Forty-Seven…not the AK type

JOIN45 - forty seven

Good fucking grief. How’d I get here?

I don’t think I really understand time. All these years on this planet and it’s not “the cloud” that confuses me (I don’t even really know what the hell it is and before you geeky people message me to explain it; just don’t. I don’t care. I know my pictures and shit are “there”, wherever that is) but time is this crazy intangible rulers of our lives.

For example…do you remember going to a friend’s house for a slumber party or that first long french kiss that touched your soul? You know they lasted for hours but it was like you slipped through a wrinkle and it was just minutes and time slipped away. Other times, you had a job that sucked and dragged on forever. Same amount of time, but the action dictated how you would experience it.

Life is the same. Some days disappear like grains of sand through your fingertips and other days are an anchor holding you in place. It all depends on the experience.

Forty-seven years means I remember at random moments things like:

  • having a phone with a rotary dial
  • listening to records on a Saturday afternoon
  • getting a remote control TV and later on a VCR and microwave
  • when MTV only played music videos
  • having a massive crush on George Michael
  • the Christmas craze of Cabbage Patch dolls
  • wearing pink AND blue eye shadow – at the same time
  • playing PacMan on an Atari
  • spraying Jean Nate’ on my wrists
  • waiting for that favorite Madonna song to come on so you could record it and play it later on your Sony Walkman
  • Swatch watches
  • parachute pants
  • mullets
  • perms
  • sipping Clearly Canadian
  • driving a Fiero
  • wearing a pager
  • waiting for friends at the gate of an aiport
  • having a Palm Pilot
  • having a phone installed in my car
  • watching Ally McBeal
  • buying a home with no credit or money down
  • watching the market crash
  • short-selling a house
  • being in awe of Avatar
  • watching a black man become our President – followed by watching a lunatic becoming one, too

I’ve seen a lot of unbelievable shit in my lifetime. It all tells me two things:

  1. Life is amazing – don’t miss a single thing. Good. Bad. Indifferent. Experience it all.
  2. You can do anything you set your mind to. Keep dreaming!

It makes me wonder what the next forty-seven years will be like since the last were so incredible? I’m pretty sure whatever I can imagine and type, there is some fabulous inventor and innovator already out there with a concept, written plans, manifesting a new, cooler life for all of us. #MadRespectForThem

Before I go much farther about being forty-seven, let’s talk about being forty-six, shall we?

Last year on this day, I gave notice at my job. I remember it so well. I had plans to go into private consulting, was going to write a book, beef up my calendar with speaking engagements – I was totally GOING for it!


My ex-husband made sure that didn’t happen. Just sixty days after my forth-sixth trip around the sun, I would be jobless and penniless and pretty much just unhappy. My kids rallied around and they helped pick up mom’s heart that was shattered into a million pieces. (I’m pretty sure if you pull the fridge out from the wall, parts of it are back there with the dust bunnies just chillin’.) I was a mess.

I’m still a mess, just not a hot one. 

A week after I got divorced in September 2017, I met a man. He’s handsome, big blue eyes, really great shoulders, and funny. I MEAN REALLY FUNNY! I’ll be honest – I didn’t expect him to stick around much. He was recently divorced himself, and well, I feel pretty sure I’m not the girl many guys want to bring home to their parents and say, “Here she is!” I always imagine the questions afterwards like, “Wow, what does she do for a living?” Then the awkwardness of saying, “Well – err – I’m not really sure but something with social media.” Yeah, that probably goes over really well with the parental units.

Yet, here I am turning forty-seven and that guy is still around. I think it’s because my dad gave him a 1982 Cardinals World Series Coke bottle. (Hey – whatever it takes, right, ladies?)

So, what do I hope this next year will look like?

I’m not even sure I really know. I will tell you what I do want, though:

  • I do know I’m tired of feeling inadequate.
  • I don’t want to feel like I’m not enough for someone anymore.
  • I want a companion who loves me – the real Sheryl – and thinks it’s pretty great.
  • I want to enjoy my kids and who they are as adults.
  • I want to feel my grandkids in my arms as often as I can make that happen.
  • I want to finish my book, Females And Finance.

