What do you do when your world is upside down?

Back when I was just starting my doc program in Educational Leadership, our faculty members took us down to the university gym for some whole-body learning. Experiential learning? I forget what it was called now–that was 20 years ago. What we learned that day has stuck with me longer than most of what I learned in the 4 years of classroom-based learning in that program or even from my own 2-year research study. So, there's a tip: when your world is upside down, stop leaning on just your brain--move your body and lean on all the ways a body can listen, learn, and speak. Ideally, with others doing the same.

My 12-person cohort and our three core faculty members tromped off to the gym and turned ourselves over to some folks who had us play games to learn about ourselves, and each other, and our innate leadership styles. There was one remarkable game– and set of insights– that have stayed with me since.

They joined us in making a large circle. There was one basketball-sized, dodge-ball style ball involved. We each had a person on the other side of the circle that we were supposed to receive the ball from and a second person that we were supposed to throw the ball to. Simple. The game began. We were all so good at it that we were almost immediately like a well-oiled machine. Smiling, we were. And then a bit cocky. "This one's an easy game for us," we thought, naively.

They then added another ball. And then another, and then another. More of their team emerged into the gym from behind us– now holding laundry baskets full of random items. They added small racquet balls and tennis balls to the circle. Then giant ones. Then rubber chickens. Then more completely random items, such as shoes and soda cans and pool noodles and hockey sticks. Heavy items and light items. They began doing this at a faster and faster pace. We still just had the two tasks each: catch an item from one person and toss it to our designated other person. But the speed, and the amount of things we had to juggle, and the differences among the things that we were juggling became completely unmanageable. Chaotic. Frustrating. Exhausting. Then, infuriating. It began to wear us down. The game was now far more difficult than any of us could handle on our own. I heard my inner voice momentarily mutter "Assholes!" toward the young men adding more and more items, ever faster, into the circle from their baskets. That helped, for a moment.

And that's where we learned about our innate leadership styles. And more about our core selves.

Right there. In the chaos and frustration and anger.

Some people started dropping items down to their feet or tossing some items back over their heads or putting small items in their pockets– taking some of the items out of the game and some of the pressure of the speed and irregularities out of the game for everyone. Some people stepped out of the circle entirely– refusing to play at that dangerous speed where full soda cans in the hands of exhausted and scared people were now also projectile weapons that could hurt. This helped them considerably and added to the chaos for the rest of us. Some stepped back in again, though, more composed, calmer, and ready to help again. Some walked away and didn't come back. Some people loudly called out random ideas for fixing things. A couple of people cried, or loudly cursed.

Leadership styles, all.

Everyone present was helping in some way. In the chaos of the moment, that was difficult to feel or see.

Then there was me. Lucky me.

I was lucky enough to have been assigned my favorite faculty member as my item catcher/receiver in this game. We'd all just spent four grueling 50+ hour weeks together (with we students also having 5 hours of assigned reading each night on our own, too) as a cohort to start the program. The "bootcamp" approach to starting the program tended to bond students together deeply, which helped more of us make it through. In that 4-week's time, I'd learned to trust this faculty member completely. Learned we had a similar sense of humor and a similar chronic twinkle in our eyes and similar times spent on the land, like many of our ancestors had before us, and we were both far from home. He was from Mexico originally and I was from South Dakota originally. We were also of different generations and genders, too. But here we were, together. I felt completely seen and heard by him. I'd already learned– from within– that this was the man who would be stretching who I was at that time the most, because he challenged me often, but he also got me. He just got me. And I got him, too.

And with him in that moment– and thanks to this infuriatingly impossible game– I learned about my own innate leadership style. And more about my own true self. Because here's what he and I did, together, in lock step, and without having to say a word to anyone.

We looked into each other's eyes, and we held that gaze, and we started giggling.

The faster and more chaotic things got, and the weirder the items we were all trying to manage became, the more the two of us giggled together.

