I woke up in a cold sweat one night a few years after my 1997 wedding. It wasn’t for the usual reasons—my toddler crying for me from her crib, the baby inside me kicking and inducing nausea or sciatica or both. It was because I had a sudden memory of my friend David. He was standing in the grand entranceway of the historic landmark building in Brooklyn where Andy and I were having our reception, and he looked charmingly disheveled. He had just arrived from Boston, where he was in his first few intense weeks of law school, and I hadn’t been entirely sure he’d make it to the wedding. But there he was, casual laptop bag slung over his pinstriped suit. “I’m sorry I missed the ceremony,” he told me, a little breathless. He had the look of someone who had just sprinted a few city blocks. “But I’m here now,” he shouted with his famous enthusiasm. “So
The Art of Showing Up
The Art of Showing Up
The Art of Showing Up
I woke up in a cold sweat one night a few years after my 1997 wedding. It wasn’t for the usual reasons—my toddler crying for me from her crib, the baby inside me kicking and inducing nausea or sciatica or both. It was because I had a sudden memory of my friend David. He was standing in the grand entranceway of the historic landmark building in Brooklyn where Andy and I were having our reception, and he looked charmingly disheveled. He had just arrived from Boston, where he was in his first few intense weeks of law school, and I hadn’t been entirely sure he’d make it to the wedding. But there he was, casual laptop bag slung over his pinstriped suit. “I’m sorry I missed the ceremony,” he told me, a little breathless. He had the look of someone who had just sprinted a few city blocks. “But I’m here now,” he shouted with his famous enthusiasm. “So