Five Years

This past week marked five years since I published "Kisses From Dolce: A Book for Children About Trusting and Telling." Launched with events both in Massachusetts and Connecticut, my little self-published book was off to an exciting, meaningful start. I had, and still do have, great support from so many people.

Not long after the book's release, I received an interview request from reporter Eileen Fischer of The Connecticut Post.  With an illustrated front page teaser that featured my main character, Sophia, the resultant article was everything I had hoped it would be. You can read my original post about that article here.  My interview with Eileen was quite extensive, yet I found myself floored when I read these words:

"three years ago, during one of her frequent visits to Fairfield, where she grew up, Hausman met a sweet Italian greyhound named Dolce, that changed her life."

"That changed her life!" Wasn't that a bit dramatic, I'd thought? After all, I'd never used those words, not in the interview or anywhere else. Ever. But, as time wore on and, especially now, from this 5 year vantage point, I believe she'd been correct. Though I'd already spent years fighting the good prevention fight, partnering with Darkness To Light and educating hundreds of adults, "Kisses From Dolce" broadened my path considerably: new people, new programs, new initiatives. Not to mention what it had brought to my own healing journey. When the book's words tumbled out of me and I read them aloud, I understood them immediately as a metaphor for my own road. That is its own incredible story.

So now, here I was, helping others not just to prevent, but to feel courageous enough to stand up and speak out. Clearly, Ms. Fischer had heard in my story that which I could not yet recognize.

As months passed, there were reading events, speaking engagements, interviews by a variety of media. I was approached, often, by survivors eager to move along the prevention/response message and, often, also, to soothe themselves. Numerous people bought multiple copies, usually to distribute to community venues - libraries, schools, doctor's offices - but also to their loved ones. I noticed a heightened sensibility from older survivors regarding their youngest family members. They wanted to offer what had never been offered to them: a voice. They still do.

I documented many of the precious experiences I had in the wake of the book's release here on the blog:

http://kissesfromdolce.blogspot.com/search?updated-min=2009-01-01T00:00:00-05:00&updated-max=2010-01-01T00:00:00-05:00&max-results=50

http://kissesfromdolce.blogspot.com/search?updated-min=2010-01-01T00:00:00-05:00&updated-max=2011-01-01T00:00:00-05:00&max-results=31

But, to this day, one of the deepest, most meaningful post-publication moments came when a young girl, no older than 10 or 11, came up to me after a speaking event, while I was signing books. I knew she'd been gifted a copy in weeks prior as the purchaser had received permission from the girl's mother both to purchase and for me to inscribe. The young lady approached, and, suddenly, with a ferocity that belied her lithe build, she grabbed me and hugged me... and hugged and hugged and hugged. To this day I can recall the intensity. No words were uttered; no words were necessary. THIS was the quintessential expression of why "Kisses From Dolce."

I had always said when creating the book that if it helped just one child, one person, it would have been worth it. There truly are no adequate words to capture where the book and the surrounding experiences resonate with me. In fact, I began a draft of this post two weeks ago, in anticipation of the anniversary; it's taken edit after edit to come even somewhat close to my intention.

All I know is this: that little doggie, that little slurp, the inspiration and tenacity to make the book a reality, the overwhelming compassion and support - both before and after publication - the response in the years since "Kisses From Dolce's" release are a continual reminder of why...and purpose...life's challenges and mysteries. It's been an awesome journey. It for sure has changed my life...and I will forever be grateful. Thank you all.

"Kisses From Dolce: A Book for Children About Trusting and Telling" is available for purchase at Amazon or directly from me at KissesFromDolce@gmail.com.

Gotta Swim

It’s been 59 days since my friend Susan died, seemingly out of the blue. She hadn’t felt well for months and believed she had Lupus. The late diagnosis of T-cell lymphoma was dire and shocking; her death three days later overwhelmingly sad, something I’m still trying to come to terms with.

I’d known Susan almost my whole life, but for most of that we were acquaintances, thrown together at times by circumstance as our parents were friends. Occasionally, amidst the hubbub of the large social circle gatherings, we’d chat, briefly, exchanging smiling, cordial niceties. It wasn’t until a few years ago, as women in our early 50’s, that we became real friends, forging a bond over hours-long discussions about life, love, loss and career. We’d tried new restaurants, savored older favorites, visited art galleries, attended local events of interest, emailed and texted often (she lived in CT, I in MA). 

Susan had offered me the guest room in her home when she knew I was planning to spend more time in the area, my hometown. It didn’t take long to feel at home in her charming little French country-adorned cape, letting myself in and out, tending to and playing with her adorable, rambunctious Tibetan Terrier, Daisy, (“she’s so spoiled!” Susan would say, with a gleam in her eye), even bringing my teenage daughter for a couple of overnights.

