Little Miss Sunshine w/ a Little Bit of Hurricane

I write with a heavy heart and much bitter-sweetness that I’ve made the decision to leave Google. My last day is Jan 7th.

If you include kindergarten, we spend 13 years developing through our childhood education. That resonates strongly with me as I reflect on my 13 years growing at Google. It also affirms my resolve to ‘graduate’ as it were - this time to a new professional and personal phase.

New #nokia who dis? And what’s a smart phone? Baby Riri in the era of a whippersnapper ‘noogler’

When I joined in 2006 our team was hard-pressed to convince marketers that you could use Google or the Internet itself to redeem coupons, or buy homes, order fast food, look for employment, make business connections, introduce new language to change perceptions. Now, you can’t imagine doing any of those things without Google.

A few acquisitions like Android, Double Click and YouTube helped along the way; and I’m in awe of the incredible prescience our leadership had in making them. I remember with each announcement thinking, ‘ah, cool’ without truly grasping the impact of the history I was lucky to be a part of.

Google now has 98,000 employees - roughly 93,000 more than when I started. It’s amazing that despite our nation-state status, I usually feel part of an intimate community. This is in large part due to the deliberate and thoughtful efforts of leaders I’m thankful to report (and have reported) into. Where I’m headed next brings me back into that ‘small liberal arts’ size where hopefully I manifest growth and build my own deliberate and thoughtful leadership halo.

The toughest aspect to making my decision, was the people. I’m grateful to have interacted throughout my tenure with talented, kind, dedicated, bright people who uphold the highest standards of integrity, aptitude, humility and humor. I truly mean that.

There are too many dozens of people for me to call-out and say thanks, so know that I hope to carry forward at least a fraction of what my Google fam has taught me. We used to pitch the effectiveness of sight/sound/motion, so here are some snippets of my fave moments with treasured friends.

There’s an untold story here. 

Actually, there likely are many. 

The initial idea came a year ago as I was rereading one of my absolute favorite books, The Alchemist. The main character - a young boy (named Santiago, as I’ve now looked up; he seems so nameless in the book) -  is on a quest to find his Personal Legend. Along his journey, he encounters the love of his life, Fatima. Fatima’s cameo by the watering well is brief, but impactful. Daresay life-changing for our ambitious protagonist. 

I couldn’t help but wonder - did she have a Personal Legend as well? Does she even ‘get to have one?’ What is Fatima’s story? Could I be so bold as to create it? 

I did a little research about her appearances in the book, as well as some brief brainstorming about what her story could have been. But I cast aside my musings - until last week when the same kinds of questions resurrected as I was watching Le Balloon Rouge for the first time. The balloon and his boy are clearly the central cast-members of the story, much like Santiago. But there’s this beautiful pause with the introduction of the blue balloon and the little girl holding it. 

I’m therefore calling this my Blue Balloon Project. Exploring what could possibly be the Personal Legends of these girls/women who briefly, merely, but noticeably passed through our viewfinder, forever altering the dynamic of the story of our current focus. 

First, I need to more examples than my sample-set of two. The best place to start is in famous works where a male protagonist drives the storyline. (ummmm...DUH. This isn’t hard to find). Catcher in the Rye... I don’t know - aren’t all major works of modern fiction and film largely about single, male protagonists? And I’m sure I can find 5 more of these Blue Balloon type characters in them. 

Second. Characterize the possibilities of their Personal Legends. I don’t want to randomly think up stories. I’m honestly not that talented to simple say, “I’m going to write a short story about the girl with the blue balloon!”  I can’t just dream that up. But I think I can start with a framework or  matrix to begin exploring. 

Third. I don’t know yet. This will sort of be it’s own journey without any certainty of destination. Maybe it’s a collection of thought-starters. Maybe it grows into it’s own manuscript. Maybe I’m the one who winds up finding her Personal Legend at the end. Maktub. 

My final days in Poland are always bittersweet.  On one hand, it’s a part of me and one of the places I call home where I can unwind, reset and ignore obligations that otherwise await me upon my return. On the other hand, I can’t wait to get back on the saddle fast enough.

