If you feel like your career has slowed like pouring molasses — or failed to get started at all because you just graduated, a career coach can help you identify all the obstacles that may hamper your job search and help you brainstorm a game plan to overcome these obstacles. Or if you have a specific workplace issue such as wanting to move up in your company or change your focus in your career, a career coach benefits you by understanding all the layers of that workplace issue you’re facing and helps you to explore and/or try out potential solutions. If you have a specific career weakness, such as poor communication skills, difficulty negotiating, or you don’t do well with presentations, a career coach can guide you through steps to sharpen those areas quickly and effectively for your benefit.

A career coach can also be focused on helping you with a particular event, like an interview, career fair or salary negotiation discussion with the boss. A career coach can prepare you to manage these things with a confident strategy that has higher chances of a favorable outcome.

You might be wondering about all the different kinds of coaches: career coaches, business coaches and executive coaches. Basically, a career coach focuses on individuals at either early stages of their career such as a new graduate in the workforce, and helps you focus “growing” your job-readiness in the right direction. Or, maybe you are at a crossroads trying to manage a change, opportunity, or threat of job loss successfully.

A business coach tends to focus on helping small business owners grow their businesses (rather than their careers). If you have more of an entrepreneurial spirit and want to work from home or simply be your own boss, a business coach can lead you through the process of creating a business plan, marketing, connecting with the right business idea and customer base, plus more.

An executive coach generally works with individuals at high levels in Corporate America, such as a chief executive officer or vice president of a company. Even the higher-ups, who are sharp in many professional areas, can have weaknesses that need to be tweaked to impact a better job performance and their success as an effective leader.

Some will do well using a career coach, others may find it hard to invest in without a lot of carved-in-stone assurances. The expertise and ability of a career coach, as well as your own willingness to do some self-improvement, play a big part in the success of your relationship and results.

Think about it. Do you respond well to constructive criticism? Are you consistent and quick to respond when given advice or recommendations to improve? What about having someone else hold you accountable, or does it feel more like you are being nagged? Do you have the time to connect, commit and follow through on a career coach’s recommendations that are in your best interest? If not, it’s not worth the investment to hire a coach.

Can you afford a coach? There are a wide range of career coaches that charge different fees; some are more flexible with your finances than others. If you can’t afford a coach, go to the library and check out some books on career advice first. Then, see where you are in your willingness to make some changes, grow, as well as where you are financially. Do you really see the value of self-improvement? Then be willing to budget and work with the coach to afford your next steps to success. 

When you have a disability and are having career issues, a couple things need to be taken into consideration. Primarily, ask yourself if the work issues you’re dealing with are specifically related to your disability or general work issues? Keep in mind that if the issue is that your employer is limiting your career options due to your disability, you may need an advocate rather than a career coach. However, if your disability is causing you to limit your career growth because you don’t feel good enough or able enough, then you may want to discuss this with a career coach specializing in people with disabilities – like myself.

Sometimes, it can be tough to find a career coach that is also knowledgeable of the challenges of a disability who’s just the right fit  for your needs, too. Since there are relatively few career coaches who focus on people with disabilities (although this number is growing as you read this), this may make it even more difficult to find just the right person to advise you. Still, do a search and find the right one that meets your needs.

What type of coaching do you need? Do you need in general “help me get my career in gear” help or something more targeted to your health and disability challenges? Determine if you want to work with a coach who specializes in people with disabilities specifically. If that matters to you, then start contacting career coaching firms, disability-focused organizations (if the answer is ‘yes, it matters’) and interviewing potential coaches to get a feel for their coaching style. Most coaches do offer a free consultation so you can get the feel of a session and how well you interact with the coach. Are you looking for a cheerleader? Want someone that can be inspirational? What about someone who can dig into your gray cells and be more analytical?

Or, maybe you want someone to crack the whip and keep you on task with your action plan to getting that job or getting that promotion. Ask around among your friends, family, and professional network to see if they’ve ever worked with a career coach. Maybe they can make a recommendation that works for you. A friend may tell you they’ve worked with a coach that wasn’t so great. Now you know with whom you might be a good fit.

A career coach is a wonderful storehouse of information and support as you begin to achieve specific career goals once you are clear on what your goals are. But first, do some serious personal exploring to ensure you know what you want to get out of the experience in the end. It’s your job and career and your progress can truly be in your hands with a little bit of help from a coach.

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My physical impairments often create additional barriers as I go through my day, but I press on because getting certain things done or experiencing certain things are important enough for me to rise beyond the challenges. What’s important enough for you to move beyond the barriers to get through? All of us have barriers as we go about each day, right? These can be practical barriers, financial barriers, emotional barriers or those created by the people around us in the attitudes they share with us. Yet, people with disabilities, and people living with disabling chronic illnesses, often share common qualities of resilience, determination and adaptability. And yes, we also have those days where we just don’t want to try. It’s part of being human. Believe me, I know this to be true as a survivor of birth with spina bifida with depression and limb loss. Still, I press forward. Each movement may tire me, but I know I’ll be further along in my journey if I just take one movement. The barriers you face may be personal to you, but it is vital that you create ways to move forward, to better understand and overcome them if you are serious about achieving your goals.

We all face pain, suffering, stress and other difficulties. Many of us with disabilities and chronic illnesses experience these more frequently, or maybe just differently depending, than the average. At times of stress and difficulty we tend to think that life would be much simpler without these hassles, or that we’ve cornered the market on our own self doubt. , but these moments of difficulties also provide us with added opportunities to build new skills and offer us another chance for growth. Adversity is unavoidable, so why fight it? Whatever we’ve been brought to, we can get through. Accept that life has its challenges and develop ways to cope that work for you. Try this: don’t linger too long on past difficulties, but focus on how you got through them and make a list. And, don’t go looking for future difficulties to make life harder for you. Why do that? The current barriers, whether you have a disability or care for someone who does, are enough to deal with!

