A story about giving up

As I swung my leg up and over the obstacle, I tried not to look down.

I’m not really scared of heights, but when you realize that if you fell off this twelve-foot wall onto the ground, with its packed earth and tree roots, it would really hurt — you don’t want to look down.

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Video proof of the thing

So I looked straight ahead and made my way over the top of the wall and down the other side, where my friend Kevin and his two kids, ages 3 and 5, were waiting for me. They gave a little cheer that I made it (honestly, it could have been a bigger cheer), and we continued on.

We were doing a ruck — a hike with a weighted backpack, and some obstacles in the way to make it a little harder. Kevin is a Marine, so even though he only has one leg due to a combat injury, this was no big deal for him.

But it was my first ruck, and I didn’t know what to expect. Even the children were more prepared than me; they brought a seemingly endless supply of gummy bears — we were required to stop every fifteen minutes and enjoy them while sitting on a rock and inspecting a cool bug.

We crossed bridges and traversed tricky terrain. There was a fallen log we needed to walk along, balance-beam style. Three-year-old Z marched across it, mumbling to herself, “We never give up!”

I looked at her dad, who seemed proud that his Marine-ness had rubbed off on his toddler. Her stubby little legs marched across the log, arms swinging, and her husky, stubborn voice sounded more like a 70-year-old smoker than a little kid.

“We never give up!”

“That’s right, honey. We never give up!” Kevin beamed at her.

Kevin encouraged her to make it all the way to the end of the fallen log and jump into his arms. The whole scene was pretty damn adorable.

The five-year-old stopped again to investigate a mushroom, and we noticed a sign marker along the hiking path. It said 1 Mile.

1 Mile.

We had been rucking for almost two hours and had made it just one mile. The short version of the ruck was 4 miles. At this point, we’d still be rucking at sundown.

Kevin and I debated our options. He suggested we each carry a kid. There would be no more cool bug inspections; we would just go directly to the finish line.

“Or maybe we should just turn around?” I suggested. “That’s going to be much faster, and I think the kids will need some real food soon.” They were vibrating with sugar and yellow dye #5.

Kevin reluctantly agreed. I looked down at Z, “Can I carry you for a little while?” She considered it deeply, then consented, lifting her arms to me.

“Where we going?” She asked.

“We’re going to go back the way we came,” I told her.

Z was quiet. She was straddled on my hip, her tiny arms wrapped tight around my neck. Her hands were sticky with gummy bears, and she rested her head on my shoulder, her breath hot on my neck. For a while, it was just the sound of my boots crunching on leaves.

Then suddenly, the tiny smoker’s voice.

“We gave up.”

I looked at Kevin, alarmed.

This seemed like a critical teaching moment. Was I involved in something she’d later recount to her therapist as a core memory involving perseverance and devotion? What the fuck? I am not at all qualified for this. Why wasn’t Kevin stepping in and parenting here?

He looked at me and shrugged.

Nice, dude.

I thought about telling her that giving up is not so bad. I thought about telling her about the film career that I gave up and how that was a great life choice. Yes, I gave up something, but I gained so much more in the process. I thought about telling her that giving up had led to adventure and joy and so much more purpose than I ever thought was possible.

Then I remembered she was three years old.

And I probably shouldn’t undermine her father’s clean and simple Never Give Up Marine mind. So, I took a different tactic.

“Z, think of it this way. We looked at what we were doing and realized there was a different way, and that new way would be better. We adjusted. We just changed our mind.”

“We changed our mind.” She repeated slowly, like she was trying it out.

“Yeah. We changed our mind. You’re allowed to change your mind.”

I got a little choked up as I said that to her.

You’re allowed to change your mind.

Who was I giving permission to? Who was I reminding?

This was almost exactly a year ago, and I frequently think back on that ruck we never finished. Kevin and I carried the kids back to the starting line — and on the way back, we crossed the fallen log again, ate some more gummy bears, and found a really cool worm.

But most of all, we remembered that we could change our minds.

Me and Z

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Here’s what else is going on

What I’m watching

Nobody Wants This. OK, I’m not usually a big rom-com person but I’m loving this show so much. Kristen Bell falling in love with a hot rabbi? Yes, chef.

What I shared

I’ve been posting more yoga and meditation videos for you on my YouTube channel! It’s free, and it’ll help, so please enjoy.

What I’m reading

Between Two Kingdoms

I’ve just started this one, but I’m already obsessed. Suleika Jaouad is a beautiful writer, and I love exploring the topic of what it means not just to survive but thrive.

What I’m looking forward to

I’m heading up to Kripalu soon to teach my weekend workshop - How To Survive in a Challenging World: A Yoga And Writing Workshop. There are still a few spots available if you want to join me on November 8–10.

And in case you missed it, I wrote about why Kripalu is such a special place to me:

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Thank you for being here, Friends. It’s such a joy for me to write to you.

Much love,

~Lisa

Writing and yoga and how it started on a diving board

I'll be in MA in November - want to join me?

When I was six, I learned how to tell a good story by sitting on the diving board of my grandmother's swimming pool.

