Home + Work: The type of person who shows up

“I just can’t believe it!” my grandma said, shaking her head. “I can’t believe you’re here!” 

“I am,” I replied, swiveling to face her in one of the three overstuffed easy chairs that pepper my grandparents’ living room in Waterville. 

“But why?” she wanted to know. And “Just you? Where’s Raz? Where are the kids? Hey, since you’re here, do you want some books?”

I told her about the idea I’d had, that for my mom’s birthday, which happened to be the day I sat across from my grandma in one of her easy chairs, I suggested I visit my grandparents on my mom’s behalf. 

My reasoning was twofold:

1. I couldn’t really buy anything for my mom she couldn’t buy for herself
2. My grandparents have required an increasing amount of care, the bulk of which my mom has shouldered, even from afar. For her birthday, she somewhat hesitantly agreed to go boating with my stepfather. I knew she’d worry about them

And so, there I was, sifting through bins of books my grandma wanted to give me (I took almost two dozen), chatting with her in her living room after a three-plus-hour drive over the mountains just so I could see them. I made the trip so I could give my mom the gift of a little less anxiety and remote micro-management, a small celebration of family and presence. 

I’ve always worked hard to be the type of person who shows up. As I was thinking about this column, about my businesses, and about their ever-evolving infiltration into my bigger life goals, I realized I set up that first LLC for the same reason: I wanted to show up for my infant son, for small businesses and for myself. 

Why couldn’t I wear my breastfeeding baby on a yurt tour for a client on San Juan Island? Why couldn’t I enjoy a midday facial? Why couldn’t I meet one of my sorority sisters for lunch in Bellevue on a Tuesday? I know these things may be normal or expected in some jobs, but I worked in corporate marketing and was told — literally — ”butt in seat,” so owning my schedule was a foreign land for the first thirty years of my life. Honestly, in many ways, it still feels new. 

My copywriting business turned eight in July and, while I set it up intending to give myself flexibility, to show up for people (including myself), I spent the first several years of that business showing up mostly for my inbox. Even when there wasn’t anything urgent requiring action, the performer in me wanted there to be. I felt successful at work and redefining what it looked like for me, in a way that supported my family and community, felt kind of illegal. If not illegal, an HR violation for sure. 

But, who is HR when you’re mostly solo? 

In July, I violated those old rules a lot. 

How dare I spend two hours on a coffee date with an Italian man who wants to turn 250 family recipes into an heirloom cookbook? 

(I did.)

How dare I take off for 10 days to see my very best friends, hold hands with their kids, and heal my relationship with Southern Idaho? 

(I did that this month, too.) 

How dare I take time away from my clients to sit beside my 8-year-old son while he read his children’s book to a packed house at the Edmonds Bookshop! 

(Did that just last Friday. One of my clients came to support us.) 

There is so much in the world related to always-on work that tells us you can’t show up for both—I can’t take time away from my inbox to visit my grandparents, sit with my sorority sister while she tells me about her mom’s ovarian cancer, hug my best friend, and sip a cappuccino with Joe while we talk about Italy. 

But showing up has always been the point. 

I picked up a book from Ridgecrest Books this past weekend called A Beginner’s Guide To Dying, which was written by a man in the last few months of his terminal throat cancer. I read a lot of books like his because I believe perspective matters, and that my yappy purse dog of a nervous system needs the reminder of who I built my businesses to show up for. 

I’ve been thoughtful about the clients I work with. I have few to no recent memories of urgency from any of them. When I tell them I’m going to visit my grandparents and will be out of touch for several hours in the middle of the week, they nod because they know my grandparents’ names. They’ve checked in and asked me how they are. 

Papa kept getting shingles a few months ago, which led to intense back pain, landing him in an assisted living facility about 40 minutes from my grandparents’ home. They are currently separated, but my uncle drives Papa home almost every weekend to see grandma and work in his garden. I picked a big bucket of raspberries for them that I left on their kitchen counter. My grandma, naturally, offered them to me. But I told her I wouldn’t get to them, and I wanted her to have them, freeze them, or make them into jam like she does every year. 

On my way home to Edmonds, I stopped into Papa’s dining room, where he had ordered me a plate of tarragon chicken, green beans, and rice. We sipped after-dinner coffee. He asked his friend Bruce from Withrow if he could believe his daughter (who had moved him in and visited quite frequently until her birthday trip) just turned 69. Bruce could not. Then, he asked Bruce if he could believe I, the person sitting across from them, was about to be 39. Bruce could not.

I was flattered. I sipped my coffee, listened as Papa gave me investment advice, hugged him goodbye, and drove back from whence I came. 

I didn’t check my email until the next morning.

Whitney Popa is a writer, editor and consultant for little companies with big dreams. A born communicator, she connects people through stories. She believes strongly in many things, including expensive sweatsuits, off-road vehicles, good books and bad TV. With her two cats, two kids and one husband, Whitney splits her time between Edmonds and Waterville, WA.