There are many success stories of people (with and without disabilities) overcoming various barriers that inspire me when I feel slammed against a wall in my life. Being ‘up against it’ is often linked to my personal vantage point at the time. There’s a story of the Brooklyn Bridge that I keep in mind as I face challenges of overcoming, that has inspired me and it may inspire the rest of you as well.

In 1883, Washington Roebling’s father, John, had a unrealized dream to build the Brooklyn Bridge. Experts at the time believed it to be impossible, scoffed at him even, but John couldn’t ignore the pull this dream had on his heart and mind. So, he finally persuaded the city to support his project. He and his son, Washington, were the lead engineers and the only ones who knew how to build such a massive structure. After just a few months into the project, there was an accident that killed John and left his son Washington with permanent brain damage. Although unable to speak, write, or walk, Washington’s mind was sharp as a tack and he found that he could still move one of his fingers. Determined to bring his father’s dream to fruition, he developed a code which made it possible to communicate with his wife by tapping on her arm with his finger. Washington tapped tirelessly on his wife’s arm for thirteen years. Thirteen years! Now that is determination! She, in turn, relayed these instructions for the engineers to build the bridge. Today, the Brooklyn Bridge stands as a testament to how any obstacle can be overcome.

Reading or hearing about successful people who have overcome adversity to achieve personal success is inspiring to me. I encourage you to find role models that inspire you as well. The encouragement I am left with by these examples drives me forward to prove to myself, and to the doubters out there I swat away like flies, that having a clear vision and determination will see me through. It will even see me through the occasional fog of self doubt that seems to settle across my heart out of nowhere and freeze me in place. I know that in that moment of uncertainty, questioning and fear, I have to move forward in action anyway so that the light can continue to come through.

Find those affirmations, activities, supportive people and habits that give you positive light. Reflect on and do them when you feel at your darkest moment. All the colors of hope and success will come shining before you, lighting your path forward if you do.

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A person with a disability is a minority that crosses all the other groups. A person with a disability can be young, old, rich, poor, any ethnic or cultural group, gender or sexual orientation. A disability can affect any of us at any time regardless of our station in life. America’s core values, as I’ve always known my country, has focused on being a land of inclusion with the promise of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness for all, though not without some amount of struggle for each and every one of us.

As I reflect on the recent 20th anniversary of the Americans with Disabilities Act, I think about it as a testament to the fact that change really can happen in incredible and profound ways and, like a ripple in a lake, continues to spread outward.

The passage of the ADA on July 26, 1990, was the highlight of my teens. It ushered in, for me, long overdue access to the American Dream for people with disabilities like me. This legislation, distinctly American, revolutionized and transformed the lives of all people all over the country for the better, but we still have far to go, if not in legislation, then in how others receive and perceive us in the human community. At least it opens a dialogue for changing mindsets.

The ADA opened wide the doors to better education, more employment opportunities, accessible transportation and essential socialization making people with disabilities relevant to humanity, rather than outcasts. We now have a clear laser lighting the way for people with disabilities to be equal participants in society and realize our full potential.

With the power of the pen, and the words of “The Father of the ADA” Justin Dart, Jr., the law finally stated that people with disabilities have the right to go to school, get a job, travel on an airplane, use various means of communication and otherwise experience life to the fullest. Without the ADA, I’m unsure how I and other people with disabilities would live in an apartment, work full-time, use public transportation, go to the store, watch a football game or safely cross the street.

The ADA has set clear, unambiguous guidelines for engineering, architecture and human resources, with no bias, to level the playing field so we can access life’s experiences. It spells out what to do to give everyone equal access.

Critics may argue that the ADA gives people with disabilities special treatment, but we aren’t asking for special. I and others just want access to what everyone else has. Consider if anything ever happens to you and your abilities (or that of a loved one’s) were suddenly taken away. Wouldn’t you be thrilled to know this law protects you, too?

So, upon reflecting on the 20th anniversary of the Americans with Disabilities Act, I am encouraged by the progress made in providing equal opportunity and changing negative perceptions and stereotypes. We have come far in just 20 years, but there is still more work to be done.

Though physical access has improved by leaps and bounds, the biggest challenges still faced by people like me are psychological and social. People ask me if the ADA has actually focused more attention on my disability. Maybe it has, but it has also focused on opening dialogues about what it means to have a disability and what we as a population want from the world of our peers who don’t have disabilities. I’m confident, though, that as we break down more physical barriers, and the more we are seen out in the community living our lives as we were choose, America can be a role model to the rest of the plant to create equal access and equal opportunity, embodied by the ADA.

If there’s anything that people without disabilities don’t know about us living with disabilities, I encourage us all to be good ambassadors of the desire to love equally and without barriers to our dreams and aspirations as part of the human community. I invite my brothers and sisters in advocacy to be those ambassadors and to open your mouths and hearts wide to people who ‘just don’t get it’ quite yet.

It’s been 20 years, yes I know, but people don’t know what they don’t know and all we can do is light the way to the road of equal access and inclusion for others who still don’t quite understand.

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Every so often, the foot would give me a problem, heal up then give me another problem for a little longer. More serious and longer infections would invade each time. By Thanksgiving 2009, I was done with my nightly date with my husband over bandages and wound care supplies. We fought the good fight, visiting various specialists along the way. Eventually I realized that, if we were ever to resume a normal life, if I was ever to feel good again, I needed to face the fact that my foot no longer wanted to play on my winning team of good health. It was tired. And wow, so was I!

