Off-Key and Afloat: Notes on Resilience
Where are you finding resilience these days?
I've been thinking about this question a lot lately — not as an abstract concept, but as something embodied, practiced, and sometimes a little silly. For me, resilience lives in many unexpected places, including a swimming pool and a circle of voices singing together.
Let me start with the pool.
One of my resilience practices is incorporating play into each of my workouts. Sometimes I'll jump and splash into the water instead of easing in. Other times, I float on my back at the end of my swim, intentionally feeling the cool water hold me up. I dolphin dive at the end of my cooldown — a nod to a coach who once made drills to learn butterfly actually fun. Once in a while, I'll add a little dance move between sets, dancing along to whatever Rod Stewart song the aqua aerobics class is playing in the lane next to me.
A stranger in a nearby lane once told me she could see the little kid in me — the one who used to go underwater every time an adult said it was time to get out and go home. She saw right into my heart. And witnessing me in my joy seemed to bring her some joy too. That moment stayed with me.
Another place I find resilience is in song — even though I sing off-key.
I love community singing so much that I'm learning to lead it. So far, a handful of groups have been willing to join me, and what happens afterward is always the same: deeper breaths, wider eyes, a little more connection in the room. Sometimes more giggling, too.
A friend and colleague taught me This House by MaMuse and Sarina Partridge, and modeled what song leading can look like. I've been practicing it ever since:
“In this house, we lead with love.
In this house, we lift each other up.
In this house, we learn to fly with the dove.
This is the house we’ve been dreaming of.”
Former colleagues, current clients, and friends know I often bring recorded songs into meetings and gatherings as a way to ground us and open our hearts before the work begins. Singing together connects, centers, and enlivens — creating a little more capacity to be in action, together.
Play, singing, time in the woods — these aren't extras or indulgences. They are key strategies for my sustainability as a changemaker. They help me access hope, imagine the future, and take action toward what I believe in. Resilience, in this way, is an essential part of organizing.
I want to be honest, too: despair, grief, and cynicism make complete sense right now, amid rising authoritarianism and so much that is genuinely hard. I feel these too. These feelings are welcome. Resilience practices aren't about toxic positivity or bypassing what's difficult. They're about having enough fuel to stay in changemaking — to keep showing up, even when it's heavy.
So I'll keep jumping into the pool. I'll keep learning to lead songs, off-key and all. And I'll keep asking:
Is there room for a moment of silly play in your day? What would be possible if you had one tiny resilience practice this week — something that opens you up, even just a little?
