It was a typical hurried morning of making breakfast, preparing lunches and packing backpacks for my two young daughters. But once I finally got them in the car, my eldest started a conversation that I wasn’t quite prepared for. We were heading down our little dirt road, past the new lambs and neighborhood emus, when she asked me: “Mom, why can’t we have Barbie dolls?”

I took a deep breath, adjusted the rear view mirror to better monitor her expression and quieted myself for a moment. For a split second I didn’t feel up to the task. “Because” certainly wouldn’t be a suitable answer. But what would be? Her question was good—it was damn important in fact—and it deserved a clear and thoughtful answer. She is six years old and I wanted to be careful to impart my adult point of view in a way that both honored her curiosity and provided a meaningful lesson for her and her sister.

Earlier that week I had explained why I didn’t want them to watch the animated version of Sabrina, the Teenage Witch anymore. As protective as I’d been in censoring viewing material, this show had apparently slipped by me and there was one episode that sealed that deal. A few characters were discussing the need to lose weight so they could fit into a pair of jeans.

I was cleaning up the living room when I overheard this part, seriously hoping that somehow I’d misunderstood. But the young witch and her friends continued to discuss their weight loss goals. I couldn’t believe the show’s utter recklessness. My husband and I have tried our best to foster a home environment full of real-talk about having a healthy relationship to food and body size. As an outspoken advocate for responsible media and healthy body image-role models for women, I had to intervene.

Click.

I turned off the TV and my girls wailed in unison. “No! Don’t! We love this show!” They were devastated. Sitting down on the rug next to them, I explained my rationale and directed them towards some other shows that they could watch instead, ones with a more positive and appropriate message.

As we neared the bottom of our quiet street and headed out on the main road toward their school several days later, I reminded them about this incident, realizing that the Barbie-question was part of the same bigger picture. I knew I had to embrace this important teaching moment.

“We’ve talked about how precious your bodies and minds are, right?”

They nodded.

“Everything in front of you affects you somehow. Right?”

“Yeah,” said my eldest.

“Well, think about how Barbie looks…I mean, do you know any women or girls who look like her?”

They both thought about it for a few seconds.

“No Mom, I don’t,” answered Jade.

“Me neither,” said Kaya.

“Well, that’s just it girls. Barbie doesn’t look like anyone in real life. She’s an inaccurate representation of women. Take my body, and grandma’s and your aunt’s…”

They both went on to name other women they know and love—teachers and family friends. Young, old, black, white, petite and voluptuous.

“They don’t look like Barbie either,” said Jade.

They were starting to get the picture—that no one, at any age, looks even remotely like Barbie.

“Women come in all shapes and sizes,” I said.

“Yep,” said Kaya, in whole-hearted agreement.

“And we’re all awesome!”

“That’s true, Mom,” said Jade.

“What a boring life it would be, if we all looked like Barbie,” I said.

“Can we go swimming this weekend?” asked Kaya.

I took the change of subject as an indication that, for now, their curiosity was satisfied. For now, they understood what they could.

But it’s a conversation I know will continue. It’s a conversation that needs to continue, inside my home and out there in the world. As my girls grow older, they’ll have to deal with a variety of cultural messages, some which will be polar opposite from the ones they’re getting from Mom and Dad.

By the time we arrived at their little school set deep in the redwoods, I turned to look at my girls and made eye contact with both, just checking in. We exchanged smiles and then got out for hugs, kisses and goodbyes. They ran off to greet their friends and teachers and as I watched them leave, I took a moment to check in with myself.

I know my daughters will have their own experiences and make their own choices. So my hope is to give them a strong foundation—one that fuels them with compassion, acceptance and respect for others and themselves.

Banning certain media and denying my girls some of the toys their friends have is meaningless without ongoing discussion about why. It’s a why I need to continue exploring within myself, with my girlfriends, with my husband and with my other male allies. Barbie’s very un-real representation of women is just one conspicuous symbol, iconic as it is—one of many glaring indications of our need to have more real-talk.

