I remember October 30, 2001 and the days surrounding it in snatches.

The morning of surgery, I was scared to death. An impossibly tall, unforgettably kind anesthesiologist gave me something for my nerves and told me stories about how much he loved to rollerblade in his free time. I don’t remember the ride to the operating room.

The day after surgery, Halloween, I woke up to see little puppy paws on the side of my bed. Memories of therapy dogs in costumes that made me laugh mix hazily with vague impressions of grogginess and nausea.

A couple of nights after surgery, I thought my body was splitting open as pain management did nothing to relieve the screaming of the rearranged muscles in my legs, but did succeed in giving me the worst headache I’ve ever experienced. Finally, I sobbed prayers aloud and my mom reports that I was sleeping peacefully within minutes.

The surgery that changed my life is remembered, 15 years later, through that fog of uncertainty and fear and pain. Pediatric orthopedic surgeons, in a feat I still can’t explain, transferred, stretched, and released the spastic muscles in my legs to help normalize my gait and relieve debilitating knee pain caused by cerebral palsy. But those fearful days – and the months of dependence to physical therapy to recovery to new strength that followed – are the time I learned who I was. I was made of stern stuff and I was going to live my life on big terms.

As the last few weeks of 2001 passed, you couldn’t have convinced 12-year-old me that I was getting stronger. I was miserable and I felt it acutely. I was wrapped in casts, had to be lifted onto the toilet, was separated from school and friends, and depressed that even a textbook recovery from surgery wouldn’t spare me from the occasional “crippled” insult. I rarely left the house, watched too many makeover and home repair show reruns on TLC, was often surly and uncooperative, and cried by myself in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep.

When the casts came off four weeks after surgery, my doctors and therapists told me I could start learning to bend my knees again, so I could then learn to move my legs and walk again. They estimated I could get my knees bent to 90° angles again in a matter of weeks, but I could work faster if I wasn’t hindered by pain. So, I bent my knees. It hurt. A lot. So, I bent them further. In a few days, I could sit normally in a chair or on the edge of the bed. For the rest of my recovery I was weeks ahead all of my therapy milestones.

I had learned that pain is temporary and that life is easier when you don’t let it make the rules.

One day in physical therapy I forced myself through laps between the parallel bars and up and down stairs past my breaking point, exhausted but refusing to quit. A few weeks later, toward the end of my recovery, I was tired and hurting and refused to do even the simplest exercises for my therapist.

I had learned that it’s important to refuse to accept limitations, but there’s often a moment of impact with a wall and it’s okay to stop for a while before finding a way over.

A year before surgery I played Christmas carols at the mall with my elementary school orchestra. When we were done playing, my knees had painfully locked from standing in one place for too long and my grandfather had to carry me to the car. A year after surgery, I was walking and standing, limber and pain-free, for hours at a time.

I had learned that pain and fear had earned me my mobility and independence.

Ten years later, that mobility and independence gave me the adult life I lead. I spend my days traipsing around a city I’ve always wanted to call home. I stand up for 8-hour days on the job. I’ve logged thousands of New York sightseeing steps with visiting friends. I’ve slipped in the ice and snow and let strangers help me up, mortified. I’ve taken bad spills on the sidewalk, tripping over nothing, and been frustrated explaining to passersby that I’m not hurt.

Fifteen years later, I’m thankful for every moment.

Because that surgery changed my life. And I earned it.

My latest piece is a Mother’s Day Gift, part of the #alettertomymom campaign.

Dear Mama,

One night, when I was about four-years-old, you were tucking me into bed and we were talking about college. I was excited about growing up. I’d hit a pothole on my early road to independence, though; you reminded me I'd have to live away from home. I was inconsolable.

"Who's going to tuck me in at night?" I wailed.

First, thank you for not laughing in my face for being excited to grow up. What was that about? Second, thank you for the assurance that I'd be ready.

