{"product_id":"proof-of-life-isbn-9780593474075","title":"Proof of Life","description":"\u003cb\u003eNATIONAL BESTSELLER\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn urgent rallying cry to stop holding back and start living life on your terms.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJen Pastiloff convinced herself \u003ci\u003eMy life is fine and fine’s enough\u003c\/i\u003e, until the whisper that something was missing turned full-on scream. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis is Pastiloff’s account of how she reclaimed her voice and desire by radically changing her life. She did this despite believing that change equaled death ever since her beloved father died when she was eight. (Much to her shock, change did not equal death.) She shows us it is never too late to begin again, or to let go of stories like: \u003ci\u003eI don’t deserve this; I don’t get to be happy; no one will love me; I’m too old\u003c\/i\u003e, to name a few. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThrough this book, you’ll quiet your \u003ci\u003eInner Asshole\u003c\/i\u003e, participate in the cathartic process of \u003ci\u003eShame Loss\u003c\/i\u003e, ignore the \u003ci\u003eImaginary Time Gods\u003c\/i\u003e, use creativity as a portal into healing and connection, and become your own permission slip. Complete with takeaways in Jen’s signature style, creativity prompts, and poetry, \u003ci\u003eProof of Life\u003c\/i\u003e is funny, inspiring, and full of love. This book is a reminder that your birthright is not stress or shame and that you don’t have to show proof that you are worthy or deserving. You are your own proof of life.\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eProof of Life\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Jennifer Pastiloff’s writing never fails to amaze me, with its depth of honesty and wisdom, and that great sense of humor. I’m a huge fan.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Anne Lamott \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This book is medicine and magic. I read \u003ci\u003eProof of Life\u003c\/i\u003e at a heartbreaking time, and it left me better than it found me. Jennifer Pastiloff has a gift for saying exactly what we need to hear in exactly the way we need to hear it. \u003ci\u003eProof of Life \u003c\/i\u003eis compassionate, deeply funny, and full of wisdom.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Maggie Smith, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of\u003ci\u003e You Could Make This Place Beautiful\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eProof of Life \u003c\/i\u003eis the book I wish I’d had when I was younger. A beautiful reminder that shame isn’t our burden to carry, that our story is ours, and that no one ELSE, no matter what, gets to write that story. Through humor and tears, Pastiloff will inspire you to become your own permission slip, as you reclaim any parts of yourself you may have lost along the way.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Monica Lewinsky\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In \u003ci\u003eProof of Life\u003c\/i\u003e, Jennifer Pastiloff dares to teeter while daring us to acknowledge that she sees us teetering. The book is a wonderful example of radical hope in motion.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Kiese Laymon, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eHeavy\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“With \u003ci\u003eProof of Life, \u003c\/i\u003eJennifer Pastiloff is using a literary platform to dismantle and reconfigure all that makes life worth its agonies and ecstasies. She does this by endorsing herself as the great experiment that prevails, the raw and beautiful power of example that she has come to be.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Josh Brolin, author of \u003ci\u003eFrom Under the Truck \u003c\/i\u003eand Academy Award nominee\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eJennifer Pastiloff\u003c\/b\u003e trots the globe as a public speaker and to host her retreats to Italy, as well as her one-of-a-kind workshops, which she has taught to thousands of people all over the world. The author of the popular Substack, also called \u003ci\u003eProof of Life\u003c\/i\u003e, she teaches writing and creativity classes called \u003ci\u003eAllow, \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eworkshops called \u003ci\u003eShame Loss, \u003c\/i\u003ewhen she isn’t painting and selling her art.\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eShe has been featured on \u003ci\u003eGood Morning America\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eKatie Couric\u003c\/i\u003e, and in \u003ci\u003eNew York\u003c\/i\u003e magazine, \u003ci\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eShape\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eHealth\u003c\/i\u003e magazine, and other media outlets for her authenticity and unique voice. She is deaf, reads lips, and mishears almost everything, but what she hears is usually funnier (at least she thinks so). The author of the national bestseller \u003ci\u003eOn Being Human,\u003c\/i\u003e Pastiloff lives in Southern California with her son, Charlie Mel.Chapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou Get to Have This\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere I was. Saying one thing and living another. Trudging through my days, Bullshit Stories tethered tightly to me. The ones that said I had nothing to show for myself or my life and that I did not deserve love, and I certainly did not get to be happy. I was in my forties and still trying to convince the world (the world meaning only myself) that I was not bad, and the world (meaning only myself) was not having any of it. Not be convinced, I let myself stay shackled to those stories and took whatever I could beg, steal, or borrow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWho was I to ask for-or even want-anything different?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe School of the Seven Bells\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was almost pickpocketed. Twice. First in Rome and then again in Paris. Almost, because neither of my pickpockets were very good thieves.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere used to be a school for pickpockets. The School of the Seven Bells is said to be based in Colombia. There are exams, it being a school and all. One test required the hopeful pickpocket to try to pickpocket the teacher, whose suit pockets had seven hidden bells sewn inside. The goal was to pick the mark clean without ringing any of the bells.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDo you ever think about what you have taken? Beliefs that you took to be true when they weren’t? Shame that wasn’t yours? What about mediocrity, misery, and even abuse because you believed it was all you deserved?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI find old notes in handwriting that is no longer mine, written in the margins of poems I wrote decades ago. My handwriting has gotten illegible over time. The letters run into each other as if they don't know where they end and the next begins. I have forgotten how to do this basic thing. Now dot the i, cross the t, and let your fingers find the rhythm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf, like me, you (mostly) don't listen to yourself (except when you're being hard on yourself), if you listen better and pay more attention when someone else says something, let me be that someone else saying something. What I am saying is: You get to have this. You don't have to beg, or borrow, or steal. You get to have this (whatever your this is).