The first Saturday in May is “opening fishing” weekend in Wisconsin.  And this meant something to me, and my uncle Randy.  We are a distinct breed: connecting around traditions and family; habits and pranks.  Respecting nature and legacy and love in a way that transcends words.  We always came together at this time of year – to gather at Rose Lake: the family cabins.  Deep in the Nicolet National Forest – on a quiet lake with few inhabitants… to head out in the small metal fishing boat to try our luck, or skill, or just to be.  To be quiet and observe nature.  To be connected and talk about life. And to fish – mostly for walleyes, but enjoying the sport of catching bass or perch or blue gills.

Often this weekend could be beautiful – some of those early glimpses of summer sunshine and warmth and hope for longer days and summer.  But it could equally (or likely, more often than not) be miserable: cold rain or even the last few flakes of winter.  Dreary, dark days and quiet time stuck inside – with only card games or art projects or cooking to pass the time.

The opening fishing weekend of 2009 was no exception, except one.  We had a new member in the tribe: my first baby, Emaline Hazel.  On this particular weekend, the weather was not that beautiful exception – but rather the dark, cold, rainy variety.  And so that opening Saturday night, right around dusk – when the walleyes *should* start biting, I left my 4-month-old baby with my husband in the warm log cabin and headed out with my uncle Randy to fish.

It was miserable weather, but we were determined to carry on our tradition.  To commune with nature, and each other.  I was a new mom – battling post-partum depression, struggling to understand how this new title changed me – or didn’t.  What should I say when my own mother asked me things like: “Isn’t this just the most love you’ve ever felt?” on day 2 of earning the “Mom” title and feeling very uncertain… I mean, was it?  How could I be sure?  I don’t know that I would really describe it that way…  Does that make me a bad Mom?

But on Rose Lake, on my own – with my uncle Randy, I felt like me.  Like the me I knew in my soul.  The me that wasn’t dependent on judgement or roles or job titles or anything else.  Just me.  And we were out fishing in the cold, dark mist…

And then, I caught “the one.”  The biggest walleye anyone had caught on Rose Lake in at least the prior 25 years, possibly more… It was a lunker.  Randy helped me land it, scooping it out of the water with our trusty fishing net – with his eyes wide and proud.  When we made it back to the little cabin, we confirmed the measurement: 28 inches, maybe 29 if you stretched it.

I was proud.  My uncle was genuinely thrilled for me – in the most authentically, selfless way.  And he told me… this was a trophy fish.  A fish worthy of mounting and hanging on the wall.  Of sharing the stories with generations to come.  He helped me wrap it up in wet newspapers and seal it in a plastic bag before freezing it – whole.  This wasn’t a fish to fillet and fry, he said… you should keep it, and mount it and celebrate it.

So we took it home.  And put it in the freezer… the same, small freezer above our refrigerator where we stored all of our frozen food or meat or breast milk. 

Now, to be totally honest, we are not taxidermy people.  We don’t choose to decorate with dead animals.  We don’t even hunt – and we have no “trophy rooms” or anything of the sort.  Our walls are painted in bold colours and decorated with original art we’ve collected from museums and art shows, experiences and destinations.  A taxidermy fish would be out of place.  But still, we think – maybe… maybe we should still mount it and hang it at the family cabin on Rose Lake.  Or make it the one exception to our otherwise wildlife-free décor.

And time passes… but the fish still sits in the freezer.  And we pack the frozen meat and vegetables and leftover chili around it.  The breast milk is gone and so are the years.  2 miscarriages, 1 new addition, 2 promotions.  Life comes and goes.  We continue taking up 1/4^th of the freezer with a 5-year-old frozen fish, that is likely, by now, too damaged to mount anyway.  We sort of stop even seeing it there – taking up space in the freezer.

Until one day when I am faced with a challenging change in my career and reporting structure… By this point I’ve been given the opportunity to lead a sizeable team of talented marketers.  These are people who strive to learn, grow, and get better.  They really care about the work they do, and their colleagues are like a second family.  But our reporting hierarchy and alignment within the internal corporate structure is moving in a direction that makes everyone nervous.  Very nervous.  And not in an exciting way… but in a way that feels threatening and demeaning and lacks trust.  The tone is bleak and anxiety among my staff is high.

We call a meeting to bring everyone together, including the new leadership.  And somehow, I suddenly see that fish in the freezer.  I explain to the team, this change could be good.  We’ve developed habits – ways of working.  We’ve gotten comfortable in some ways – going through the motions, doing what we do.  Maybe we’ve stopped to question why, or if we should change or adapt.  And I tell them about the fish: the fish that has consumed 25% of my freeze space for 5+ years.  The fish that basically feels like a fixture in my freezer and that I’ve stopped to question or even notice – I just place things around it and move on.  But it’s time – for all of us.  We need to see that fish in the freezer.  Maybe it meant something at one point – it helped us get here.  But this – right now, is a great time to notice it.

Do I really need to keep that fish?  Is it time to let it go – and reinvest that space and pride and sentimentality into something new?  Is it time to reexamine what and why we do the things we do?  Always.  It’s always the time to stay curious and challenge what we give our space and attention to.

And the team rallied.  That doesn’t mean it was easy or smooth sailing… sort of like those opening fishing weekends in early May.  Most of the time you’re gonna catch some nasty weather, but sometimes you’ll catch the lunker.

So – what did I do?  I found a cold day and put that fish out with the trash.  I freed up a quarter of my freezer and reminded myself to stay curious and keep your eyes open.  It’s always good to notice what matters, what brings you value and joy and what is just taking up space in the freezer.

But damn, having a good fish story is always worth it in the end.