Nobody talks about the gifts you didn’t order.
I am not talking about the ones wrapped in a bow with a card that says “congratulations.” I’m talking about the other ones. The ones that come in different forms, masking opportunities. The ones that arrived without warning, poorly wrapped, and unexpected. The ones that sat on your doorstep for years before you understood what they were. The ones that you may have missed if you said no.
We talk a lot about “failure as a gift” — bringing, most often, valuable takeaways from every experience. But the expression, “failure is a gift,” is overused and almost trite. What I’m talking about is messier than that. Some of these gifts you’d treasure. Some of them, if there had been a return policy, you would have sent back without opening.
Most of them arrive as whispers. And if you’re lucky, if you stay curious enough, brave enough, stubborn enough to keep saying yes when everything in you wants to say no, you get a moonshot or two. This afternoon, I am going to tell you about mine. It starts in second grade. With orange pajamas.
Our class was doing a school play modeled after “To Tell the Truth.” A TV show where a panel of celebrity judges had to determine which of the three contestants was the “real” one. My trio represented Groundhog Day and one of us was the real groundhog. Two of the mothers got together and made matching costumes: dark brown outfits, felt masks, and their daughters were perfectly coordinated.
My mother, an artist who painted abstract paintings using my father’s cigarette butts and raw macaroni, chose to make mine in her vision. She decided to dye a pair of long underwear for my costume, which turned out to be less brown and more… Halloween orange. Then she created a giant papier-maché groundhog head on the dining room table, and for days, strips of newspaper, slathered in paste and coats of paint, found their way onto her creation. When she was done, it was so large I almost couldn’t manage it, yet small enough that I couldn’t get it over my head if I was wearing my glasses. Quite the vision! All I remember is a skinny kid in orange pajamas, balancing an enormous headpiece complete with ears and a squished nose, unable to see through the tiny holes, almost falling off the stage before the teacher caught her.
That experience gave me two things: empathy for children with artistic mothers,and a permanent appreciation for an appropriate outfit.
But it also gave me something I wouldn’t fully understand for another fifty-plus years, the very first lesson in the gap between how we think we look and what the world actually sees. Because that day, on that stage, what the audience saw was a cute kid dressed up (obviously by her artistic mom) as a groundhog.
I’ll come back to that difference, that gap in perception. Because recently, I’ve been walking around with silicone tape on my lip. And that gap? It turns out it’s at the center of everything.
THE GIFT I WOULD HAVE RETURNED
I met Dan at a personnel agency when I was looking for a job. Instead of finding a job, I found my soulmate. He was a few years older, intelligent, sophisticated, funny, a fabulous dancer who taught me the double lindy. He believed in me and pushed me out of my comfort zone with unwavering and loving support.
We fell in love within days and married six months later. We spent hours imagining our future, dreaming of a house full of children. We bought a Victorian fixer-upper in Atlantic Highlands, complete with a view of the New York skyline. We even bought a station wagon. I got a teaching job. He started his own company. Life was full. A diamond sparkles because of her cuts. We were about to get a deep one.
It wasn’t working. I couldn’t conceive. “Take a vacation. Take these vitamins. Try this contortion. Relax, don’t think about it.” We embarked on the emotional roller coaster of infertility, and nothing could have prepared me for that betrayal of my body.
While many of my friends had career aspirations, my goal had always been to be a mother. I became a teacher so I could be home when my kids were. The emotional toll was devastating. After reading an article in Good Housekeeping, I gave myself permission to stop going to baby showers. I avoided the infant section in department stores because it was too painful. My “normal” life was squeezed between fertility specialists. Injections. Hormone charts. Surgeries. Ironically, the anniversary coverage in January brought back memories of recovering while watching the Challenger launch and of blinking at the television in disbelief at what I had seen.
Every month came the reminder. Every month, we were dipping into our savings account. We came to a crossroad. After six years, we decided to explore adoption.
On a snowy night in February, we joined other hopeful couples at the Spence-Chapin agency in New York City to learn about foreign adoption. The speaker focused on the grim prospects. She was stating the facts. But I didn’t hear the negatives because I seldom do. To me, there is always a solution if you are willing to look for it.
Weeks later, we were assigned a caseworker named Joyce Eppler. She reminded me of Columbo, a 70’s TV detective, ill-fitting clothes, appeared disorganized, but was sharp as a tack. I arrived with a manila envelope containing everything: financial statements, letters of recommendation, and health records. Even a letter, translated into Korean by our local dry cleaner, that I hoped would give the birth mother comfort in her courageous decision. As I slid the envelope across the table, Joyce said, “But you haven’t been accepted yet.” I said, “But we will be.”