It’s bittersweet for my friends and family here as well. Not only us, but any visitors are a catalyst for excitement in this small town. Friends have admitted that they haven’t seen one other as much as they do during our visit. Unfortunately, and/or out of necessity, people revert to their regularly scheduled programming and go about their days and weeks tending to their homes and immediate families moreso than to neighbors or friends.  Obla Di, Obla Da, right?

Old, abandoned house but rest assured the lawn is mowed. 

People here go at a snail’s pace (HUGE-AS$ snail though! Cig for reference)

They sometimes lament that despite minor shifts and adjustments, nothing truly changes here. This is true. I can confirm this after approximately 36 visits across 39 years. I’m sure someone can argue the details, but on its surface Poland has rightfully been the poster-child for EU success. In a brilliant way, modernization, the internet, access to capital, goods and social media have improved the infrastructure, commerce and transport in Poland without fundamentally altering its essence otherwise. I think a lot of that is due to towns like Goniadz, which seem to marinate like my favorite Polish dill pickles; in a conserva (preserve) that’s made from a timeless and simple recipe, in a no-fuss container, using homegrown ingredients. The result is a balance of flavor that’s a little crisp, salty, tangy and ultimately just right so that you have no need to alter things next time around.

Where the streets have no name

Actually, they do. It’s not THAT primitive! This way to a New World. (Literal translation)

One of my dearest friends back home recently introduced me to a basic personality construct that she, and now I, find quite useful. You have to temporarily ignore the source (Tony Robbins). He has a notion of 6 human needs/truths: Certainty, Uncertainty, Love & Connection, Growth, Significance and Contribution. All of these are important, but everyone can rank their top three as a fundamental driver of ‘self’.

I think a lot of people are tempted to say Oh Love & Connection, obviously! And yes, having TLC is vital to humanity and is, again, why Robbins claims all of these are important. But I find that making the affirmation of TLC  is a cop-out approach to the ranking. To truly test which were THE MOST important, I applied two logic exercises; one of extremes (consider each in their most extreme case), and second, a logic of negation. All else considered equal, in the absence of X would your personal algorithm to happiness still hold true?  

I used Goniadz as my test for Significance and realized how high a value I actually placed on that. Its not my top need, but it’s surprisingly up there. All else considered equal, would I be happy in this remote corner of the world? It’s not to say that this place isn’t significant, nor is it a matter of my ego in needing to feel important. People here determine their own definition of significance: perhaps by what service they provide to the town, (pharmacist, baker, cosmetologist); perhaps by their material surroundings (a nicer home here than what they might have elsewhere). Or perhaps significance doesn’t rank as high as — lets say —  certainty. You can be quite certain and predictable about what the next few months here will look like. The commute itself in New York City makes each-and-every-day as precarious and often unusual as you could possibly imagine.

I’m a bit like Fleischman here. Like him, you take the same person/work/weaknesses/strengths/everything and drop me into the far corners of the planet - I can truly enjoy and appreciate the experience! For a while. But at the end of the day, the absence of the city and its accompanied significance (whether validated or fake) would leave my soul unsatiated.  

Dr. Joel Fleischman. I LOOOVED this show and crushed on his Woody Allenesque quirky, witty NY character. I’m not so rough around the edges when it comes to being outdoors though; I can pull off flannel and a fur hat quite well thankyouverymuch.

As I cuddled Olin to bed last night, he muttered that he wished we were staying longer. That’s how I know it’s time to leave. He’s becoming annoyingly combative with his sisters out of boredom and exhaustion from doing language translations all day, and all the kids are beginning to retreat too frequently to iPads in the house when they should be outside. But they’ve loved the freedom of having zero daily agendas, guaranteed love and friendship as soon as they open the front door, multiple babcias feeding them an assortment of homemade eastern european staples, 11pm bedtimes and at minimum two ice creams per day (forget communism, this place is fucking anarchy)! Which means they’ll look forward to coming back next time; as I always do too.

Birch trees and mushroom forests are everywhere here. That reminds me that I need to get some dried shrooms to bring home for my soups! #bestbrothever. I’m just now beginning to identify that I’ve doddled and sketched my entire life, but always considered that to be a wasted procrastination tactic. Playing around here with some ideas of ‘roots.’ I feel like my concept could work if the transition from buildings to birches would work. Only one way to find out; keep trying.

