It’s been insanely hot in Los Angeles over the past few weeks. Not just hot, but hot and humid, my least favorite weather combination. On a recent lunch break, I went outside to water the droopy basil plants on my patio and trim the mint that was struggling in the heat. I was outside for about half an hour without any electronic devices, feeling unbothered and relaxed. When I went inside, I felt lighter. Spending time outside and unplugged felt like a brief getaway. I stood in my kitchen, restored by the simple act of caring for my plants.

As cool air from the vent blasted my sweaty forehead, I gulped down a large glass of water and started thinking about other ways to feel restored.

Here’s what I’ve been doing this summer:

Putting on an album I loved years ago and letting it fill the house. I don’t multitask; I sit and listen. One undistracted activity.

Going to the beach to watch the sunset without trying to capture it on my phone. I already have enough sunset photos filling up my photo library. This is about enjoying the moment and filing it away in my memory.

Clipping fresh herbs in my daughter’s garden. I always feel relaxed and lose track of time when I’m there. It also inspires me to create a recipe using them. The best part is spending time with her.

Meeting my girlfriends for an impromptu evening of appetizers and drinks. I recently did this at a local hotel near the beach. As we sat by the harbor, laughing and talking, it felt like we had taken a girls’ trip without leaving town.

Sitting outside with a cold drink, reading a novel so good that nothing can pull me away.

Walking in my neighborhood, taking a route I’ve never explored before. It’s an easy way to shake up my routine and feel like I’ve gone somewhere new.

Doing something with my hands like gardening or baking. Anything tactile. I keep talking about taking a pottery class. There’s still time; summer isn’t over yet.

All of these are ways I’ve found to feel restored this summer. They’re moments when I can pause and reset. None of them require a flight or a planned itinerary. They just require me to make time to slow down and enjoy myself. Which reminds me. I forgot the easiest one:

Leaving part of a weekend afternoon completely unplanned.

What do you do to restore yourself?

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July took me back to where I grew up, the San Francisco Bay Area/Peninsula. Whenever I return, if I have a little extra time, I take myself on what I lovingly call “The Tour”. The itinerary always consists of me walking and driving through all of the neighborhoods I lived in, and the schools and churches I attended. On that day, I spent most of my time wandering through Palo Alto, the city I grew up in. Much of the city looks different, and University Avenue, where I first developed my love of shoes (thank you Rapp’s Shoes), is unrecognizable. The one constant is the number of beautiful trees that fill the city. One of my childhood obsessions was learning the names of the trees throughout the city.

There were a few things that remained basically the same. The Peninsula Fountain & Grill has been there since I was a child. Seeing the old California Avenue train station reminded me of taking the train to San Francisco. My grandmother would whisk me away to the city by train for my birthday. Sadly, California Avenue is closed to traffic, and my beloved Printer’s Inc. Bookstore, which I loved to browse through as a child, is gone.

Part of “The Tour” took me to Santa Clara University, where I went to college. Walking through the rose gardens past St. Joseph’s Hall reminded me of the television studio that was upstairs. It was where I first learned to edit videos. Little did I know then that creating and editing videos would become part of the work I do today.

The Park

I was back in the Bay Area to attend a reunion of performers who had worked in the theaters at California’s Great America. It was wonderful seeing people I worked with again. This was where I earned my musical theater chops. Back then, we performed five or six shows a day, five days a week. I’m exhausted just thinking about it.

Working at the park brought me a small circle of lifelong friends. We were all in our late teens to early 20s at that time. I think it’s amazing that we’re still connected and in contact with each other now. That’s priceless.

As I walked around looking at the theaters, rides, and other familiar places in the park, something hit me. We assume certain things will always be there, until they aren’t. Thinking about the impermanence of things and people in our lives stung for a moment.

I’ll bet those aren’t the thoughts the park’s marketing department wants their guests to have.

It’s always strange returning to places that hold so much of your history. Sometimes when a place remains frozen in time, you realize how much you have changed.

July wasn’t all about revisiting the past. There were simpler moments strolling through my favorite farmers’ markets, cooking good things to eat, and enjoying the slower pace of summer evenings. It was great to catch up with old friends and remember earlier versions of myself along the way.

This Month on AAL

This month’s posts were about ease, perspective, and how solo travel can help you experience life differently when you change your vantage point.

Sometimes we should stop assuming everything needs more effort.

Read One Word: Ease

The gift of being able to step outside of my familiar routines always gives me enough distance to see my life differently.

Read The View From Somewhere Else

From My Notebook

I wonder what my younger college-aged self would say about my life now. The one who sat on this lawn plotting out her future. Shooting videos with friends in this courtyard long before YouTube was a kernel of an idea. I look at the windows where the room with the editing bay used to be. The late nights I spent in there wondering if I’ll ever even use any of this knowledge. Should I switch majors or even schools? My younger self would never have understood that the knowledge and work habits I was collecting would serve me in my 60’s. She was too worried about the immediate. Getting the internship at the local TV station. Turning 21, then maybe even moving to LA. I’m always talking about how nothing is wasted. How skills and experiences come back to you in new forms. Seeing this building makes me believe that even more.

From My Kitchen

I whip this up when friends are dropping by for an impromptu get-together. It’s an old recipe of mine that’s easy to make. I like using yellow and blue tortilla chips to add a little color to the table. You can find the recipe here: Easy Guacamole Recipe

July In Pictures

I always notice the shift that happens to me a few days into traveling alone. The logistics are behind me. I’ve learned my way around the city I’m visiting, found my favorite coffee spots, and stopped using Google Maps. I’ve comfortably settled into my temporary life. That’s when my mind starts to wander back to my life at home. I view it from a distance, the way I’d step back to look at a painting from across a room instead of standing right in front of it.

The View

When we’re rushing through our everyday lives, it’s difficult to see everything clearly. We’re living inside routines to the point it feels like we’re in the movie Groundhog Day. We show up somewhere at the same time, do the same activities, or have the same conversations with the same people. Even when life feels good, familiarity can make our world feel bland and beige. It’s easy to become numb to what drains us or to stop paying attention to how much of our time is shaped by habit or someone else’s schedule.