I was recently asked to be the honorary speaker at the November 1st, Knock Out Abuse 2012, an event in Washington DC that works to raise awareness and funds to put an end to domestic violence. It’s an extraordinary and remarkable organization and the gala brings people together from all over the world for an evening of entertainment, inspiration, sharing and significant fundraising.

While the invitation was quite an honor, as a hands on mother I felt the usual concern about how to extract myself from my family’s tight schedule and the ever-increasing needs of my two young daughters. My days are jam-packed with carpools, classroom assistance, tending to chickens, dogs and seven acres of olive trees! I delight in my family obligations, but they leave little time for breaks let alone quick trips across the country.

I was drawn to this event though, sensing it would provide me with an opportunity to make some meaningful connections with like-minded women so I knew I had to find a way to fit it in. My personal experience with domestic violence, as well as the various forms of abuse I endured within the modeling industry have inspired me to become a fighter for change. I’ve worked hard to find healing and overcome an abusive past. Now I find myself in a position where I can make difference for others so I’ve become passionately committed to doing what I can to ensure the safety, welfare and freedom of not only of my daughters but all our daughters.

Carre with KOA Founder Jill Sorensen, Gina Adams of FedEx Corp. and KOA Founder Cheryl Masri.

Today, from a post-election vantage point, I feel like I can take a breath knowing there is at least a four year reprieve on some of the immediate political threats facing women in the United States but I find myself still thinking about the countless women in other countries who are suffering horrific and unconscionable crimes of violence.

I find myself living with a conflicting sense of hope and fear, optimism and disbelief.  These women suffer in a world where technology enables and supports a web of communication that is unprecedented in human history. How can this technology be better used to weave a web of support to those suffering in silence? How can it be used to create a more powerful network of resources and give these people a voice? People with no protection, no rights and no hope for future change. What about them? Our sisters across the seas? Our daughters  who are victims of ‘honor killings’? Women we may never meet yet suffer emotional, physical and sexual abuse on a daily basis.

I do not yet know how to best provide this support. I only know that my willingness to stay aware, my desire to know about violence against women here and in other countries, is an important place to start.

Carre with Sana Ali, Deputy Chief of Staff to the Ambassador at Embassy of Pakistan and Locke Lord’s Shannon Grewer.

After speaking to a room of 650 women at the Knock Out Abuse event, the uniting power of sharing our stories became even more clear to me. While women across the globe have many differences- language, culture, environment-our similarities are undeniable, and the impact of abuse and oppression affects us all. During my talk I mentioned these other women, namely the young girl Malala who was shot by the Taliban for requesting that her basic human right to an education be granted. She is a woman, a fighter, our sister. These courageous individuals do not easily disappear. Especially when we continue to share their stories, speak their names and honor their efforts in our communities.

When I wrote my book Beauty Disrupted: A Memoir, in order to tell my truth, I had to take some risks. I had to be willing to be unpopular. Exposing any subject that is unpleasant or controversial means risking judgement and making some people feel uncomfortable. But what the hell…I figured I was never popular for what I had to say in the first place. I’d rather take a risk and speak my truth with the goal of inspiring others and spreading awareness rather than stay silent and not rock the boat.

Speaking at Knock Out Abuse 2012 strengthened my resolve and my commitment because it reminded me of the inherent might and interconnectedness of all women. It helped me realize that I have the freedom to speak out, to have a voice, a say, a vote and for all the mothers, sisters, daughters out there I’m willing to take a risk. I willing to speak my mind because unlike Malala most of us don’t have to risk being shot for doing so.

Over a month ago my family and I embarked on a major move. We headed from our 4-year Rocky Mountain family retreat back to the California coast and Redwood forest that is my birthplace. There were many factors that went into the decision making process but the biggest one that trumped all was educational options for my daughters. We all want the best for our kids. But often times the decisions that bring about radical change can be hard ones, both to make and to execute.

