I don’t make resolutions. A resolution is a promise in a business suit and, as the saying goes; promises are made to be broken.

For years I met my best friend every Saturday morning for breakfast and, for years, she ‘d ask me to pick up a newspaper on my way. My response was always the same, “I can’t promise.” It drove her crazy. She accused me of being stubborn. I wasn’t stubborn, I was busy. I had three kids, 1 husband, 2 dogs, and a job to tend to. My friend’s newspaper wasn’t likely to make the top of my to-do list. If I make a promise, it’s a sure thing, and there aren’t very many of those.

I do, however, set intentions. It’s not a formal thing. I don’t write anything down, light candles, chant, or tell people. My intentions usually arise from something I feel strongly about, or some kind of character issue I want to change.

2014 was Shane’s last year to play football. With that in mind, I decided to involve myself wholly. I joined committees, went to meetings, and attended every event possible. I stuffed goodie bags, decorated lockers, cooked meals for coaches, and danced while waving pom-poms in front of a bonfire to the tune of “Bang Bang”.

That’s right…”Bang Bang”.

My goal was to prevent regret. I didn’t want to look back a couple of years from now and think, “I wish I’d done that.” I accomplished that goal.

Somewhere along the way though…without my even noticing or giving permission…the goal became secondary. Once it was over, after tears were shed over hugs that said “Thank you for making these memories with me.”, I realized the true gift of my involvement.

I thought I’d done well. People tell me that all the time. They marvel at how well I’m doing “under the circumstances”. They remark on my strength and the way I carry on despite the death of my son. It wasn’t until recently though, after spending lots of time with beautiful, strong, smart women whose sons also play football, that I realized I hadn’t actually been “doing” at all. I was “being”…and there’s a big difference between doing and being.

Starting in August, I spent many hours over several days every week in the company of women who know how to wear a hat, and run a business, in boots up to her knees. Some of them travel to places I’ve only dreamed of, while others join me in a daily commute. They are teachers, and accountants, and “family managers”. They are readers, and tennis players, and dancers. They are mothers, and daughters, and grandmothers, and sisters. And they gave me back a part of myself I didn’t know I’d lost.

It showed in my professionally manicured nails, in my new haircut, and in my face. My step was quicker, full of purpose, and accompanied by an occasional swing of my happily shrinking hips. Meetings and events meant fewer evenings spent in pajamas and more opportunities to change shoes. I had to step up my game! Instead of searching for excuses not to go out, I found myself planning what I’d wear while imagining who I’d see and what we’d do when I got there.

I’ve known some of them longer than others. Many of the boys have played together since they were six, and many of their mothers brought flowers or food along with condolences when my son died. Others in our group have no idea, but it didn’t matter. All of them contributed to my healing and I am filled with gratitude.

Today I’ll set new intentions for the coming year while keeping in mind that the true gift sometimes comes when we aren’t even paying attention, and always after we get out of the way. I’ll also put the first note in my new gratitude jar. It’ll be a long one. I am blessed.