I’m pretty good at manifesting most things in my life, except for the love part. I went ahead and threw that in for good measure in my list above, but have no expectations in that department whatsoever. In the end, I have to be enough for myself.

I intend to spend time this year enjoying everything I can. Tastes. Textures. Sights. Feelings. Colors. Smells. Soaking everything in so I can recollect all the little things. Whether I do that alone or with someone, I’m going for all of it.

This blog will continue to be about warrioring on in the second half of my life. Telling stories. Watching time and action and experience collide and converge into an amazing threesome of what will be memories-of-a-once-47-year-old.

“Time is the coin of life. Only you can decide how you want to spend it.” – Carl Sandberg

Sheryl Brown Apr 2018


A day of firsts…


My first day of officially being single started off with me waking up, getting out of bed, and smiling. I was my own person, again. I hadn’t realized how much I missed being myself. Sheryl who likes to wake up with no alarms (not needed – I just open my eyes every day by 6 am). Sheryl who likes her covers and doesn’t have to share them. Sheryl who can relish the darkness of a bedroom with no noises, just my cat, Ophelia, purring gently beside me.

As I brushed my teeth, took a shower, and got dressed, I went into the day realizing everything I was doing was a first as Sheryl Brown – – and I really enjoyed it. Especially when I went to the DMV to change my name on my license.

The ladies at the Harvester location of the Department of Motor Vehicles laughed with me, smiled, and the one lady came around the corner of her desk and hugged me – telling me I was going to be extra special OK now. You know what? I think she’s not only right but how she was put into my day purposefully and intentionally sat with me for hours afterward.

My new license won’t arrive in the mail for two weeks and that’s ok by me. I have the piece of paper which cost me $13 (with tax) to change my name and it was the first time that number wasn’t unlucky – ha! Just holding that in my purse feels amazing.

Enjoy every first you come upon in your lifetime. Relish how minor or major an event can be. You have no idea what will not only be so meaningful and impactful if you just give it a second to sink in but as I’m on day two of being single – it even means more today when I go to the bank and start changing information everywhere to be Sheryl Brown again.


Finally…I’m Sheryl Brown again


So today was the day. After twenty-four years of marriage, I am finally Sheryl Brown again. The irony? It took 1.5 minutes to get divorced. Yep – no joke. My ex-husband was absent to the par-teh. Go figure.

Last night, I was a basket case. I knew the right decision had been made, but I think the feeling of melancholy had set in deep and although at peace with the decision I wanted closure. I thought for sure he would text and ask how I was…nope. Or what about a text asking about his kids….nope. Maybe a text thanking me for washing his underwear for thousands of days in my life…not a chance. All I was getting was a big old promise of nothing. No text. No showing up at the court. Nothing.

It has been a summer filled with emotional roller coaster rides, but when I woke up this morning and my best friend, Cheryl (I know, I know…my best friend has the same name as me), arrived at my doorstep and hugged me, and then we picked up my daughter-in-law, Katie, and headed to the courthouse, I just knew…I’m gonna be just fine!

Courtrooms are nerve-wracking, Am I right? You walk in and automatically feel guilty about all kinds of shit. Why is that? I mean, I didn’t do anything wrong here so why the panicky feeling of, “Do I have my shit together?” (The answer is ‘no’ and you never will.) I sat down in the front praying she didn’t call me first.

The good thing? The judge was SO NICE. I mean, there were people who came to court VERY unprepared. She let them go and fill out their paperwork and come back. If you were nervous, she smiled and calmed you. I mean, the experience was way more pleasant than I imagined it would be…better than the end of my marriage, that’s for sure.

But finally, here I am. Sheryl Brown, once again. Watch out world, I’m coming to kick ass!




Five A.M.

pablo (4)

So…I got this wild hair up my ass in March 2017 to start this new habit – every day I would be getting up at 5 am because all of these productivity experts say you should. So right after my 46th birthday, I set the alarm clock. 5 am was gonna be my bitch!

It lasted less than a week. And you know what I got out of it? Tired. That’s right…I got sloppy-writing, coffee-binging, snarling-at-others TIRED. I mean, I am just not cut out for 5 am alarms. I want five more minutes of sleep…or fifty. Take your pick!