When our daughters Waldorf style preschool discontinued their ‘grades’ program my husband and I took one look at each other and knew it was time to have a talk. We knew there would be unique challenges living in a small mountain town and we truly felt thankful for the promise the school held for us. When its doors closed, however, we both understood we needed to look at alternative options. Over our weekly ‘date night’ dinner out and catch up session we began the conversation of, “Where next?”

There comes a moment as a parent when you realize you will no longer be the center of your child’s universe. The small pod of a self-contained family is about to split wide open. We look out into the community and all of its qualities that our children will be exposed to because it is the community that will form them and guide them and affect them for the rest of their lives. When I looked out it wasn’t that I didn’t like what I saw but instead I felt that there was more to offer.

Being born and raised as a Californian, I somewhat ignorantly had taken for granted the diversity and liberal mindset that shaped my childhood and adult life. In many ways I assumed there would be just as much, and maybe more, in a small mountain town. But having grown up in a sea of culture, and diversity as well as a healthy respect for all races and sexual orientations, I felt our options were too limited.

Sure I had this knowledge and understanding and an epiphany that motivated the move didn’t mean that this same understanding would translate to anything my eldest daughter Jade could comprehend. To her I was tearing her away from all that she knew and had come to love. Her ‘world’.

I tried to take steps to prepare. We spoke for months before the move. We talked about what moving day would look like. What it might feel like. What would happen to our Colorado home? Would it miss us? We took pictures, and long walks, talked about what we would miss and what we were excited to discover. We consulted a wonderful childhood behavior specialist to get some guidance about how to make the transition go as smooth as possible. But despite all of this prep it was still an incredibly difficult time.

Moving day arrived but the girls and I were well on our way to California. Matthew had stayed behind to pack up and drive our dogs. As gentle as our entry back to the Bay was, after the first week Jade was ready to ‘go home’. They wanted what they thought of as a family ‘vacation’ to be over. They wanted Colorado.

Both my girls wept every night for a week. “We miss our REAL home!” They wailed.
“This isn’t home! It doesn’t feel like home.”

The reality was painful and there were several nights I would just sit and hold them, tears streaming down my face, feeling their sadness, letting them mourn their loss and knowing what they were too young to understand; that as hard as it was-it was the right decision for our entire family.

I’m discovering that motherhood is full of these moments. It’s hard to hold the place of knowing. Of calm. Of reassurance. But that was and is my job as a mother. To be able to acknowledge and say “right now IS hard but it WILL get better’.

We as adults can know this because we have experienced it. But to be present with our children and allow them their feelings is so very crucial. It’s only fair and right. There was no intellectualizing with them through it. There was no big talk that would make it better. Their minds and hearts don’t rationalize and work like an adults. They’re not supposed to.

So we sailed the sea of sorrow. Many tears were shed. Some time passed. Now things have begun to quiet and settle. The girls are now immersed in a new world; one of the preciousness in organic farming life, blackberry picking, trips to our neighbors goats and learning to milk them as well as harvesting the abundance that comes from our own home. We have lavender fields to play in and the four hens we’ve inherited have been named. When there’s talk of our home in Colorado it’s with smiles and not tears.

Life is full of change and uncertainty. We know this. We experience it on a daily basis. Sometimes it is unbelievably hard to sit in the discomfort of change and not knowing. But how very powerful to allow ourselves to rest and soften when we feel the triggers of that tension. In Buddhism it is called ‘groundlessness’. This life of ours IS groundless and I discover each day that one of the best practices we can have is to rest in this groundlessness and accept it.

Pema Chodron says it well:

“You can think of the groundlessness and openness of insecurity as a chance that we’re given over and over to choose a fresh alternative. Things happen to us all the time that open up the space. This spaciousness, this wide-open, unbiased, unprejudiced space is inexpressible and fundamentally good and sound. It’s like the sky. We must accept uncertainty as necessary for growth and freshness.”

As a mother I’m learning to deepen my understanding of my own groundlessness. In honoring my daughters’ tears as they travel through their uncertainty, I’ve been given a chance to expand my own acceptance of this profoundly precious space, which is, “like the sky,” bigger than I’ll ever know. And that is something I can accept.