So began what was, for me, a really long goodbye process. We prayed, meditated, sought opinions and finally decided between Veteran’s Day and Thanksgiving that the time had come. I was ready to eliminate the infections and the tiring battle of fruitless wound care regimens that too me off work, my husband off work and tied up our evenings with refreshing bandages.

I began talking to my foot more once the decision was made to have surgery on January 8, 2010. When I would bathe, I would whisper how good my left leg was for giving me full form and a placeholder during some wheelchair to car or bed transfers, even if I couldn’t stand on it. I thanked it for how nice it was to have a foot to fit in nice lace-up shoes rather than be confined to the clunky orthopedic ones from my childhood. I apologized for breaking my grand pronouncements to various doctors that, “I came into this world with all 10 fingers and toes. Whether I use them or not, I’ll die with all 10 fingers and toes!” It just wasn’t in the plan was it? Leaving the world with my 10 fingers and toes intact, that is.

But, in the years of on-again, off-again wound care that slowly morphed into long-term, unsuccessful on-again routine, I realized I gave it my best. I did right by left foot. Took good care of it the best we and I knew how. The infections had just taken their toll and it was time to go our separate ways so I could resume a healthier state of being.

As a result of my amputation, the last six months have been like waking from a deep sleep. My body feels alive again. No longer am I sequestered to bed rest. No longer am I monitored daily by useless suction therapies or every-other-day home nursing visits. No longer do Bryan and I spend our not-so-romantic evenings over bandages, ointments and very, unmagical potions to make my foot and the rest of me okay again. Today I feel alive, buzzing almost, vibrating with new health. I’m pushing 40 here folks, but I almost feel 25 or 30 again. I am a bit home rest weary, yes, but I’m getting my ‘go out and see’ legs again, even if with only a leg-and-a-half.

I tuck my pants leg under me in my wheelchair and pin pretty, sparkly brooches sometimes at the end of my leg, or fold the pants leg in a way that it drapes at the end with a pin or clip. It mesmerizes women who love to accessorize like I do. It draws curiosity and smiles from children, much like the butterfly logo on my wheelchair spoke covers. All in all, I want my limb loss to be a gain, not just for me, but for others who look upon it. Go ahead and stare. Wonder what’s going on beyond the pretty faux lizard pin or pearlized brooch. I have a story I’m willing to share. It’s a great conversation piece. Some people don’t want to talk about their disabilities much, but I’m happy to talk about my life experiences using a wheelchair or dealing with the decision to become an amputee.

As I’ve grown up with a disability and chronic illness, I’ve come to understand the inadequacies, the feelings that you sometimes lack a sense of control, the worries that you might not fit into The So-Called Normal World. There’s no such thing, by the way, The Normal World, that is. I’ve learned that life is all about intentional choices, and what result you are looking for in the choices you make. Not all the choices are easy. Not all the best choices bring immediate peace, but peace can and will come. What does peace look like for you? That’s what you have to ultimately ask yourself. It depends on how you look at it and the agreements you make with yourself about it. I made an agreement with myself that I would be much healthier with what I’ve got to work with so this situation would be less likely to visit me again. I made the decision to share my world with other people, a wider group of people who may not be at the same level of acceptance I am, which I work at daily – Yes, even The Life Beyond Limits™ Coach works at certain motivational mindsets regularly, but it can be done.

I did do one thing, though, that I swore I would do. I will leave the world with my leg. You see, I decided to have my leg cremated. It wasn’t well enough for any part of it to be used for medical transplant or scientific study, so I decided that I would have it with me always, even if it resided in a pretty urn on a table in our home. I would have a reminder of how precious life is, how I almost literally had one foot in “The Land of From Dust to Dust” if we hadn’t decided to do this. And I would be able to smile at all the good my left foot had done before it lost its will to keep going.

Today I don’t so much grieve for the loss of a piece of my physical body. I celebrate the renewed acquaintance with strength I had to dig deep for that was already there. I just had to look for it. We’re all equipped for more than we ever imagined. We just have to be more aware, active and intentional. What is it that you’ve decided for yourself today? Is it better finances? A better relationship with your family? To be good to yourself? To eat healthier or exercise more? To find a job that meets your financial and emotional needs?

Whatever that intentional decision is, hold onto it. Accommodate the plan to get to it daily. You’ll need to tweak your road map on occasion, but you’ll know. And, never, ever settle on anything less than what’s best for you. Losing my leg wasn’t a compromise against the pronouncements to leave the world with my body intact. Losing my leg was an adjusted decision so I can rise higher to the occasion of being well, independent, more successful…the best ME inside and out that I deserve to have.

Here’s to ‘the next leg’ of our journey toward the best that we each deserve to give ourselves. Sorry to repurpose your line Ms. Clairol, but we’re worth it.

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Any male can become a parent. It takes a real man to be a father.  And it takes a man, I think, of extraordinary stock to be a father to a special needs child. We deserve extraordinary after all, don’t we? When a child is sick, typically it is Mom who handles the care unless the mom decides to work while the father stays at home, or works from home.

Special needs moms are very special, but in the world of a child with a disability, Daddy is equally vital. Fathers tend to provide a calming and logical presence, to help bring some clarity to the fuzziness in the world, and help calm and reassure a child in a way no one else can.

In families with multiple children where one child is hospitalized or in need of regular care, usually it is dad who stays home with the other kids while mom is at the hospital with the sick child, unless there’s a relative to sit with the kids while they both go. Dad is the one holding down the fort, keeping the other kids safe and happy, and bringing the siblings to visit the sick brother or sister. Dad’s role is very often overlooked because he is so quiet and often working behind the scenes. In my dad’s case, he was a grade parent bringing cupcakes to school, taking me to school or on field trips around his Coast Guard base schedule, helping me get ready for school, while my mother worked and went to school to finish her degree. Other times, they worked as a team day and night investing in the best opportunities for my development inside and out. It made sense when my dad ended his career in the Coast Guard due to kidney disease and wasn’t totally ill quite yet, to be the house dad. And he did well, right by me. To my mother’s half dismay, I’m sure, I grew up to be a Daddy’s girl, still loving her very much, but bonded close to Daddy. I learned her head strong ways and some of his level-headedness. I learned to freak out first often, but after getting it out of the way, taking a problem apart one piece at a time to solve it.

