Remembering the People Who Shaped Us

 

Me as a young "Jr. Trainer".

Have you ever noticed how certain people come to mind at unexpected moments? Maybe it is when you have accomplished something, reached a milestone, or handled a situation in a way that feels distinctly like you. Suddenly, someone from your school days or early in your career surfaces in your thoughts, as if they are quietly behind the scenes of your success.

I have had a few of these people in my own life and career, individuals who, often without knowing it, influenced how I developed my own style at work and in life. They were not necessarily formal mentors or supervisors. Sometimes they were teachers, early colleagues, or simply people I admired from afar. What they shared, in different ways, were qualities that left a lasting impression, confidence, kindness, curiosity, integrity, or a steady belief in me before I fully believed in myself.

Early in my career at Chubb Insurance, I was a Junior Training Associate, back when we still called it “Training” rather than Learning and Development. That’s where I worked with a colleague named Mark. Looking back now, he probably was not that much older than me, but at 23 I thought he was ancient.

Mark was an excellent instructor. He was funny, engaging, and, most importantly, he knew how to get his points across. Watching him in the classroom, I did not just see a good trainer, I saw the kind of professional I wanted to become. I admired his style and, in many ways, wanted to be just like him.

One day my manager assigned me to a sales training program, the same one Mark delivered, with the goal of cross training me. My first task was simply to observe him. I sat quietly in the back of the room, taking copious notes, not just on the content but on how he moved, how he handled questions, how he read the room, and how he kept people engaged.

A few days later, I was asked to present parts of that same program to Mark alone so he could give me feedback. I remember feeling nervous. This was my chance to step into a role I admired, guided by someone I deeply respected.

To make a long story short, I memorized the program and delivered it almost exactly as Mark had. I used his jokes, his mannerisms, even many of his questions. In effect, I became a mini Mark. I remember feeling proud of myself, after all, I had replicated what I thought was excellent training.

Afterward, Mark took me aside to give me feedback. As you can imagine, his response was both kind and insightful. He told me, gently but clearly, that while I had done a good job, I could not simply be a copy of him. If I wanted to be effective, I needed to make the program my own.

He encouraged me to develop my own opening, use my own questions, and lean into my own style and way of persuading an audience. You have to make it relatable to yourself, he said, before you can make it relatable to others. After doing that, we’d try it again.

That day opened my eyes to the power of going off script, of creating and delivering training that felt authentic, human, and relatable rather than simply rehearsed. It changed the way I approached my work from that point forward.

Over the years, I went on to design and deliver a multitude of programs and work with hundreds of people. I’ve been told that my style feels non threatening, accessible, and easy to connect with, feedback that has always meant a great deal to me. But what mattered most was this. Participants did not just enjoy the training, they actually used what they learned and succeeded with it. For me, that has always been the most meaningful level of training evaluation.

In many ways, that early lesson from Mark shaped not just how I trained others, but how I showed up as a professional. My hope is that I have been able to do the same for others along the way.

One of the themes in Caitlin’s Star is remembering the people who have made a difference in our lives. Mark is one of those people for me, not someone I remember only in the past, but someone whose influence is very much alive today. We still occasionally keep in touch, and his impact continues to show up in how I work, how I teach, and how I treat others.

 

The Bonds That Outlasted the Job

 Work friendships are so important, and you may not fully realize it until years later. How could they not be, when you spend nine or ten hours a day with people, day after day and year after year? They become something like family.

You may have lunch together or occasionally meet for drinks after work. You may share bosses, coworkers, or projects, or you may not. You might come from different departments and find one another through a cross-team initiative or simply discover a connection that grows into something special.

No matter the circumstances, you come to care for one another. And if you are lucky, those friendships endure even after one or more of you leave the company.

Today, I am met a small group of former Johnson & Johnson colleagues for lunch, people I have not worked with in years, yet still consider close friends. Our connection has outlived projects, reorganizations, and even my own departure from the company in 2008. That continuity is what has made me think more deeply about what makes work friendships endure.

As I reflect on these friendships, both the ones gathering today and one that has lasted more than three decades, I’m reminded of what truly makes relationships endure. It isn’t proximity, titles, or shared projects. It’s mutual respect, the kind that makes you genuinely value one another as people. It’s emotional safety, that feeling that you can be yourself without being judged and it’s repeated choice — the willingness to keep showing up for one another, even when life, careers, and geography pull you in different directions.

Jobs end. Companies change. People move or even retire. Still, the right friendships don’t disappear, they evolve. And in that evolution, there is something deeply meaningful and profoundly human.

Caitlin's Star Sources

 
 

Welcome, Caitlin’s Star is an interactive picture book offering comfort to children and families navigating loss. Explore the book, media features, and related resources below.

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Nancy Range Anderson reads Caitlin's Star here.  

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This isn’t going to be pretty. It’s raw, it’s relevant, and it’s not something to be dismissed.

I’ve witnessed ageism in the workplace for years. Not always in obvious ways, but in quieter, more corrosive ones. Decisions made without input. Opportunities quietly withheld. Urgency that fades as experience increases.

I’ve seen people on the cusp of their 50s labeled “too expensive,” quietly let go, or encouraged to exit, only to watch their roles reappear with new titles and younger staff hired at significantly reduced salaries to do the same work. It’s rarely discussed openly. Instead, it’s framed as restructuring, right-sizing, or bringing in fresh perspective. But the message is clear to anyone paying attention. Experience becomes a liability when it costs more.

What I didn’t expect was to encounter that same pattern in a doctor’s office.

On December 16, I had an MRI of my knee. The findings were serious. I did not learn that because my orthopedic doctor called me. I learned it by reading the report myself on my radiology patient portal. Days passed. Then weeks. No explanation. No guidance. No call.

