Barefoot, Zesty, and Slightly Off Balance

Roots of Balance

I grew up in a very small Midwestern town in northeast Kansas. In the 1970’s, the population was estimated at around 400 even though it felt much smaller. My great-grandmother lived on Elm Street, a road just two blocks long. I remember the fear I felt every time I had to use her outhouse. She didn’t have indoor plumbing, just a hand pump at the kitchen sink connected to a well.

Her house was only half a block from the Wolcott Baptist Church, where I was a member along with my mother and sister. Across the street from the church was a narrow concrete wall—low enough to step onto, maybe 3 or 4 feet long—that stood over a ditch with a drainage pipe. I used to walk back and forth on it, pretending to be Nadia Comăneci. Arms outstretched, I’d lift a leg in a balanced hop and end with a twirl, imagining a judge flashing that perfect 10.

A mile-long stretch of highway ran parallel to the railroad tracks just outside our house. Some would say I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. But to me, those rails were another balance beam—another challenge to see how far I could go without falling off.

Looking back, it’s clear: balance has been a running theme in my life.

When Strengths Clash

Recently, I gained deeper insight into this pattern while taking the VIA Character Strengths Survey by Martin Seligman. My top strength? Zest. Defined as approaching life with energy, excitement, and a sense of adventure, zest means not doing things halfway—and that description fits me to a T. I approach everything like a five-year-old who’s just been told, “We’re having a party, and you’re getting presents.”

But here's the twist: my lowest strength was self-regulation.

At first, I laughed. But the irony hit me hard. Of course an abundance of zest—when left unchecked—can tip into impulsivity, hyperactivity, and lack of restraint. Suddenly, it all made sense. That tension between overflowing enthusiasm and the struggle to rein it in? That’s the imbalance I’ve been walking like a tightrope for years.

The Office Chair Incident

Take, for example, my office chair.

My old chair—a brown, imitation leather executive type—had been my faithful companion for many years. It was worn but comfortable, the place where I’d sat and poured countless thoughts into my keyboard. When it finally gave out, I decided—without hesitation—that it was time for a new one.

In typical fashion, my zesty, childlike enthusiasm kicked in. I clicked order without reading all the specs, measuring the seat height, or even considering whether it would be a good ergonomic fit. I was simply excited for something new. The moment it arrived, I realized: I probably should have done a little more research… or at least gone to a store to try one out.

That’s the tricky part about zest—it’s a beautiful strength that makes life feel vibrant and full of momentum. But without self-regulation, it can drive impulsive decisions and leave me sitting in a very awkward chair. Literally.

It’s not the first time my Zest has gotten ahead of the facts.

Years ago, during my sales career, a new product was announced internally with great fanfare. I was so excited about it—energized by the possibilities and ready to share it with every customer. Without waiting for formal launch materials or barcode-specific order forms, I ran with it, (this was not discussed in the pre-launch call.)

Literally—I sold the product three times before it even officially launched.

But here’s the kicker: because I used generic order forms and the product didn’t have a personalized tracking code yet, the company had no way to tie those early sales back to me.

No barcode, no commission.

I was devastated. My enthusiasm had created results, but my lack of restraint had cost me three commissions. That moment stuck with me—not because I regretted being excited, but because I saw the consequence of acting too quickly without structure.

Zest moved the needle.

But without a system in place to catch it… the credit (and compensation) slipped right through.

Coaching the Five-Year-Old in My Head

This small but telling moment reminded me that balance isn’t about dimming who I am—it’s about channeling that energy with intention. And that’s where my growth edge lives: not in fighting my nature, but in learning how to pace it.

So I’ve started thinking of my zest like a vibrant five-year-old who wants to do all the things—right now, barefoot, hair flying in the wind as I race toward the next exciting idea. And instead of shutting her down, I’ve started coaching her.

I’m not trying to become a totally different person. I’m just learning to cut back on the nitrous oxide in my thrusters.

Ten Breaths and a Priority List

These days, I start my mornings with coffee and a quiet conversation with my own energy. As the mental to-do list begins to swirl, I pause to create a priority list instead. It helps me separate what’s important from what’s just...shiny.

And while I’ve never been officially diagnosed with ADHD, I’ve somewhat self-diagnosed. Let’s be honest: I don’t have ducks, and there are no rows. I have hyperactive squirrels—and they’re everywhere. All of them are vying for my attention, chattering about what I could be doing right now.