In single parent situations, dads still play a critical role. From providing Mom with time off through visitation, to dads who are the full-time single parents, there are many great single fathers to special needs children who are priceless. I know a few of them myself and would stand by their fathering of their children with challenges through thick and thin. There are also amazing men who step up to the plate and assume the role of step parent to a special needs child. Not all men would want to take on such a role because it does require a lot of work and can be daunting. There are also men who choose to intentionally adopt special needs children. All dedicated, special needs fathers are amazing.

Special needs mothers are the ones who tend to discuss their children, advocate fiercely and get support in the community or online, while the fathers are generally more reserved but still intensely interested, watchful, and emotionally invested in the care of their children. While I’m sure Daddy had an overprotective streak, he was more likely to display a, “You ok? Well, get up and throw some dirt on it?” concern once he figured nothing was broken.  

Behind every special needs child, there is a team who has helped that child thrive: the doctors, many therapists, caring nurses, dedicated teachers, extended family, mothers — and our fathers, dads, daddies, pops, etc. On this Father’s Day, special needs fathers deserve extra praise and gratitude, a pat on the back or hug. But, if not on this Father’s Day, honor them every day for all they do, give and say. To every special needs father out there, thank you for loving your child with a disability as they are and as every parent hopes them to be – their best as a result of your nurturing, encouragement and protection. Thanks for being there for us, and for giving us the love and support we need to blossom.

And thanks to the special needs grandpas out there, too, like my mom’s dad, Grandpa Tom, who, in his old mountain-raised ways, reminded me to stay ever strong inside, live with integrity, be my own person and never let the world stop me from being who I am. Love you both for being men among men who taught me there are men out there, like my husband, who will love you for you – all of you, no matter what about your body doesn’t work or doesn’t exactly look like everyone else’s. Thanks for making me feel like and helping me to believe even more in myself.
 

© 2010 Monica J. Foster and The Life Beyond™ Limits Blog. All Rights Reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Monica J. Foster and The Life Beyond Limits™ Blog with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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Thursday night was the last night in our first apartment together as a couple. Two hearts joined here under one rented roof. We’ve called this place home since the summer of 2004 – much longer than we had anticipated. We’ve seen good and bad here, but mostly good. And for all the not-so-good, there have been good lessons and reminders, so I guess you can’t call anything we’ve experienced really bad.

Behind the glossy black door of the accessible unit on Hidden Ridge Lane, many things were revealed and many barriers broken. We opened many minds about what ‘accessible’ really means beyond architecture. Many bonds have been made here that we will pack with us among the many boxes. A loving partnership deepened into marriage in spite of Bryan being mistaken many times for being my attendant or my ‘special roommate’.

Job changes and fluctuations in the economy tested our resolve. Dreams were dreamed and realized with still others to come. There was a temporary sick bed for me and my loving caregiver who got me strong again for ‘the next leg of our journey together’ so I could take care of him like I promised I would on our wedding day – even if it is with one leg-and-a-half and two wheels. We survived two home invasions just in the last 20 months, and even more welcomed visitors over the last six yars.

We’ve made many dinners here, done many loads of laundry and talked away nights doing bandage changes on the foot I no longer have, before dozing to the sounds of late night cars pulling into the parking lot out front we wished was our front yard instead. We’ve gazed at the pinkish night sky that never got completely black because of Uptown Charlotte lights just over the rise. For all of these things, I am grateful. The apartment may not have been 100% accessible to me, but we learned to adapt together.

Across the street, mall security knows us on sight for the countless weekends we saw a movie or had dinner. Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police remember us for not the greatest reasons because of two home invasions where I was home and Bryan at work, but we will be missed they tell us.

When others recall an old homestead they think of the penciled in growth charts behind a door on the wall, a dent in a wall or a tree planted there. We’ll remember the many times I ran into baseboards or a door with my wheelchair, the many times I backed into a wall trying to quietly go get a glass of water while Bryan snored the night away, then running into the bed on the way back and waking him up with a start.

This was our first Foster home, pun intended, but not our last. Now we move on to the next more accessible home, in quieter but bigger space, that has our name on the deed this time and clean spaces to make dusty, cluttered (but not as much) and loved all over again.

Good night Apartment. Good morning House. Welcome home to Us. Hello to a bright new adventure.

© 2010 Monica J. Foster and The Life Beyond™ Limits Blog. All Rights Reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Monica J. Foster and The Life Beyond Limits™ Blog with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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Only this time, the banging was followed by a try at the door knob. And then, a hard thud and crack after that. The hard thud and crack from Monday morning was all too familiar to me, almost like a rewind of the home invasion in October 2008. Only, this time, I had a weapon and was terrified more by the familiar known than the unknown on the other side of the door cracking their way into our home.  I called out this time during the pounding at the door to let them know someone was at home — something I hadn’t done during the first home invasion, thinking mistakenly they would go away. So, I called out this time during the banging, but must not have been heard because he kept coming. As soon as a try to the knob and a light kick echoed, I immediately grabbed the phone to call 911 and grabbed a weapon. I heard yet another kick, thud and crack to the door. No voice calling out to me as before, just silence, other than my whispering on the phone to 911.