Our village is adjacent to a national park, made up mostly of winding riverbeds, marshland and wild birds. Not sure how I feel about the rest of Poland truly, but this terrain along the northeastern border is serene and beautiful.

There aren’t really before/after photos of the renovation my mom did because the before was not much to speak of. Roughing it was putting it mildly. I’m pretty sure there are glamping outfitters with more luxurious accommodations than my grandparent’s place.

I’ll sum up the ‘before’ briefly: there was a wood burning oven with an attached ceramic chimney for heating, open doors and windows for A/C (with łapkas to swat flies), a propane tank hooked up to the stove for cooking, and no bathroom. None. We used an outhouse by the barn until around the time I got to jr. high. We finally collectively convinced my grandparents to install a kind of porta potty type toilet by the front door so that they at least didn’t have to walk out in sub-zero temperatures to take a shit.

The old outhouse now boarded up in white to the right

The porta potty thing stayed until two years ago, even with my kids. We bathed in a basin, or generally went to neighbors houses to use their washroom facilities. (Almost everyone else here lives quite normally and modern). 

This is not our house. I don’t even know who lives here. But rest-assured, they don’t have porta pottys.

I love the renovation, truly. But I also really love that even when it wasn’t renovated my kids didn’t notice or complain. Americans get a rap for overindulgence. The bigger the better, especially when it comes to homes. I don’t need big - I actually don’t know what to do with big. I grew up in a ~750sq ft apartment. And even now, the layout of our home in Lincoln, MA allows us to do everything on one floor as if it were an apartment. I only ever go downstairs to do laundry - which is admittedly not one of my strengths, so I rarely go down at all! ️

Europe does small spaces better because there are actual resources here. At home I slept on a pull-out couch to make more space in my bedroom otherwise. It baffles most - you didn’t have, like, a bed? I did. I just had to make it everyday, I suppose. That practice is the normal here though. Every couch converts to a bed. You don’t need guest bedrooms. People don’t even really use the word bedroom (sypialnia); it’s just a room (pokój) like the others.

Olin converting the couch in one of the pokoje (rooms) upstairs

Limited stress about bedrooms also means limited stress about sleeping. Olin slept over at the neighbor’s last night and I’m honestly not sure how the configuration amongst all the boys worked out. Most importantly, there was a PlayStation.

There’s no such phenomenon as little Bobby getting his own massive Pottery-Barn decked room with a queen-sized bed by the time he’s 8. For my friends who have this in The States, I promise I’m not judging. I’m merely explaining how foreign that whole concept is to me, and is one of the many, tiny details that leave me stuck between cultures. It’s a first generation immigrant phenomenon that you often find yourself in a permanent purgatory of not quite fitting in one world or the other. (A reason I love Indian-American comedians. They are so on point about capturing the hysterics of braided cultural absurdities, that their bits wind up being heritage-agnostic).

The one norm here that I DO wish would make its way to all American homes, is a heated towel rack. Now that we actually have a bathroom, the towel rack is quintessential and it’s considered a practicality vs. luxury. That kind of cultural appropriation I could get behind.

I ain’t fancy AT ALL - except for towel heaters. The simple delight of a cozy, warm towel should be an essential to life.

Always use the good china.

My mom pointed out that she prepared my bedding with my babcias embroidered sheets; ones she never dared use when she was alive. Monogramming isn’t really a thing in Poland; aside from early Monarchs in the 12th and 13th Century, this land has largely been proletarian (or, just fucked by all sides). When your name doesn’t have a profound meaning to class, and your belongings are scarce, then there is little reason to tag stuff. One thing Polacks do cherish though, is fine lace, stitching and embroidery. Curtains, table doilles and stitched pillows are staples of every babcia’s home. So I know this pillow meant a lot to mine - maybe too much so. She should have used it, along with the good crystal and china.

There were some summers here that really sucked; particularly in my later teen years. I was a visitor on vacation but this was daily life for my friends, so their availability to waste the days away with me were increasingly limited. When they weren’t at summer jobs, they were trying to sneak time with boyfriends before their parents got home, or were out of town all together on their own excursions with youth groups or school.

