Holding the Firefly Jar
The summers of my childhood back in Vermont always involved fireflies.
The best place to find them was at a particular family friend’s house, which was at the end of a long dirt driveway that cut through a vast meadow of tall grass, surrounded on three sides by an evergreen tree line. As the sky faded to black and the adults settled into their quiet chatter, we kids would run wild in the field, catching fireflies in glass jars.
It wasn’t hard—they were everywhere. Once I caught one, I’d stand there in the dark with the jar in my hands, watching the little guy loop-de-loop around and glow.
I was thinking of that jar last weekend. Here, at the end of a wild summer of work and play. Here, at the threshold of the school year. Here, in the midst of immense personal change.
It was a full and beautiful summer.
I’ve written before about how summer isn’t my favorite time of year, but I strive to make the most of it, anyhow. That wasn’t hard to do this year—I had such a plethora of interesting ideas to explore and conversations to lead.
I facilitated a training for young leaders at a division of AstraZeneca and the Greater Boston Chamber of Commerce on what it means to be both authentic and professional at work, which resulted in the kind of heart-centered reflections from participants that left me pondering for days. I led cohorts of leaders from a global candy company, a North American insurance group, a Dutch bank, and a chain of American auto dealerships through programs on resilient leadership, delegation, and trust. And I shared tools for facilitating career development conversations with managers at TripAdvisor, and leveraging influence with emerging leaders at Google. Yeah, I really got to nerd out on leadership.
I also started a weekly writing accountability group with two friends, published my second essay in Business Insider, and worked with a book coach to get my book proposal ready to shop out to agents this fall.
It wasn’t all work—the kids and I toasted marshmallows over a campfire in Vermont and listened to James Taylor at an outdoor concert in the Berkshires while they ran around in a field with their cousins. I marked eight years since my mom died of cancer. I swam in a lake, a river, a pond, and the ocean. I built my bar cart to make some choice summer cocktails (it was Pimm’s Cups and long drinks all the way), baked so many pies that my kids asked me to take a break (“not another one, mom!”), and oh yeah, finalized my divorce.
And then it was August 23rd.
My brain was bursting at the seams, holding the kids’ activity calendars and custody schedules during this transition time—one starts school on Tuesday, the other on Friday. Dance starts Sunday but doesn’t happen next weekend; piano lessons start this week but are virtual next week. There were texts about who had which teacher and emails about how to log in to the bus app. This, on top of getting back into the groove at work after a week away, gearing up for teaching leadership training sessions throughout September (because we all seem to buckle down this time of year), and setting up coaching relationships with a new batch of leaders.
My heart was going through it, too. After my divorce court date, I escaped to Maine for five days with my best friend, where we sipped iced teas in a butterfly garden, painted tiny gouache landscapes on the screened-in porch, and ate lobster rolls and blueberry crumble. It was lovely, but I couldn’t trick my emotions—they were waiting for me on the front stoop when I got home. I was hit by the relief and terror of truly being on my own. I started missing my mom and her steadfast love and support for me so fiercely that my grief felt as fresh as though I lost her only yesterday.
In short, I was a mess.
I was thinking of the firefly jar because my tender little heart felt like that firefly—anxiously buzzing in circles and basically totally freaking out. I felt myself spinning and worried and overwhelmed and sad.
That’s what we are, aren’t we? Little fireflies buzzing around this great big jar called the planet, surrounded by uncertainty.
We are navigating our careers in a rapidly changing job landscape, balancing seemingly endless possibilities with the impacts of mass layoffs and the growing influence of artificial intelligence.
We are leaders who are trying to guide ourselves and others through it, even when the answers are unclear and we’ll make mistakes and have to pick ourselves back up again and again as we try to do right by our teams.
We are trying to find our unique way to contribute meaningfully, to express ourselves and find deep satisfaction through our work, all while paying the bills and taking care of the people who matter to us.
That’s where I was last weekend, overwhelmed by all of that. Buzzing around the jar, panicked.
But something unusual happened. I was the firefly, yes, but I was also holding the jar. I could see myself at a distance and notice how much I was freaking out. I could look at that jar with compassion and do my best to hold myself steady.