The 911 operator directed me to talk as if I was talking to a friend, not to panic and keep my weapon in view, I was going to be okay. The police were coming, she assured me. I talked with her more, hearing whoever it was walking around in our living room, where there was a laptop, my watch and wedding set, a TV, some of our moving boxes packed and a bag for Goodwill set to the side to go out.  He must’ve heard me talking because he made his way without a word to the bedroom door and peered in with what looked like a lanyard or wire wrapped around his left hand. The eye contact made my body go electric with fear. As he slipped into view, he made direct eye contact with me sitting up in bed with wild hair, my jelly-like hands gripping a weapon. His response was, “Whoa <expletive>!” He promptly left with that wire in hand — what I realized later was part of our laptop cord, but left the laptop. He had also broken into the unit behind us in our building and taken our neighbor’s laptop, but left ours, my purse and wedding ring that was in full view at the time.

It seemed like an eternity, but all of this happened in about 10 minutes, I guess. The police were there in a flash. I could swear they could’ve bumped into him running out the door, hearing K-9 unit baring, but he must’ve hauled it out of there quicker than I realized. I kept a mental image of what he looked like – different from the suspect that broke in during the 2008 incident. I kept in mind a perspective of his height compared to the lines in our bedroom door and how far in he was standing. I got a look at what he was wearing, what he said and how many times he knocked, the time, the sound of his twisting the locked door handle and then the thud-crack of him coming in. I also registered that this time, I felt a rock in my throat and chest because I somehow was more aware that what was happening was not a good thing and sadly familiar.

The 911 operator hung up once the police arrived and asked me to put my weapon down when I heard their voices. She took care of calling my husband. I was so squeezed around the cordless phone and the gun, I had no extra hand, like a Hindu goddess, to draw extra task-mastering from to call him on the cell. During the first break-in 2008, the subject was armed and I had nothing to defend myself. I was directed not to move, but I did anyway to show him my hands were in view l and I could not get out of bed because I was on bed rest. He too, grumbled “Whoa <expletive>” and left.

Afterward I realized that even though I handled both break-ins the best way I knew how and they were both random, maybe this latest incident could serve as a catalyst to change my routine. I was locked in my home, away from the world and alone when these break-ins happened, and vulnerable while most everyone else is doing their 9-to-5 routine. I know as a solopreneur, and particularly a coach with clients all over, that many hours are sometimes spent in our home offices on our own, many of our clients either on the phone or online. This has not been a good way to transition from my medically-induced hermit time on bed rest, but that doesn’t mean I need to change my work, just the way I do it. I’ve become too comfortable being at home, only going out when I really have to, or with Bryan. That’s not who I am, nor is it who I want to be as a person or a businesswoman. In order to mix and mingle and get more business connections, I can’t just sign up for every Facebook group or seminar, hang out on Twitter, listen to webinars, post on message boards or just go to a monthly coaching group meeting. I’ve got to work outside in the real world and be a flesh and bone business woman, not just a computerized avatar.

I’ve got to go where my clients are, where other coaches and maybe speaking connections go. I’ve got to take my office mobile and work in Starbucks, or Caribou Coffee, the park or the library to be seen and meet new connections, not just let people I already know invite connections to meet me. It is part of my advocacy and motivation anyway, is it not, to be out and about, seen as a working professional on wheels?

So the break-in today, being isolated and alone, challenges me to go outside my comfortable rut. Let them have my stuff without me there to upset their stealing groove. Stuff can be replaced, but I can’t be, so why am I sitting at home protecting the meaningless stuff in my inner sanctum, risking the loss of time and energy in my evolution as a well-rounded human being and professional coach? Feeling powerless gets us nowhere, and the routine can suck the power out of us even further, but acting out and beyond the limiting complacency to new things leads to new, unlimited results.

I need to do more than the occasional lunch with Katie or Laura to feel like I’m connecting with other colleagues, more than our monthly professional coaching group meetings, more than weekend movies with Bryan, going out to a doctor’s appointment or getting my hair cut, more than making queries and connections via email and phone. I need to get into other routines, go to human-to-human meetings, not just telephone and web conferences, as much as those do have their value. I need to defy my body’s energy, pushing it further to get myself back to where I was before I was so ill because the energy is there now. I need to be moving around town, rather than settling on the idea that I’m getting old and this is just how it is. In all of this, since I’m not as ill, I’ll feel better about me, others will feel better being around me, like I’m less fragile. My work will progress and the space of the community where other people are all too happy to work over coffee and a sandwich will open for me, but nothing will grow from the limited, yet comfortable view of my home office and computer screen in my pajamas.

What kind of coach can I be to others with disabilities across the miles or across the table if I don’t do this? What kind of ‘roll’ model to those who feel limited by their bodies, emotions and circumstances to the point they don’t get out and about, don’t bother to dress as an invitation to a new opportunity or don’t ask to be taken out so they don’t make a burden of themselves? Maybe loved ones want to take them, but don’t ask because they’ve all gotten into that rut. We need to break on through, break on through to the other side — Thanks, Jim Morrison – of a life beyond bodily limitations, limiting attitudes, limited income, and limited resources.

We all need, if we are ever going to make any progress, to break on through our useless, soul-sucking routines.  Whether it’s shaking up things at work, calling friends more if you can’t get out physically, going out more if you spend too much time at home, changing the commuting route to and from work, trying that new hair style or exercise class, having fish on Tuesday instead of Friday, or whatever it is.

What shape will your breakthrough take? Rather than fixating on the less important, routine stuff you’ll lose trying something different, or avoiding making some old thing you miss new again because it seems not worth it (like my yoga I used to love and will do again soon), why not invite new things in your life once a day, or once a week? See what new possibilities will do in busting down the doors of loneliness, laziness, negativity and limiting behaviors in your life….one, or maybe two – at a time.

