There’s a story I once heard on the radio and it haunted me for years. A reporter for The New Yorker went to San Francisco to interview the very small group of people who have jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge – and survived. The circumstances that led each of them to hurl their lives away were different, but what they shared afterward was strikingly similar. Each of the jumpers described a moment of clarity, right after jumping, where all they felt was regret. One survivor said that as soon as his hand left the railing, he realized in that moment that everything in his life that he thought was not fixable, was utterly fixable. “As soon as I jumped,” he said. “I realized that my life before was perfect.”

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If you work with people who are in career transition, as I often do, you end up hearing a lot of interesting stuff about what goes on inside companies. There are many reasons why a person might decide to leave one job to pursue another. Often there are grievances involved. But far and away the commonest reason I hear for people quitting their jobs – is a lack of recognition and acknowledgment for work they have done.

Time and again I hear things like: “It would have been nice to have gotten a pat on the back once in a while. You know, it was the kind of place where you rarely heard the word thanks. I never knew if my contribution mattered. The only time I ever heard from my boss was if I did something wrong.”

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So I turned 37 this week, and I’ll admit that I am quite lucky. I’ve been told by some of my childhood friends that my face hasn’t changed at all since Kindergarten. It’s almost embarrassing really. When I meet people for the first time, they often interrupt me and ask without apology, “How old are you?” Thinking about my birthday this week and the passage of time, it stirred up a lot questions. What have I learned and how have I grown during the past twelve months? Am I wiser, more content? Did I cross anything off my bucket list?

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While watching after my mom last weekend, I got to thinking about her state of mind. She suffers from dementia, so her short-term memory is limited and she is typically confused with even the simplest tasks. Due to her forgetfulness, she no longer drives and has to depend completely on others for the activities of daily living. Observing the progression of her illness is alarming. The look of bewilderment that often falls across her face tells me it is probably very scary for her as well.

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Yesterday, while running in Central Park, I noticed a young father helping his son as they both rode bicycles. I couldn’t help but smile as I watched Dad push his boy on the back, ever so gently coaxing him up the hill. It was a steep incline, so the little guy needed multiple shoves in order to reach the top where he was then able to pedal over the crest and down the other side. 

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