Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…

Tag Archives: confidence


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Ivy-ing as best I can.

I began mothering a set of lifelike plastic dolls from Ben Franklin at around the same time Florence Henderson familied her six on Friday night’s Brady Bunch. It was clear to me, as I lined up each baby in front of the tv set, smelled their heads, tucked in their blankets, that the only thing I was missing was a polyester pants suit like Mrs. Brady. Thus began my first lesson in patience.

I hope I asked, but most likely I demanded a trip to Herberger’s basement. “I’m not sure they make them for little girls,” my mom said. I swept my arm across my plastic family to say that surely I was no longer a little girl. “Maybe Agnes could sew something for you,” she replied. Agnes was a seamstress — and by that I mean she was my grandma’s friend who sewed things periodically in her kitchen/workstation, for women who couldn’t afford luxury, but still had a taste for it.

My enthusiasm was quickly quelled by our first visit to Woolworth’s in search of a pattern. My arms hung at my side. My head tilted back. Tongue out, grasping for air. Grasping for a choice to be made among the Butterick. She only had to give me a look. It was enough to say, “You wanted this. Straighten up.” So I did, but not without a few impatient floor kicks of my bumper tennis shoes.

I had no real sense of time. I could only mark it, episode by episode. The series of painstaking events made me wonder if I would even have a pants suit by the end of the Brady Bunch season. We moved from pattern to bolt. Bolt after bolt. Searching for fabric. Then I got measured. And measured again. Each trip out to Agnes’s farm seemed to take up another week. But then the day magically arrived. In front of the kitchen-stained mirror that leaned up against the wall, she smoothed out the navy fabric across my chubby waist, and I was more Carol Brady than Florence Henderson had ever been.

I don’t know what it cost. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the mirror as my mother pulled out the dollar bills from her purse. Surely it was more than we had, but what I was taught, what my mother always showed me, was that it was not more than I was worth. What a gift. She’s still giving it to me.

I think of now, and it had never been Florence. On the days I need a little lift, I still play fashion show. And standing in front of the mirror, I smooth out the fabric on my waist, standing tall, straight, hoping, praying, not to outdo, but by some chance come close to Ivy-ing as best I can.

Portrait of mother.
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Free gift with purchase.

Of course I learned it at home, long before I shopped for make-up, but through the years, time and time again, it has served as a constant reminder. 

At first glance, you might think it’s shallow, this love of make-up, but I always saw it as so much more. It was transformative, what my mother did in front of the mirror on Jefferson Street. It was only a block away from where she worked. And it only took her about 20 minutes. But the leaps she made in time and distance from that condo, from those doubtful feelings, those “old tapes that played in head,” — this was nothing short of extraordinary.

Macy’s and Herberger’s were the go tos. Just shy of a power point presentation, she had it all figured out. What to order. When. Never missing a pre-order, a free gift. Her utility closet as crisp as the Clinique counter. I marveled. Strived. I keep striving. And the true magic never remained in that mirror. It was what she took in that reflection. The best self created and then reflected to her world. Anyone she encountered at School District #206 got her best. She knew it. They knew it. Even on her most difficult of days, the presentation was the same. 

Maybe it all begins with a gift. The kindness we are shown. The strength that is passed on to us. The hope reflected through each challenge. Oh, what beauty lies within! 

I went to Nordstroms yesterday. The first thing I asked was if there were any promotions with the mascara. There were two. She explained to me the best. We talked about make-up and France, and Iowa and shopping. We laughed in a way that lay all trust on the counter, and I was home. No “old tapes” to play — my mother walked that path, so I wouldn’t have to. Perhaps her greatest gift of all. Giving to me this joy. Take it. Share it. It’s always free.

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Sometimes a runway.

I told myself it was because of the stripes — that’s why it would be too hard to do this portrait of my mother. My heart tapped my brain each time I was looking for a new project. But I wasn’t ready. And it had nothing to do with the endless blue lines. Of course they would be a challenge, but the real reason, I just wasn’t prepared to spend that much time in this dance. In this joy. 

