I had no clue.

Have you ever had an experience that made you reconsider what you thought you knew about yourself? 

I got recognized in the grocery store last week. I was in the Berkshires, the summer home of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, where I had spent the last 20 years performing for thousands of audience members. 

This is my first summer since stepping down from my role as principal flutist of the orchestra.

That morning I was in sweaty gym clothes, hair in a ponytail, trying to beat the holiday shopping crush. “How is retirement going?” came a voice from behind the peaches. 

(I’m not retired — far from it! And, as far as Boston Symphony audience members are concerned, I might appear to be.)

The gentleman had seen my face for years on Tanglewood’s huge outdoor video screens. (Sitting smack in the middle of the orchestra meant I was on camera a lot.) He had also been at a talk I gave last summer, where I shared some of the “both/and” of preparing to step down from my position as principal flute. We had a lovely conversation in the produce aisle and then went our separate ways. 

It’s not unusual for me to be recognized in public. It happens a lot, especially in the Berkshires — but this was the first time this summer. 

I was deeply touched when he shared that my artistry (and my story) had made an impact. I was also aware of how precious these kinds of conversations are in our world right now — two strangers spending a few moments in genuine connection. 

And I had a new awareness: that my days of being recognized in the grocery story were very likely waning.

How I felt about that is what really surprised me. 

I was sad, even a bit teary. Wistful at the realization that my role as a semi-public person is probably going to fade away. 

Reader, let me tell you that those feelings caught me totally off guard.

I spent much of my career in an uneasy relationship with my visibility. I remember the very first time I was recognized in Boston — I was at a 7-Eleven, making a late night post-concert stop for a pint of ice cream. I was shocked to be recognized, a little thrilled, and more than a little bothered that my late night snack habits were being observed by a stranger who knew more about me than I did about them.

Over time I became conscious that I could be noticed anywhere — and I often was. I got used to it. It’s a privilege to be in the public eye. I didn’t love it, and I certainly didn’t seek it out, but I also didn’t fear it.

Until my equal pay lawsuit.

During the early days of that lawsuit I was recognized in that very same Berkshires grocery store. It was a time when I was desperately trying to protect a sense of normalcy and privacy in a firestorm of public scrutiny and commentary. The person who stopped me did so to express support. But in the few seconds between hearing my name and understanding their intent, I was afraid.

Up until that lawsuit I had intentionally minimized my public presence (other than those performances 4 nights a week). I had no website. I wasn’t on social media. I certainly wasn’t giving TEDx talks or writing newsletters! 

After the lawsuit resolved, though, I faced the hard truth that if I wanted my voice to be heard (rather than simply being the subject of articles and comments), I was going to have to decide to be seen — on my own terms, and by my own choice.

And so I built an intentional public presence. (You’re a part of it right now.)

And yet I still had an uneasy relationship with being visible, being recognized, living as a semi-public figure. I did it, I owned my voice, and I became more comfortable doing it — and it was never anything I craved or sought out.

Stepping out of the spotlight last August felt like a welcome shift toward deeper relationships, more meaningful conversations, and more tangible ways of serving others. A shift away from the center of attention.

Which is why the feelings that bubbled up after my recent grocery store encounter caught me so off guard. 

Old me would have been gracious but eager to escape back to the privacy of my car. Current me was moved. Grateful. Sad to consider that there may be less of this in the future. And intent on cherishing the last vestiges of this public life.

Nobody is more surprised by this than I am.

Why am I sharing this with you? Because it’s another example of something I think about a lot: how we relate to the issue is the issue. 

My way of relating to visibility has changed over time. I’ve avoided it, feared it, accepted it, chosen it, and now — today — truly appreciate it. 

Things didn’t change — I did. 

We relate to things differently over time. Sometimes that shift happens naturally, and other times we can choose it. My evolving relationship with visibility has been shaped by circumstance, conscious decision, and now a recognition of a part of myself that I hadn’t seen before. 

INVITATION TO REFLECT: I wonder … What are you relating to in your life that might be ready for a shift? Will you wait for a natural evolution — or will you choose?

PS — Speaking of visibility, my story is featured this week on the wonderful Hidden Brain podcast and NPR radio program. Harvard professor Jon Jachimowicz discusses passion in the workplace and shares my story as part of the conversation. Listen to it here.