I was also leaving behind my own fun back at home. I can think of at least two spring relationships with boys from h.s. with much summer potential that were suppressed because a. Queens (where they lived) felt so fucking far away and b. Poland was even fucking further. A quick FYI for any millennials reading: this was pre-social media or What’s Apps for staying in touch. Postcards didn’t quite fit the bill for hormonally obsessive teen flings.

I’d remind myself that this was an opportunity to actually spend time with my grandparents. But after the fifteenth time my Babcia complained about it not being appropriate for young ladies to wear combat boots, (Why you gotta have beef with my beloved burgundy suede Doc Martens Babcia?!), I’d retreat upstairs with my yellow Sony sports walkman and tapes I’d dubbed off the radio from home. (With nearly each song missing the first few moments of the first verse as a result of me having to leap across my room to press the record button).  

It’s funny how even in a remote countryside village, people refer to there being a ‘downtown’ and ‘out-of-town.’ We were downtown and had a balcony that faced onto the village square. The joke was that this wasn’t downtown enough for my mom, so she up and left for NYC. 

The crowded bustle of ‘downtown’ Goniadz. HA! Zubr (Bison) beer is the regional smak (taste)

While I wanted so badly to sit outside with my headphones to the world, I was too angst ridden and disgruntled to drum-up the effort to say hi to passers by. So I’d sit on the windowsill on the side of our house dangling my feet over a 2 story drop between buildings. 

A room without a view 

That was where I first dreamt-up the vision of having a back terrace. Just a little spot of my own to get away from the world I was already getting away from. (Such a teenager). 

Fast forward to 2015, when my mom and her sister made plans to finally renovate my grandparents house, I immediately drafted a sketch for the terrace as request priority #1. 

A better view from our new terrace

Since it’s been built, everyone has been teasing me that I finally got my terrace and they shout out each time they see me up here. They’ve also acknowledged that at 16 yrs old I had a damn great idea in mind. I had others; I might need to execute on those sometime in the future too.

If you dream it, it will come (with some hard work)

Confession: I’m only half Polish. My grandparents on my dad’s side emigrated from the Ukraine sometime around or before WWI and flexed their Jewish heritage more than Slavic. With geopolitics as dynamic as they’ve historically been in Eastern Europe though, I figure my lineage comes from generally the same 300sq mile area no matter how you slice-up the map.  

But you’re SO… Polish, Risa?! Yeah, I know. With my mother having only been in America for three years when I was born, I was raised bilingual out of the gates. I lived in a 4-block radius Polish-Uke enclave on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, and came to Poland out of necessity every year to know my Babcia and Dziadek and extended family. The only summer we didn’t come to Poland was in 1981 because of Chernobyl.

When you then get to my children, we’re talking only ¼ - or less - Polish lineage. Their DNA would likely trace more Scandinavian from my husband than Slavic. With that, I’ve always been conscientious to not force things onto them for the mere fulfillment of my own ego/bias/reminiscences.

Feelin’ my Krakowianka grove

I grew up going to Polish school and tried enrolling my kids into one in Boston. But what was a two minute walk to 7th Street for me, was a forty-five minute drive for them. Three hours at school for me with neighborhood kids and my cousins, was five hours for them with ex-pat strangers. An hour of folk dancing and a SERIOUS game of tag for me, was sitting quietly at desks with workbooks for them - FUCK THAT!  I pulled them out after 3 years. They were miserable; I was miserable. No Polish school is worth this crap, I thought.

The consequence of course then became - how are they gonna learn Polish?! It’s tough to deliberately and somewhat artificially speak a different language in your own home. Not to mention that, when they were little I was more concerned with teaching the difference between spoon and fork than the multisyllabic Polish complexity of ły-żecz-ka i wi-de-lec. Net-net, while my kids generally have a loose familiarity with the language, they understand quite little and definitely don’t speak it anywhere near close to fluently.

I was therefore particularly nervous this time around coming to Poland. Especially for my son. In prior years he was but a baby. Whether he understood people or not wasn’t a big deal, and he was generally always with me for translation. But he’s older now. As an incoming second-grader running with a crew of boys ages 7-14, it’s definitely NOT COOL to have your mom lurking around to ‘help.’ Which meant that if he didn’t understand something, he’d have to deal with it on his own.

