WHO AM I?

Boy with butterfly on his nose.
Originally published as an intro to me and the "Lost and Found"/fallback theory website in March 2020.

My name is Valerie Livesay.  Not so long ago, I left my job as full-time faculty teaching in a graduate program in organizational leadership at a university. I left my job…to attempt to be.  To sink into not doing (doing being a favorite compulsion of mine).  To find myself anew.  To shed the many parts of my identity that I had spent a lifetime creating; the parts that had been created on my behalf; the parts that had certainly served me well to that point.  And, to see if I could still be loved…by myself…by others.  This was to be a year-long sabbatical.  A time during which I let go of my professional roles, let go of many of my personal affiliations, released myself (pried myself!) from the habits of my life, in order to let come. In order to surrender to myself.  In order to be able to hear what my heart desired. It took a while for me to get there, but eventually I found myself turning inward without much desire at all to turn outward. I settled into my cocoon.  I loved snuzzling into its compact, insular, warm, fuzziness.  I felt I might finally be figuring out how to be

Then, COVID-19.

I study human development; specifically, adult development; specifically, fallback in adult development.  Fallback is the complete loss of options, of capacity, of access to feel, to behave, to think at the developmental level which you are ideally capable. You may consider fallback your small self…a departure from your Big Self. 

As the world is being forced to isolate, I feel called to emerge from my self-imposed, self-created isolation…in order to share the things that I know, the things that I think that I know, and the myriad things that I am sure that I do not know.  I’ll admit that I was too much in the throes of my own fallback…and the coziness of my cocoon…to notice the calling myself.  It took me literally being called by a friend and colleague telling me that he thought my research and practice might be super-helpful to some people right about now and how about I come on out to share it.  He was right.  How could I say no?

So, “who am I?” is an active question for me.  Who is the world calling for me to be? What makes my soul sing?  I’m only beginning to experiment with it.  It may still be experimenting with me.  But, I have made a decision. I extend a wing outside of my cocoon to you.  I invite you to discover with me the stranger I am becoming*. My hope is that you will come to know yourself more truly, too.

*David Whyte, Consolations: The solace, nourishment and underlying meaning of everyday words

Toppling the Facade of Perfection

Growing up, I loved my dad madly.  I thought he was the best human around. He seemed to me to have endless knowledge about every subject. He held the bar for what it meant to live by an uncompromisable moral standard.  He was kind and compassionate. And, he was exacting in his expectations of others, particularly his children. 

Speaking “proper” English was important.  I learned quickly that “hopefully” and “second of all” were improper uses of the word/phrase.  (It’s “I’m hopeful” and “second,” in case you are wondering.)  When I returned from a year living in Australia as an exchange student when I was 17 with the habit of picking up my food with the tines of my fork pointed down (European style), I was promptly schooled in the “correct” (read: American) fork-holding etiquette. When I received a grade of “A”, he’d ask why it wasn’t an “A+”.

When I told my dad that I was returning to school to pursue my doctorate, he (who holds a Ph.D. and a JD) informed me that you couldn’t pay him enough money to return to either side of the lectern. When I was invited by Bob Kegan, one of the adult development field’s preeminent theorists, to serve as a Teaching Fellow for his online course at the Harvard Extension School, my dad ridiculed online education as lacking rigor and academic integrity. 

I strived mightily to live up to his expectations, to make him proud.  But, no matter what new heights I achieved, I seemed to let him down.  And, because my dad was such a model of perfection, it must be me who was wrong, who was less than.  It couldn’t have been him.  And, my father, imperfect as he was, as all humans are, would never let on that he was wrong, that he made mistakes, that he, too, was flawed.

The way I got loved as a child was by achieving, by contributing, by being perfect. I carried this story of what makes me lovable into my adulthood. I held it as truth. What I also carried with me was a steadfast desire to live up to this impossible standard of perfection, and an unrelenting recognition of all of the times that I did not.