It's a story that illustrates my two favorite things about you. 1.) Your unflagging love is such a mainstay of so many lives that, whether together or apart, it's hard to imagine being without your steady encouragement, fierce loyalty, and patient care.  2.) From my early years, you were quietly and determinedly building the foundation I'd need to pursue an extraordinary life. I'm expected to go after things and you're always making sure I'm ready. That's the way it's always worked.

What a gift, and it's only the beginning of a list I'll never finish writing. You gave me music and books and countless opportunities to see every corner of the globe (though I can never decide if I like that expression because globes don't have corners). You taught me to live outside myself, to meet every new person with kindness and empathy, to embrace worlds and souls different from mine, to do things that scare me because those things turn into the best things.

You did that for me because you did it for yourself first. You chose, then built, your career with a conviction I envy. You traveled and adventure-d and celebrated with your friends.  And then with courage and strength that I find hard to comprehend, you brought me into the world all by yourself and gave me vibrant life through sheer force of will. It was hard along the way, so hard, I know, but I don't know anyone who could claim a more fun, joyous journey than we've had.

My whole life I've heard, "You look just like your mama! You sound just like your mama! You remind me so much of your mama!" And the only response I can offer is it's the greatest compliment I'll ever receive. I know you've had days of shaking your head in exasperation that I'm too much like you -- too stubborn, too willful, too desperate to have the last word, not inclined to accept help. But for the rest of my life, I hope people look at me and see your grace and beauty and humility, your intelligence and strength and independence shining through. I hope they'll always say I'm just like you.

You've weathered every crazy challenge. Falls and surgeries. Existential crises, which only begin at bedtime when you'd rather be sleeping. The hypochondria of your daughter's overactive imagination. Frantic phone calls of, "How long should I cook this chicken so I don't give my friends food poisoning?" You really do know everything.

And yeah, you've always known something I'm just beginning to figure out, that our roots are so important because they give us the courage, tenacity, and recklessness to take wing. It's easy to go after the big things, to take risks, when I know there will always be people behind me if I fail. You got a kid with a head in the clouds and somehow you managed to let it stay there while keeping my feet on the ground, too. The wildest dreams take the hardest work. You drummed that into me. If I get still and quiet and listen to the sound of my heartbeat, I think I can hear that mantra humming inside me.

You're my toughest audience and my biggest fan. Too many days are about me and not nearly enough are about you. So, today on Mother's Day I want you to know a secret: I'm your biggest fan, too. Our story will always be the one I'm proudest to tell. Maybe one day I'll have the chance to tell the whole thing.

Happy Mother's Day.

Love, Laura

Rayna Jaymes and Sadie Stone Have a Really Important Friendship

Why real and fictional female friendships should inspire and teach us.

Sadie Stone: “Show ‘em what you’re made of, sister.” Rayna Jaymes: “Back at ya.” —Nashville, Episode 3.15, That’s the Way Love Goes

I have this hashtag that I want to shatter the internet: #womencelebratingwomen.

Meet my personal vendetta against the “her or me” poison pill, the quiet, creeping thought that has invaded too many female brains and hearts one time too many. It’s the whisper that this world’s not big enough for the both of us, the insult that one woman’s success must come at the expense of another’s. We tear each other down in a hundred tiny, destructive ways — She sacrificed her career to stay home with her children. She isn’t home enough. She sleeps around too much. She’s a prude. She’s a bitch. She’s a pushover. On and on and on. We question and belittle each other and at the end of the day we turn around and realize we are absolutely nowhere.

But a better trend is making itself known in the public figures we watch and in the stories we’re being told, from movies to television to essays (like this powerful apology from a mother to the mothers she worked with when she was twenty-something and childless). This awards season, Julianne Moore, who swept every Best Actress award for Still Alice, consistently — and exuberantly — praised the standout work of women across the entertainment industry. It was encouraging to see a pattern of healthy competition, sure, but more importantly, of solidarity and respect and friendship.

I grew up with the pervasive, if not overt, opinion that jealously undermines female friendships, no doubt fueled by teenage drama and insecurities and cat fights on TV. But as an adult, it’s been my female friends that have buoyed me through disappointment and heartache. They’ve been the first ones to celebrate my successes and prop up my dreams when I’ve been too tired to do it myself.  And yeah, when we fight, we explode, but we’re perfectly capable of moving on without clawing at each other.