For the last few weeks, I beat myself up about failing, too. “Oh, Sheryl, you can’t even get up.” “Sheryl, you’re such a loser!” “Look at so-and-so, they can get up.” Kerplunk, kerflooey. This was supposed to be a positive upbeat habit-forming (habit-changing) lifestyle and all it did was make me feel like shit.

Maybe I should have caught wind by the titles of the articles I researched. I mean just look these:

  • How I Finally Trained Myself to Wake Up Early: here
  • The Secrets to Waking Up Early (Even If You Hate Mornings): here
  • Conquering the Alarm Clark: here

In each of these situations, I missed really keywords which were a clue this wasn’t for me. “Trained” – I’m not a dog? “Hate” – I don’t hate anything, I just prefer staying up late. “Conquering” – I’m not some warrior of sleep! I’m just a girl, staring at an alarm clock, wanting it to shut the fuck up. Is that so bad?

So I went on a quest…to see if there are successful people who prefer to get up a few hours later. Well, la dee da! Look at these articles:

  • Successful People Who Wake Up Late: here
  • The Hidden Brilliance of Late Risers: here
  • Think Waking Up Early Will Make You More Productive? Think Again!: here

Whoa – – what do I see there? Successful…brilliance (I particularly like this one) and sarcasm. BINGO! These folks get me, they really get me! It wasn’t like I wanted to sleep until noon (no judging for all you folks who do!) I’m thinking 7 am is a good time, though.

So I stopped setting the alarm clock. Period. No more alarm clock. Guess what time I wake up every damn day now? Go ahead…between 5:20 am and 5:45 am. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. Wait, what?

If I don’t set the alarm clock, I wake up and, more importantly, I don’t beat myself up. If I do set the alarm clock, I’m like, “Hey – whatdya doin?” Crazy how habits form, isn’t it?



FLOTUS and fashion – why does anyone give a damn?


I am going to preface this post with, “I absolutely freaking love The New  York Times.” I’m an avid reader not only in the morning but the evening brief as well. So much to love. Now – on to the point of my post.

It pains me to point out that I get they have a fashion section (to feed the enormous appetite for those into haute couture while I sit in a pair of jeggings and Toms) but can we cease and desist when it comes to important, national issues than to share what FLOTUS Michelle Obama and Melania Trump wore on their recent visit together? OMFG, really?

The First Lady and what she represents today is so much more than a dress.


I get that the undertone of FL Michelle Obama’s dress was about the blending of the blue and red colors for unity (to make purple). I also get that this dress was beautifully crafted by a Cuban-American immigrant, but does The New York Times really believe these subtleties are ever present to the common voter (or non-voter as 46.9% of the people didn’t even fucking show up)? Hell no, so why represent women in such a superficial way in such an awesome newspaper?

The best advice The New York Times writer could give Melania Trump was to invest in a stylist.

That has to be a joke alone. I don’t know, why not tell her to invest in teaching her what a real troll looks like on social media (i.e. @realDonaldTrump is a great place to start)? As a social media strategist, blogger, writer, speaker I could definitely get behind this message of online bullying and zero tolerance. Developing rules and regulations to keep balanced conversations on social media would be a huge win for everyone: corporations, small businesses, religious entities, non-profit organizations, and individuals.

When Melania Trump was interviewed on 60 Minutes with Lesley Stahl, I had to almost laugh when she said, “…she would also rebuke her husband ‘all the time’ for his social media presence.” But then goes on to say he doesn’t listen to her (…um…because he’s a bully…) So getting her some real help here would benefit the common good of everyone, not a stylist. Who gives a damn what she’s wearing if she’s taking out the bullies? I surely don’t!

I have to give Stahl a huge thumbs up for not asking about her fashion, though. I mean, it’s completely inane that I have to shout out props to a female television journalist in 2016 for talking to a woman about her initiatives and not her Louboutins. [Insert sarcasm, eye roll, and light head shaking here…]

I guess that’s one small step for women, but remains one giant step back for mankind. #sadface



When feminism was given the bird


The week has had jolting moments of disappointment, heavy-hearted thoughts about what the future holds, peppered with the need to check my words before I spewed them. In the midst of hate, vitriol, and downright shady stuff going on in the world, I must hold onto my belief we each have a value equal to another life regardless of the color of our skin, the genitals between our legs, nor the religion we choose to follow.