To provide that steadiness, I pulled out all the tricks I know that make me feel comfort: wearing soft clothes, steeping mugs of warm tea, feeling the hum of my sewing machine as I push patchwork through it with my hands, taking myself to a bookstore, and writing. It didn’t work like magic. In fact, some of it didn’t work at all, but that didn’t matter—what mattered is that I showed up for myself and held the jar. I allowed myself to freak out and have all the feelings, and I found ways to be gentle with myself as I worked it through.
What matters is learning to hold the firefly jar.
Being a human is so tender and uncertain. It involves all of these awful, vulnerable, painful feelings. It involves making mistakes and wondering if you got it right and being scared to feel joyful or hopeful because things might not work out.
Being a human at work is the same. Whether you formally lead others or are practicing self-leadership as you build your career in this wild world, one thing is for certain: you’re going to feel discomfort—the anxiety of uncertainty about your next professional step, the pain of misspeaking in front of someone important, the vulnerability of putting yourself out there again and again and hoping it resonates with others.
What matters is not controlling the feelings. It’s not figuring out how notto freak out.
What matters is learning how to simply hold the jar.
During my divorce hearing, the lawyer asked me many logistical questions in legalese. One stood out: I wish I could remember the specific wording, but it was something like, “Is it true that you are able to make your own way in the world?”
What a joy it was to sit up taller and answer in a strong voice: “Yes.”
That moment felt like a vow to myself: I am ready to hold the jar.
Your turn.
• What vulnerable feelings are coming up for you as you navigate the particular uncertainty in your life right now?
• How might you stand back and view yourself and your feelings with compassion and care?
• What's one specific way you can bring yourself comfort as you practice holding the jar?
love independent bookstores, and I’m not at all casual about it.
Go on my google maps and you’ll find pins of all the bookshops I’ve visited on my travels.
On a recent trip to England with my dad, I pulled him into multiple bookstores a day in each city we visited. He was game, giving me space to do my thing.
But after a few stops he asked me, “What are you looking for when you go into these bookstores?”
The question got me thinking. Because I’m not really looking for anything. I’m simply being.
I adore the feeling of being in a bookstore.
Some people go to the forest to be among the trees, I told my dad. It’s called forest bathing. There are health benefits to simply being out there, immersed in the sensory environment.
That’s what it feels like when I visit a bookstore. I’m bookstore bathing.
I like to be among the books. To spin around and be surrounded by colorful spines and shelves of genres and volumes of ideas and words and perspectives that were synthesized into little bound treasures.
I like the smell of the crisp pages. Hearing the quiet chatter of the people around me, recounting a recent read to a friend. I like to hunt for my favorite sections (contemporary romance, books about neurodivergence, pie cookbooks, and books on the practice of writing) and run my hand over the smooth covers.
I do all of the weird things we do in bookstores. I browse the staff recommendations and mentally check off which titles I’ve read. I walk with my head tilted to the right. I squat down and waddle along the shelves.
I told my client Pete about all of this when he asked about the highlights of my England trip a couple of months ago. I described it as “bookstore bathing” and laughed at my own nerdiness as I explained it to him.
“Well, books are really trees,” he responded. It kind of blew my mind.
Pete didn’t laugh at my nerdiness. I didn’t have to downplay it for him.
I’m so used to downplaying my deep interests, because while they make me, me, they can also be a liability. Several times in my youth, when I was effusive about my interests and passions, I was given the message: "Too much. Dial it down." I learned that the rule is: It’s fine to like something, but it’s weird to like something too much.
I’m not sure how much I should admit to you that I’ve listened to Bon Iver’s new album, or whether I should be honest about the deep dive I did on the Elizabeth Holmes/Theranos scandal, or the NXIVM cult, or Benjamin Gibbard’s music. I’m not sure if I should say how many contemporary romance novels I’ve read since 2020, or how much time I’ve spent curating books for my Little Free Library, or how many pies I’ve baked to learn how to get my crust just right, or how this summer I completed my quest to visit every single bookstore in my home state. Because it’s all a lot.
But screw it. I’m not interested anymore in downplaying my interests. I’m not worried about being a weirdo.
I’ve given myself permission to go all in. To nerd out about the things I'm a nerd for. To run towards my deep interests. To truly and openly enjoy the things I enjoy. To celebrate the things that make me, me.
It feels like a revelation, but it’s so simple: give yourself permission to love the things you love, wholeheartedly.
Your turn
What are you a nerd for? What could you talk and talk and talk about?