When the opportunity for solo travel arrives, it can open up something else. A chance to hover above our lives. I don’t mean running away from or abandoning the life we’ve created, but rising high enough above it to see it differently. From that fresh vantage point, previously unseen things can start to become visible.

When I travel alone, I have time to unravel what’s working and what’s not. What to keep, adjust, or let go of. I notice the things I miss and the things I don’t. The best part? I get to do this without familiar distractions or too many opinions in my ear.

Setting Your Own Rhythm

There’s something else that can happen when you travel alone. You begin to rediscover your own rhythm. Some days I wander with no destination in mind. On other days, I fill my schedule with museums, great restaurants, and places I’ve been looking forward to visiting. And sometimes I change all of those plans because something unexpected catches my attention.

I did this years ago during a trip to Portugal. I decided at the last minute to visit the Museu Nacional do Azulejo (the National Tile Museum) in Lisbon. You might be thinking, “A tile museum? Why?” I love specific museums like that. What I see seeps into my creative brain and shows up as inspiration in my life. It might be a color combination or a pattern that I can use somewhere. The point is, traveling solo allows me to be flexible. Sometimes it’s hard to change direction that easily in our everyday life, so I take advantage of it when I can.

I enjoy traveling with other people too. But even when you’re with people you love, travel usually involves some negotiation. Where should we eat? What time should we leave? What does everyone want to do?

Traveling alone removes the negotiation. Wake up early or sleep late? You decide. Spend three hours in a museum or walk out after twenty minutes? Whatever you want. Eat dinner at four in the afternoon? Sure. Change your mind about everything you planned, or do absolutely nothing? Why not.

Somewhere in all that freedom, you can start to remember and enjoy your own preferences again.

For many women, the opportunity to do this is more significant than it may sound. We spend so much time caretaking and considering other people’s needs. Our families, partners, children, and friends. The list goes on. They all influence the decisions we make and the rhythms we keep. All of this is important. Caring about people and building a life with them is part of the human experience.

But sometimes we get so used to adjusting for others that we forget to ask ourselves a very simple question: What do I want to do?

Solo travel gives that question room to surface.

What I Don’t Miss

We don’t always realize how much something has been affecting us until it’s no longer there. Think about when an annoying, loud sound won’t stop, and then suddenly it does. There’s a sense of relief. Your body relaxes, and you feel like you can breathe again. As the day progresses, you no longer think about the noise. It’s no longer a disruption.

Distance has a way of showing us what we’ve become accustomed to tolerating or maneuvering through, and how it may be time to rethink those situations. It can shine a light on the difference between the life we’ve intentionally built and the life that has slowly accumulated around us.

That distinction becomes more important as we get older. There are things that made sense for earlier versions of us that may not fit anymore. Commitments we made years ago, habits we built for circumstances that have since changed.

Sometimes we have to get far enough away to see them.

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The Possibility of Another Way

Solo travel reminds me that there are other ways to live and inspires me to bring pieces of them home.

I've watched people value time differently. Lingering over meals late into the evening. Enjoying each other's company as if there were nowhere else they needed to be. It makes me think about how precious time is, and how often we rush through the very moments we should be enjoying.

I’ve wandered through neighborhoods where everyone seemed to know each other and was genuinely happy to see one another. Those small, everyday moments remind me how much we all need to feel connected.

I’ve sat near older women traveling alone, dining solo, exploring by themselves, entirely at ease in their own company. There are many ways to move through the world, and enjoying your own company while traveling can be one of them. My kindred spirits.

I’ve struck up conversations with those women and others who shared stories about their lives and wild travel adventures. Sometimes those conversations led to impromptu meals and even more stories. Being open to meeting new people and welcoming experiences we didn’t plan for can take us to unexpected places. It has helped me realize that the way I regularly move through my life isn’t the only way to live. I always return home wanting to bring a little of what I’ve experienced into my everyday life.

Why This Stays With Me

I don’t come home from every solo trip and rush to overhaul my life. Most of the time, I unpack, do the laundry, make a grocery run, and answer the messages I put off while I was away. Real life starts again.

But I’m never exactly the same person I was when I left. I return home knowing I need more unstructured time in my week. Or that I’ve been saying yes to something I no longer want to do. Hovering above my life for a while gives me the clarity I couldn’t find while I was in the middle of it.

Sometimes what comes home with me is surprisingly small. A reminder of how much I love wandering without a destination. A new interest I want to make time for. Small realizations that naturally find their way into my everyday life.

Other times, I come home with a question I didn’t have when I left.

What if I lived a little differently?

The real gift solo travel has given me is perspective. A chance to step outside the familiar routines and voices of my everyday life and take an honest look at where I’m at.

Maybe we all need a chance to hover above our lives for a while. Far enough away to see what’s there. Quiet enough to hear what we actually think and open enough to notice what else might still be possible.

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By July, summer has settled into a different rhythm. The days feel longer, and schedules have loosened a bit. Even if our routines haven’t changed that much, there’s an illusion that we have more time and can move at a slower pace. Life feels a little lighter.

I’ve always enjoyed that summertime feeling of ease, even before I defined it for myself. It’s a time to simplify and make things less complicated. We’ve become extremely good at adding things to our plates: one more unnecessary task or another idea we couldn’t resist. Before long, something that should be simple gets buried under the additions. It can happen so gradually and in different situations that we don’t notice we’re doing it.

Take Entertaining, for Example

I used to be that person who cooked everything from scratch. You know the one.

When I hosted a summer party, I’d go all out, and for decades, I loved doing it. But when the gathering was over, I’d always think I hadn’t spent enough time with my friends. I was too busy worrying about what was on the grill or rushing to pull the blueberry crumble out of the oven before it burned. At the end of the night, I was exhausted from trying to do too much.

I’ve done a complete 180 since then. I tossed aside my Martha Stewart/B. Smith ways and keep my gatherings as simple as possible. There’s always plenty of delicious food, but I’m no longer running around missing out on good conversations and fun. I’ve found my sense of ease when it comes to summer entertaining.