During my doctoral program, I came upon this theory of adult development with its expansion of our capacities to see, feel, think, and act, to make-meaning in ever more complex ways. I was hooked. My own life and development overall seemed to map so precisely with the theory. Except for one thing. The theory seemed to paint a forward-moving, stairway-to-heaven journey.  My own experience of development was marked by many forays into smaller, less complex, less expansive ways of being, thinking, seeing.   I had a certain set of capacities that in the adult development field are referred to as one’s center-of-gravity – the normal place from which one makes sense of and engages with self and the world.  These were present when the birds were singing and the breeze was blowing and the sun was shining. But, when the scaffolds that propped up my ideal self were absent, I would fall back into a smaller, more constricted space of making meaning and acting.  And, this could happen often.  Certainly weekly.  Perhaps even daily. Okay, let’s be honest — sometimes several times in a day.

And, I was primed by my upbringing to notice it, to be crystal clear when I wasn’t meeting that bar. So, I would do what any self-respecting adult does when they’re having a bad day. I’d close my door, not take calls, and wait for the smallness to pass.  If it was really bad, I’d hole up in my bed with a box of tissues, a glass of wine and the Real Housewives of whatever city to make me feel a little bit better as a human.

Then I had children.  And, children are in your face all the time. There’s no closing yourself behind the door to wait it out…cry it out. Children are right there with you, reflecting you back to you, constantly. 

I have a distinct memory of losing my shit with my at-the-time two-year-old son. I don’t remember exactly what had transpired other than that expectations for one’s children’s perfection seem to have been an inherited trait. When my son did not live up to my expectations, it often challenged my own sense of perfection.  And, that showed up in blame of him and shame within myself. 

In this moment, I had fallen back far.  I had none of my greater capacities in my grasp.  I could see my ugliness. I couldn’t hide or deny it. Yet, my son, who took the brunt force of my fallback, looked back at me with so much love and acceptance.  And, that broke my heart and at the same time cemented my commitment to wading into the depths of my own deeply imperfect humanity. And, doing so out loud. My children are simultaneously one of the biggest triggers of my fallback and the source of my greatest desire to embrace the fullness of me, to learn, and to grow.

Oh, what profound lessons I may have learned, much earlier in my life, had my dad only revealed the fullness of himself.  Had he allowed me to look into the eyes of a man who stumbled, and bled, and raged, and then acknowledged his fallibility.  Had he seen me loving him back, not for the high-gloss sheen that hid his imperfections. But, loving him back, because of the them.

Yet, this is hard. Even when I see myself failing, which I do so often, it’s shameful to admit it to myself, it’s wrenching to own it with others, it’s devastating to acknowledge it to my children.  Still, painful as it is for me to own up to my small self causing them pain, it is critical that they see that I am far from perfect. That their love for me not be predicated upon my perfection, but rather on an appreciation for the awe-inspiring beauty of a human showing up to the practice of being human, day-after-day, sometimes triumphantly, and sometimes on my knees. Because, in allowing them to see and love the fullness of me, they may be better able to see and love the fullness of themselves. 

***

Last week, I had the opportunity to talk to my friend and colleague, Gideon Culman, on his podcast Where Genius Grows about the wretched agony of inviting our more shadowy characters into the light…and the beauty of surrendering to the fullness of ourselves. It’s a raw, revealing exploration of the experience of fallback…and the practice of showing up to self, day-after-day, recognizing the full, messy, complex, imperfect humans that we are.

Eleanor Rigby

Waits at the window

Wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door

Who is it for?

The Beatles, “Eleanor Rigby”

Two weeks ago, I emailed a friend.  I wrote, “At this moment (and this could easily shift in the next moment), I seem to be settling in to acceptance of this…as it is.  It feels less of a struggle…less of a longing for what comes next.”  One-hundred moments later, I sat with Sloane trying to teach her to write her letters correctly. I could see she was getting more and more deflated as I emphasized which letters go from the first floor to the basement of the letter “house” and which are first and second floor letters.  Yet, I persisted having her practice writing them until she had them correct. Practice makes perfect.  Her brow drooped.  Her head hung lower.  Then she looked at me and said, “You’re mean!” And, I crumbled. 