“I am a feminist.”

It was impossible to mutter those words for so many years growing up. I mean, I didn’t even really know I was becoming one. I certainly wasn’t taught this growing up or shown any examples of what a feminist looked like or acted like. It only started as a ‘feeling’.

My father ruled our home with a uniquely conservative view (some of the stuff he still says today doesn’t add up in my head, but whatevs…) and a strong hand of discipline. I chalked it up to doing the best he could with what he knew. For this, I’m forever grateful. In fact, if it weren’t for the fact that he raised me so right, I couldn’t have grown up to appreciate all my left choices later on. Yet, I went into the world uncertain what you called a girl who felt worthy of so much more than what she was actually experiencing.

…but there I was. A young woman in a very real, fast-moving, loud, smelly, insulting, inappropriate adult world. I went into this overwhelming, overstimulated, overtestosteroned  system hearing derogatory messages about who I was as a female. Some descriptors I can recall quickly:

  • diva
  • gold digger
  • privileged

All I wanted was to be treated equally.

There is no way I can recollect all the inappropriate behaviors I’ve experienced throughout my years in personal and professional settings. I also admit, I was ill-equipped to handle any of them. I was taught to be quiet growing up (although my report cards should have been the first clue I would later become a feminist one day, “Sheryl is a fantastic student, but she needs to control her talking.“) Being silent was an expectation of girls everywhere.


Many times I’ve wondered what my father would have thought, though, had he known what his years of silencing would later mean for his once little girl. She would have experiences which included:

  • men who squeezed my knees in meetings or reached over and touched my legs to “get my attention”
  • men who put their arms around me even when I bristled from their touch (and to this very day I still struggle with people putting their arms around my shoulders)
  • dirty jokes being shared among male colleagues while I was left to uncomfortably laugh them off
  • being called a bitch (honestly, I lost track of how many times) because I was aggressive in some way (for shame!)
  • fetching coffee for men who were supposed to be my equals in meetings (…and I might have spit in one or two cups…)
  • pretending to be fragile, cutesy, while wearing plunging necklines to get a meager 25-cent raise here and there
  • being considered secondary most of my adult professional life

I mean, seriously, the list goes on-and-on. During my twenties, my husband became my biggest champion. I would even venture to say was my first feminist friend!

I vowed my daughters would not endure menial, trivial, unsuitable experiences like I. Their lives would certainly be a richer set of opportunities. After all, they had more rights coming down the line, even though we are still only at 78 cents to every man’s dollar. (It will be 2058 before we catch up to men at the rate we are going.)

Our son would be raised to respect his wife and ultimately his little daughter so they could have the best chance at having an equal shot. Progress is coming!

…then 2016 happened.

When a woman cannot be voted for president because other women chose to vote for a candidate who actually said:

  • A woman is not worth negotiable assets. (Vanity Fair, 1990)
  • As long as you have a young, beautiful piece of ass, the rest doesn’t matter. (Esquire, 1991)
  • Women hate prenups because they are gold diggers. (Trump: The Art of the Comeback, 1997)
  • Women need to use their sex appeal to get ahead. (How To Get Rich, 2004)
  • “Bitch, be cool” is a great line. (TrumpNation: The Art of the Donald, 2005)
  • Women should expect to be sexually assaulted in the service. (@RealDonaldTrump, May 2013)

I’m left to immediately feel pity for the women who think this is ok, or is some painful form of “locker room talk” men share while women merely endure, and then ultimately expose how much they depreciate themselves because they were born with a pussy instead of a penis. Why aren’t more women embracing a radical revolution of value? When did being a feminist become so dirty again? It’s because we all got quiet, too quiet in fact.

“Speak up even if your voice shakes.”

Maggie Kuhn spoke these words. She took up activism in her early years, but it wasn’t until her golden ones when she was actually heard by others.