And the more we giggled together, the more connected we felt, and then the more relaxed we felt. And the more creative and fluid we got. Despite our middle-aged physiques (and zero athletic ability on my side), we became like a beautiful pair of professional figure skaters who'd somehow been training for this random, speed-rubber-chicken-throwing game for generations. While focused on each other and on being even gentler with each other during the chaos, we were never among those who mistakenly weaponized heavy items or accidentally hurt others. Our quiet giggling soon grew into louder laughter, which eventually spread to those closest to us as well, which lightened the load for us and those around us, too.

A few folks in the circle stomped off mad having tried and failed on their own to beat the system that was designed to break us all as individuals. We students all caught up as friends, later. Talked about how we would be leaning on each other considerably to survive the next 4+ years of chaos (some of us took 10 years to finish the program--and we were there for each other throughout).

But there in that circle of chaos that we couldn't possibly control alone, we laughed until we cried. To the point that by the end my only true worries became worrying about falling over with laughter, or wetting my pants, or both. When the game ended, we dropped to the floor exhausted. And still laughing. Fully aware that we were just in a gym, and just playing a game– a game devised by people literally nobody was fans of at the moment. I remember being fully aware of how lucky we were to be present there and to be together. How lucky I was to have friends like him and lessons like these where I got to learn so much about who I really am. And who were really are, too, as humanity.

That is who I am. Me, Lori Kane, and my people. That is who we are. Period. This is who we are no matter what else happens. This is who we return to being when we get exhausted and scared, mess up, and forget who we really are for a while.

My people and I center on wonder, surprise, and delight. We center on finding those who stretch us while also fully seeing us. We center on those we naturally– with our whole being– love. We center on holding that gaze long enough that we can see past our own fears, and see past the manufactured fears rained down on us by the handful of people who benefit from total angry chaos, and we hold that gaze until we co-create the new and beautiful together, with those around us. Until we become the beautiful space, together. We center on collective laughter and learning and crying across all real and imagined boundaries. On being aware of how lucky we are to be here together. On being helpful to each other and becoming better at receiving help too--as often as we can.

In the 20 years since that day in the gym, this center has held true. Once I felt it in my whole body, I knew it was true and nobody could take that from me. This center held true when they found a lump in my breast at my very first mammogram. It held true as I lost all my beloved grandparents and when we lost my partner's younger brother tragically at just 41. Who I was that day in the gym– and still am– has held true as we've changed work and neighborhoods and homes, whether that was by happy choice or due to layoffs and job loss, fear, and pain. Who I am has held true when my extended family shattered around the grief of losing so many matriarchs in a short time. That was a horrible time of loss that was also the time I grew much closer to my sister and parents. It held true even the month during which every day felt like I was shattering trying to hold on to what we'd once been as an extended family, followed by a month of saying goodbye to people who loved me and that letting go burned so badly that it felt like living through fire, burning everything not essential to me to ash. We've held true to ourselves, too, with Mom, who has lived with Alzheimer's disease for 23 years and counting--a medical marvel she is today. She still laughs whenever Dad laughs. Together, we've held onto our truest selves through losing more beloved family members to the Younger Onset Alzheimer's that comes for many in my family in our 50s.

Last year– because I have distant but dear friends who are Palestinians– I got to learn about who I am/we are while witnessing the unimaginable horrors of rapidly accelerating genocide of civilians– funded gladly by the guy I once trusted and voted for– daily. Horror doesn't even begin to describe what people in Gaza experienced as a whole. I learned that I'm someone who tries to help friends in completely impossible and hopeless situations, too, however I can. Distance means nothing to the emotionally local. Whether that means fundraising, witnessing, documenting, storytelling, helping others feel fully seen, or screaming at elected officials daily at the top of my writer-self's lungs. I also tried to hold way too much alone last year, and I fell into a deep depression at one point, until I realized that was impeding my ability to help others, and I found several hearts and sets of eyes who truly saw me again. Eyes all around this place we now call home– people witnessing what I was witnessing, feeling what I was feeling, holding the genocide and loss of thousands of friends, too.