Sometimes even joy can be too much for a weary heart to lift. But the thing about joy —love, I suppose — is its patience. It sat waiting for me. Music cued up. Hand on the lights. Runway set. Whenever you’re ready, it said. 

And one day, “can’t” dares to take a tiny twirl, dropping off the apostrophe, letting go the t, and suddenly you’re stepping into the “can.” And once you reach “can,” the music begins to play, the lights shine, and you’re dancing in the “are.” 

It was something spectacular to see my mother’s confidence grow. It was my first real job after college. I was in charge of the style show. Of course I leaned on the most stylish person I knew. She picked out the dress she wanted to wear — the ‘ol show stopper – the one with the twirl. I wasn’t surprised. Those in the style show were offered a discount on the clothing. She didn’t have the money at the time to purchase it, but don’t think for one second she didn’t own that dress!  

My heart heaves still with a beaming of pride. I had witnessed her dance in the kitchen. Even at the Lakeside Ballroom in Glenwood. But here she was, in front of strangers, never feeling more herself, in the glow of the runway. I never saw her in the same light after that. For me, she’s still glowing.

I won’t say that there weren’t a few tears of tenderness, as I painted each blue stripe of her dress. But pain, had somehow found its way to love. Love, that ‘ol show stopper,” once again twirled its way into my heart.

I’ve heard it said before that love can build a bridge. I smile and think, sometimes a runway.

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A sliver of light.

I usually had ten to fifteen minutes to spare. I held the back of the green leather seat and jumped up the minute the bus driver braked and pulled out the stop sign along with door. First off of the school bus, I ran around the corner to the back door. I flung my coat into the locker that I never actually locked and ran to the gym. No windows, it was as dark as night. I put a notebook between the doors, cracking a sliver of light that led me to the utility closet. It wasn’t always there, on the doorknob, the plastic jump rope I purposely hung after gym class. Most days, the gym teacher put it away and locked the door, but from time to time, as I felt my way along the wall the next morning, I would feel it before I saw it, and my day began with a heart jump of excitement. 

Of course I had jump ropes at home. I managed to sneak them in our cart quite often at Ben Franklin. They weren’t expensive. But the jump ropes at Washington Elementary were nothing short of gorgeous. Worthy of being locked up. They had a weight to them. The plastic blue and white segments would snap against the gymnasium floor with each turn. Maybe it was the darkness that heightened the sound, but the hard plastic cracking against the floor sounded like power. And I twirled myself into confidence. 

When the bell rang, I hung the rope back on the knob with a silent thank-you. I picked up my notebook and smiled sweatily into my desk for the day. Ready to face the light of day. The light of learning. 

It’s different for everyone. It’s even different for ourselves as we continue to change. But we always need to find a way to begin. To boost our confidence. To give ourselves a head start (a jump start). I know what works for me. My hope today is that these words are the tiny crack in the door, the small sliver of light, that leads you to finding yours. Your confidence. Your power. Your beginning. 

Good morning!

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Shoulders back.

Maybe it was just a collision of the times. Or maybe the universe sent her exactly what she needed.

Since I can remember rushing to the kitchen table to grab a piece of toast before the bus, I could hear my mother say, “Put your shoulders back.” It was part of the morning vocabulary, which also included, “I love you. Have a nice day,” as I raced out the door, my wet hair dripping, my toast crumbling, my shoulders back. 

You can’t give someone confidence, but you can show them what it looks like, even in themselves. 

At her lowest point. After my father left. After we lost the house. When she forced down Heath Ice Cream bars, just to keep up her weight. It was then the world introduced shoulder pads. She wore them every day to the Superintendent’s office of ISD #206. Each blazer, each blouse, gave the illusion of confidence. Strength. She needed to see it. She needed me to see it. 

I don’t know who realized first. Was it Herberger’s? Dayton’s? My mom? Women of the world? I suppose it doesn’t really matter who got there first, but we got there. I got there. No longer needing the padded version of ourselves. She was strong now, my mom. Standing. Laughing. Loving. Living. Confidently. Beautifully. 