I was encouraged by his enthusiasm during the drive from the Warsaw airport to our village. His best friend Szymon (Simon) moved into the house next door last year, and he expressed excitement about being able to go over to play first thing in the mornings. When we arrived at the house, all the kids were eagerly in the driveway awaiting our arrival, much as their parents - my friends - had done when I was little. It made my heart happy and I felt warm fuzzies when Olin headed over to see them after shaking out his legs from the trip.

Not ten minutes later though, he came bursting back through the front door sobbing. The boys were asking him some things and he didn’t understand. He was embarrassed that he couldn’t communicate and he didn’t want to go back out to play. He hung onto his father and begged to just walk alone with him to the river to fish instead. His frustration and humiliation was something I took very emotionally. This is my fault. It’s not his responsibility to learn the language - it was mine to teach him. I started crying as well and felt a huge weight of regret for dragging my family on a 20 hour voyage to a place that selfishly might only have meaning for me and not them.

My mom, whom I hadn’t seen since May when she left NY to get things in order here, assured me to wait a few hours. Her hunch was that it had little to do with language and more to do with the fact that it’s always tough to enter into a big group of kids, especially after the exhaustion of travel. Her hypothesis was that after some time with just Szymon, Olin would ease into things and get comfortable with the crew. 

Sure enough, my mom was right. We all took a walk down to the river and the two boys stuck by one another. After a run down the grassy hill and feeding the ducks, they started feeding off each other’s silliness. Szymon waded in the river and splashed around, so Olin followed. Both their Babcia’s yelled that the water was too cold and to get out.

Running down grassy hills

And what more could forge a greater bond between two little boys than to mutually stress and piss-off their Babcias? Within moments they both dove full-body into the river, clothes sopping wet, giggling hysterically while the Babcias were shouting about how naughty they were for not listening and yelling about how they were going to catch their death of a cold. 

The boys goofing off

Don’t catch your death!

Son/Momma, 2017/1983. Thank goodness for certain things that never change.

Following that christening, Olin was good to go. He scarfed down dinner later that day and was up before even having dessert to head back out with the boys. He’ll enjoy the same freedoms I had to maraud the town, be curious and mischievous, but ultimately well taken care of and loved. Who knows, maybe along the way he’ll pick up a word or two in Polish. ;)

Today Was a Good Day

Warsaw from airport timelapse

There wasn’t a blanket to be found within 5 miles, when my friends and I got to constructing our summer backyard namiots (tents). We’d pillage the couches and beds in our grandmothers’ houses and strip them of any pillow, fabric or cover that could be found. Then we’d create our elaborate and cozy chambers in the backyard where we’d remain for hours through the day. Giggling, singing, sharing, talking, eating. All business was conducted in the tent. It was our clubhouse.

My Madonna Suddenly Seeking Susan/Like a Virgin lace headbands....YAS.

Our tent days come front and center to my mind when I think about what my summers in Poland were like and what they meant for my childhood. The innocence, lightness and carefree nature of our architectural endeavors was in strong contrast to my East Village, NYC upbringing.

Yes, being raised on St. Mark’s Place was super dope - I get that now. But it was also restrictive and jarring in many instances at the time. Opening the front door to my apartment building and having to step over a passed-out junkie and his putrid bodily fluid odors before getting onto the sidewalk, was a weekly occasion at minimum. While I wasn’t necessarily scared or in a truly dangerous neighborhood, the cast of characters in the 80′s Punk Capital were definitely cause for caution and attentiveness for a seven year old girl.

Going to Poland was a relief from all that. I could run out of my grandmother’s house without having to double-check that the door closed and locked behind me. Taking food from strangers was okay because there was no such thing as a stranger; everyone was always someone’s grandmother, aunt, neighbor, cousin. This was where I learned to ride a bike, and where I ate apples and cherries directly off trees as we walked under their branches leaning over neighbors’ fences.  