Every night, Gramma would swim laps before bed. Her best friend would come over, and as the two of them slowly sliced through the water, I told stories. I was obsessed with a stone owl statue that stood guard over her garden, and I chronicled his adventures with the toads, butterflies, and squirrels.

As I perched on the edge, the diving board bounced just slightly as I dangled my toes in the water and played with story arc and character development.

I learned about suspense and foreshadowing.

I learned how to utilize supporting characters to bring out the essence of your hero and how to use humor to illuminate an essential truth.

After the swim, Gramma would critique the story as she toweled off, telling me the parts that worked and when the plot had gotten lost. She never coddled me and never gave praise when it wasn't due. I'd nod thoughtfully as I considered how to refine the owl's story for tomorrow night's swim.

My Gramma knew how to use words. She had been one of those gutsy young broads of the late 1940s, working long hours as an editor at the place she reverentially referred to as "The Paper."

She lived at the YWCA and wondered if the fellas in the newsroom were saying she looked tired when they told her she had "bedroom eyes." One day, with shaky hands, she marched into her boss's office and demanded to be paid on par with those men. After that, they respected her more and started offering her cigarettes. She tucked them away in her purse, saying she'd smoke them later. She didn't like cigarettes, but her boyfriend did, and the man who would become my grandfather couldn't afford to buy his own.

While I did not inherit her impeccable spelling skills, her love of words traveled through the bloodline and directly into my heart.

In so many ways, she made me a writer.

But she also made me a yoga teacher.

About ten years ago, she suffered a stroke. By then, I’d been a devoted yoga student for a while, and she asked me to teach her. She was confined to her bed, so I sat beside her, and we did simple yoga postures and breathing exercises.

Sun breaths, spinal twists, heart openers.

I wasn’t a teacher; I tripped over my instructions as I tried to copy what my favorite instructors had done. But I loved sharing the practice that had saved me from my anxiety and depression and chronic back pain. And it worked — the yoga made her more physically comfortable and helped her sleep. Breath came more easily. She felt less trapped inside her failing body.

The last time I saw her, we did yoga together.

Sun breaths, spinal twists, heart openers.

My Gramma left me a bit of money when she died.

“Find the best yoga school there is. Get certified and go take care of other people who think they are too broken, and it’s too late, and they can’t do it. You’re damn good at this, Miss Mouse.”

I cried and whimpered that I didn’t want to be a fucking yoga teacher and that she should just stay alive forever.

Of course, one of those was a lie, and the other was impossible. So, the year after she died, I walked into Kripalu for the first time and picked up my yoga teacher training binder.

I lived there for a month, and they taught me how to weave a yoga class into a story. They taught me how to build intensity, flow with the emotional needs of the room, and create integration to allow students the space to make the practice their own.

I learned Sanskrit, yogic theory, anatomy, nutrition, meditation, and Ayurveda.

Graduation day at Kripalu, Feb 2017

My Gramma gave me writing and yoga, two practices that continue to get me through my hardest days. I’ll forever be grateful.

And now I get to return to Kripalu and share everything I’ve learned from so many incredible teachers.

I’m so damn lucky.

I’ll be in Stockbridge, Massachusetts, from November 8 to 10 for an in-person mindfulness program. I get to share everything I learned about writing and yoga — at my Gramma’s pool and in my Kripalu training and during all the decades in between.

I’d love for you to join me.

How To Survive in a Challenging World: A Yoga And Writing Workshop

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Here’s what else is happening:

What I’m reading

All Fours — A can’t-put-it-down novel about desire and creative freedom in midlife, with the kind of sex scenes that make me feel like I should be reading it under a blanket with a flashlight rather than on the Amtrack in Washington, DC, waiting for them to switch out the engine to diesel. Can a novel be both hot and culturally important? Why, yes, yes, it can.

What I’m listening to

A fantastic podcast about the ways we look at our various relationships. I’m a big fan of Chosen Family, but I’ve often found the terms limiting and unsatisfying. Someone is your partner, or your friend, or your best friend — which feels awkward to use past the age of fourteen. I enjoyed this deep dive into the ways we can rethink our relationships with Rhaina Cohen, the author of The Other Significant Others: Reimagining Life With Friendship at the Center.

What I got to do in NYC

I got to make this video outside the Plaza.

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I was invited to a gala in NYC (oh la la) for the Federal Enforcement Homeland Security Foundation. They care for federal agents in times of crisis and they are wondeful friends of my nonprofit, Mission Flexible. This means I got to put on a formal onesie (I’m obsessed with this look) and talk to strangers who turned out to be lovely and interesting people.

Thank you for reading, friends. I’m so grateful to you.

Much love,

~Lisa

The beginning of my nonprofit and why Robin Williams gets the credit

In May of 2016, I showed up at a cattle ranch in Texas — on the verge of a social anxiety panic attack and unreasonably worried about scorpions.

This was all because of something I wrote the day Robin Williams died.

But let’s rewind about thirty years. When I was 14, I was hired to play Robin’s daughter in Mrs. Doubtfire. I was a Mork & Mindy fan so I knew who Robin was, but I had already been a working actor for a decade and knew plenty of famous people — so this was just another job. I had no idea how much Robin (and the movie, but that’s another story) would change my life.

