CHAPTER 1

When Changes Get Personal:From Denial to Awakening

June sat in my office, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She told me thatjust as she'd decided to sell her business of fifteen years she'd beenblindsided by her brother's death and, two weeks later, by the news of anunexpected though welcome pregnancy.

As tears spilled down her cheeks, she whispered, "I'm so confused, I can't seemto make sense of anything right now. What I really want to do is spend some timealone, but no one will let me. They all want me to cheer up and get my mind offmy worries."

You might be experiencing something similar as you deal with whatever change hasbrought you to read this book. "Your desire to go within is perfectly natural,"I gently said to June, "and probably one of the best things you can do foryourself right now."

She took a full, deep breath, let out a huge sigh, and said, "You mean ... I'm notgoing crazy?!?"

I've heard this sigh many times from clients as they discovered, for the firsttime, that there really is some rhyme and reason to how they feel as they facelife's inevitable changes. I want to offer you the same comfort. Knowing my workbrings people hope gives meaning to all the dark, scary nights I spent wonderingif I myself was going crazy.

Will I Ever Feel Okay Again?

For the first twenty-five years of my life, I took great pride in the fact thatmy life seemed to unfold like clockwork. I grew up in a comfortable, suburbanarea of California, part of a happy family of four. We had two cars, a dog, andtook family vacations every summer. The only big changes I experienced were theanticipated moves as I climbed the academic ladder.

Then one muggy summer day, the stability of my life was irrevocably shatteredduring a phone conversation with my parents. Although they were only informingme that my father's biopsy looked a bit questionable, I knew in a heartbeat thathe was going to die as a result. And soon. All my life, I'd never known anythingthat completely. As I stared at the shiny eggshell-colored enamel on thedoorjamb next to the phone, I tried to make sense of what my parents weresaying. Somehow, I managed to hold myself together while we talked, but as soonas we hung up, I started crying hysterically.

I had next to no experience dealing with emotions of such magnitude, with death,or with how to continue my life when everything I'd ever known was crumbling. Tomake matters worse, I was halfway across the country in the midst of a summerinternship. All of my friends were hundreds or thousands of miles away. I'dnever felt so alone in my life. In the months that followed, I often wondered ifI'd ever feel okay again.

By the time my father died, eighteen months later, I'd finished graduate school,gotten a corporate job, and had begun to reestablish my life in California. Talkabout a time of transition! At least now I was only an hour away from home whenthe phone call came, so I was able to be there to support my mother and toreceive the comfort of family and friends. Given my father's deterioratingcondition, the biggest shock was not his death but the strong feeling ofrightness that settled, within twelve hours, over my mother and me. We bothsensed that his passing would be an important catalyst for each of us—a feelingthat was haunting and reassuring at the same time. For about a month, I was"fine," but numb. Then, the waves of grief started to hit. Although the qualityand intensity of the waves changed over time, they continued for several years.

Ironically, a few years before he died, Dad loaned me his copy of Transitions:Making Sense of Life Changes by William Bridges, the first book on the market todefine the stages underlying all transitions. My familiarity with that bookallowed me to realize that what I was experiencing was normal and that I coulduse my process as a catalyst for personal growth. Although those years of griefwere the toughest I've ever experienced, some of my most poignant and meaningfulmemories come from that period.

Then, just as I was beginning to make sense of my father's death, life handed mea number of other intense issues to work through: my mother's bout with cancer,the deaths of three grandparents, my own physical and mental burnout. Each ofthose experiences woke me up to the reality of life's changes.

Somehow, in the depths of my despair, I realized that by experiencing my owngrief process, I would learn how to help others move through the oftentreacherous journey associated with life changes. That knowing became the lightat the end of a very long tunnel for me. I immediately became very conscious ofmy own process, paying particular attention to how I felt, what I was goingthrough, and what helped ease my pain and anguish. I gleaned information fromany source I could find—books, workshops, talks, conversations.

Then as the space between the waves of grief lengthened, my interest innavigating life's transitions moved beyond the purely personal. My role in alarge corporation put me in an ideal position to observe a wide variety ofchanges at both the organizational and individual levels. Everywhere I went,inside and outside of the company, I heard people talking about the changes theywere struggling with: downsizing, relocating, a child leaving home, aging,divorcing. As I listened to them talk, I took note of the kinds of support theywere or were not receiving and began to get a feel for what might assist them inmoving through their transitions more gracefully.

Through my observations, I became more and more fascinated with the process ofchange. I began to see that when people understand and go through a naturalprogression of feelings and behaviors in dealing with life changes, they canarrive, more easily, at a new, happier, and healthier place. The processcertainly isn't free of pain—I could attest to that—but the potential for...