Rising Strong

The moment we decide to show up authentically in our lives, we sign up for falling down. Whether it's a failed presentation at work, a relationship conflict, or simply the sting of harsh criticism, these experiences leave us face-down in the arena of life, wondering how we'll ever find the courage to rise again. Yet in these moments of greatest vulnerability lies our most profound opportunity for growth and transformation.

This book emerges from years of research into what separates those who stay down after a fall from those who rise with greater wisdom and courage. Through extensive interviews and data analysis, the author discovers that resilience isn't about avoiding failure or numbing pain, but about developing a revolutionary process for navigating the messy middle of struggle. The journey from falling to rising isn't just about getting back up—it's about fundamentally transforming how we engage with vulnerability, emotion, and the stories we tell ourselves about our experiences.

During a family vacation at Lake Travis, a place filled with childhood memories, the author found herself swimming with her husband Steve for the first time in decades. Halfway across the cove, she stopped to share a vulnerable moment about the beauty around them and her gratitude for being there together. Instead of the warm response she expected, Steve gave her a distant, distracted reply. Hurt and confused, she tried again to connect, only to receive another cold response that left her feeling rejected and ashamed.

The swim back to the dock became a journey through emotional quicksand. In the murky water, unable to see ahead, she battled not only her fear of what lay beneath but also the painful story she was creating about Steve's rejection. Her mind raced between anger and hurt, constructing narratives about her appearance, her worth, and their relationship. By the time she reached the dock, she was emotionally and physically exhausted, ready to retreat into familiar patterns of cold-war silence.

But something different happened when Steve joined her at the dock. Instead of attacking or withdrawing, she found the courage to be vulnerable about her pain, sharing the story she was making up about his behavior. What she discovered was that Steve hadn't been rejecting her at all—he had been fighting off a panic attack triggered by a nightmare about protecting their children in dangerous waters. His distance wasn't about her; it was about his own fear and vulnerability. This moment revealed a fundamental truth about falling: when we're brave enough to examine what's really happening beneath the surface, we often discover that our first stories about pain are incomplete. The path to rising strong begins with the courage to get curious rather than certain about our experiences of falling down.

When we experience emotional pain or disappointment, our minds immediately begin constructing stories to make sense of what happened. These initial narratives, what the author calls "shitty first drafts," are typically driven by our need for self-protection and our intolerance for uncertainty. A research participant named Claudia discovered this during a devastating family visit over Thanksgiving when her sister Amy, struggling with addiction, was living in squalid conditions in an abandoned building.

Claudia's immediate story centered on shame about her "crazy family" and resentment about never being able to have normal holiday experiences. She crafted elaborate narratives about being the responsible sister trapped by Amy's dysfunction, about her parents' inability to handle the situation, and about her own guilt for wanting to escape back to her carefully constructed life in Chicago. These stories felt protective in the moment, allowing her to maintain emotional distance from the raw pain of watching her sister suffer.

However, a violent fight on a train later that evening served as Claudia's wake-up call—her "facedown moment." She realized she couldn't run from conflict because it would follow her wherever she went. The real work began when she started examining the stories beneath her initial reactions: her fantasy expectations about family gatherings, her fear of being consumed by Amy's problems, and her struggle with setting boundaries while still loving her sister. The process of "rumbling" with these stories—questioning their accuracy and exploring their origins—revealed that many of her most painful narratives were based on incomplete information and fear-driven assumptions.

This pattern of story-making in the face of pain is universal, but the key to rising strong lies in recognizing these first drafts as exactly that—rough, unedited attempts to make meaning that require careful examination. The courage to examine our stories rather than simply believing them is what transforms falling into an opportunity for growth rather than a reason for retreat.

A speaking engagement gone wrong led the author to a profound realization about the relationship between boundaries and belonging. After agreeing to share a hotel room against her better judgment—motivated by shame about appearing "high maintenance"—she found herself paired with a roommate who wiped cinnamon roll frosting on the hotel furniture and smoked on their non-smoking room's tiny patio. The experience triggered such intense anger that she began categorizing humanity into two groups: conscientious "uptown rats" like herself and inconsiderate "sewer rats" who disrespected rules and other people's property.

This self-righteous rage followed her to the airport, where she found herself judging every passerby with contempt. But the intensity of her emotional reaction served as a warning signal—she recognized that such extreme judgment usually masked deeper issues. In therapy, she explored the painful question of whether people are generally doing the best they can. Her therapist's gentle suggestion that most people are indeed doing their best initially enraged her, challenging her fundamental belief system about personal responsibility and effort.

Through extensive interviews with dozens of people, the author discovered a clear pattern: those who believed people are doing their best were more wholehearted and compassionate, while those who believed otherwise were often perfectionistic and hard on both themselves and others. The real revelation came when she experienced being on the receiving end of harsh judgment herself, suddenly understanding how it felt to want desperately to explain that you're trying your best despite falling short.