Nine months later, we landed at JFK from Seoul, Korea, with four-month-old triplet daughters — Ashton, Brittany, and Kierstyn. Each one was clearly identified by a colored string on her right ankle. Yes, I did fear mixing them up. Our family was complete, living proof of the power of faith. I became a full-time stay-at-home mom. The gift I would have returned became the greatest gift of my life.
THE WHISPER GIFTS
Not every gift arrives with a bang. Some of them are whispers. When I got the call to run for the Henry Hudson Regional Board of Education, I looked down at six toddler hands, probably covered in peanut butter, clinging to my legs, and thought, “Mr. Rogers is interesting, but I could use some adult conversation.” I was intimidated. I was a teacher, but a school board member? Imposter syndrome was looking for a place to land. Sometimes you just have to take the leap. I said yes. It was a tremendous opportunity to explore something that was never on my radar.
After seven years, I knew my passion for the board had run its course. As Seth Godin writes in The Dip, the bravest thing you can do isn’t always to push through; sometimes it’s recognizing that your best work is behind you in one place and ahead of you somewhere else. I chose not to seek reelection but to run for town council instead, where I could continue advocating for public education. And I won! This learning curve was steep and gave me purpose, birthing another facet of my identity. I was still a mom, but I was growing again.
When I saw problems like teenagers who weren’t playing sports having nowhere to go and our community not having a safe place to fish, I didn’t wait to be asked. Here I had the power to act. I launched the AH Youth Commission, an organization that blended “giving back” with activities for children ages 12–17. I fought for the fishing pier at the south end of the marina against naysayers who preached that “it would not have any fish.” I am proud to say it stands today and hosts many a fishing tournament.
Because the cost of childcare would have wiped out any money I would have made by returning to teaching, I took a shot at an entrepreneurial adventure. I opened the Abby-Kelly Boutique, a commission-based pop-up shop featuring high-end craft items, art, and antiques. My employees were stay-at-home moms, and together we became a vehicle for over 100 artists to showcase their craft and provide a philanthropic benefit to local nonprofits. It was an absolute dream job. I would keep the business running until the siren’s call of a consistent paycheck became too strong.
“You’re not crazy. You’re just first.” — Jamie Kern Lima
THE GIFT THAT ALMOST BROKE ME
Alcoholism and lying are synonymous. While I was making the rounds at multiple grocery stores, pushing a triple stroller to take advantage of coupons, my husband was secretly running up credit card debt to keep us afloat. Two weeks before Christmas, standing in the Toys “R” Us checkout line with three PJ Sparkles dolls, my credit card was declined.
That night, I learned our savings accounts were empty. Multiple credit cards maxed. Retirement accounts – gone. I thought I could fix it. But when I couldn’t pay for a heating oil delivery, I realized I needed help. I attended my first Al-Anon meeting in a Rumson church basement.
“If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.” — African Proverb
There, I learned I was powerless to change Dan. I had to change. I left the classroom I had returned to a year earlier, the job I loved, the students I cherished, the peers who had celebrated the arrival of my daughters, and took an entry-level job at Merrill Lynch as a financial advisor. The transition meant a temporary, at least I hoped, 30% pay cut, and adding four weeknights and Saturday mornings to my week. And an opportunity to eventually support my family that was entirely up to me.
I was surrounded by young men with shiny economics degrees. They wore custom suits with cufflinks and monogrammed shirts. I had a few neutral skirts from the sale rack at Dress Barn and became a master at accessorizing with scarves. To say I felt out of place was an understatement. But I had something they didn’t: grit and determination. Nothing is stronger than the maternal instinct.
To be a financial advisor, you must pass the Series 7 exam, giving you the license to buy and sell securities. Six hours. One shot. Fail, and you’re fired.So, I studied. I wrote notes on index cards about municipal bonds, put and call options, equities, treasuries, and inverted yield curves. I carried them everywhere, Pop Warner cheer practice, field hockey games, sitting in the carpool line after band rehearsal, and when the girls went to bed, I studied. My father’s voice was in my ear the whole time: “No daughter of mine will give up.” I passed!
Dan’s drinking eventually reached the point where he could no longer hold a job. The man whom I admired and respected, who had been my whole world, became verbally abusive.It came down to sitting on the front porch, placing my hand on his, and gently saying, “Children learn what they live. If we don’t do something, this will be their normal.” He needed to recover. And then I made him a promise: “I will take care of the girls on my own until you get better.” That promise would never come true. On a Tuesday evening in November, I walked into his apartment to find that alcoholism had won the battle.
“Certainty is the enemy of growth.” — Mark Manson, The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck
I was certain I couldn’t do it. I was wrong.