What made this experience especially unsettling was the seriousness of the medical situation and the absence of communication around it.

The MRI showed advanced damage. This was not a minor finding or a casual “we’ll keep an eye on it” situation. Yet no one contacted me to explain the results or discuss next steps. I had to interpret the report myself and repeatedly reach out just to understand what was happening in my own body.

As my pain escalated dramatically, the silence became more troubling. I was left to manage worsening symptoms without guidance, without context, and without a clear plan. When I ultimately sought care elsewhere, I was told that I need total knee replacement surgery. That level of intervention underscored how serious the condition had already become.

That gap between the severity of the diagnosis and the lack of response is where ageism often lives in medicine. Not in overt cruelty, but in diminished urgency.

In the workplace, ageism often sounds like assumptions.
They can tolerate more.
They don’t need the same explanation.
There’s no need to rush.

In healthcare, those same assumptions can have real consequences.

I was also left questioning whether a conservative gel injection, intended to help, instead triggered or accelerated the inflammatory cascade that led to debilitating pain. A second physician acknowledged that this was a reasonable concern. But by then, the damage had been done.

This isn’t about villainizing one doctor. It’s about recognizing a broader pattern that many older adults, particularly women, will recognize immediately. A pattern where communication thins, follow-up slows, and patients are left to advocate for themselves at precisely the moment they are most vulnerable.

Ageism doesn’t always look like disrespect.
Sometimes it looks like silence.

And whether it happens in a conference room or an exam room, silence has consequences.

I am moving forward now with a surgeon who listens, explains, and treats my condition with the seriousness it deserves. I am grateful for that. But I am also paying attention.

Because dignity, transparency, and timely communication should not diminish with age. And no one, in the workplace or in healthcare, should have to fight to be seen, heard, or taken seriously.

Go On Ahead Without Me

I keep thinking of those old cowboy or army movies where someone who is injured or tired turns to the group and says,
“Go on ahead without me, boys. Don’t let me hold you back.”

It’s an acknowledgment that the pace has changed, and that staying behind isn’t quitting… it’s necessary.

That line has been echoing in my head lately.

Not because I want to stop moving forward, but because my body has made it clear that I can’t keep the same pace I once did. My knees have slowed me down in ways I didn’t plan or choose. Walking is harder. Pivoting brings sharp pain. Stairs require strategy. Sleep doesn’t come easily. I guess it is a result of a lifetime of moving, dancing, bending, running and living.

There’s grief in realizing I can’t do the things I’m used to doing — long walks, spontaneous movement, even simple errands without thinking through every step. There’s frustration in needing to sit when every instinct tells me to push through. And there’s humility in hearing my body say, firmly, now is the time to slow down. And I’ve never been very good at that.

Like many of us, I’ve tied a lot of my identity to motion — doing, creating, showing up, keeping pace. Rest has often felt like falling behind. But this season is asking something different of me. It’s asking me to step out of stride, not in defeat, but in trusting my body.

As I’ve been sitting with this, I keep thinking about Caitlin’s Star. When I wrote that story, I was writing about a child learning to live in a world that had changed. A world where things didn’t feel the same, and certainty was gone. What I didn’t realize then was how universal that lesson would be.

Change asks us to slow down.
To sit with uncertainty.
To trust that love, meaning, and light don’t disappear even when life looks different than we expected.

Recently, I was told what comes next: total knee replacement surgery on February 4th. It’s a quad-sparing procedure, which means the quadriceps muscle is preserved and recovery may be quicker although it’s still major surgery. It’s not the path I would have chosen, but it is a path forward.

I’m learning that sometimes the bravest thing we can do is acknowledge when the pace has changed and give ourselves permission to rest, regroup, and heal. Not because we’re weak. But because we’re listening.

A Light in the Window

 

When I was in high school, and well into my twenties, my mother would leave a light on when I went out at night.

In my twenties, when I went out with friends, my sister was often with me, and we didn’t always get home until the wee hours of the morning. No matter how late it was, we would pull into the driveway and see the lamp burning in our home’s hallway.

It wasn’t meant for the world to see.
It was meant for us.

I would quietly tiptoe into the house, careful not to make a sound. But as I climbed the stairs to my room, I would hear it — her soft sigh. A sigh of relief. She was awake enough to know we were home safely.

That light said everything she didn’t need to put into words.
You’re safe.
You’re home.
You’re loved.

In Caitlin’s Star, children and families are invited to reflect on the Special Jobs the people they love once did and the things that made them them. Not grand titles or careers, but the quiet roles they played so faithfully in our lives.

When I think about my mother’s Special Job, I don’t think of anything formal or extraordinary.

I think of that light.

Her Special Job was being the one who stayed awake just long enough.
The one who left the light on.
The one who watched over the night.

And when I imagine her now, I picture her doing the same thing —
a beacon,
a North Star,
welcoming one and all home.

My Word for 2026 - Heal

Yesterday, a friend invited a small group of us to her home for a light lunch and a simple craft. The project was to paint a rock with our Word for 2026. She kindly gave us a few days in advance to think about what that word might be.

What I expected to be an easy exercise took more time than I imagined.

As I reflected on everything 2025 held—publishing Caitlin’s Star, learning how to market it, managing family responsibilities, volunteering, caring for my dog, and tending to my own health, I realized how much the year asked of me emotionally, mentally, and physically.

The word I chose was Heal.

Not only for physical healing, but for emotional and spiritual healing as well. For forgiving myself for past lessons, continuing to grow, and staying open to learning. It also represents my hope to heal from the pain in my knees and to move forward with patience (someone did choose this word) and trust.

Painting that single word on a rock felt grounding. It was a quiet reminder that healing is not rushed, and that growth often happens in small, steady ways.

As we move into a new year, I’m holding space for healing in all its forms.

What is your word for 2026?