Besides those times when we’re trying to do the most, we can lose our sense of ease in other ways. We might begin something new with a clear idea of what we want to accomplish, only to become distracted. We read or watch a video (thank you, YouTube) that tells us there’s a better way, so we add it. Someone offers a new idea, and we pile that in too. Suddenly, we’re standing in the middle of a more complicated version of something that worked fine before we fiddled with it.

Those Shiny Ideas

Chasing shiny ideas is like staring into a mirrored disco ball. All those small pieces of light are moving in different directions. Each one catches your eye for a moment and mesmerizes you. Your eyes and attention dart from spot to spot until you’ve forgotten where you were looking in the first place.

Finding ease can mean remembering what we were trying to do before we became distracted. Ease can also come from slowing down and paying attention to the unnecessary obstacles we create for ourselves. It’s not until we’re feeling frustrated that we notice the built-in complications that made things harder from the start.

Planning a trip comes to mind. Imagine the least expensive flight leaves at an inconvenient time and has two connections. It turns what would have been a few easy hours of travel into a frantic, eight-hour day. The lower price is tempting. Who doesn’t want to save money?

But I’ve learned from traveling frequently to consider the full experience. How tired will I be when I arrive, and how much time will I lose? How many ways am I setting myself up for something to go wrong? A missed flight connection is stress nobody ever signs up for. There’s no ease or fun in that.

I’d rather spot possible complications early than spend my energy solving problems I didn’t need to create.

Summer makes me want to find ways to bring ease into everything I do.

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A Warm Breeze

My favorite summer evenings are the simplest ones. The temperature finally drops after a hot day. The light lingers a little longer, and a warm breeze moves through the air.

I’ve felt breezes like that when I lived in the desert. They don’t arrive with much force. In fact, you barely notice them at first. Then the air swirls around you, gently enough that you don’t feel pushed in any particular direction. You feel held by it.

That’s what ease feels like to me.

Knowing what is necessary and letting go of what isn’t. Then, allowing yourself to move through life with a little less resistance.

Like a warm summer breeze.

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June always arrives with the promise of summer, and every year Southern California reminds us to be patient. We even have a name for it: June gloom. Mornings wrapped in a blanket of gray that slowly give way to blue skies by afternoon.

It’s what I’ve always liked about June in Southern California. It doesn’t rush into the season. It eases into it.

My month unfolded much the same way. It reminded me how much I enjoy gathering around a table with friends on a warm summer evening.

Not because of the food, although there was plenty of delicious food this month. Or even because of the places I visited, though I found myself in one of my favorite places.

It was the conversations.

A dinner with girlfriends where laughter somehow gave way to stories we’d never shared with each other before.

An evening at the Hollywood Bowl that began with a picnic and ended with music drifting into a warm summer night. Our picnic included one of my favorite summer recipes, a Watermelon, Cucumber & Feta Salad that’s become a staple this time of year. I’ve linked the recipe if you’d like to make it.

Read the recipe →

An afternoon spent painting parasols with my book club (something I would normally have no interest in), reminding me how satisfying it feels to lose track of time while making something with my hands.

I also squeezed in a quick getaway to Ojai. It’s one of my favorite places to return to whenever I need to slow down and reset. I wandered, found a few treasures along the way, and came home feeling lighter and more focused than when I left.

This month wasn’t really about any one experience. It was about connection.

Not the kind of connection I explored in May, but the kind that happens when people gather without an agenda and conversations go somewhere unexpected. I love those moments when someone shares a story that somehow helps you understand yourself a little better.

Moments like this leave me even more convinced that everyone has a story worth telling.

Here are a few things that caught my attention this month.

This Month on AAL

One Word: Stillness

What my daughter’s cat taught me about being still.

After twelve days with one rambunctious cat, I found inspiration for this month’s One Word.

Read “Stillness” →

Things I No Longer Need To Do

The list that keeps growing.

There are more musings on this list tucked inside my sea foam-colored journal. I add to it whenever the mood strikes. It’s still a work in progress, and I have a feeling it’s never meant to be finished.

Read “Things I No Longer Need To Do” →

From My Notebook

I've started choosing restaurants where the food is consistently good, and the atmosphere is quiet enough for conversation. I'll take that over going to the newest, noisiest place in town. More than once, my friends and I have been the last ones to leave a restaurant because the conversation was simply too good to end.

I keep thinking about how every group of close girlfriends takes turns being the evening's storyteller. You never fully know someone’s story until they choose to share it. I’ve been surprised and inspired more than once.

June gloom, those cloudy, overcast mornings that don’t burn off until the afternoon, might be one of Southern California’s best metaphors. Some things aren’t meant to be rushed.

My Bookshelf

I have a slightly out-of-control cookbook collection that I treasure. It came in handy as inspiration for a YouTube cooking show I produced for years. Even now, I can’t walk past the cookbook section of a bookstore without stopping to take a look.

While wandering through Bart's Books in Ojai, a one-of-a-kind outdoor bookstore, this one came home with me.

My latest find: The Farmhouse Culture Guide to Fermenting by Kathryn Lukas

I've been wanting to learn how to ferment food for a while now, so this was the perfect book to learn from. Besides, anything that's good for the gut has my attention.

A Few Moments

Not every memory needs a written story.

Some are better remembered this way.

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As June rolls into July, I’m looking forward to seeing what catches my attention next.

Until the next Mix,

Lisa

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My daughter is away on vacation this month. That means I’ve been handed the responsibility of watching her cat, Moose, whom I lovingly refer to as my grand cat.

Moose is a rescue. He’s a very large, fluffy boy whose Swiffer duster-sized tail has, on multiple occasions, almost swept my morning coffee off my side table. Moose moves through his days in predictable cycles. There are moments of pure madness, when he tears through the house at full speed, chasing something only he can see. Some invisible threat, or house ghost, that only cats have access to.

And then, just as suddenly as the whirlwind began, it’s over. He finds a patch of warm light near a window, settles in, and sits there with his tail gently swaying. Perfectly content with exactly where he is and what he’s doing.