Today, I’m only a few years shy of a decade from this golden period of time in my life. Some would say, “Ease up, Sheryl, let the young ones take this challenge. Go into your fifties to enjoy them.” However, that’s not only a disservice to those young women following me who are depending on my strength, but selfishly, it’s an injustice to me. Why should I be forced to take the world’s cruelest sucker punch of my adult life?

I didn’t have my ass pinched or breasts ogled at in my younger years just so I could take more shit in my older age; I’m definitely sure of that! I also accept responsibility for what has happened. I slipped back into the familiar grounds of silence. I let worrying what others thought about me being too loud or overbearing and what that would look like for me personally and professionally. What the fuck was I thinking? I will no longer be silent, though. You can take that to the bank!

Some should be scared of me. [Even more, should join me!] Do not sit idly by, letting others tell you how the world will be. You show them next time!


I miss the fear of flying


In a given year, I fly about 75 times. That’s a lot of flying for the average person and yes, I consider myself ridiculously average. However, there was a time where getting me on a flight was an act of God. Just mentioning a plane broke me into a sweat. I was terrified of going up, up, and away…and you know what? I miss being scared of flying.

When you’re scared of flying, you are 100% focused on your own life. You wonder (albeit irrationally) if the plane’s landing gear will come out ok? Will the plane crash? Will I need to poop on the plane? What if I vomit? Everything is all about you.

Today, I no longer fear flying. So instead of being focused on my own craziness, I focus on others.

If I was busy worrying about me, I wouldn’t have to experience:

  • people sitting next me picking their nose (Fort Myers)
  • babies crying that I want to throttle (every trip through Boston)
  • old men picking at the corns on their feet (Lincoln, Nebraska)
  • young men who bully you out of elbow space in the seat (Dallas)
  • women who paint their nails on the plane (St. Louis)
  • a couple watching the ‘Gone Girl’ sex scene on their shared computer (North Carolina)
  • listening to hours of snoring (Cayman Islands)
  • drinking shitty coffee (really – c’mon American Airlines!)
  • begging for peanuts (give me the damn nuts, Delta!)
  • the guy with two watches who kept checking them every second (Omaha)
  • chatty grandmothers (Newark)
  • the nailbiter in seat 7D who kept spitting his chewed nails toward me (Phoenix)

…the list goes on and on. I simply can’t believe what I experience on a flight today. All because I’m no longer scared of flying. If I was still scared of flying, all of these experiences would pass me by while I privately freaked out about my own stuff.

Maybe the next time we are frightened of something we should simply embrace the fear and wonder if it isn’t protecting us from something else?

…on that note, my next flight leaves in 2 hours. Gotta plane to catch!


Jealousy over another woman’s flowers


The title pretty much tells the story, right? I was at a conference in Chicago last week and one of the attendees, a beautiful, smart, spunky young woman named Ashleigh came down from her hotel room with the most beautiful bouquet of pink and white flowers and said, “Does anyone want to take these home?” 

I was stunned.

I was headed to the airport so I couldn’t take them off her hands [oh yes, yes I would have!], but my curiosity piqued as to why she would be giving them away. Apparently, her boyfriend (not her husband – A REALLY AWESOME BOYFRIEND!!) sends her flowers every time she travels. I then leaned in and said, “How many times a year do you travel?” [Of course, I’m already trying to rationalize this is a once-in-a-while deal because I travel almost weekly and can’t imagine my husband ever doing something like this.] Ashleigh responds with, “About ten trips a year.”

Ok, I was stunned…again.

I took a picture of her holding her flowers [they are gorgeous] and she did find the one lucky woman who was able to take them off her hands finally, but I just kept wondering, “Why am I so stinkin’ jealous about this?” [Maybe that should be really be written, “Why am I so smellin‘ jealous about this?” since we ARE talking about flowers.]

But first, a confession…

I confess – I get jealous very easily. It’s a HUGE flaw of mine, but this one, in particular, was hitting me in the gut hard. Don’t get me wrong, I was happy for Ashleigh’s love and her beautiful gift of flora to brighten her day, but wowza…I wanna get that, too!

When I came home and told my husband about the flowers [I was totally setting him up, right? I knew what I was doing!] my husband was very quick to remind how much I travel and how pissed I would be if he spent that kind of money on flowers. Part of that was true and I agreed with him, but I was never completely honest with him. Truth and honesty are not the same.