© 2010 Monica J. Foster and The Life Beyond™ Limits Blog. All Rights Reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Monica J. Foster and The Life Beyond Limits™ Blog with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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I’ve tweaked and cemented my coaching brand, thanks to the mentoring and coaching program I participated in with Coach Bill Baren. And I’m very happy with The Life Beyond Limits Coach™ path I’m on now as a result of the Client Mastery Blueprint Program. Still, something just hasn’t felt quite right in various exercises and seminars I’ve done to perfect my niche in disability life and career coaching. Something’s been sorely missing and I’m still dragging around some ideals that are shooting me in the proverbial foot professionally. Yes, I want to coach people with disabilities – first, last and always. But which sub-niche or population? There are, after all, over 75 million people with disabilities worldwide and I can’t coach them all. (Or can I? *evil cackles*) Do I want to coach veterans coming home with disabling injuries? Do I want to coach ‘tweens’ and teens with disabilities? Or do I want to focus on women? I’d love to coach any number of folks with disabilities, yes, and they are all welcome at my door, but I have to be clear with myself if I am going to really attract and be a sharp coach to a particular group of people with disabilities that rings the bell in my soul.

After a satisfying dinner, Coach Wendy asked me, “So, what’s her name? What’s she like?” Wendy quickly searched for a pen and a scrap of paper to begin writing, waiting for me to answer. “What’s she do for a living?” I at first looked at Wendy like Scooby-Doo perplexed by a cartoon apparition and gave her my version of Scooby’s “Do huh?” yelp. We shared a giggle and backed up. She then asked more clearly, “Who do you feel most drawn to coach, Monica?” Let’s do a quick profile of that person with a disability, she invited. It didn’t have to be perfect or complete right that minute, but on the back of an envelope, words and phrases began to draw a picture in my mind. Wendy asked me again, “What’s her name?” “Christina,” I said with a slight beam, once I got the name in my head. It took me a beat to think. The name comes from one of my favorite, if not my most favorite, painting, “Christina’s World” by Andrew Wyeth.

"Christina's World" by Andrew Wyeth

Many art critics describe the painting as melancholy and depressing, but I see so much hope in that scene where Christina, the actual woman having been a paraplegic from birth herself, lies in a golden field of grassy expanse, fingers combing the ground as she peers over the horizon at her home in the distance. To me, Christina represents a woman with a disability who is reaching for her home, her rightful place in the world, within herself, however straightforward or complex she sees her path and role. She might be a lady veteran coming home with a new body and abilities trying to reconcile the military role she’s been used to with the role of mom, wife, daughter or working civilian woman. She might be a ‘tween’ or teen girl awkwardly budding into the woman she was meant to be.

Christina might be a woman who’s dealt with her disability her whole life or was in injured years ago, but she has finally come to a crossroads, realizing that she hasn’t quite made it to her idyllic place in the world, her home base. She wants more, deserves it. She sees home in the distance and is clutching her way onward regardless of the challenges. She needs me to coach her through the vast plain of possibilities, provide her with tools to carve a path beyond her limiting behaviors, beyond her limiting thoughts, beyond the presumed limits of her body and spirit.

I’ve been dabbling  on a character sketch of Christina today with a print of that painting in front of me and I think I see her more clearly in the distance. Once I do have a clearer picture, I can better prepare for her visit into “My Life Beyond Limits Coaching World,” and beckon her into a rich collaboration with me as her coach, proudly seeing her reach her sense of ‘home’ by our collaboration’s end.

Christina, whoever and wherever you are, I almost see you inside-out in rich Technicolor. And if you aren’t Christina, aren’t even a woman, but have a disability, I won’t necessarily turn you way from the tools to build a life beyond limits. I’ll do my best by you, too, thanks to the blinders being wiped away by WendyY. But Christina, be patient with me. We WILL meet soon and we’ll know each other when you come to my door. I’ll leave a light on.

And thank you, Coach Wendy and Coach Bill, and so many others, for being among the mentors who is inspiring me to be at home in my own corner of coaching.

© 2010 Monica J. Foster and The Life Beyond™ Limits Blog. All Rights Reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Monica J. Foster and The Life Beyond Limits™ Blog with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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We had been dating for about two years and were engaged in our near nightly phone conversation after he and I had each gotten off work. At that time, we were dating long distance and he was commuting back and forth from his small town to mine on weekends. In between, we’d connect after work by phone to talk about our days and what we’d like to do the following weekend together. But on this particular evening, we were both grumpy and tired. I could hear Bryan squirming and moving around on the couch and he told me his right side was tingly, nearly asleep. Must be that he slept on it wrong or worked it too hard at work, he said. A tinge of concern hit me and I voiced it. We fussed a little about how clingy I was being, but quickly made up before we said our goodnights and each went to our respective beds.

I didn’t sleep well all night wondering. Something didn’t seem right, but I wasn’t sure what it was. I started to call him again to check in on him, but stopped myself. It was well after midnight by then and we both had to get up early for work. Still, I slept fitfully and was awakened the next morning by Bryan’s hesitant voice. “Don’t worry. I’m OK, but I’ve called an ambulance and Mom and Dad,” he said. I popped straight up out of bed, nearly knocking over my wheelchair next to me. I asked him what was wrong, ready to grab my keys and blow off work in my messy hair and worn out night gown. He demanded I stay put, that he would call me when he figured out something. He had managed to limp to the shower and get clothes on, but the tingling in his arm and leg were getting worse. Reluctantly I stayed put, but I kept grabbing the phone or my keys at my desk, wanting to hurl myself across the distance between here and there to get to where he was. I was terrified.