This research led to a revolutionary insight about boundaries: the most compassionate people also have the strongest boundaries. They can assume good intentions from others while simultaneously asking for what they need and refusing to tolerate disrespectful behavior. The practice of "Living BIG"—maintaining Boundaries, Integrity, and Generosity—allows us to extend compassion while protecting our own well-being. When we believe people are doing their best but still hold clear boundaries about acceptable behavior, we create space for both grace and accountability to coexist.

Andrew, a respected advertising executive known for his careful judgment and cultural sensitivity, found himself face-down in shame after leading his team through an exhausting pitch process that ended in humiliation. Despite his initial misgivings about the demanding client and the team's already stretched capacity, he had been swept up in the excitement and declared "We can do this!" But when the prospective client's team spent their presentation typing on laptops and making dismissive comments, Andrew watched his talented colleagues being completely disrespected after months of sixty-hour work weeks.

The immediate aftermath left Andrew drowning in a loop of self-condemnation: "I'm a screwup. I failed them. They'll never trust me again." His first instinct was to find someone else to blame or to manufacture an easy fix that would restore his reputation without requiring him to face the deeper issues. But Andrew recognized these impulses as symptoms of shame and made a crucial choice—he called a trusted friend and admitted he was stuck under the rock of self-loathing, unable to think clearly or make good decisions.

With his friend's support, Andrew was able to distinguish between "I screwed up" (guilt about behavior) and "I am a screwup" (shame about identity). This seemingly small shift enabled him to take responsibility for his poor judgment without attacking his fundamental worth as a person. He realized he had gotten so focused on proving they could handle the project that he forgot to ask whether they should take it on. When he returned to work, he called a team meeting and owned his mistake, apologizing for not protecting them and asking for their input on whether to continue with the final round of pitching.

The team's unanimous decision to withdraw from the pitch process, despite the significant investment already made, demonstrated something profound about leadership and trust. Andrew's willingness to be vulnerable about his failure actually strengthened the team's cohesion and respect for one another. His colleague Manuel and account manager Cynthia, who had been at odds throughout the stressful process, came together to protect the team from further disrespect. The experience taught Andrew that accountability—holding himself responsible for specific actions and their consequences—was far more powerful than the blame and perfectionism that had initially trapped him in shame.

The author's first book publishing experience became a masterclass in how failure can either destroy us or nourish future growth, depending on how we process the experience. After being told by a New York editor to eliminate humor from her book about shame and to avoid "vanity publishing," she abandoned her authentic voice and approach. The resulting book, despite addressing important research, failed commercially and was eventually "remaindered"—sent to bargain bins and pulping machines after only six months.

The devastation of watching five years of work disappear felt like being composted alive. But in the rumbling process that followed, she discovered that her failure wasn't simply bad luck or market forces—she had betrayed her own values and instincts. By silencing her authentic voice to meet someone else's definition of academic respectability, and by hiding at home waiting for others to promote her work rather than advocating for it herself, she had set herself up for failure. The shame wasn't just about the book's commercial failure; it was about the realization that she hadn't shown up as herself.

The key learning from this painful experience became the foundation for her subsequent success: she would never again wait for permission to be authentic or for others to validate her approach. When she got a second chance with a new publisher, she committed to putting her whole self into the work—boots on the ground, knocking on doors, and unapologetically embracing the storytelling style that made her research accessible. She learned to value her own work enough to fight for it, understanding that if she didn't advocate for her ideas, no one else would.

This transformation illustrates the difference between shame and accountability in the face of failure. Shame keeps us stuck in "I am a failure" while accountability allows us to learn "I failed at this specific thing and here's what I can do differently." When we can examine our failures with curiosity rather than self-attack, we discover the nutrients that will feed future growth. The author's composted first book became the rich soil from which her later bestselling works would grow, but only because she was willing to extract the lessons rather than simply endure the pain.

The journey from falling down to rising strong isn't about developing thicker skin or learning to avoid vulnerability—it's about cultivating the courage to feel our way through the darkness of difficult emotions until we find solid ground again. Through countless stories of people who have learned to rise after falling, we discover that our greatest failures and heartbreaks aren't obstacles to wholehearted living but gateways to it, provided we're willing to engage with them honestly and courageously.

The revolutionary insight at the heart of this work is that our first stories about pain and failure are almost always incomplete, driven by self-protection rather than truth. When we develop the skills to examine these stories with curiosity rather than certainty, we unlock the wisdom hidden in our struggles. The process requires us to reckon with our emotions, rumble with our narratives, and ultimately write new endings based on truth rather than fear. This isn't easy work, but it's the work that transforms not just how we respond to adversity, but how we show up in every aspect of our lives—as partners, parents, leaders, and human beings committed to living with courage and authenticity.