Jabłońka (little apple trees)

This was where we had serendipitous backyard diskotekas using Michael Jackson cassettes I’d bring from The States, with my friend’s older brother playing DJ on the boombox. This was where I bummed my first cigarette when I was 13 (Benson & Hedges, blegh), and where my friends and I sat aimlessly on park benches as pre-teens smoking unfiltered Russian cigs (more blegh), trying my hand at flirting in a different language. (It was awkward enough in my native tongue).  Later, it was where I was allowed to go without any curfew, spending inebriated nights at real diskotekas, or around campfires, or lying in the fields looking at stars with boys from the aforementioned park benches. Poland was where I enjoyed the freedom to roam, play, discover and frolic as any child should.

What’s interesting, or perhaps even ironic about it, is that society in Poland at that time was the exact opposite of free. Goods, currency, employment, transport was all monitored by the Communist regime. And yet, it was from behind the Iron Curtain where I found the greatest freedom of my young life.

The societal contrast today isn’t nearly what it once was. Things have changed both here and at home, with social media and in my life in general. There’s good and bad in that, I suppose. Change is often not better or worse but plainly different.

But it’s for the tent days that I keep coming back. I don’t have as much immediate family here as I did when my grandparent’s generation was still alive. And while I want my kids to have more than a tacit understanding of our Polish heritage, I’d rather that be more of building block to broad cultural curiosity than a necessarily fierce Polish solidarność.

My friends from the namiots are still here though. We live in different towns and cities, but keep coming back for at least a few weeks/weekends in the summer and enjoy a shared positive memory of our days in the clubhouse tents. A marker of our childhood and of a time when a bunch of stolen blankets laid over sticks and a bowl of homemade borscht was all we needed in order to have the best days of our summer.

This blog originated as documentation of my experiences training for an amateur boxing match with Haymakers for Hope. As I originally subtitled it: I've always wanted to be an athlete. Hopefully after October 5, 2016, I can make that claim. This is my journey to getting there. 

Nearly a year-to-the-day since I first started it, I’m adapting its scope for a broader purpose. 

One of my favorite parts of the experience was being able to write. I’ve always been a writer. Being an only child gave me unique exposure to two things: 1. Adult conversation and 2. Hours of time to myself. Perhaps I used the latter to write in order to reconcile the complexity of things I heard in the former.  I was a diary-writing type of girl; one of those kids who kept their pen-pals for months past the assigned school term, and I still have pages saved of treasured correspondences with friends and family through the years. The expansion of this blog helps me continue that legacy of using words and time to sort out a mix of observations and reflections that swirl in my mind.  

Mental Toughness is what I originally titled this blog. I certainly continue to strive for that daily and weekly, but that phrase was particularly acute for my training period. I knew I could physically withstand the workouts, but needed this outlet to withstand the mental and emotional ones too. 

Mentally toughness is but one dimension. There are obviously, always more and I hope to capture them as frequently and eloquently as possible. Am kicking things off by taking advantage of some vacation in my mother’s hometown in rural, northeastern Poland.

It’s a Peak Behind the Old Iron Curtain, if you will.  

I’ve been so humbled by the outpouring of advice, motivational support, praise and encouragement for my fight tomorrow. As cliche as it sounds, I truly feel like I’ve already won. I’ve put in the work, the hours, the training and have seen the improvement, and I know I could improve even more if I chose to continue boxing beyond Haymakers. All the popular Ali/Tyson/Rocky quotes about putting in the effort in training apply, and I feel like I’ve accomplished what I originally hoped for when I started.

That being said, my purpose tomorrow is to win. Here’s why:

Leaving my house last Wednesday night to go to the gym, was horrible. My girls were hysterical and begging me not to go. They cried, I cried and I promised, “This is mommy’s last week.” I was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to tuck them into bed and do the same myself. And although they were fed up, when I explained that this was the work I needed to put in to win, they wiped their tears and gave me hugs and kisses goodnight with sad pouty mouths and precious sniffles. 

So now, I need to win - for them - and the work and understanding they, Olin and Ryan have dedicated to my pursuit since June. 

As I drove to the gym (crying), I considered that perhaps I was being overly dramatic. After all, I’m upset about a night not being with my kids to GO TO THE GYM. It’s not like I have a second job and am perpetually gone at night.