Today I'm living in a still-young country that has always been a wildly imperfect experiment and a total mess and absolutely beautiful, too. We are all of the above. Today this country feels completely upside down to almost everyone. Billionaires, and extremist evangelical Christians who say empathy is a tool of the devil, and angry white supremacists, and fascist tech bros and their sad, clueless 19-year-old lackies are running the federal government very rapidly into the ground now– and taking almost everyone who lives here along with it to one extent or another, whether they know it yet or not.

In the past two weeks, complete chaos has been brought to this country--intentionally--by people who know that you can steal a whole lot of stuff when everyone is panicking and nobody knows exactly where to look. They were wrong, by the way, about us.

In the last two weeks, here we've seen beloved community members hauled away by ICE and neighbors fundraising for them and taking in their kids and families left behind. We've seen people support trans friends moving into a motorhome because staying in one place for too long feels far too unsafe to them now. We know women in all directions around us already punching billionaires and nazi's in the face online, or in person, or in court. We know people focusing inward and preparing their families and communities for the worst. Planning gardens and planning for when the government takes the power grid down to hurt us--making sure to tell their base, on repeat, that terrorists did it. We've talked with seniors in their 90s worrying about bankruptcy and homelessness if social security and medicare/medicaid that we all pay for simply goes away. Or our identities are taken. We've met climate refugees who've moved again and again away from the wildfires in the U.S. only to have wildfires find them and take their homes again--folks trying to make new homes here now. We have friends creating new support groups to hold all the grief, friends reading new books to understand how to handle all this or how the government actually works (not just what they've been told), neighbors joining long-time organizations already in this fight, friends still laser-focused on supporting friends in Gaza and the West Bank despite the chaos here, and others planning new protests or actions on the ground or career shifts to better support others from their own true core. Like I'm doing this year, right here.

Leadership styles, all. Moving from their/our core, all.

Here. In the chaos. Because we keep our eyes primarily focused on everyone and everything we love, we know this too: literally everyone we know is helping now. Everyone cares.

If you're in or from the U.S. today, or a neighbor of the U.S., or potentially able to be harmed by the U.S. in some way on this earth, you might be feeling this chaos too. You might be trying to handle too much on your own, too, like I did, again, just last year.

So, this seems like a great time to ask.

What do you do when your world's upside down?
What have you always done? What do your people do that cannot possibly be taken away from you?
Who are you at your core?
Are you tired of trying to hold too much on your own too?

Start remembering and telling those stories. Your stories. The stories of our people. We need our own stories more than ever now. The more we tell our own stories, the more we learn to recognize that almost everyone present with us is helping too, in their own way.

Thanks to my people, I know now– even here– that I'm someone who loves life and who loves the living, most days, even days more horrible than I could have ever imagined. I'm someone who centers on wonder. On friendship. On learning and unlearning together. And when chaos abounds, I look straight into the eyes and hearts of people I love or respect– and we hold that gaze together– until we're all laughing together or crying together or both. Usually both.

And here, when I happen to do that in less than a 10-minute read, we say, together: "Wow. Lori was concise today! Wonders never cease."

That's how I know my people. These are people and other beings who will stick with me to the end. We make each other laugh and fill each other up and stretch each other too. We don't demand civility of people who've been offered none first, for generations. We've learned with our whole body just how important it is to be loving and gentle with those around us when total chaos is happening and people are scared, exhausted, or grieving. Which is always if you're lucky enough to have many friends. When my people scream at the top of their lungs--and we do scream at the top of our lungs sometimes--it's only to avert the imminent destruction of humanity and land and beings we deeply love and cherish. Or to mourn who we lost. Like any one of us would do if we saw a toddler start running toward a busy street.

And I feel that certainty about them– from within– from either the very moment I meet them or the very moment I actually shut up, finally, to listen.

Hi peeps.