So, I’m grateful to the movies and TV I’ve been watching lately, and to the characters I’m falling in love with and looking up to. I see so many stories that are moving away from the “strong woman” trope to the real woman — complex, flawed, sometimes morally ambiguous. It’s always been okay, even fascinating, for male characters to be these things (isn’t that how the term “anti-hero” was coined?), so show me complicated ladies that madden me just as often as they inspire. And in the past little while my heart has grown three sizes to see the burgeoning female friendships that I recognize from real life. They’re relationships built on respect, trust, genuine awe and admiration for one another, and told more independently of the romantic story lines.

Case in point: Rayna Jaymes (Connie Britton) and Sadie Stone (Laura Benanti) of Nashville. This chapter of the Genuine Mutual Admiration Club was after my heart from the beginning. Give me a mentor/protégé relationship any day! I have deep, abiding love for the women I’ve looked up to, who have guided and shaped me both personally and indirectly. There is no compliment I can offer more genuine than, “I want to be you when I grow up.” Nothing kicks me in the seat of the pants and gets me moving like a woman I respect saying, “You are talented. You have worth. You deserve magical things from life. Knock ‘em dead.” And nothing fills me up like watching a woman succeed when I see such potential in her. Nurturing and protecting friends and coworkers only makes room for more good things to grow. That’s exactly what Rayna and Sadie have achieved in relatively little shared screen time.

Nashville has been praised for Sadie’s escape from her controlling, violent ex-husband, as it should be, but it’s the unflagging, if new, support system between Rayna and Sadie that has been one of the most rewarding aspects of the show’s third season. Because I absolutely want to forget the loser abuser and celebrate the survivor and the people around her who are building her back up.

A subtle, carefully honed dynamic binds these two women: When one is focused only on her weaknesses, the other will not have it. Positive reinforcement is woven through nearly every scene they share. Rayna Jaymes is indisputably a woman on top — Queen of Country Music, new executive, scouring Music City to develop new talent — but nearly undone by her tumultuous relationship with Deacon Claybourne and plagued with guilt about how her nonstop life is affecting her daughters. Enter Sadie Stone — a talented musician and force of nature in her own right — a Rayna fan. And as their working relationship grows, it’s Sadie who accepts the aftermath of Rayna’s failed romance with Luke Wheeler without a word, who covers and protects Rayna, no questions asked, as her emotions are reeling in the wake of her decisions.

Rayna does the same for Sadie in turn and it’s a sign of deepening friendship beyond the label head and new artist. I hope with every bit of me that women are shifting our attitudes toward one another in the direction that Rayna is, a matter of fact refusal that any woman who encounters trouble should have to accept it as a shameful or lonely affliction. In Sadie’s case, that’s domestic violence, and her story teaches us that there are women who break away from an abusive relationship, but in a time of the “empowered woman,” still face too much needless shame in seeking support to send a toxic relationship to its grave once she has escaped the physical danger. I should be strong enough to handle this on my own. I’m too smart to have let this happen. After all, that’s where we meet Sadie. She’s fun and fearless. She blows audiences away at every turn. She ditches paparazzi in high-speed car chases. She’s built a successful life, but that secret she’s keeping is nipping at her heels, pulling at that last scrap of peace she can’t quite nail down. So when she finally sets aside her embarrassment and comes clean with Rayna, it frees her, not just because it relieves her of a burden, but because it fortifies her alliance with her friend and mentor. Rayna doesn’t bat a fake eyelash at the legal problems Sadie’s ex causes the label and the priority is not just winning Sadie’s freedom. It’s letting Sadie win it for herself in the form of complete creative control over her music and kicking her ex to the curb for good.