But in actuality, my mom did have that second job and was gone a lot at night. And I can’t recall a single year growing up when my dad took anything more than one - maybe two - weeks of vacation. They’ve been helping us a lot recently as well and have been a big factor in our ability to hold things together over the last two months through my training. 

So this win is for them too. 

Not only for them as individuals, but for what and where they - and frankly I come from. My ticket says I’m fighting out of Lincoln, MA. But truly, when I think about what I’m representing in that ring, it’s St. Mark’s and Astor Place. And not the versions as they’re currently known, with a the Flywheel and Citibank on the corner. I’m going to win for the version I grew up in; the Trash & Vaudeville punk capital, with all its grit and glory. 

When Ryan and I were first dating, we decided to spontaneously road trip from DC to the Carolinas for a weekend, and made hotel reservations in Richmond, VA while sitting in traffic en route. When we arrived at the Marriott, we found hundreds of very jittery people chain-smoking outside, wandering and talking, giving each other hugs. It was clearly some kind of convention for all ages, all races, all types of people - and everyone acting in this extremely peculiar, unsettling, yet humane manner. After a moment of observation, I assertively told Ryan, 

“It’s an NA/AA Convention. They’re recovering addicts.” 

I knew this because my building on St. Mark’s was across the street from an NA center, and I was remarkably familiar with the entire scene displayed before us, as well as occasionally having to step over passed-out people who relapsed in our building stoop with stray needles or vials on the sidewalk as I walked to the Avenue to catch the bus, or eventually subway, to school.

I never dwell much on that, and frankly I’d much rather have been raised there than 100,000 other places I could think of - and not even places that are ‘worse’. To me, the greatest misfortune would be to exist somewhere sanitized and artificial, albeit ‘comfortable.’ 

Regarding tomorrow, I haven’t paid a ton of attention to my opponent. I don’t really care to know what she’s been doing. I already know everything that’s needed for me to win:  

1. There’s no way she’s put in more effort, hours and work than me

2. There’s no way she’s come where I come from 

3. There’s no way she’s got my perfect angel babies rooting in her corner

4. There’s no way she’s more determined than me to make this all count.  

This fight is my win, and she’ll need to earn it to take it away from me. I don’t believe that’s going to be the case, fucking poser. :) 

With that, my walk out song!!!!!!

I hope anyone reading this will play it and send me good vibes tomorrow. Thanks for being with me on this adventure and reading along. 

xoxo

Risa

I think it was in my first blog post that I wrote about my friend Michael, our gym’s resident elder, who gave me some pointers on how to ramp up my jump rope skills. 

He said to skip for a minute, 

then two, 

then three. 

Then try 3-3min intervals of jumping. 

Then 5-3min intervals. 

Then go to a full 10 minutes straight. 

I saw Michael tonight and was very excited to say that I could more or less go the full ten (with a few fumbles along the way). 

#Progress

My fight is in exactly two weeks!!!! So I’ll keep this post short-n-sweet with this ending (listen with sound for full effect): 

If you want to come to the fight or donate to Haymakers, visit my fighter profile:

No, this isn’t a custom resurfacing of the ring floor at Nonantum. It’s the imprint created by my soaking, drenched tank-top after I lied down following my workout this morning. So, so, so sweaty. 

I reposted this quote on FB last Sunday, and I know that anyone reading it had their mind go straight to the gutter, or to a literal interpretation of the phrase. “You’re damn right, they do!” (wink, wink).  

But when I posted it, I was actually thinking more about Mental sweat than physical (or sexual.. common guys, focus! :)) I definitely believe that the good stuff in life comes from pushing yourself out-of-bounds into territories you hadn’t previously imagined. This entire Haymakers endeavor is representative of that; but even in this past week alone, I’ve encountered circumstances that have made me very mentally sweaty. And for every sinking stomach-pit feeling I’ve had, I’ve also had an equal, if not stronger feeling of excitement & confidence that I’m actively pursuing a life of meaning, passion and courage. 