For the past few days, I’ve been watching him perform his morning ritual and thinking, “I want that.” Not the sprinting through the house part. The other part. That complete and uncomplicated arrival into calm. When his stillness comes, Moose doesn’t resist it. He simply inhabits it.

I continued studying him, trying to figure out how he transforms from chaos to calm so effortlessly, and whether his ability to shift might rub off on me.

Maybe that’s why the word “stillness” has been on my mind lately.

When My House Went Quiet

Watching Moose, I found myself thinking about the first time I recognized feeling true stillness.

I remember my first few empty-nester mornings like they were yesterday. The house was quiet in a way it hadn’t been in years. There were no lunches to make or lists to check off. My daughter wasn’t there to need anything from me.

I didn’t know what to do with myself. I actually laughed out loud, wandering from room to room, vaguely aware that I was looking for something to organize or solve. Old habits are hard to break.

Eventually, I made a cup of coffee and went outside to the backyard. I sat on my wicker chair listening to the birds singing. Just me, the warm morning air, with nothing pressing to do. Experiencing this stillness was a little uncomfortable at first. I was fighting a restless feeling as I thought, "Shouldn't I be doing something?"

But I stayed seated. Happily taking in the quiet and stillness.

Somewhere in those minutes of settling in, I realized that I had stopped thinking about what I should do next. I was simply there, in my backyard, coffee in hand, listening to the birds. Just being still.

Looking back, I have to say the moment felt a little bit magical.

It may have been the first time I understood what stillness could look like for me. Not in a meditation or yoga way; I had been practicing both for years. This felt different. It wasn’t something I had practiced my way into. It effortlessly showed up.

Watching Moose settle into that patch of sunlight reminded me that I have access to that type of stillness. I just have to remember to make time to tap in and experience it more often.

Summer Stillness

Summer has always felt like the season most willing to offer stillness. The days stretch on a little longer. Dinners move outdoors as we enjoy lingering conversations. Even when our schedules don’t change all that much, something about the season invites us to slow down.

These days, I’m learning to find smaller moments of stillness. Making a second cup of coffee or tea in the morning and not doing anything else while I drink it. Stepping outside in the middle of the day for no reason other than to pause and enjoy the warmth of the sun. Or turning off all electronics and savoring the quiet of my house.

Moose, of course, doesn’t care what season it is. His commitment to morning, afternoon, or nighttime moments of stillness remains impressively consistent. But watching him, being active then suddenly still, has made me wonder. Does stillness come more naturally when we stop treating every quiet moment as a space that needs to be filled?

Moose seems to have always understood this. Unlike us humans, after the chaos passes, he doesn't wonder whether he's earned the right to rest. Or think about what comes next. He just settles into the warm light and stays there, satisfied.

Of course he does. He’s a cat.

I’m still working on remembering to settle into the stillness.

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Remember a time before technology handled our information, when people coveted their little address books? Those small books (probably black) held more than just phone numbers. They held cryptic secrets, observational notes, and other information you guarded with fierce intensity. There was something sacred about them. A private annotated archive of comings and goings in your world.

I have a new book that I pick up often.

It’s a small seafoam-colored journal I keep in a well-hidden yet accessible spot. I started using it a few years ago, shortly after my 60th birthday. I call it my little reevaluation book. A paper space filled with different topics I muse about. It’s where thoughts that have been swirling in my head for years can live.

There are multiple lists in this book. But one list in particular keeps growing:

Things I No Longer Need To Do

It’s a collection documenting things I no longer require of myself or need to carry.

Here are a few things on the list so far:

Explain every decision

I made a lot of pivots in my forties. Sifting through what I wanted and what was important to me. I carefully decided what to spend my time on and what to let go of. For a while, it felt like every pivot required a justification to appease one person or another. I always made sure I had a detailed explanation about my choices to preempt anyone challenging them. I know that behavior came from years of being an only child of a controlling mother.

The people who require a detailed explanation of your choices are rarely satisfied by what you say anyway.

There’s no need to overexplain anymore.

Keep everyone comfortable

Life has made me an expert at reading rooms and softening edges. I’ve spent plenty of time making the bothered feel unbothered, and the uncomfortable feel comfortable. Delicately ironing out the occasional ruffled feathers. I care about people. But I no longer consider it my job to manage other people’s emotional experience of me.

I’ve dropped that boulder and walked away.

Pretend to be fine

There were too many years when “I’m fine” was an instinctive reflex to the “How are you” question. Those words on autopilot were a shield. A way to avoid slowing down and be truthful with myself. Cloaking your truth will eventually seep out of you in other ways. For me, it was migraine headaches, stomach issues, hair loss, and experiencing life through beige lenses. Along the way, I got tired of pretending all was well in my world. Therapy helped; being honest with myself helped more.

When something is hard, it’s hard. Understanding this is allowed and encouraged.

Have an opinion on everything

There is so much yapping coming at me from every direction and corner of the internet right now. Too many opinions all at once, from everyone, on everything. Maybe it’s an overreaction to all of this, but I’ve stopped feeling obligated to weigh in on every conversation. Even on subjects I know well. And especially on those I don't have enough honest information about to share a real opinion.

I’ll chime in when I have something valuable to bring to the conversation.

Rush

I spent many years moving at a frantic pace timed on someone else’s stopwatch. I was either behind, catching up, or bracing for the next fire to put out. At some point, I realized the urgency wasn’t mine; it was borrowed.

I’ve learned to maintain a healthy pace so I can accomplish things without rushing through life unnecessarily.

Lesson learned: No need to be frantic; it all gets done.

Hold on to connections that only drain

Some relationships run their course, and sadly, others were never really mutual to begin with. Allowing them to slowly fade away isn’t cold. It’s healthy and honest. Maybe even a relief to both people involved.

You forget how much energy you were expending to keep a connection going until it’s gone.