To hell with logic, I want those damn flowers! Or, do I?

Ok, you got me. No – I really didn’t want the flowers. I wanted what they represented. I wanted the magic which goes into receiving the flowers. Knowing someone cares and is considerate enough to do something so special for me. Just me. It’s a huge turn-on in the brain. It would be a conversation I needed to have with my husband because as Justin Timberlake says, “I can’t stop the feeling” of jealousy…apparently which was filling my nostrils like the peonies and lilies in that young woman’s arrangement. How do you tell your husband they kind of suck at romance these days? In 2016, by text, of course!



Crazy right? Being 100% honest with my spouse meant he knew exactly how I felt and this conversation continued (in a therapeutic way for both of us) for several days. I learned I cannot expect him to know how I feel unless I TELL him. I didn’t marry a wizard!

So a week later…

After having this discussion, my husband has really been trying to be sure we talk about stuff more, but most importantly he is listening to when I say things like last night during Halloween, “I want to walk with the grandkids.” He was completely ok with it and stayed back to hand out candy with the neighborhood kids. And let me tell you what an awesome sight he was after a couple of miles of walking, I came home (I left my children to walk with their own kids!) and we sat in lawn chairs, on the driveway, with a roaring bonfire, and all was peaceful between us.

I didn’t need flowers. I have a bouquet of happiness always available to me. I only needed to ask for it. Crazy how you learn shit like this so much later in life. I certainly hope the young women of today are quick to learn these lessons.

Happy November.


Permission-Based Friends


I had a friend die last week. I’ve had a hard time digesting the fact he is gone, but he is. I will never talk to him on the phone again. I will never receive a special Facebook message telling me to cheer up. I have questioned myself every single day, “Did I make sure he knew how much he mattered to me?” I will never know the answer to this question.

On the day I found out my friend passed away, I sat listening to Marie Forleo interviewing Seth Godin and although Seth was talking about permission-based marketing when he shared his definition of “permission” I couldn’t help but wonder how many permission-based friendships I currently hold dear to me? Who do I look forward to each day? Who would I miss if they were gone? It spawned a time of needed reflection.

Who do you look forward to each day?

My first question was, “Who do I look forward to each day?” and it’s easy to say my grandkids, children, and my husband, Ahmad. They are my entire foundation and one crack and the whole thing would come crumbling down.

However, I look forward to the elderly lady who sprint-walks in front of my house each day as she inspires me to get fit. I look forward to seeing Tristy who does my nails every other week because she makes me laugh and puts up with my obnoxious nail requests. I look forward to my Tuesday email from Marie Forleo even though she has no idea I even exist. These people all matter in my life; they make my life have balance.

My takeaway is I need to tell more people they matter. I need to use my voice and tell them why they make my days better just be being in them. I must honor what they bring to the table (or salon or sidewalk or online) to touch me and help me be a better permission-based friend for someone else in the world.

Who would you miss if they were gone?

Setting aside my family who if they were to depart, I would be derailed and disjointed in a variety of crazy, yet depressed, ways, but I’m thinking about so many others whose smiles, laughter, and kindness I would miss at a depth I didn’t realize was there. People who come in-and-out of your day and you find yourself talking to them, looking for them, laughing with them, but you’ve never said to them, “You really matter to me. I appreciate you so much.” What those words might do for someone…and when they are gone, you can’t get the time back to make sure they felt them. It’s too late by then.

So make this about righting wrongs, deflating egos, whatever you must do to tell someone who matters to you that they are important. We all just need to do it. If you are going to miss someone when they are gone, they need to know today they are in your heart and they are loved.

He mattered beyond measure.

For me, I’m sad to have lost a sweet friend. He mattered to me and countless others. He touched  more lives than I could even begin naming in this blog. My last time with him was a mixture of fun and pride. He did such an amazing job of setting up a conference of young advisors and all was accomplished through selfless amounts of hard work. He made fun of my peeling face (I had just returned from a week of skin-diving, parasailing, and spending way too much time in the Jamaican sun). I made fun of his push-up challenges on Facebook.

