Lessons from Twenty-Something Filmmakers and Dancers on Bainbridge Island

“Excuse me, are you Jennifer?” asks a young woman wearing a seashell pink fleece standing behind me in line at Pegasus Coffee on Bainbridge Island.

“Yes, I said with relief, “I’m Jennifer,”

“I just got your email,” she said enthusiastically, “My name is Anisa.”

I exhaled slowly and relaxed. With the high-pitched screech of the steam wand and rattle of the grinder in the background, we stood in line and exchanged pleasantries. Then, Anisa proceeded to blow my mind.

As she introduced herself and described her work, I went from being distracted by the fact that I had advertised an event at a crowded cafe where the participants might not find me—to being suddenly starstruck.

“I’m an author,” she said. Her brown eyes twinkled.

“I wrote a young adult novel about growing up half Middle-Eastern here on Bainbridge,” she said. I looked closer at her long brown hair and pointy pink-painted nails that matched her fleece jacket.

This girl is barely twenty-five years old, I thought.

“I wrote a screenplay and filmed a pilot about it. The series is called Finding Chaz. We’re in post-production, hoping it gets picked up by Hulu or Netflix,” she said, crossing her fingers.

“I know you!” I yelped.

She looked excited, “You do?”

“Yeah, I read about you in the local newspaper. This is so cool!”

OMG. She’s adorable. What a motivated young whipper-snapper, I thought. I can’t wait to hear more about how she did this.

Over the next hour, Anisa, another client, and I chatted about our bigger “Why.” The three of us explained the more significant change we wanted to create in the world. We identified how radical responsibility can help us be leaders and gently hold us accountable as a means of support.

We talked about wanting friendship and needing a network of women to help us accomplish our goals. I described how attunement and receptivity can guide us toward reaching those goals. We brainstormed ways to attune to our friends when we’re too tired and want to cancel on them. I suggested lowering the bar by saying, “I still care about this friendship, but I don’t have the capacity right now. Can I text you when I have more capacity, or can you come over and talk to me while I fold laundry?”

As I left the coffee shop and went to meet with a client for a cold plunge in the sea, I thought about resilience. I immerse myself in the frigid Puget Sound waters to build resilience. I thought about Anisa and her big plans and accomplishments. I thought about her resilience. I thought about her loving tone when she talked about her mother with reverence and respect. I heard her self-doubt, too.

I have no doubt her pilot will become a series. However, she will need a community of multi-generational support to buoy her.

Later that evening, I hosted a Lady Rager: An All-Women’s Dance Party. As my 9-year-old daughter and I set up disco lights, spread out a tablecloth, put out some chocolate, and turned up the music, two faces peeked through the door and asked, “Is there a dance party here?” We saw two young sisters bounce into the room wearing sparkly halter tops.

Now, aren’t they just the cutest things I’ve ever seen, I thought.

These girls are barely twenty-five years old.

Five of us jumped, moved, shimmied for the next hour, and shook our bodies to the music. We sang at the top of our lungs like a room full of girls trying to stay up all night at a slumber party. The amount of joy from these two sisters was infectious. Again, I was starstruck.

I overheard one of them say, “It’s so nice to be at a dance and not be all self-conscious like I was in high school.” They led the way as my young daughter moved with the wild freedom and self-expression of not giving a flying fu*k. I moved like no one was watching. Another friend pulled out a yoga mat to move on the floor and slowly stretched her body to the music. The young women moved with sisters' confidence, knowing how to be silly with each other.

I went to bed that night as the full moon's light streamed through the skylight. It had been a full day of being starstruck by lessons from twenty-somethings that I was so profoundly grateful for.

Find out more about signing up to join a network of aligned female friendship here.

Will you hold me?

“Will you hold me?” she asked while balancing on one leg trying to attach her crampons to her boots. I could see her breath. Snow crunched under her feet as she wobbled. I wrapped my arm around her waist to keep her steady.

Low-in-the-sky November sunlight streamed through the trees as I wondered how many times she’d asked me that same question.

Crisp alpine air pinked up my face as I recalled so many different circumstances, her varied ages and voices.

I remember as a toddler, when she didn’t yet speak in full sentences. All she could do was reach up her pudgy arms and sticky hands to say, “Hold you?” Which meant, will you hold me?

I remember feverish bedtimes that smelled like grape Tylenol when she wanted me to hold her all night long. I remember the dark surrender of knowing sleep would not be for me, just a lot of thinking about sleep.

I remember when she was older and things were really, really hard and very loud between us. When I wished she’d just asked to be held. I remember being terrified of what she would do next. And I’ll never forget that one night when she stood in my bedroom doorway like a shadow and asked.

And of course, I was there to do the holding.

I think about the ease at which she can ask me that question now, at 17 years old, when she’s only got one year left at home. How she climbs onto my lap and asks if I’ll hold her as a joke because she knows her strong athletic muscles will crush me.

And of course, I’m here to do the holding—getting crushed or not.

I remember what we’ve been through and the trust we’ve had to build after I was the destroyer of it.

I adore parenting this teenage girl of mine. Especially after divorce, when we’ve both been through so much. I think she sees me working my ass off to rebuild trust, to do the best I can, and then do better. Then when I catch her being dishonest, she does the same.

Then she looks up from the ground with her boots all ready to go and says, “Thanks.”

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