I was excited to speak at an event right here in San Diego.
The client told me it was a women’s leadership gathering, and signed copies of my book, The Public Servant’s Survival Guide, were purchased for each attendee. Two days before the event, I sat at my dining room table, carefully writing a personal note inside every book. The next day was reserved for one final edit of my presentation to fit the 45-minute time limit.
Or so I thought.
That morning, while at the gym, grinding through a strength-training workout, I saw my phone light up. Hmmm…a call from my client! I promptly called back, thinking she wanted to review last-minute details about the event.
“When are you coming?” she asked.
I laughed. “Tomorrow.”
“No,” she replied. “Today.”
I pulled up my paperwork. Every email, every calendar entry, every detail said tomorrow.
She checked hers.
“So does mine,” she said quietly. “But the event is today.”
There wasn’t time to sort out how it happened or who was right. There was only time to respond.
I raced home, skipped the shower I’d planned, threw on enough makeup to look awake, grabbed my laptop, loaded the books into my car, and pointed my GPS toward the hotel.
One thought kept trying to hijack me.
This isn’t fair.
The day’s planned clients had to be contacted and rescheduled as I raced to the venue. I’d turned down other opportunities for “tomorrow” because I thought I was booked!
Argh!
I started to call a friend to share the whole story, seeking a witness to validate how inconvenient (and frankly, unfair) it all felt.
Mid dial, I disconnected. Because I realized the most productive thing I could do wasn’t vent.
It was to breathe.
So I did.
Then I prayed.
Then breathed again.
And I reminded myself of something important.
The audience knew nothing about the scheduling mistake.
Nor did they care.
They were showing up hoping to laugh, learn something meaningful, and leave inspired. That’s what they had been promised. That’s what I had been hired to deliver.
Being right wasn’t the assignment.
Serving well was.
If you’ve been following my adventures, you know this wasn’t my first “how did this happen?” moment.
Last year, I drove nearly three hours to San Bernardino for a speaking engagement. I pulled into the hotel parking lot feeling accomplished until I opened my trunk.
My suitcase was still sitting at home.
Apparently, I had packed it beautifully.
I just hadn’t packed it into the car.
Life has a way of reminding us that we’re all human.
Mistakes happen.
Plans unravel.
People misunderstand.
Sometimes we’re the cause.
Sometimes we’re caught in someone else’s.
Either way, we still get to choose our response.
Looking back, I’m convinced those 30 minutes in the car mattered as much as the 45 minutes I spent on stage.
If I had spent the drive rehearsing my frustration, I would have walked into that ballroom carrying it with me. My energy would have been scattered. My focus would have been divided.
Instead, I chose to breathe.
Not because everything was okay.
Not because the situation was fair.
But because peace was far more useful than panic.
The event went beautifully. The audience was engaged. We laughed together, learned together, and everyone left with a signed book and, I hope, at least one new way of looking at their lives.
Sometimes life doesn’t give us the luxury of fixing the problem before we have to perform.
Sometimes the curtain is rising whether we’re ready or not.
In those moments, sometimes the bravest—and wisest—thing you can do is simply breathe.
Then show up and give the people in front of you the very best you’ve got.
When I teach the importance of protecting your energy, I always ask, “How adept are you at stepping away from drama?”
Drama is always swirling around us (or inside of us) and the more we choose not to engage, the stronger we get at choosing peace over panic.
And the less we care about being right? The more we can show up in peace (not pieces).
