protect their independence fiercely. Here’s an example of me trying to be a caregiver for my mother:
“Mom, can I make you a sandwich?”
“No! I’m making you a sandwich! Would you like some chocolate milk with that?”
It turns out, moms are still moms, even when they’re living with a disability.
I recently wrote my first book, called Work It: Secrets for Success from the Boldest Women in Business. To work it means to understand yourself — to work with your strengths and your weaknesses — to create the life that works perfectly for you. For my mom, working it is getting up when she’s tired in order to play with her grandkids, or learning to transition to a scooter to save her energy for the things that really matter — like making me chocolate milk, for instance. For me, working it is using my strengths as a public speaker to inspire others, or taking advantage of my health and my determination to raise money for important causes like the MS Society.
And for everyone I’ve met who’s living with MS or supporting people with MS, working it is getting up every day and telling the world: We got this. We can beat this. We can work it.
If you’d like to help me work it by supporting the MS Society, please consider making a donation.
