Maybe It's You

Warning Label

Okay. So, not only do I curse, I've been known, on occasion (often), to speak my own Yoda-like language, a combination of wise gibberish, Yiddish, and English. Let's call it Giddish. And though I wish I could tell you many heart-wrenching stories of my own triumph over adversity, I don't really have any. Sure, I dealt with shit. (The likes of which you'll hear more than you possibly bargained for in the pages that follow.) But it's not the deep, dark, and ruthless shit that many of you have. I did not rise from the ashes. I rose from Long Island. My stories are not yours. I know that. What I can tell you, though, is that ever since I was little, I have been on a crusade to heal this world.

As far back as I can remember, I have been up in everybody's faces, a pain in people's asses about their lives and their dreams. I've held my parents to account, inspired my siblings to grow up, and cleaned up every last lie I ever told. I've done every step of this method on myself and have handheld the addicted, the abused, the mean, and the meek—and dared them to do the same. I have helped the lost find their way, and the great to grow.

So, although there is no phoenix here, there is, nonetheless, a fierce, stubborn, wildly insightful, arrogantly honest, crazily committed, and caring human, who will take the heat, the brunt of whatever silver spoon joke you may have, so I can help you have everything you want in your life.

And I mean everything.

(Don't Skip This) Introduction

The Concession Stand

ME, MYSELF, AND WHY

Look. Let's be honest here. If you're looking for niceties, tissues, and sympathy, you've come to the wrong place. I'm not that girl. This is not that book.

But maybe you're fed up. You're hoping this is the last self-help book your self will ever need. You're more than ready, willing, (a mite masochistic) and able.

You've come to the right place.

Truth is, we're not happy campers, but we so want to be. We're buying all the books. We're watching all the shows. We're on all the diets. But still, lasting change is not happening.

What's up with that?

What I've found is that no one is really asking the right questions. No one is really teaching us how to live a life worth living. We are all so busy just reacting to life, so inundated with learning about Christopher Columbus, reading seven hundred books we're going to forget, getting into college, paying off college, and achieving all of our goals that we're not really designing our dream life at all. We're so much greater and more capable than this, except we're not breaking into our own life and discovering our real voice, our real truth, and our real ability to live a life we care so much more about than the one we're seemingly stuck in.

This book is the beginning of f*ck that (a technical term).

There truly is a before and an after to reading this book. Thank you (ridiculously, in advance) for being the type of human who wants a life you believe in, but aren't necessarily in, yet. I promise you, if you really dig into this book, read the stories, and do all of the work, your life will never be the same. I will have bitten you.

How'd I get bit?

Please take a moment and reread the warning label at the beginning of this book. In particular, see: no hellfires here.

The summer before my second sophomore year of college,^* I went to Israel. The big deal of this summer adventure was not so much that I, a Jew, was going to the promised land (we do that), but that I was going there on my own dime, and was, for the first time in my life, going somewhere alone, with zero plans.

I landed in the most gorgeous, most unhip, un-happening kibbutz ever, where there were very few (about two) people who spoke English. The English speaker I befriended was this deep, smart, but overwhelmingly sad man. He was in a relationship with an older woman from the kibbutz who was separated from her city-dwelling husband but was neither planning on divorcing him nor telling him (or many other people in her life) about her new relationship.

See: reason for sad.

He and I were close. I knew every last thing about him and he, me. He was so miserable in his own love story, but had so much compassion for his girlfriend's plight and bought every last one of her excuses that I spent a lot of time arguing with him and fighting harder for his happiness than he. He looked at me like I was a criminal for wanting to change the world, let alone him.

He believed, in no uncertain terms, that you don't get in the world's way.

Meanwhile, I was deeply happy on the kibbutz. I had my routine down and I loved it. I woke up early. Cooked for the entire place. Napped. Read Carlos Castaneda. Listened to my four cassettes: Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, Rickie Lee Jones, Cat Stevens, and The The. Ran. And pressed repeat.

One day, as I was walking to the volunteer quarters for my nap, I heard something that sounded like, "Look in the bushes, Lauren, right now." And though I certainly heard it—whatever it was (a thought? an internal voice? God/Morgan Freeman?), I, in no uncertain terms, ignored it.

But then I heard "it" again.

And I remember thinking, what the f*ck, Lauren, just listen to yourself. So I did. And in the bushes were two baby birds, without their mother.

I proceeded to wig out.

Not just because of the birding bush moment (and/or the stroke I may have just had), but because I had no idea what to do with the birds. There was no nest. So, I did the only thing I could think of doing—I ran back to the kitchen for help. And whom do I run into? Who else?

The sad, complacent man.

Yes. I asked a fatalist what I should do.

He looked at me like I was the same naive, wide-eyed idealist I always was. "Leave them alone, Lauren. It's fine," he said. Argh. Except, maybe this time he was right. I mean, I knew if I took the birds and they died, I'd feel more responsible for their death than had I left them where I found them.

I went back to my room. I couldn't rest; I was too busy debating with myself. Forty-five minutes passed before I growled, grumbled, and got the eff up to go save the birds. When I got there (and I knew exactly where there was), one of the birds was gone, perhaps it had flown away, while the other was gone too (only, in the dead sense).

In that moment, I had my own revelation.

I knew that I would never ever call that shot again. I would never let my own fear or worry over an outcome or another person's point of view get in the way of my doing the right thing. I had the capacity in that instance that many other creatures don't—to save another, and I blew it. I chickened out. I made a vow right then and there to live to cause change and never leave anyone behind. If I could do something about it, I should.