Our internet was barely working this morning. My mouse was out of juice. I needed to restart my sluggish computer. Slouched over my keyboard, I heard it — “shoulders back.”  I smiled. Sat up straight. I rebooted along with my computer. And here we are, telling you to be strong. Nothing is more beautiful! 

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Put me in, coach.

I played summer softball when I was a young girl — and I emphasize the word “played” here. We did keep score, but I can’t say that it really felt like we were competing. We were playing with our friends. There was something called “the ten run rule” — if your team was behind by ten runs after a certain inning, they just called the game, assuming you had no chance of winning. (A rule most certainly created by adults. We would have played forever.) And what I most appreciate about these times, times when they enforced this rule, it always came as a complete shock! I, we, never dreamed that we didn’t have a chance. We always thought we had a chance. We thought surely we should be allowed to try, to keep playing.

The confidence of youth! Had I known there was a chance it could slip away, I would have guarded it for the treasure that it was. I work on it now daily — rebuilding this confidence. Because what a joy!  To step up to the plate, without fear of the score, or the outcome!  To just play. To just live!  

I was in college when John Fogerty’s song, Centerfield, was released. It became a theme song for my mom. 

“Oh, put me in, Coach – I’m ready to play today;Put me in, Coach – I’m ready to play today;
Look at me, I can be Centerfield.”

I’m not sure everyone understood the song to the depths that she did. She had spent years rebuilding her life. Rebuilding her confidence. And this song, told her she was ready. And oh how she sang!  

The song begins, “Well, beat the drum and hold the phone – the sun came out today! We’re born again, there’s new grass on the field.” I look out the morning window and smile. There IS new grass on the field! And I, we, have the chance to play – forever!

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Being Pelican.

We were on a trip a few years ago. The Florida Keys. It sounds romantic, and it was. I mean everything. When you allow yourself to be swept up in it, the Ernest Hemingwayness of it all. The small details — waves rushing under a beating sun. The boats rocking next to the thatched roof bars. The night heat. The novel being written by the couple you can’t help but overhear at the bar — you start to feel it all, deeper than you could imagine. You can smell the salt in the air. Taste it. Everything is more. Even the pelicans looked beautiful. The pelicans.

We sat for a long time on the pier. Watching them. They had runway model confidence. Up and down the pier with ease. “Go ahead. That’s right. Take our picture.” I couldn’t look away.

I’m always painting in my head as I look at something. Seeing each shape. Color. I stared at them. Bit by bit, this is not a conventionally attractive animal. A little awkward. Weird angles. But I couldn’t look away. They looked back, as if to say, “I know, right? We’re beautiful!” They believed it. They truly believed it. And so did I! I could see them. Really see them. And they were something!!!

I continue to paint them in my sketchbook. Each time I understand them a little more. Appreciate them more. On the days when I really need to be brave, I think, I could be that pelican! I am that pelican! The romance of confidence sweeps in, and I am saved.

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I have to believe my feet will take me where I need to go.


When I was in high school I had surgery on my right ankle. For the first time, and eventually the sixth time. For many years, and for good reason, my ankle was very weak. The doctor recommended that I wear work boots. Work boots. This would be a new addition to my wardrobe. I wanted to be a girly girl, like the girly girl my mother was. Fashionable. Pretty. I saw her get dressed for work. Taking care with each piece of clothing. Right down to the shoes. Shoes. Not work boots. But I needed them. So there was only one thing to be done. Not hide them. Celebrate them. (This was long before chunky was in. Long before Dr. Martens boots.) I had to make them my own. So I wore them with everything. Pants, rolled up and pinned, of course! Dresses! Full view. I was proud of them. I had my own style. I walked steady, and sure — even when I wasn’t — probably the greatest lesson my mother ever taught me.


It wasn’t easy for her, to get dressed for work each day. Answer the school phones with a greeting that people still remember to this day. But she did it. Broken, weak, for sure, (also for good reason) but she put one foot in front of the other and did it with style. I would do the same, in my own way.


Some people in this world stomp and trudge and carry on. While others, they make a path — believe in those people. Be one of those people. And your feet will take you where you need to go.

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