But here's what’s changing: Instead of chasing every squirrel, I’m learning to name the one that matters most today.

Of course, I still make impulsive decisions sometimes. Of course, I still fall off the beam. But I get back on with more awareness—and a lot more grace.

Operation Reframe™ Tip:

“When everything feels urgent, ask yourself: What’s truly essential in this moment—and what can wait?”

How Coaching Others Grounds Me

These days, I’m trying to be more intentional about how I show up—for myself and for others. That starts with pausing long enough to prioritize, even when my inner cheerleader wants to shout, “We can do it all today!”

Now, before diving into a new idea, I pause and ask:
“How will doing this now serve me?”

It’s a small but powerful self-coaching move—an anchor in the rush of excitement. Sometimes I have to physically ground myself by taking ten slow breaths before acting. Just ten breaths to let the adrenaline of inspiration settle... because inspiration is beautiful, but it can also be blinding if it arrives too fast.

Coaching has helped me refine this practice. The more I coach others, the more I learn how to coach myself. I’ve come to realize:

I’m not here to fix anyone.
That truth has been transformative.

Knowing my role as a coach allows me to stay fully present during sessions. I’m not leaping ahead to solutions or caught up in “doing”—I’m holding space, listening, and guiding with curiosity. That presence carries over into the rest of my life, helping me slow down enough to appreciate small wins, breathe into gratitude, and reflect after each session—not just on what my client uncovered, but what I noticed in myself too.

Each time I show up like that—with intention instead of impulse—I’m building a new kind of muscle memory. One that doesn’t extinguish my zest, but channels it. One that lets me bring just enough spark to ignite clarity and connection for others.

The Beautiful Loop

And the bonus?
Helping my clients find their own sense of balance through strength-based coaching deepens my own. It’s a beautiful loop—where every insight I witness in them reflects something back to me.

Coming Back to Center

Balance, I’ve realized, isn’t a static state—it’s a rhythm. A conversation between my energy and my awareness. Some days, I still leap before I look. Other days, I pause just long enough to make a different choice. And that’s enough. That’s growth.

I no longer see my zest as something I need to manage or tone down. Instead, I treat it like a source of creative power—one that works best when paired with a little structure, a little stillness, and a whole lot of grace.

Reflection for the Road

So now I ask you:

• What’s your zest—that part of you that brings joy, energy, or momentum but sometimes takes the wheel a little too fast?

• What would it look like to coach that part of yourself instead of wrestling with it?

• And if you paused today—just long enough for ten intentional breaths—what might shift?

You don’t have to have ducks in a row.
You don’t even have to tame the squirrels.
But you can start by noticing which one you’re feeding.

Where Strengths Tip Out of Balance

According to Dr. Martin Seligman’s VIA Character Strengths Assessment, we each have 24 core strengths. What I’ve learned through zest is that even our greatest gifts can tip into challenge when left unchecked.

Every strength has its shadow side:

• Zest, in overdrive, can look like hyperactivity or lack of restraint.

• Judgement, when unbalanced, may turn into cynicism—or if underused, gullibility.

• Kindness in excess may become intrusiveness; too little, and it slips into indifference.

• Hope in excess will have everyone referring to you as “Pollyanna”, and no hope is just despair.

For each strength, there’s an opportunity to notice where we lean out of balance—and an invitation to gently course correct.

Operation Reframe™ Reflection Prompt:

• What strength of yours, when overused, becomes a challenge?

• What small practice might help you channel it with more intention?

Final Call to Action

If you’re feeling a little barefoot, zesty, and slightly off balance yourself—you’re not alone.

The journey toward balance doesn’t require you to become someone else. It simply asks you to get curious about how you’re wired, honor what energizes you, and build a life that can hold both your fire and your focus.

If you’re ready to explore what that could look like for you—let’s talk.
I help people like you find clarity, direction, and that sweet spot between momentum and mindfulness.

Book a free Discovery Call or visit operationreframe.com™ to learn more.

Because balance isn’t about being still.
It’s about moving forward with intention and grace.

Bonus Prompt:
Visit https://www.authentichappiness.sas.upenn.edu/ to take the VIA Character Strengths Assessment. Then reach out—let’s discover how to balance your strengths, your way.