Just another job. I love this photo of Chris Columbus, the director, and me listening to Robin.

Robin was caring and kind and treated me like one of his actual kids. He was open when he talked to me about mental health — both mine and his. He showed me that I didn’t need to feel ashamed of my anxiety and depression. He listened and made me feel that I was not alone. He modeled what it was to be generous of spirit.

Yeah, he was funny, too, but that is never what I think of when I remember him.

When Robin died, I wrote, because that’s what I do when I’m processing painful emotions. I wrote about loss and how people can impact your life forever by showing up when you need them. I shared a story about when Robin went out of his way to stand up for me when he really didn’t have to.

That article went viral and eventually found its way to a man named Carl, who ran a nonprofit for Veterans. He saw that I was teaching, writing, and speaking about mental health — and invited me to Texas to teach a class on writing to process emotions.

He asked if I had worked with Veterans before.

No. Definitely no.

I knew nothing about the military and was incredibly intimidated. What the hell was some former child actor going to say to a bunch of Veterans, many of whom had been through absolute hell? Why would I matter at all? What could we possibly have in common?

But I was writing my second book about mental health and figured it would make good content. Some vegetarian, Canadian hippie chick who couldn’t get through the first ten minutes of Saving Private Ryan — was going to make a fool out of herself in front of these American heroes. At least this clusterfuck would make for an amusing story.

So, eight years ago, I showed up to a 3000-acre cattle ranch and pulled open a massive barn door — which had a sign on it telling me to check my shoes for scorpions.

That experience shifted the trajectory of my work and my life. It wasn’t easy, and I did make a fool out of myself at times, but it became clear that working with Veterans was my path. I felt a sense of camaraderie I’d desperately missed since leaving the film industry. There was connection and compassion that went much deeper than the differences on the surface. I met some of the Veterans I still work with — those Veterans helped me co-create my own non-profit that is thriving today.

In a couple of weeks, I get to take Mission Flexible to that same 3000-acre cattle ranch. That ranch is where I showed up, a clueless civilian, and learned important things about how Marines eat crayons and that the Air Force doesn’t really count.

This will be our ninth Mission Flexible retreat, and it’s a full-circle moment. I’m in awe at what we have created with this organization.

Over four days in September, we will do yoga, meditation, therapeutic writing, archery, equine therapy, art therapy, cold plunge, and spa night. We’ll meet new friends and reconnect with old battle buddies. We will talk about loss and shame and moral injury and healing—and we’ll laugh about absolute nonsense. We’ll paint each other’s nails, wear animal onesies, and learn to breathe again.

It’s a weird form of suicide prevention. But it works.

I’ve seen the pain that suicide leaves behind, and while I’m not delusional enough to think I can solve this problem — I know I can do something.

I can’t promise that their darkest days are over. But I can promise that they don’t need to walk through those dark days alone anymore.

On a retreat last year, one of the participants asked how I got into this work. I told this whole story and talked about Robin. I rambled on about the synchronicity — he was so passionate about supporting the troops. Robin did six USO Tours to Iraq, Afghanistan, and 11 other countries, and often required his films to hire unhoused Veterans as background actors. And because of his impact on my life and my public grieving for his death — that directly led to my work with Veterans.

I always get teary when I tell this story, so I sat at the front of the room with 18 Vets staring at me, and I wiped my nose on my sleeve.

Then one of them broke the silence and said “So, Robin sent you to us.”

And I burst into tears.

Because that’s what happens when someone says something that feels profoundly true.

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Here’s a little update on our organization

We are getting ready for our upcoming retreats!

• September 12 - 15, 2024: Rising Star, TX

• November 10 - 15, 2024: Kripalu, Stockbridge, MA

• February 6 - 9, 2025 - Austin, TX

• May 15 - 18, 2025 - Madison, VA

• July 17 - 20, 2025 - Colorado Springs, CO

• September 7 - 12, 2025 - Kripalu, Stockbridge, MA

• October 16 - 19, 2025 - Rising Star, TX

• November 20 - 23, 2025 - Houston, TX

Applications for retreats are posted here. Retreats are free of charge for Veterans, so please share if you know someone who could benefit from our program!

And if you’re looking to share the MF love, maybe check out our logo merch and our beloved Peace, Love, and Spite merch collection! All proceeds go to funding retreats.

If you would like to support our work with a donation, please know that 100% of your contribution goes to providing this vital mental wellness and suicide prevention work. Retreats cannot happen without your contributions - of any amount - to help those who sacrificed so much. Thank you.

A newsletter update: I mentioned last time that there might be some changes around here. I am giving myself a little grace with this letter, sending it when it feels ready, rather than sticking to an arbitrary schedule. I was sick last week, so there was no letter on Friday. I figured no one would notice. But um…. many of you noticed!!

Thank you for checking on me and for reading and loving this letter. It will continue to show up in your inbox, in its own time.

Thank you for reading, friends. I’m so grateful you are here.

Much love,
~Lisa