Make my life make sense to other people

I’m happily single. I’ve had many conversations with friends, acquaintances, and even strangers about how I shouldn’t be alone. Or that they know I’ll find somebody someday soon. There’s gentle concern paired with a few not-so-gentle questions. I stopped trying to ease the concerns of people who weren’t living my life. Now I politely smile and listen. Why? Because I know that, at the heart of it, these words come from a place of love and from people wanting me to be happy.

I am happy. I know it, and that’s what’s important.

Prove myself

I have nothing to prove to anyone.

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There are more musings on this list in my seafoam colored journal. I occasionally add to it when the mood strikes. It’s a work in progress, and I’m not sure it ever gets finished. I don’t think it’s supposed to.

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We can carry so many different versions of ourselves over a lifetime.

The optimistic version and the one that became more practical. The version that fell in love easily and then learned how heartbreak changes you. The version that spent years taking care of everyone else and set herself aside for a while. And the version that still wants to dream bigger, but understands that preserving your peace is more important than proving something.

I think about all of this often and realize the older we get, the harder it is to explain ourselves in one clear sentence. Especially for women. Especially after 50. For me, after 60.

There’s a point when you understand you don’t have a single definitive identity. You’re layered. Careers and relationships have changed over the years. You’ve lived in different homes and inhabited different bodies. Multiple seasons were filled with survival and joy. Your confidence may have felt like a roller coaster ride. Sometimes with your eyes open, other times with them shut. Some layers fit together naturally. Others still rub against each other, creating tender places.

There were situations that pushed us to simplify ourselves and our stories so people could understand us more easily. We slipped into making ourselves smaller so they felt more comfortable, or fit neatly into who they'd already decided we were.

We've all lived multiple emotional lives, adapting, shape-shifting, and being practical when we wanted to be creative. Showing up emotionally steady for other people while quietly falling apart ourselves. There were times when we were fiercely ambitious in one season and exhausted in another. And through it all, we trained ourselves to simply keep moving because there wasn't time to stop. And who knew what would happen if we did.

A few days ago, I caught myself reacting to something from a version of myself that hasn’t emerged in years. It surprised me a little. There was a small moment when I thought:

Oh… she’s still in here too.

It reminded me that versions of ourselves never really disappear. Even when we think we've filed them away. They lie dormant, waiting for the right or wrong time to be activated again.

Tapping into all of this can feel emotional in ways that are hard to articulate. And yet, that's often exactly where a second act starts to take shape.

Beginning a second act isn't just about starting something new. It's often about reclaiming or acknowledging something old.

Maybe it's your voice or your dreams. A curiosity that's taken a backseat to everything else. Or the version of you that got buried underneath the responsibilities of work, caregiving, or simply life.

One of the gifts of getting older is knowing your life isn’t made up of disconnected versions of yourself. It’s the connected, layered parts of you moving together. Still emerging, evolving, and creating a lived, juicy story to be proud of. None of it gets wasted. Not even the parts that feel complicated to revisit now.

A layered life is a beautiful life.

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Something to Think About

Was there a time when a version of yourself showed back up unexpectedly?

Where are you still telling the simplified version of your story? What would it feel like to stop?

Which version of yourself do you miss the most? Why?

Take your time with these.

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I’ve been thinking about how connection lives inside the nouns of my life. The people, places, and things that still hold pieces of me. Sometimes they show up in fragments, and sometimes all at once. There are connections that are obvious. Others feel like they’ve been patiently waiting for me to notice them again.

The People Connection

There are friendships where gaps in time seem to disappear the moment you’re together again.

I was reminded of that recently while spending time with a group of friends I’ve known for over thirty years. People who knew me before so many versions of my life. Before careers and responsibilities and all the things that slowly shape us over time.

With certain people, the connection is always there. You effortlessly slip back into conversation, laughter, and shared memories as if no time has passed. In those moments, it seems impossible that thirty years have gone by.

There’s something thrilling about that kind of connection.

The Places Connection

A few years ago, I drove back to the Bay Area for a reunion of a theater show I did in my twenties. The same group of friends I just wrote about.

I arrived a few days early and did something unplanned. I drove to every home I’d lived in and every school I’d attended in the area. Each place brought something back. Memories. Feelings. Small details I hadn’t thought about in years. Until I arrived at my junior high school. A school I had only attended for one year.

The main building looked familiar, but as I walked around, I felt strangely disconnected from it all. For a moment, I actually questioned whether I had been a student there at all. The day had been filled with a flood of memories from every other place I visited. Some good and some difficult. But standing there, staring at the oak tree in the quad, I drew a blank.

I kept walking, waiting for a memory to pop up. Ten minutes later, finally, two things surfaced when I turned down a yellow corridor. The classroom doors of a mythology class I loved, and the home economics room where I learned to make a crepe.

That was it.

As I walked back to my car, I suddenly remembered that I had been sick and out of school for nearly two months. It was a jarring moment realizing a chunk of my memories from that time had disappeared. I sat in my car for a moment, waiting for another memory to surface. Nothing emerged, but one clear thought did.

I wish my grandmother were here to tell me what happened during that time.

She took care of me then, and would be the only connection to stories and memories I could no longer access on my own. Maybe I never will.

That experience made me realize that places don’t just connect us to memory. Sometimes they connect us to absence, too.

I’ve lived in Los Angeles for over thirty-five years. Long enough that driving through the city has become its own form of time travel. I think of it as visiting the ghosts of Lisa’s past.

There's a restaurant in West LA that's been shuttered for years. But every time I drive past it, I remember sitting out on the chic outdoor patio with candlelight flickering on a warm summer evening. I was there, breaking up with a boyfriend, when a rat suddenly skittered across the ground next to a group of women celebrating a birthday. For a moment, the rat and I made eye contact. I took that moment of connection with the rat as a sign that I was making the right decision.

I was.

There are so many other places. The hospital where my daughter was born. Driving past the street where her dad and I carefully placed her into her car seat and drove home at a snail’s pace. Off to start our family trio.

Nondescript buildings where I auditioned for acting roles. And the giant white church on Franklin, where so many dance auditions happened. I drive past all of them now and remember the peculiar combination of nerves and ambition that lived in my body then. Youthful, fearless, and completely convinced that everything was possible.