The only problem was that I was now in an even bigger quandary.

I was faced with the fact that at home my life was a secret-keeping shit show of examples of things I didn't respect or do anything about, myself included. I went home to New York and blew up everything that needed blowing up: friendships, boyfriends, and, yes, a future divorce. When a dear friend asked me if he should marry my best friend, who I knew was cheating on him, I told him only if he found out what she wasn't telling him.

It went as well as you can imagine.

Reckless of me? Sure. Hey, I was new at this vow. There were bound to be some ruffled feathers, roadkill, and many apologies I would owe in my near future. This was the beginning of the end of all the lies in my life, the end of my being fake, and of holding back.

I became me.

I used my transferring to George Washington University as the opportunity it was to abandon ship, start over, and hunt for a whole new community of friends. I was free, happy, and proud in every area of my life, save one.

I couldn't find love (or even get laid) for the life of me.

I was inexplicably benched for the year. Even when it looked like my luck had changed on Halloween, when I was dressed in my best who-gives-a-crap catsuit and hat and got picked up by one of GW's hottest soccer superstars, I got dumped the very next day by him for being Jewish. It was all so odd. Clearly, I was getting dinged for something. I just couldn't figure out for what.

Then I got the memo—my own (and soon, yours).

Unless I designed what I truly and deeply wanted in every area of my life—in this case, my dream when it came to love—I was stuck in a purgatory of sorts; stuck in default, in a reaction to my past, instead of a new and true to my own ideal's design.

The only way out of my purgatory was by breaking into my own life.

I spent the next twenty-five years rewiring myself and creating, evolving, testing, and proving The Handel Method, a step-by-step coaching process that addresses one's entire life and is the basis for this book. The method has changed the lives of tens of thousands of private and corporate clients. It teaches people how to dream, how to realize every last one of their dreams, and how to clean out their closets (literal and figurative), so they can have lives that they're wildly proud of.

In 2005, I met and coached David Mindell, who was not only an esteemed professor at MIT, but was also on the task force assigned to rethink MIT's core curriculum. David was so blown away by his coaching experience that he walked the methodology right into MIT.

A year later, David and I were teaching a three-day pilot course to fifteen students based on The Handel Method. The course, now called "Design Your Life," proved such a success that by 2006, we taught sixty more undergrads, grads, postdocs, alumni, and faculty. Students described the course as "life changing" and "one of the most valuable classes they had ever taken." A full 93.2 percent of them stated that they would recommend the course to others, with many others noting that they wished their family or coworkers could take it as well.

As you can imagine, these MIT students weren't the easiest of "clients," but, without a doubt, were some of the smartest. This is what one chemical engineering student said about the course:

Ten years (and more than five hundred MIT students) later, the course is a beloved tradition among the university's students. And we didn't stop with the kids at that one campus—the "Design Your Life" course has been integrated into thirty-five other educational programs, universities, and institutes of learning across the country, including Stanford Graduate School of Business, Stanford University School of Medicine, NYU, Columbia University, Yale School of Drama, Wesleyan University, and the New York City public school system. We are teaching "Design Your Life" in middle schools, high schools, residence halls, and postdoctoral programs, as well as to teachers, faculty members, and administrators all around North America.

How many life coaches can tout that? Not to mention potty-mouthed ones who wear ripped jeans and feathers in their hair?!

I remember thinking forever ago, if I had the gumption to head straight into the schools and teach kids real-life education—how to dream, how to tell the truth, how to be in a relationship, how to forgive their parents and love their siblings, no matter what—wouldn't that make the greatest difference in the world?

Answer: yes.

So here I am. Staying steadfast and true to the promise I made back in the promised land—my, uh, bird calling. I've had maybe one other moment in my life where something came to me and spoke to me that was me. It's a voice I hardly ever get to hear.

But trust me, I now trust me—and listen.

Although I wish I could say that the coaching in this book has never before been spewed, it's not so. However, what I can claim with certainty is that what sets The Handel Method apart is how I, with honesty, balls, and a profound understanding of humanity's predicament, will dig deep to your very core.

The Handel Method works because it's not an idea or a philosophy or a concept or a "way of thinking," like other programs. Instead, The Handel Method is just what it sounds like—a method. It has clear, organized steps to follow. The structure and format of Maybe It's You is broken down into ten coaching sessions, and at the end of each chapter you will be given written assignments designed to address the areas in your life that matter most to you. Throughout the book, I'll also share four of my clients' inspiring stories of change and assignments they did with me to help you with yours.

Some of the assignments in here are indeed doozies (a military term).

Keep breathing, roll up your sleeves, and yes, feel free to figure out what to secretly name the computer file where you'll stash them. Hell, call it something no one would ever consider opening, like "Dental Records: 1998–2010." Or maybe, you're the old-school type and prefer to handwrite your assignments and would rather buy a bound journal (in the lock-and-key sense) in which to secretly write out your responses, indecipherably. Either way, do what works for you. Just remind yourself, if you're the type that needs an honest but swift kick—your old way of doing things is what got you here.

I'm not going to lie. Maybe It's You isn't easy. You and I are going on a ride, a road trip, of sorts. You're going to drive, because who else should, while I call shotgun, bark, and point. Yes, I'm that kind of GPS lady. But where I'm taking you, if you're willing to go, is where your happiness resides.

Are you coming?

I dare you. But think about it. I'm not prescribing ten years of therapy to get you there. I'm offering you ten sessions based on twenty years of work I've already done and 22,000 guinea pigs before you.

Hey, it could be worse. You could have been my very first client…^*