Continue reading “Eleanor Rigby”

From Fallback to Spring Forward: Bringing our better selves in times of complexity

It’s time to get into some theory! (She writes with geekiness oozing through the screen.) Truly, I do love me some theory. And, some research. Yet, I’ve grown disenchanted with writing it up in awkward third-person narrative for only the people who have access to academic databases and peer-reviewed journals to read.

Let’s get it into the hands of the people. Let’s make it available and readable to those who could care less about the methodology I used to conduct my research, but really want to know why they had one set of capabilities to show up three minutes ago and find themselves in this moment reduced to the emotional and relational capacities of a toddler. I wrote and published the below article on Monday on Medium. 

Continue reading “From Fallback to Spring Forward: Bringing our better selves in times of complexity”

Lost and Found

In November, I lost my wedding and engagement rings. I love my rings, but I don’t wear them all the time. Only when I’m going out do I really put on any jewelry. I opened the dryer one day and found my engagement ring lying under the jeans. I didn’t even realize it had been lost. Suddenly I recalled that the night before when I was putting lotion on Sloane, I slipped the rings off and put them in my pocket. Then I forgot all about them. So tumble-dried engagement ring – here. Where’s the wedding ring? I searched the dryer, shaking each of the jeans that inhabited it.  Nothing.

Continue reading “Lost and Found”

Grown-Ass Woman Meltdown #1

So far, the musings on this website have been largely absent the fallback episodes that pepper my days.  Lest you think it’s because I’m sailing through my newfound roles and newfound co-habitating-while-co-working waters at a graceful and efficient clip, allow me to disabuse you of that notion.  Let me assure you that there have been many “I need a moment” proclamations followed by intentional deep breathing to allow me to recover and return to my day without losing my shit – inwardly and outwardly.  In fact, it’s probably because my fallback occurs many times a day in many micro forms, that I haven’t tended to write about them. After all, I am in the midst of learning-while-doing my new full-time job homeschooling a kindergartener and a fourth grader. It’s hard to find the time to document all the small episodes during which I don’t show up my Big Self.  Both, because the time is scarce and the fallbacks are plenty.

Continue reading “Grown-Ass Woman Meltdown #1”

Self-care tip #1: Calgon

Well, not Calgon specifically. Unless that’s your jam…and, if you can still find it. In any case, what I’m trying to say is take a long, hot, luxurious bath. Use whatever product will “take you away”. I recommend the fancy one that someone gave you and you’ve saved in your bathroom cabinet waiting for a special occasion to spoil yourself.

This is it. This is the time to celebrate the little things. Like having a moment to yourself to take a bath. “Treat yo self” (for you Parks and Rec fans). Put on your favorite playlist. Close your eyes. Breathe.

Last night, I soaked in the tub with my John Denver Radio on Pandora playing. (Don’t judge me.) I swayed. I sang out loud. Loggins and Messina. The Beatles. Yes, John Denver, too. I let the songs take me to other times in my life…the lyrics and melody serving as muscle memory…times of joy, times of despair. And, I remembered. This, too, is a moment.

Signs that don’t wear signs

Four months ago, I began to fiercely protect the sanctuary of my being space.  Yes, it was 9 months ago that I left my job to set out on this path to being. But for the first 2 months, I was spending the summer with my kids. Then, what being looked like to me was being in the company of others…friends who are also colleagues in the field of adult development. We’re an international crew, so this takes a virtual form most of the time.  My calendar was filled with zoom video chats. My husband would say I was the busiest non-working person he knew. Continue reading “Signs that don’t wear signs”

Fallback in the age of Coronavirus

Let me share with you what brought me here…to emerge from my cocoon, to create this website, to put back on one of the parts of my identity that I had shed.

Perhaps this is what brought you here, too. Continue reading “Fallback in the age of Coronavirus”