THE GIFT I ALMOST DIDN’T APPLY FOR
The next gift didn’t knock. It simply opened the door. It found me. It was time to return to public service, and as fate would have it, I saw an ad for a vacancy on the Brookdale Community College Board of Trustees. I thought with my experience, I’ve got this. I went for the interview. Guess what: I didn’t get it. And the committee was right. I wasn’t ready. But the next year, I came back, and this time I was prepared. I’ve served on the Brookdale board for fourteen years and held every title, including the first woman president. Brookdale opened doors I didn’t know existed — not just for me, but for many. People stop me in the grocery store, bakery, and farmers market to share their stories, and with each one, I am reminded how fortunate and honored I am to do this work.
Her name is Josette. She approached me after a golf event two weeks ago to share her story, one I had never heard. She came to this country from Brazil forty years ago, leaving behind a hard-earned business degree and a successful sales and marketing career to follow her husband. His company provided everything for him, but she arrived without a green card and the options it allows. She wanted to become a US citizen and start a career. She enrolled at Brookdale and began taking courses. When she reached 11 credits, she was told she needed to matriculate and declare a major. Around that same time, she watched her father suffer from cancer. And she saw what the nurses did for him — not just the difference they made in his care, but in how her family survived those days. She entered the nursing program.
What followed was a new career she loved — at Monmouth Medical, at Riverview, and eventually as a hospice home care nurse. Her daughter followed in her footsteps: Brookdale, Concordia, then a master’s at Yale, and now a senior leadership role at Monmouth Medical. Her family was so grateful that, at one point, their entire estate was left to Brookdale as the sole beneficiary. Her last three sentences left me speechless. “There was a time I could not get hired to be a dishwasher. And Brookdale helped me. Brookdale changed my life.”
The women and men who have walked through my life at Brookdale, the ones who came to me uncertain and left knowing more of what they were capable of, are the measure of everything. On my desk sits a painting, a handmade gift from a student trustee. It is a woman swinging a golf club under an orange sunset. The best gifts are always the personal ones.
“What you do for yourself dies with you when you leave this world. What you do for others lives on forever.” — Sir Ken Robinson
I can do it because I did it. And because I did it, I can offer my story to ease the path others will walk. This is why I remain humble and eager to serve.
THE MOONSHOT
When the girls were babies, people would stop me on the street, see me pushing that triple stroller, and say, “What a wonderful thing you did for those girls.” They were wrong. I may have brought them into my life. But they gave me mine.
Nineteen years ago, I accepted a blind date. A wonderful man who had lost his wife to cancer. Last Saturday, we celebrated our seventeenth wedding anniversary. He retired as police chief. I kept working, ironically finding my way back to teaching, but this time my classroom was global, and the students were adults who would keep us safe amid cybersecurity threats. Together, my husband and I manage a small business, navigate grandchildren, and as a hobby, we play the game that is never won, only played: golf. I am proud of the awards on the shelf. But what I cherish, what I carry with me is the painting on my desk. The memory of the Thursday evening phone call from retired Major General Brett Williams, US Air Force and US Cyber Command, thanking me for mentoring his team. The women who sought my advice and came back to tell me what happened next. Every challenge. Every cut. Every shadow. They were all gifts I didn’t order. And I am grateful for every single one.
THE TAPE ON MY LIP
I said I’d come back to the tape. In March, I had a procedure with complications. And as part of the therapy process, I’ve been wearing silicone strips on my lip, which means, in certain situations, I’ve been walking around with an inch of tape on my lip. Or, as my grandson says: “Gaga, why do you have tape on your mustache?” My brain told me: everyone will stare. Everyone will notice. You cannot go out like this. But when I learned this healing would take months rather than days, I knew I had to venture out. And do you know what happened?
Nothing. Nobody stared. Nobody pointed. The world kept moving.
And I thought, how many times has this been true? How many rooms did I almost not walk into? How many hands did I almost not raise? How many opportunities did I almost say no to because I was convinced everyone was watching or judging?
The job application I almost didn’t fill out. The board seat I felt unqualified for. The promotion I believed I’d earned yet didn’t get, only to open space for the next one. The blind date I almost turned down. Every single time, I was certain about how it would go. And every single time, my certainty was wrong.
“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did. Throw off the bowlines. Sail away from safe harbor.” — Mark Twain
The tape on my lip taught me what the orange pajamas tried to tell me fifty-plus years ago: the gap between how we think we look and what the world actually sees is almost always wider than we think. Nobody is staring. They’re too busy worrying about their own tape.
I want to leave you with one question. Not a rhetorical one, a real one. I want you to sit with it on the drive home, or over dessert, or tonight before you fall asleep. What are you almost saying no to? What gift is sitting on your doorstep right now that you haven’t opened yet? What room are you standing outside of, convinced everyone will be staring when really, they’re just waiting for you to walk in?“You make a living by what you get. You make a life by what you give.” — Heritage Square, Atlantic Highlands, NJ
Walk in. Say yes. Open the gift.
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