He called a little while later to tell me the doctor had told him it was a stroke. He was having even more difficulty moving his right side and it was basically numb to the point of painful tingling. He was treated and sent home with his parents where he stayed for the whole summer so they could care for him until he could do for himself. I came over to visit and it was awkward. I wanted to open every can, bottle and package in his mother’s house – help him pee even, but he had to relearn on his own. And, I was just “The Girlfriend”. It wasn’t my place. Who was more qualified to take care of him during this time than his mother after all? And I was strangely more aware of my disability at this moment than I ever had been before. Not only was he in the most vulnerable state I’d ever seen him in, but I was helpless to help him – or so I thought. And I also represented a living example of what could’ve happened to him had the stroke been worse than it was, or he could’ve died.

Still, we ended up reassuring one another that I wasn’t going anywhere – didn’t want to either, that I was needed. He had, up to this point, never run from any challenge in my life since the day we met, from holding my wheelchair as I transferred into my car on our first date like gentlemen hold doors for ladies, to spending time with me when I was down with the flu or recovering from a minor outpatient procedure.

I couldn’t bunk at his mother’s house. It wasn’t completely wheelchair-friendly, but enough so I could visit and sit with him. Occasionally, I would get a hotel close by to ward off commuter’s exhaustion. I wasn’t as experienced at driving back and forth as regularly as he had been the last two years, so it was my turn. And so, until he was more able to be out and about, I spent time with him watching television, renting movies, eating meals together, keeping him company and trying to be the best girlfriend I knew how to be. I encouraged him through the cruddy rehab exercises he needed to do to get his strength and flexibility back and called often to check in on him when I had to go back to work.

In the three months it took before he was back in his own apartment and then another three before he was back to sharing commuter dating duties, we learned a lot about each other and ourselves. We drew closer. I’d been annoying him on and off wondering when we might take things to the next level, and we still joked and jabbed about it during his recovery, but I was more patient. I knew this was where I was meant to be. I’d known it for some time in the back of my mind all this time, but it was in the full front of heart and mind by then.

My first lesson was that taking care of a loved one when you yourself are a bit more dependent doesn’t mean you can’t swap roles. No, I’m not talking in kinky terms. That’s a whole other blog post. But I learned I could take care of him by advocating with the hospital when he went in later to have a hole closed in his heart where the blood clot from the stroke passed through. When he wasn’t getting the care that I and his mother thought he should be getting, I went into advocacy mode to make sure the chief nurse, attending doctor and the hospital administrator knew who I was and I wasn’t going away until things were set right for him.

Having a disability doesn’t mean I can’t be a model of encouragement and patience for him as others helped him learn to dress, do therapy and get back into his life. I learned we could really lean on one another. And, he could literally lean on my chair, using it as a walker when we went out if his leg got tired from walking or standing too long.

Further, I was encouraged that he wanted my help, welcomed it. He wanted me around even when it’s usual for a guy, in his weakest moment, to slip off into a cave of isolation and pride. I found myself wanting to leave him when he would slip off into a nap while we watched television, then he would grasp my hand and squeeze it, eyes still closed, as I tried to slip away. We laughed more, were quiet and tender more together – even more patient. Something I’ve never been good at it. Sure we were anxious to figure out how long it would be before he was back to his old self or if the limp and manual dexterity issues were permanent, but we were together and that’s all that mattered. This overwhelming spirit of, “We’ll figure it out – together” washed over us both from then on.

He eventually recovered with only a lingering fatigue after too much typing in his right hand and has to take medication for blood pressure. He still can tire easily, but then so can I when I’ve got a lot physically and emotionally going on. We married in 2005 once his hospital bills were paid, he could afford the ring and found a job closer by me. We’ve since bought our first home and hope to move in by the end of May, beginning of June.
We’ve learned to slow down and enjoy the journey, not so much worried about the destination as what’s going on right this minute. It doesn’t mean we don’t have our plans. We do have them. It just means we are flexible and willing to take things day by day, minute by minute, see what happens.

It’s said you never know, like a tea bag, how strong a person is until you put them in hot water. We’ve progressed together from tea bags to wine, like the wine at the wedding at Cana in the Bible, where Jesus turned jugs of water to wine. Usually the best is served first and then the lesser quality wine is poured when everyone is too jovial to notice. But at the wedding at Cana, the good wine was what was served last.

And we’re still awaiting our best, thinking the last experience and the one before that already was, but it isn’t. Not yet. The best, as they say, is yet to be. Cheers!

© 2010 Monica J. Foster and The Life Beyond™ Limits Blog. All Rights Reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Monica J. Foster and The Life Beyond Limits™ Blog with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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Our collective story has been one of one upmanship. We’ve consistenty flown in the face of all the ‘experts’ and naysayers buzzing around us. From the time the doctors told my mother I would have a disability or ‘something wrong’ with me and suggested she may want to ‘end it’ to save her life and/or my own, she developed healthy filters and I built them myself by her example. This is not going to become a pro-life or pro-choice piece. It is simply that she chose to ignore professional opinions and challenge the status quo.

It took a lot of risks and guts and love to carry me those nine long, draining months. And somehow, somewhere in her heart, she knew it would pay off. Not every mother is so lucky, I know, but somehow she made it. We made it.

From the time I broke the nine-month lease sharing space within her, doctors said I would not leave the critical care unit alive, would not respond to her voice, would never go home, would never sit up, go to school, be independent — be anything productive. You get the picture. Still, she doggedly reached for and pursued each of those milestones with me. Watching my tiny head turn in the isolette incubator as she whispered my name, feeling my tiny fingers squeeze hers through the glass, she cheered me beyond the limits others had already set in their minds about my life without really knowing her strength as a mother, without really knowing what the power of assuming in their fields really means to some families.

It took a few weeks, several months maybe? But, I went home with her,  learned to sit up, to speak in complete simple sentences by 18 months (so she tells me), to walk on leg braces and a walker by the time I was about three. By age four, I threw the walker down and was on faster, swinging crutches, ready to drag expensive, custom steel and leather leg braces up trees in the yard.