We were friends and yet, I never once took the time to tell him I looked forward to his calls and emails and that I would miss him if he were ever gone. You never get time back.

Jeremy Price was the epitome of a permission-based friend. Rest in peace, JP.


What gets you fired up?


I had a layover in Houston, Texas this week. My husband and I took a Southwest flight to Portland, Oregon and we had a one-hour layover at Gate 42. Everything about the layover was very normal until the sermon began.

A man who appeared to be in his late thirties was rolling his baggage down the terminal and then stopped in the middle, pulled out his bible, and started giving a sermon right there in the middle of the gates about the glory called Jesus Christ. So many dismissed him as a loon, even my own husband was locked and loaded with some 80’s tunes jamming away, but I sat there watching him intensely.

  • He never once faltered his words. (Conviction)
  • He preached about the wisdom he found in the bible. (Knowledge)
  • He felt completely comfortable standing there and sharing the good word of God. (Mastery)

I watched others around the terminal to see their reactions. Some watched and pointed with little grins. Some were annoyed he was making noise while they were trying to solve their Soduko puzzle. Even some parents quickly ushered their children by whispering words of concern which I could only imagine contained thoughts like, “crazy” or “illness” and here I was mesmerized by this man’s basic carnal exhibition while being completely and utterly jealous of the fire in his belly.

I admit it. I was crazy with jealousy.

You see, the first thing I thought of was how ridiculously lucky this gentleman was to create his own ‘sermon on the mount’ through the sheer passion he had for believing in Jesus Christ.If you think I’m talking about religion, you’re missing my point. I couldn’t have cared if his preaching was of God or knitting, he was fired up!

His conviction, knowledge, and mastery on the topic moved him to do something about how he felt. He didn’t need a pulpit, lectern, or some stage to perform. He created his own tent and was inviting you to the revival to hear the good word. He had something so powerful in his life worth sharing that he felt the need to stop and exorcize his passion with others so he could simply carry on with his everyday duties like making his way to his destination.

It made me ask myself, “What am I fired up about?”

The sneers, snickers, and snotty comments of others when events like this go down do not even phase me. At forty-five years old, I no longer subscribe to the belief you must live your life one way to be a good human being. There are lots of ways through the maze of life and who am I to judge another on how they get there, as long as they get there, right? These feelings are often fraught with jealousy; they could make the decision to do the same thing too, but they don’t.

Guess what? This guy built his own stage to climb onto and be the star of his show. Who am I to judge someone whose proverbial balls were bigger than my own?  (Well, he was a guy, so his were REALLY bigger than my non-existent ones, but you know what I mean!) So, I needed time to think about what got my juices going. What made me so excited that I would stop and share my good word…even in the middle of a busy airport terminal. I needed a few days to digest this.

Connection – that’s my jam!

I love to love people. I love to see people even when they think they are invisible. I love to connect with others.

Social media is a way to feed that fire, but it’s not my preference. Does that shock you? A social media person telling you that social media is not their thing? Did I just rob a social media angel of her wings somewhere?

The fact is, I only like social media for the ability to connect on a larger level. It’s the connection part I’m addicted to, not the Facebook, LinkedIn, etc. I’m much more in tune with my email and CRM than I am with the algorithms. I would much rather host a party to bring people together than starting a group message on Facebook (OMG, I hate those by the way. If you send them out – please, I beg you to please stop.)

Do I love it enough to stop in the middle of an airport?

Assuming I had no fear of public speaking (I have NO ISSUES with this) and talking to strangers doesn’t cause an anxiety attack (um, nope, I’m good), then let’s see. I speak at a lot of conferences per year. I hold webinars. I do Skype meetings. I would say, “Yes, I could stop in the middle of an airport and say I love it that much.” So that covers that, but does that equate to fire in the belly? For me, it does.

I forgot Kid President just a few years ago reminded us about our need for a Pep Talk. We probably need to watch this weekly (some on the daily!) (Click the picture and get a pep talk right now!)


I thought a lot about my Sermon on the Mount Minister this week. He may not have moved me closer to God, but he reminded me fire is good. Getting excited about my life, my work etc. is important. I have to be awesome right now!