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe most memorable time I was almost pickpocketed was in Paris. By the Seine, I scooped down to pick up a ring glimmering in the sun, even though it was hideous. It was a huge ring, and with my unusually small (but wide) hands, it looked almost as big as my whole hand, like I had a third hand, just filthy and more copper-toned. I don’t even like copper, but I was thrilled at my luck of finding something. It didn’t matter what. I had that rush of excitement we can get when we find something, as if suddenly anything might be possible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf I found this, what else can I find? inevitably bubbles up, however briefly, before we go back to disbelieving in our own good fortune.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA man ran over and began speaking in a language I didn't understand as he tried to grab the ring from me. I held on tight as if it had always been mine. I lied and told him I'd dropped it. He yelled at me, in English.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou must pay me for the ring! It is mine! he claimed, his arms flailing wildly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI gave him the ring, which couldn't have been worth more than a few dollars.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was miffed at how quickly I succumbed to lying and possessiveness, just for the sake of having.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe intricacies of thievery, with its endless possible outcomes, including forgetting what is ours, who we are, and what we get to have.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHave you thought about what you want? I’m talking middle-of-the-night radically honest want of all wants that you can only whisper into crouched darkness. Have you ever tried bringing it into the light? What happens when you name it? I urge you to see what happens for yourself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI refused to acknowledge what I wanted, even in my most private moments of solitude and darkest of dark hours. Were I to admit what was so (such as my profound hearing loss), or what I really wanted, I knew I'd then have to do something about it. Or else face that I'd surrendered into complacency.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInstead, I chose not to name what I wanted so I could stay feeling safe. Albeit, this was a false sense of safety, which was also a choice. I convinced myself that never changing, and that sameness and consistency, would equal safety. If I could count on it being the same as it always was (nothing ever is, so this was a ridiculous way to lie to myself), then no one would suddenly leave or drop dead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat it really meant was a lack of growth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt also meant feeling like an imposter for not being self-expressed and having a longing for something that I did not know I wanted. An ignored longing becomes an itch you can never alleviate because you can't figure out where it's coming from, and each time you think you've got it, it moves.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf you keep naming it though, you'll start to feel comfortable with the words. Like you have the right to hold them in your mouth, which you do. Naming what we are afraid to is a kind of sorcery; you'll suddenly notice what you've named all around you. Eventually, it will become impossible to deny and it begins to feel real, which was the thing I was most afraid of. Because then what? Now what?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf you are willing to investigate what things you might want, which could you live without? Which are you already without?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI carried an ancient belief that I did not get to have what I wanted and had trained myself to not even notice I was going without. It was easy to go without, I thought.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDon't mistake me; my life was fine. I would not dare whisper to even the washing machine what it was that I hungered for: a deep connection with a partner, a true sense of home, big love, intimacy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'm still discovering what I want. There are so many things to want in this life, but the beginning and the end is love. If you have trouble remembering what love looks like (and we all do because besides us, love is the supreme shape-shifter) here are a few images to jog your memory:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe friend who stood suddenly in your garage that day just to give you a hug when she knew you needed it more than anything.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe coffee that's there by your bedside when you wake every morning, which could just as easily be a note saying I love you, and how you drink it even though it's cold by the time you wake because the person who placed it there let\u003cbr\u003eyou sleep.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe way your mother seemingly one day fell in love with birds and you accepted the bird lady part of her as if it were always there, and maybe it was, because that kind of delight over small-winged things, over anything, is contagious.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLove can be so many things, but one thing about it is unfaltering: No one can take it away from you. Love is what you are, and I can't say that I know the beginning from the end or what either means anymore, but I do know this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot only is love what is worth having, it also is what we all inherently get to have. It's our birthright.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Mommy, We Can't Be Two Things at Once\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBear with this time jump. Although I haven't shared much yet about the dissolution of my marriage, this interlude is important. It was the moment I knew I had to embody I get to have this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRobert, my then husband, and I had been separated for only a few months. Charlie and I were sitting in bed watching a movie when he began to cry. I hugged him and asked what was wrong, even though I had a hunch he was struggling with what was happening between his dad and me. A couple days earlier, he had an outburst in the car, moaning things about his daddy and me that I couldn't make out because he was in the back and I couldn't read his lips. It's frustrating that I can't understand anything coming from the back or passenger seats when I am in the car with other people, but when it's your own child and they are upset, go ahead and just cue a panic attack.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI begged him to wait until I stopped driving, but to no avail.