In spite of the Florida kindergarten I went to not wanting me there because they presumed I’d ‘fit better in a special school’, she homeschooled me briefly until it was settled (not without a few legal threats) that I could attend public school among my peers without disabilities. And into the mainstream I swimmed, like a happy, grade school fish and flourished. While Mama went to school to finish a degree, my dad was in the military nearing disability retirement due to kidney failure, so Daddy became the ‘classroom Mr. Mom,’ of sorts baking the cupcakes, taking me on class field trips and going through the awkwardness of taking his special needs daughter to the bathroom on said trips. There was nothing weird or unsavory about it. He did his responsibility as a grade parent, mind you in a uniform if he had to go to base later that day or had just come off duty.

As I grew into a young lady, there were play dates with kids in our neighborhood, at church and Girl Scouts. I was an awkward, geeky little Brownie in thick eye glasses, but I ended up selling the most cookies in my troop most times. Mama taught me all about how to dress my best around clunky braces and ’Frankenstein chic’ orthopedic shoes, even when our budget was thin and considering my leg braces would tear up clothes in a New York minute as active as I was.

I learned that Goodwill and Salvation Army was okay to find good bargains that fit over my leg braces and we could switch out the chic labels and sew them on my cheaper pairs of jeans and tops so I ‘passed’ with the cool kids. Mama and Daddy raised me like I was as good as any other kid, I just happened to walk with leg braces and crutches and use a wheelchair to move around. To me, the braces and wheelchair were a different way to get from Point A to Point B. It wasn’t until one Halloween costumed as the scariest witch on the block, that it really dawned on my that my braces, crutches and wheelchair were part of my costume as someone different than everyone else. I thought no one would guess it was me, but there I hopped up the walk in my crutches, Daddy run the doorbell and Mrs. McCombs said, “Oh Monica, what a great witch you are!” I was crushed and asked my dad all the way out to the car why she knew who I was. And  it clicked somewhere inside me that I really wasn’t exactly like the others.

I wonder if it’s similar to when Adam and Eve discover they are naked and are scrambling around to cover themselves, except I’d not eaten a particular forbidden fruit to get to this state of mind. I’m not sure, but from then on, I knew I wasn’t like the others. And they knew it, too, as I aged and social groups began to be more solidified.

Junior high complicated things. It’s the time when girls and boys are really getting to know each other from a whole other angle, when makeup becomes part of the adolescent toy box. And, oh, the school dances. I was the nerd in the scene in the movie, “Pretty In Pink” who was clawing at the car door to not be left at the dance. I just wanted to go home and be with Mama and Daddy. But dress me up Mama did, got me psyched about that new sweater, fixing up my hair and a new flavor of lip gloss. It didn’t matter that I had not have a date or no clue how to dance in a wheelchair, I was going. I went to every one in junior high and high school, even both of my proms. No, I didn’t really date, but I surely crushed a lot from afar. Still, the dances became more enjoyable the more I went and figured out the social scene.

I went through the typical ‘outside the crowd’ stages, not feeling as pretty as the other girls who had long pretty legs, who didn’t have a school aide walking them between classes early to beat the class-changing crowds or chaperoning them to lunch to help with an awkward tray and wheelchair. I sat with classmates, but we didn’t always connect because it seemed like the cliques were cemented by the time I sat down. Still, I managed to like me. I had what I’d call typical hang-ups, but nothing major.  

At home, I was like any other kid and encouraged to be smart. For having a label as a ‘special needs student’ I was also labelled ‘gifted’ in elementary and junior high school. It was a multiple whammy for me, a girl who just wanted to blend in and not be ‘that girl in the wheelchair with the aide in gifted classes’. But, somehow, I liked being me. Sure, I wanted others to like me, too, but I knew I was okay within me and at home where it counted. “Wait until you’re older,” people would say. So, I did my best to wait it out.

Mama earned two Master’s degrees in the education field, becoming a public school teacher after her experiences with me. Daddy earned double Bachelor’s degrees after he retired from 22 years in the Coast Guard. So, from them both, I learned that learning was important. I didn’t always tow the line in my studies, but I knew I was going to college to make something of myself by their example — and by my mother constantly pushing me harder and higher. Sometimes the pressure made me act out because I didn’t understand her idea that I needed to be more and present more just to be seen as at level with my peers without disabilities. I still don’t understand or agree with this — that people with disabilities must work even harder to achieve the same as our peers without challenges, but I understand this idea exists in society.

When I began college, I finally began dating, had a lot of friends, a good GPA. Afterward, I worked in journalism and disability civil rights, moved into my own apartment in spite of my parents’ worries about living on my own with a disability, met my husband, married, started my own business and am now embarking on living in our first home together that is accessible and affordable.

I recognize that these are all accomplishments that people around Mama from the time she found out she was pregnant counseled her into believing I would never be able to do, simply based on a black-and-white diagnosis that wasn’t as well understood then as it is now.

I hope there are other mothers, Mr. Moms, and supportive families in general, out there who are helping their babies and adult children with disabilities live life beyond society’s preconceived limits for them. Listening too long and hard to the naysayers could set up a person with a disability to lower their own bar lower than necessary. It’s said you reach for the stars, if only to catch the moon, but the real crime is not reaching at all.  I know it has made all the difference in my life.

I know if other loved ones are half the mother mine has been and is, other individuals with disabilities will be okay — better than just okay. Sometimes, no matter what the popular, professional opinion has to say, you have to put on the half blinders — still aware of the risks, but believe the best is yet to be anyway.

© 2010 Monica J. Foster and The Life Beyond™ Limits Blog. All Rights Reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Monica J. Foster and The Life Beyond Limits™ Blog with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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