A new star on the rise and a seasoned legend are proving more and more to be an unstoppable team, in the vein of Parks and Recreation's Leslie and Ann and April and Grey’s Anatomy's Meredith and Cristina. Granted, Rayna chose to take Sadie under her wing, so their friendship began with a big helping of good will, but still it's a relief to see a little “solidarity, sister,” rather than jealously, back and forth subterfuge, and attempted coups. Even Rayna's relationship with Juliette Barnes has reached detente, mutual respect overcoming a petty fight for the throne of country music.

It’s a story worthy of our attention, ladies. Stop the you vs. me. Embracing the Genuine Mutual Admiration Club means we all win. Your extraordinary talent inspires me. My fledgling success just might give you a new perspective. I may not understand or agree with your choices, and you may not understand or agree with mine, but let’s at least respect each other. If we pull each other up with the determination to complement one another’s strengths and weakness rather than exploit them, there’s room for all of us to succeed.

I'm really excited to share that I've finally been published in print. My (very) short story, "Almost Real," appears in the brand new issue of the literary magazine Lovers and Other Strangers. It's available now at NYC's Forbidden Planet and from their website. 

The magazine's premise is to use old found photos as writing prompts and also includes interviews and info on some of New York's coolest writing and photography projects.

The Loaded Gender Politics of Aaron Sorkin's THE NEWSROOM

I’ve been an ardent defender of Aaron Sorkin’s women for many years and I will continue to be. Why wouldn’t I resist the notion that Sorkin writes women badly when many of my favorite and most personally inspiring female characters have been born of his imagination. In CJ Cregg and Donna Moss and Abbey Bartlet, in MacKenzie McHale and Sloan Sabbith, I’ve learned a lot about the woman I want to be. Their incomparable smarts, their neuroticism and eccentricities, their romantic ineptitude all resonate with me because I see something familiar — an accomplished person who, in 2014, never wants to be afraid that her flaws, contradictions, insecurities, and even her love life will diminish her strength or ability to command respect. I’m more appreciative than I can say for female characters on television who sometimes falter, occasionally make bad choices, get caught up on love, and emerge competent, capable, and — surprise! — still highly regarded by their families, friends, and colleagues. 

That character that made you cry (and why you're lucky)

For Laura Ingalls Wilder, Julia Sugarbaker, CJ Cregg, and Ziva David

"If people ever look down upon you for crying for fictional characters, you should give them a gentle, pitying look and feel bad for them.  If they’ve never cried for a fictional character, then they’ve never loved one (and what a joy that is.)"  —Cassandra Clare

The search for good storytelling, in all its forms — page to stage to screen — is written into who we are.  When we’re children our imaginations explode. We discover characters, those we create and those we find and come to love. They inspire us, they influence us, they inform our relationships, our work, our creative endeavors.

New York Owes Me Nothing: A Pragmatic Love Letter to the City

"New Yorkers are born all over the country, and then they come to New York City and it hits them: Oh, that’s who I am."  —Delia Ephron

I’m always falling in and out of love with New York City, one of millions grappling with the push and pull, the give and take, the love and hate of this place. It’s the relationship I can never quite explain — sometimes this city I’m completely enamored with is just not that into me. It’s incontrovertible, isn’t it? You’ve surely heard it before — New York is maddening. Building a fulfilling life here can take years. Some days I’m stopped in my tracks by the pressure of personal branding, and by the feeling that absolutely everyone else who ever lived here is doing New York better than I am.

In Defense of MacKenzie McHale | THE NEWSROOM

(Please note: This is a repost of something I wrote in 2013.)

A couple of weeks ago, when I finished watching Season 2 of The Newsroom, I made a promise to myself that I would spend some time writing about my fascination with MacKenzie McHale. Well, time to write and this post from earlier today conspired, and the compulsion can no longer be ignored.

Since The Newsroom aired its pilot, MacKenzie has been the woman I’d like to be when I grow up. She’s infectious. Right out of the gate, she’s there stirring up the air in the room, a rabble-rouser who kicks everyone’s ass into gear before they can even blink. Aaron Sorkin may give all the fun musical theatre references to Will McAvoy, but don’t lose sight of the fact that Mac is the real Don Quixote in this enterprise.