Last weekend—or should I say, the weekend before last—was a pretty significant deal in my life. I drove away from my home in Manchester, New Hampshire, and into the next phase of my project: creating a school for kids on the autism spectrum. It was a moment I had been working toward for a long time. However, just as I was about 20 minutes from my final destination for the day—my brother’s house in Cincinnati, Ohio (for those playing along at home, that’s a 13-hour drive)—I had a revelation: I left my computer at home.
At first, I didn’t know I had simply forgotten it. I thought it had been stolen. My immediate reaction was to blame someone else. Not a good look for someone, in this case me, who puts his trust in letting the Universe do its thing no matter what.
Then, I considered the possibility that I had left it on the street outside my apartment while packing up, on yet one of the many snowy Northeastern days. Finally, it dawned on me that it could still be inside my place. After some checking, my property manager—who was bold enough to offer to go inside and look—confirmed it was right where I left it.
I was relieved. But also, I wasn’t. I wasn’t about to spend $150 to $200 to have it shipped to me. Instead, I asked my brother if I could borrow a computer. He agreed, but I felt the weight of inconvenience—something I don’t like to impose on others. Sure, my property manager had offered, which was fine, but my brother was still getting used to his new computer. I hated feeling like I was dragging people down.
When I left his home the next day and continued my journey, I was not okay. It may seem like a minor thing—leaving behind a computer—but it threw me off balance. I felt out of sync for the entire week. I met with people, had important conversations, but overall, I was unproductive. I felt disconnected from myself and my work.
Still, there were bright spots. I went out to dinner with friends each day, and we ate great food. That, when I reflect on it, was a blessing. I also reconnected with a friend from high school whose husband had tragically passed away a few years ago. That was a meaningful moment. And yet, I wasn’t fully myself.
So, as I sit here writing this, I ask myself: What could I have done differently? How could I have avoided this disappointment in myself?
The answer, I believe, lies in something deeper than just remembering to pack my laptop. This year away from schools has been an opportunity for reflection, and the thing I keep coming back to is community. That is my job. That is what I do best. That is what makes me feel most alive. When I am out of community, I feel less like myself.
But it can’t just be any community. It has to be one that feeds my soul—a volunteer opportunity, a school I resonate with, or even the school I am in the process of creating. It has to start with people first—the deep, meaningful act of getting to know others and being known in return. That is where I thrive.
As I move into this next half of February, I want to commit to starting anew every day. And that begins with getting in touch with where I am—mentally, emotionally, and physically. If I can do that, then I can put everything I have into whatever challenge lies ahead.
May it always be so.
Curated Listening:
What would miss connections and “covered in misery” be without the original perpetrators of missed connections: The Police? In one of my favorite Police and Sting songs about longing, expectations, loneliness, and myth. Listen to “Tea in the Sahara” HERE.
I can relate. One of the hardest skills for most people to learn and exercise is granting oneself the grace one would extend to others. Yet it is a vital skill to allow growth and self-understanding.