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhy can't Mommy and Daddy be at the house at the same time? I don't want you to get divorced, he cried while we were watching the movie that night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe had said nothing about divorce to him, but he has the emotional intelligence of an old wise grandma (probably channeling my Bubbie).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wondered what he believed divorce meant? At the time, we were flip-flopping the house and apartment, or nesting, as it's commonly called. The child stays put, and the parents shuffle. I held my son as he cried in my bed, and a minute later, he asked if we could put the movie back on. He was upset, but not inconsolable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEven when we had been in the house at the same time, Robert and I were rarely in the same room together. I had never allowed myself to really consider how we were existing. We were more like roommates.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt occurred to me how it must have already seemed to Charlie like Mommy and Daddy didn't live together. It apparently seemed that way to everyone else.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe morning after he'd shed those tears, he was his normal, cheerful self. Nothing delights me more than the fact that my son came into the world with a joyful disposition, because sometimes, the apple does fall far.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe cuddled and did our silly morning dances.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, Charlie, remember how you were upset? You kept asking why Daddy and I can't be here at the same time? Well, sometimes mommies and daddies do better as friends. Daddy and I are really good friends. We are happier that way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe looked at me, confused.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Mommy, he said, you can't be two things at once.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere it was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI decided to gift my son with the possibilities of what we get to have in life, if we are willing to allow for them. This meant I had to walk my talk.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis best friend's parents were divorced and couldn't be in the same room together. The police were involved, and there was fighting and restraining orders. Charlie had intimated that Robert and I were going to divorce, so he associated the word with all he knew of it: what he'd seen and experienced at his friend's house. I was blown away by his ability to communicate that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe explained that he did not think you could be divorced and also friends.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh, honey. You absolutely can be two things at once. In fact, you can be way more than two things at once. So much of life is about holding more than one thing at a time, I said into his hair as I kissed him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNothing is more important to me than having the courage to be who I say I am. I want to model to my child that I live what comes out of my mouth, as best as I can.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wish we all learned at a young age that life isn't binary and that it's never just one thing. That there's always an and.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI explained this all before school, which made him late, but I like to ignore the Imaginary Time Gods and will often choose cuddling with him over being on time to school. Come arrest me, Mom Police. I'll even make you coffee.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDoing It Anyway\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt my Italy retreat in 2023, Stephanie Monds joined us. She is one of my I Got You People, through and through. Stephanie is a writer who has fought to see herself as one. Does that sound familiar? Even if it isn't about being a writer, necessarily?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe has been in a cycle of poverty for her entire life. Being the primary breadwinner, she often had to travel to find work as a nurse, sometimes living states away from her family, which was exhausting and unsustainable. She didn't allow herself to grieve-something I understand and perhaps you do, too. She found other coping mechanisms instead, so that she could return to work as soon as possible to continue supporting her family. She believed that she couldn't afford to grieve, in any sense. I get it, and even though it's rarely true that we don't get to grieve, I understood what she meant in every part of me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the retreat in Italy, Stephanie stood and told us about the early days of grieving the loss of her daughter. If someone would’ve just held my hand instead of repeating all the usual shitty things people say to a person who’s grieving, it would’ve meant the world to me. They said things like, “Well, at least you have your other children.” Or “I remember how hard it was when my granny died.” Or “God’s got her now.” And of course, the standard: “She’s with the angels at last.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn the rare occasions I'd snap out of my state of catatonia, all I wanted to say was, \"Fuck you, the horse you rode in on, your God, and your damn angels.\" But I didn't. I'd just nod my head and force a fake smile.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI hated everyone, especially myself, for feeling that way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore the retreat, as I boarded my flight, Stephanie had sent me a text.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe'd never left the country and was petrified.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'm just a ball of nerves. I'm bringing some of Avah's ashes. I may do a small ceremony for her. She's the reason I met you. The reason I'm going to Italy. It's only right to leave a piece of her there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt took so much to get her to say yes to the trip. Some of the things it took:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eReleasing irrational fears about traveling, leaving the country, flying, and getting lost.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLetting go of any belief suggesting she wasn't worthy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePutting down the guilt she carried for leaving and for Avah dying.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePutting down her imposter syndrome and her Bullshit Story that she didn't belong in Italy with us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAllowing herself to accept funds that were raised for her, without shame and without making it mean something\u003cbr\u003eother than that she was supported and loved.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe did what it takes to say I get to have this, and she boarded her flight with the extreme prowess it took to bring her daughter's ashes along, in her suitcase.","brand":"Dutton","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233493332197,"sku":"NP9780593474075","price":29.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593474075.jpg?v=1767735176","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/proof-of-life-isbn-9780593474075","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}