It was and still is. Just differently now.

That’s what Los Angeles holds for me. Not nostalgia exactly. More like a living archive of connections. Years of life memories coexist with the present as I drive toward whatever comes next.

The Things Connection

I have three objects from my childhood that I’ve kept for as long as I can remember.

A small white purse with a silver clasp that I carried to church on Sundays. My first pair of tap shoes. And a small plastic toy that looks like a space alien, sitting on my desk right now as I write this.

All three take me back to around age four or five. Long before life became more layered and complicated. Through years of moving and letting go of things I collected along the way, these always stayed with me.

It never occurred to me to let them go. They still make me happy when I see them.

Maybe because they connect me to something larger than the objects themselves. A feeling or a moment in time. I instinctively chose to hold on to them long before I understood why.

Connection can live in the small things we continue carrying through life.

All of the nouns.

Connection isn’t always something we build. Sometimes it’s something we return to.

I’m heading back to the Bay Area this summer for another reunion of the same show. I haven’t decided whether I’ll do the memories tour again. Writing this has made me curious. It’s been over fifteen years. I’ll see.

A few things to think about:

What’s a place that still feels connected to a version of yourself you haven’t thought about in a long time?

Is there someone in your life you can reconnect with effortlessly, no matter how much time has passed?

What’s an object you’ve carried through multiple chapters of your life? Why do you think it stayed?

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Connection has a way of resurfacing when we least expect it.

Sometimes it shows up in the pieces of ourselves we find in the people, places, and things that stay with us over time.

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One Word is a bi-weekly series exploring words that keep showing up and shaping how we think about living with more intention.

It started the way the best things usually do. Unexpectedly.

A week and a half of my April calendar was already mapped out. New York first. Teach a workshop, meet a client, then off to speak at a conference near London. Back home to Los Angeles. But somewhere in the middle of looking at my schedule, a thought popped into my head: what if I just extended the trip? Mix business with a little downtime. I hadn’t taken a real vacation or break in a while. LA can be challenging, and sometimes you need to get out of Dodge to gain the distance to focus and think clearly again.

Before I knew it, I had extended my trip and would be away from LA for almost a month. I made the decision without a grand plan or a dramatic declaration about needing a life reset. I was just a woman who looked at her calendar, saw an opening, and decided to take advantage of it.

That’s it. That’s the whole unexpected decision.

I’m grateful to be able to work from anywhere as long as I have my computer and a decent internet connection. So as the idea grew stronger, there wasn’t much standing in the way of saying yes.

So I said yes and organized my life to be away for a longer stretch.

First Stop, New York City

I booked an Airbnb instead of a hotel, intentionally, so I could have a kitchen, a coffee maker, and the freedom to cook for myself. I wanted to feel like I was living in New York for two weeks, not just passing through. The kitchen had a small table next to a window that looked out to a red brick building. A view you expect to see in NYC. What I didn’t plan for was a daily visit from a pigeon.

He showed up the first morning on a ledge outside my window, beak almost pressing the glass, peering in on me. My first reaction was not delight. I grew up watching Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds, and that film affected me. I don’t trust birds. I prefer not to be near them. I especially don’t want to make eye contact with a bird through a window while I am trying to enjoy my breakfast.

And yet there he was. Every morning around breakfast time. Same ledge. Same unblinking stare.

By the fourth day, something shifted. I stopped tensing up when he appeared and started noticing his movements and the rhythm and timing of it all. Brewing my coffee, his arrival, and the sounds of the city waking up outside. By the end of the first week, when he missed a day, I wondered where he was.

That pigeon became an odd catalyst that helped me slow down and be present. Not from forcing myself to slow down or using some mindfulness meditation app to make it happen. I slowed down because a slightly creepy dark grey pigeon was showing up on my window ledge and staring me down most mornings without fail.

It turns out his morning visits set the theme for my month-long trip. A trip filled with connecting and paying attention to what was right in front of me.

New York, Revisited

Let me be clear about what this trip was not. It wasn’t an impulsive “I need to get away and retreat from my life” decision. It was an opening to experience my life differently for a little while.

New York and I have history. I lived bicoastally for 4 years and was missing the city’s energy. I settled into a routine of working, cooking healthy meals, and wandering the city without a timetable in between my work sessions. Life flows differently when you allow yourself to live your daily routine in a new environment.

I’m what I lovingly call a theater rat when I’m in New York. I see as much as I can (though I draw the line at some current ticket prices). I love museums and any interactive installations I can find. (Thumbs up to Mercer Labs, it’s worth a visit if you’re in NYC.) I happily walked everywhere. Twenty blocks is a pleasure in New York when the weather is good. In LA, people will genuinely grumble if you park more than half a block from your destination. I’m invigorated when I visit a city built for walking. I love that Central Park is always there as a respite from the city’s noise and congestion. Also, you never know who you’ll cross paths with.

The Lunch

The best gatherings are never planned. Schedules aligned out of nowhere, and I met up with a bunch of friends I’ve known for over 30 years. All of them were former theater kids that I worked with in a live show in the San Francisco Bay Area in my 20s. None of us had planned this reunion. It just worked out that we were all in New York at the same time. We spent the afternoon and later that evening laughing, reminiscing, and catching up. All thankful that we’ve known each other and kept in touch for so long. A toast was made to celebrate our connection over the years and to growing older together. There’s a particular ease of being with people who have known you through all of it. The good and the bad. Those connections run deep. And in our case, sometimes for a lifetime.

London, The Other Frequency

I had been to London before, so I didn’t arrive with a tourist’s checklist. That freed me up to explore at a slower pace.

The conference in Birmingham was the main reason I was in England. It was hosted by Ecamm, the live video software I use for my podcast and teach clients. Seeing the team in person, across the pond and not on my computer screen, was genuinely surreal in the best way. Speaking at their event allowed me to see old friends and make new connections.