A journalist by training and by nature, Susan was curious, questioning, adventurous. She’d traveled the world for years working for ABC’s Wide World of Sports, winning awards for her work there and beyond. Then, in mid-life, knowing she needed to up her professional competitive edge, she’d attended law school. She had a keen understanding of the need to broaden herself to stay competitive in a young man’s industry where she was an aging woman and she was unafraid to venture forward. Or rather, she plowed through any fears in her typical manner. “It was sink or swim, Susan,” she’d said to me, relating her story, “and I had to swim.” Indeed, that was her mantra and one I’d hear again when she studied for yet a third bar exam, many years after finishing law school and passing 2 others. She’d assessed her career situation, determined her needs and gotten to it. Exhausted by the frenetic pace of the studying, she’d looked at me at one point, exclaiming, “I gotta swim. Just gotta swim.” In the end, my friend swam, indeed, gloriously, passing the CT bar and landing, at age 55, a coveted spot in a local law firm more typically occupied by someone much younger.

Susan’s thoughtful self-examination was prominently featured in a 2005 Lisa Belkin piece in the New York Times. Her other trademark, self-confidence, an attribute she knew she possessed (“I’ve just always been self-confident,” she would say to me, matter-of-fact, no trace of arrogance), propelled her, be the circumstance professional or personal.

In this regard, she and I were polar opposites. I’d struggled with self-confidence my whole life. When I was getting ready to publish my children’s book we would talk, often, about the importance of self-assuredness. It had taken me several years to gather the confidence to move forward with the book and moving through the inertia was like trying to run with glue on my feet. Susan knew some of my childhood sexual assault story and was a huge supporter of my work educating adults in abuse prevention. She cheered me on, compassionately, through my stops and starts, encouraging my own strength.

One evening, during a conversation with a mutual friend, she stumbled upon a piece of my story I had not yet shared with her. Her ever-curious nature propelled her:  “What’s the story with that?” she’d emailed me. I’d shared some of my story before, but this piece, a healing piece that had moved and inspired me, I kept very close, sharing with maybe a handful of people. I had to decide if I was ready to share with her.

On my next visit, out to dinner at a favorite restaurant, Susan asked me again, and I shared some. Back at her house I shared more and the conversation continued until late and at breakfast outside on her deck the next morning. She listened thoughtfully, providing feedback, sharing bits of her own relevant life experiences. A true give and take. Still, it was an emotional thing for me to share the story and at one point, as we were cleaning up, I told her just how vulnerable I felt. She stopped what she was doing and turned, dead serious, to me.  “I want you to know you can trust me with this, Susan,” she said, “so I’m going to tell you something about myself that almost nobody knows.” She did, and in that moment, I knew I’d shared my soul with someone I could trust, who had compassion for my journey, and who cared that I felt safe. Trust has not come easily for me in my life. This friendship was rich. Truly a gift.

On the way home to MA from her funeral, I stopped with my daughter and mom in Mystic. Normally a quick run into Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts, I’d preferred this time to stop where we could sit by the water. While my mother and daughter chatted at the food bar, I sat looking out at the water, thinking about Susan - her suffering, her loss of life and my loss of my friend. My eyes filled with tears. Instantly, I could picture her and hear her saying, “Gotta swim, Susan…ya gotta swim.” I know, I heard myself say. I know. I might have to alternate strokes for a while, perhaps tread water or float for a bit, but I “gotta swim” - I know it…. and, with lessons and memories from a wonderful, meaningful friendship that will live as long as I do, I will.

I am very excited! Tomorrow, I, along with an incredibly supportive community here in MA, will celebrate the publication of "Kisses From Dolce!" We will toast with some wine (sparkling grape juice for the kids), indulge in a bit of cheese and crackers and fruit and, most importantly, introduce the book to the world! I will be meeting the community, talking about the book, selling and signing. It should be quite the day!

So far, feedback from those who have seen "KFD" has been wonderful, especially from educators, therapists and savvy parents. Still, receiving feedback from the broader community is a humbling thing and I am gearing up!

The women of ATC Sisterhood, who have steadfastly supported my CSA prevention efforts since day one, will be by my side, helping to assure an event that runs smoothly. When it was so hard for me to speak up about my background and my intentions of turning that into a way to help kids and make the world a safer place, Sisterhood was there. As any survivor knows, having people around you who support you, encourage you and believe in you is key to gaining confidence, forging ahead and healing. The women of ATC Sisterhood have consistently done that, in a very concrete way, and I thank them. A percentage of the sale of each new "KFD" will be donated directly to our ATC Sisterhood D2L Workshop Fund and, tomorrow, I will double the normal amount in celebration of the day.

Child sexual abuse can be a very difficult topic for many people to discuss; we are slowly making headway with that. Denial and fear of CSA often get in the way of the very discussions that could lessen its occurrence. It is my deep hope that "Kisses From Dolce: A Book for Children About Trusting and Telling" will open up new avenues of discussion, between parents and children, educators and their students, therapists and their patients and, also, between adults, all with the promise of making the world safer for the children we love so much. I hope you will visit here again and share your experience with the book or about your own CSA journey.

There is an expression used by yoga practitioners that means "the light in me honors the light in you;" that expression is "namaste." To all of you who have stopped here to visit I say, "Namaste." I look forward to hearing from you.