If we can't make people outside our own walls—especially those in power— understand what we do, we don't have a chance of surviving, much less thriving, in this environment.

I recognized a cycle repeating, and it scared me. Because I saw my mother hate her body, I hated mine. Because I hated mine, my children would likely learn to hate theirs. And I couldn't abide that.

This is an excerpt from the first piece of creative nonfiction writing I've ever submitted for publication. I'm still waiting to hear whether it made the cut BUT today is the tenth anniversary of the start of the climactic weekend of the piece, which seemed like a decent reason to put this part of it out into the world.

Saturday is the 10th anniversary of one of my greatest life achievements. Why, then, do I feel less than thrilled about it?

There’s a fascinating story about the days before my grandmother passed that I won’t go into, partly because I don’t trust my memory about it. But I *do* remember vividly the limo ride to New York.

Many moons ago, when I served as editor of The Magazine of Elon, I had an antagonistic approach to fundraising. I didn’t like it. My readers didn’t like it. It took the better part of a decade and five years of working with some of the most professional gift officers you’ll ever meet to change my mind.

Grabbing a sliver of open bar space, I held my wallet at an angle I hoped would catch the bartender’s attention quickly. As I waited, I looked to my right, then to my left. And I realized I was standing next to Stuart Scott.

In honor of the fifth anniversary of the greatest surprise anyone ever pulled on me in my life, I figured I'd do what I do best ... and write about it.