But the biggest highlight was seeing my cohosts on the Creative Amplifiers podcast. We co-create seamlessly, and have only been together IRL a few times over the years. One of them lives in England, the other in Portugal. The conference brought us together again, and that’s always a good thing. These are easy friendships, not just working relationships. We connected, laughed, and picked up exactly where we left off.

Returning to London for a day before heading back to NYC, I lucked out with sunny weather. I walked and explored, finding a few parks along the way when I needed a moment of quiet. I also experienced something else. Seeing the United States and daily life within it from a distance, through a different lens, changes your perspective in ways that are hard to articulate. It makes you look at your connection to home and your life differently. But that’s another post.

On my ride to Heathrow, a few moments kept coming back to me.

I saw a lot of theatre in New York. The highlights being Proof and The Lost Boys. Both are worth every penny of the ticket price, which in New York is saying something.

I made my way through Central Park more than once. Wandering toward the Bethesda Fountain is always worth the walk. Unfortunately, the Mall was fenced off to protect the American elms lining it.

I also celebrated my 63rd birthday in London. The evening ended with a carrot cake softie dessert and a sparkler that was completely over-the-top but absolutely necessary.

The best part was all the connections I made with old friends, new people, and the cities themselves. I was able to slow down and take everything in. The energy and diversity. Connecting to the rhythm of people living their lives in very different cities. Something I don’t usually make time to do when I’m out and about in LA.

Back to the pigeon

I’m back in my Airbnb in NYC for a few more days before I head back to LA. As I stare out the window this morning, coffee in hand, I realize something’s missing. There’s no pigeon. Maybe he found someone else’s window to stare through. I’d like to think he moved on to the next person who needed a reminder to slow down and pay attention. I’m sure he’s flown away forever (assuming it was the same pigeon every morning).

The decision to extend this trip didn’t change my life. It helped me stay present and let the month unfold without pressure or expectations.

It also gave me a greater appreciation for the life I’m living and the people in it. Even more so, it reminded me of the importance of connection and how it can show up in different forms.

We don’t always have to go looking for connection. Sometimes we just have to create a little space, step out of our familiar rhythm, and let it find us.

When did you last slow down enough to let something find you?

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Last weekend, I was reorganizing a kitchen drawer for twenty minutes when I realized I wasn’t actually thinking about creating a pristine, orderly drawer.

My hands were moving through spatulas, as my fingers became tangled in a rubber band that had no business being in there. I found a takeout menu from a place I’m sure shut down two years ago, along with an appliance manual for an electric spiralizer I used twice, but no longer owned. I realized, in all this chaos, that my mind was quieter than it had been in weeks. Not because anything had been resolved. Just less noise.

When I was younger, I thought clarity was something you had to chase, like a mythical beast. I believed it was something that arrives with enough journaling or late-night conversations with yourself. The ones you play out in your head as you stare at the ceiling, running through every possible version of what should come next. In my mind, it required effort. You earned it somehow after you’d done enough of the work. Combining all of these would help you figure out what comes next.

There were times in my life when a lack of clarity felt like a personal failure. As if everyone else had gotten a memo I never received. My activities to gain clarity were performed with good intentions that would morph into a type of low-grade anxiety that I mistook for productivity.

Sometimes clarity showed up. Most of the time it didn’t. When it did arrive, it rarely appeared as I expected.

What I’ve come to understand, slowly over the years, is that clarity usually shows up in the spaces between. Not when I’m pushing for it or when I think I’ve figured something out. It arrives quietly, sometimes sideways, like when my hands are busy, and my mind forgets to hold on to my thoughts so tight.

The kitchen drawer. A long drive with music I’ve heard a hundred times. Folding laundry on a Sunday afternoon when there’s nowhere to be. Enjoying the same familiar rhythm of matching and folding, matching and folding, until my mind just settles somewhere quieter. I’ve started paying attention to those moments differently. Not analyzing them. Just letting them be what they are. A quiet sign that something is stirring, even when I can’t name exactly what it is or what it means.

What Changed

There's something about this chapter of life that's easier. I'm less interested in forcing resolution than I used to be. Less convinced that having it all mapped out means anything. The urgency that used to follow me around has mostly disappeared. The need to know, decide, and be clear before moving has softened in a way I didn't plan for, and didn't expect to feel so good.

I think I used to confuse clarity with certainty. I’ve learned they’re not the same thing.

Certainty wants guarantees. It wants to know how the story ends before agreeing to begin. Clarity is quieter than that. It doesn’t promise outcomes. It just removes a little of the fog. Enough to let you take things one step at a time. It allows you to stop pretending something fits when it doesn’t and to honestly admit, if only to yourself, what you really want. Even if you’re not ready to say it out loud yet.

This is the clarity I’m interested in having now. The honest kind that shows up in small decisions, and finally stops you from needing to explain to others or second-guess yourself. The kind that makes a decision feel less like a decision and more like a relief.

Lately, I’ve been keeping two small notebooks. One is in my newly organized kitchen drawer, another on my nightstand. I use them as a place to write down whatever’s cluttering my mind when I wake up or before I go to bed. The writing isn’t about solving anything; it’s about getting thoughts out of my head and onto a page, where they take up less space. Nothing is structured. No prompts, no categories, no systems I read about somewhere and decided to try. Some days, I’ll write an entire chapter. Other days, I’ll write one word and close the notebook. There are also those mornings or evenings when I open the notebooks and realize nothing needs to be written.

What consistently surprises me is how much lighter the day feels after I do write. Again, not because anything got resolved, but because I literally placed my thoughts somewhere outside of myself.

I don’t know what you’re trying to figure out or decide on right now. Something, probably. We usually are.

But I wonder what might change if you gave yourself one small space. A drawer to clean out, a notebook on a table, or a quiet drive with no podcast or music playing. A moment to allow your hands or body to do something while the rest of you catches up.

This isn't to find the answer but to remember that you don't always need one right now. Sometimes the clear answer or direction is already there, quiet and patiently waiting for you to stop looking so hard.

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A Few Things to Think About

• Is there a place or a moment where your mind goes quiet without you trying?

• What's one thing you've been holding onto tightly that might feel lighter if you just let it go for a while?