I’m lucky as hell to work at Google. The company, and my colleagues are everything that books and articles rave about why it’s the world’s best place to work. Much of our culture stems from the philosophies set forth by our founders, Larry & Sergey, with one of my personal favorites being the notion that everyone at the company should be in a place that makes them uncomfortably excited. We actually use that phrase on a semi-regular basis; in our business planning, personal career development conversations, etc. If you’re not uncomfortably excited or setting a vision that makes you uncomfortably excited, you’re doing something wrong. 

Uncomfortable excitement is not about ambition.You can’t fake mental sweat any less than you can fake physical sweat. It’s about earnest, gut-driven, mind-bending work; and the dynamic created by thousands of people doing that all at once is, I believe, the greatest part of being at Google. 

The one caveat to all of this, is that you can’t possibly be in a permanent state of uncomfortable excitement. Sometimes you need a rest from the whole ‘no pain no gain’ attitude, and just be, enjoy, revel and exist. I was like that for about two years around the birth of my second daughter. I wasn’t sweating much in any capacity, which is and should be totally fine considering I finished a child-bearing marathon of 3 kids in 4 years... 

But once she turned 2 and I felt like I could be more independent of her and her siblings, I started to look for that uncomfortable excitement again. It’s been a deep, self-reflecting journey because I knew that I couldn’t use work or family as a crutch. I was already a mom, already a wife, already a strong professional; all the typical ‘wanting to do before I’m 40′ milestones were met. The next rung of the ladder would need to come from within; and that’s where the whole ‘athlete’ concept came from. 

Approximately 7 months ago, my flight to - somewhere - was delayed, and out of boredom I opened my notes app to start a list of sports I thought I might like to pursue further. Boxing was third on the list. 

Two months after that, I had a job change at work (uncomfortable excitement, I’m convinced is contagious; once it starts in one aspect of your life you want it in all...). Through that shift I was lucky to befriend Brian Gargan, who referenced his 2015 Haymakers experience while driving us to a client dinner. In that moment, I didn’t sweat or hesitate at all - I knew unequivocally I would sign up for the next event regardless of how skilled I actually was at boxing (which was/is, not very...). 

Today marks my midway point. I started training approximately 2 months ago and my fight is exactly 2 months from today. 

I feel optimistic. Not confident, as in, I’m good-to-go. But I see how much progress I’ve made in getting the basics down up until now, and I have a better idea of precisely what I need to work on. (Use my hips more, snap my jab, roll my blocks, and for God sake keep my mother-f*$&$^#@ chin down! - to list a few). To know that I still have 2 months for that improvement; again, I’m optimistic.

I spar my opponent this Sunday. Haymakers is great about keeping this all in perspective. It’s a charity event for people who have never previously fought. Our mission is to KO Cancer, not each other (sorry, folks). 

The other advantage is that I have an idea of what/who I’m training for, which also gives some scope to the months ahead. Given that, my dad is coming up to watch on Sunday and see it all live to provide his insight.

I’ve mentioned before that a lot my inspiration to do Haymakers comes from my dad. He’s loved boxing his entire life and we had it on all the time. The fact that I could legitimately consider Max Kellerman a ‘celebrity citing’ speaks to the fact that I’ve known about him since his pubescent NY public access days, to the Jon Stewart doppelganger he’s become today. (He also went to PS41 - I went to PS40; it’s a good ‘kid from neighborhood’ success story). 

Despite it’s omnipresence, I didn’t always have the hugest appreciation for boxing; nor always for the man who loved it. My dad and I have had our ups and downs. As I told a colleague yesterday, there have definitely been phases of my life when it’d be unlikely that my dad would enjoy a 4 hour train together as we did today. A similar length car ride a few years ago rendered us not talking to each other for over a year... 

We’re both human, we’re both flawed, we’re extremely different and yet extraordinarily similar as well. We both try, we’re both earnest, and most of all we love each other.  I knew that this experience would be good for our relationship and I’ve enjoyed being coached by him as much as he enjoys coaching.  

Before leaving NY today, I trained at the gym where he works in his retirement. Mecca:Islam as Gleasons:Boxing. After years of being a loyal patron there, the owner asked him to come in and work the front desk 2 years ago. It’s a dream come true that’s well deserved. 

Today, as I was warming up with the jumprope, one of the older trainers came up to me and said, 

“Your dad is an amazing man. And, by the way, you’re going to win.”