An anchor stabilizes a boat so that it doesn’t drift.
But our personal anchors do the same for our souls.
As I closed out my keynote before the Wisconsin Municipal Clerks Association, hundreds of people leapt to their feet and applauded.
I was moved to tears.
It was a high moment at the end of a very busy week and, really, several months filled with joy and success.
So why did I feel like crying?
I had to sit with that question for a minute.
I always start with appreciation, and there was so much to be grateful for.
I had just spent two glorious weeks on a cruise through Europe, visiting Amsterdam, France, and Spain, and ending in Portugal for the solar eclipse, which was shockingly beautiful and powerful.
Before departing, I feverishly tackled projects so I wouldn’t have to spend those two weeks checking email or worrying about work. The payoff? The pre-work afforded me the space to learn about the best salt in the world, discover the origins of port wine, eat amazing cheeses, meet fascinating people from all over the world and, of course, sneak in a few karaoke nights onboard.
No complaints there.
I came home for exactly one night.
Laundry and repacking suitcases filled my Sunday. On Monday, I headed to Park City, Utah, for an all-day communication summit with one of my coaching clients and her team.
Another beautiful experience!
Instead of speaking to hundreds of people, I worked intimately with a small group, where we could drill down, ask questions, and explore a subject that fascinates me: emotional currency.
The simplest way I can explain it is this: My $20 bill wasn’t worth much in Europe. I had currency, but it wasn’t the currency being used where I was.
Communication can work the same way.
We can have something valuable to say, but if we’re not communicating in a way the other person can receive, our currency doesn’t work.
Knowing someone’s temperament, communication style and preferences matters. Really knowing your audience matters. And perhaps most importantly, knowing how you want someone to feel when the interaction is over matters.
I call that emotional residue—what remains after the words have ended.
These are rich subjects that I love exploring, and after hearing about this team for months, finally meeting everyone in person was thrilling.
Then, very early the next morning, I was on a plane again.
This time: Green Bay, Wisconsin.
The Wisconsin Municipal Clerks Association had asked me to deliver a session about culture—specifically, how to make workplaces less toxic and more like places people actually want to come to on Monday morning.
I love delivering that talk because I’ve lived it. I’ve seen firsthand how seemingly small tweaks in workplace culture can make an enormous difference in the happiness quotient of employees.
After a short break, I was back onstage with another keynote: The Courage to Connect: Four Keys to Resilience and Joy.
I’ve delivered this speech many times. There are some tender moments in it, but I’ve always made it through without a problem.
Not this time.
When I began talking about losing my mom and then losing Mark, I got so choked up I couldn’t continue.
I had to stop to compose myself.
Fortunately, the audience was right there with me. They felt it too. Maybe they were thinking about their own losses. Maybe they understood something I’ve learned about grief—that sometimes pain doesn’t diminish in the presence of joy.
Sometimes joy amplifies it.
It wasn’t bad or embarrassing.
It was human.
But when it was all over, I found myself asking:
Brenda, why do you feel so off? Why are you so off-kilter?
And then it hit me.
It had been almost a month since I had lived inside my regular rhythms.
Sometimes we don’t notice anchors until they’re gone.
When I rebuilt my life three and a half years ago, I unknowingly drove some stakes into the ground.
These became my anchors.
One of them is exercise.
When I’m home, I’m at the gym almost every day, sometimes twice a day. Zumba most days. Strength training at least three times a week. Movement isn’t simply something I do for my body. It changes my energy, my outlook, and my emotional equilibrium.
And I hadn’t really done it in almost a month.
I could feel the difference.
Then there’s church.
I love Sunday mornings because for a few hours I get to put my work, my thoughts, my fears—and frankly, anything related to me—aside.
I get to serve.
I greet people, and I approach greeting as though people are stepping onto the Love Boat. I want to exude love to every person who walks through those doors. I want them to feel seen. Heard. Welcomed.
Most of all, I want them to feel loved by God.
When the services are over, I stand at the front and pray with people who have needs.
It doesn’t matter what I’m going through personally.
Serving someone else never fails to dislodge me from the doldrums that may be knocking at the door of my own heart.
When someone and I pray and talk to God together, I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
And I hadn’t done that in almost a month either.
Then there are the even smaller rhythms.
When I’m home in beautiful La Jolla, I take breaks during my workday and sit outside in my Adirondack chairs.
I watch people walk by…especially the ones with puppy dogs I get to love on.
I breathe the fresh sea air.
And I savor the simple fact that I am home.
None of this sounds particularly glamorous. That’s the point.
As I write this, I’m sitting in an airport in the middle of a very long delay, knowing I won’t be home for many, many hours.
And all I want to do is find a corner, curl up, and either take a nap or have a really good cry.
I’ve learned that naming what you’re feeling lessens its impact on your soul.
So instead of judging myself for feeling emotional after such an extraordinary month, I started naming it.
I’m tired.
And untethered.
More than anything, I miss my rhythms.
The good news?
I get to go home to them.
And suddenly I realized what an extraordinary sentence that is.
I don’t have a life I want to escape from. I have a life I want to return to.
I have practices that give me peace and people who surround me with love.
When I’m home, there is no performing. I just get to be Brenda.
Years ago, I thought a life filled with travel would be endlessly glamorous and exciting. And parts of it absolutely are. I love what I get to do, and when I finally arrive at an event, I love doing the work.
But there’s nothing particularly glamorous about sitting in an airport trying to make the hours pass more quickly while feeling profoundly grateful for the life you miss.
Everybody has different anchors.
Maybe yours is playing music, or Tuesday night trivia with your crew.
Maybe it’s hiking through the local park, gardening, walking the dog, cooking on Sunday afternoons, or sitting quietly with your coffee before anyone else wakes up.
The things that regulate us don’t always look important.
And that’s why they’re often the first things we abandon when life gets busy.
We don’t abandon our responsibilities. We abandon our choices.
The things that don’t have deadlines attached to them, but quietly make us us.
This month of anomalies has me treasuring my rhythms more deeply because now I understand the security they give my heart and soul.
Sure, I’m still me without them.
I’m just not the best version of me.
That awareness brought me back to a recent conversation with someone I respect about the idea of safety.
When asked, “What does safety mean to you?” my answer came quickly: “Knowing there’s an exit and I can use it whenever I need to.”
Hmmmmmm…
“What would you like safety to mean?”
A thoughtful pause, then this realization: “To be with people and in places I love so much that I don’t want to leave. To not be looking for the exit.”
I marvel at that answer now, because just a few months later, I think I’m living it.
Maybe safety isn’t always about escape routes.
Sometimes, it’s repetition.
Familiar faces.
Movement.
Service.
A favorite chair.
The sea air and dogs walking past your house.
Safety is the ordinary things that whisper to your nervous system: You’re home.
Regular rhythms equal safety.
And right now, sitting in this airport, I picture a baseball player rounding third, racing toward home plate and sliding in just ahead of the throw.
The umpire throws out his arms and calls: “Safe!”
That’s exactly how I feel.
Sometimes the greatest adventures remind us that the real treasure isn’t getting away.
It’s having something beautiful to come home to.