• What have you been waiting to feel clear about before you allow yourself to move forward?

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I’ve been thinking about how the beginning of a new year can feel a little off. Maybe a little confusing.

There’s a push to encourage people to start fresh and set goals. Meanwhile, life is still happening, emails are waiting to be answered, leaky faucets still need to be repaired, and other things are on your to-do list. Your body might still be recovering from all of the holiday activities, and your mind may not quite be ready to sprint into the new year.

There are some years when January arrives, and I start the month open and curious. Other years, I feel like I've just crossed the finish line of December, and I'm trying to catch my breath at the beginning of the month. In those years, I'm not entirely sure what I want to do or accomplish yet. And I'm fine with that. I've learned to trust that second feeling just as much as the first. But there's a space in the middle, and this year, I'm letting myself start there. I'm starting the year where I'm at.

There’s a simple honesty in that.

We’ve been conditioned to think that the start of a year is supposed to look a certain way. Clear and decisive with a mapped-out plan. But what if we begin the year slowly, with questions rather than answers and fully realized plans? What if January isn’t just for restarting, but for taking stock before you decide what’s next?

A Few Easy Ways to Begin

Pause long enough to take inventory.

This isn’t a full life audit. You’re just checking in with yourself without judgment. Think about what still feels heavy or what feels complete. What are the things that feel unfinished, but not urgent? Take some quiet time to jot down a few words or just think about it. Both ways are helpful.

Choose one small thing to come back to each day.

Not a goal. Just something simple that slows you down and brings you back to center. A morning cup of tea before looking at your phone. A short walk at the same time each day. Five quiet minutes writing in a notebook. It doesn't need to improve you. It just needs to ground you.

Delay decisions.

You don't need to decide on a fully realized plan for your next big move. There's value in letting clarity arrive on its own timeline. Sometimes the most supportive thing you can say to yourself is, I don't need to know what to do yet.

Something to Think About

Looking back

• What’s something I did last year that I want to remember I’m capable of?

Right now

• What feels unfinished, but not urgent?

Looking ahead

• What does starting where I’m at actually look like for me?

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So this January, I’m not rushing to map out the year in full. I’m taking the time to pause, take inventory of where I’m at now, and decide how to move forward from there.

There’s something reassuring about remembering that a new year doesn’t erase the old one. It also doesn’t require you to start with a clean slate. It opens a door to what’s next, and you get to decide when you’re ready to walk through and get started.

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The holidays put gratitude in the spotlight, and I love that. There’s always the moment at the Thanksgiving table when everyone takes turns naming what they’re thankful for. Year-end posts that list accomplishments. Cards with cheerful updates about life changes, milestones, and trips.

All of that is great, and I enjoy hearing about those things. But this year, I’m not feeling called to put together a highlight reel.

Instead, I want to focus on the small things I’m grateful for. The ones that were there consistently all year long.

What Gratitude Looks Like Now

In this chapter of my life, gratitude is about paying attention to what sustains me and trusting my own rhythms and decisions unapologetically.

I treasure spaciousness and what’s already here, rather than chasing what’s next.

My Simple Gratitude List

These are the things I’m grateful for, and the things carrying me into the new year:

I’m grateful for slow mornings, when nothing urgent is waiting for me and the day unfolds without being rushed.

I’m grateful for coffee that goes cold because I got distracted standing by a window, lost in thought.

I’m grateful for familiar routines. The same quiet morning start that makes the day flow smoothly.

I’m grateful for meals that tasted better because I wasn’t scrolling through my phone while eating them.

I’m grateful for walks taken without a destination, just for the sake of moving and breathing.

I’m grateful for moments of quiet in the middle of busy weeks, even if they were brief.

I’m grateful for choosing rest without having to explain myself or feel like I needed to earn it.

I’m grateful for saying no more often, and for not needing to explain why.

I’m grateful for evenings that ended early, when staying in felt better than pushing through.

I’m grateful for unfinished things I didn’t force to completion, trusting they’ll find their time or not.

I’m grateful for letting go of timelines that never really belonged to me.

I’m grateful for letting some plans dissolve without turning them into a story.

I’m grateful for conversations that didn’t fix anything but made me feel understood.

I’m grateful for laughter that showed up unexpectedly and changed the tone of an entire day.

I’m grateful for the ability to pause before reacting, even when I didn’t always get it right.

I’m grateful for paying attention to what my body was telling me instead of pushing through.

I’m grateful for the moment I realized it was okay to change my mind about something I’d believed for years.

I’m grateful for the Sunday afternoons when I sat in my favorite chair with a book and realized I had nowhere to be.

I’m grateful for the confidence that came from knowing myself a little better than I did last year.

I’m grateful for my daughter, my family, and the friends who make life feel lighter and remind me I’m not doing this alone.

And I’m grateful for the version of myself who didn’t demand constant progress, but allowed the year to be what it was.

That’s my list. The small things that made this year feel quieter, steadier, and grounded.

That’s what I want more of in 2026.

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A Few Things to Think About

As this year winds down, take a moment with these questions:

What small habit or routine supported you this year more than you realized?

What did you let go of this year that made space for something better?

What’s one thing you did for yourself this year that you want to keep doing?

What do you want to feel more of in the year ahead?

What are you grateful for as this year winds down? I’d love to hear what’s on your list.

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My kitchen is filled with ‘80s music when I make my cranberry sauce. It is usually a day or two before Thanksgiving, and something upbeat is playing in the background while I dance around the kitchen and cook. All of this is before the rush of the actual day of timing side dishes and prepping the turkey. It is just me, a wooden spoon, and a pot filled with ruby-red cranberries, orange juice, ginger, and sugar. I watch as all of the ingredients begin to soften and pop to the music. I love that popping sound. The moment that marks the start of my holiday season. It is my yearly ritual: standing in my kitchen and making a dish I enjoy cooking.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Over the years, I have discovered there are so many ways to celebrate it, and each one has its own special joy. I love gathering with people I care about, but I also love the meal itself and the ritual of cooking it. Out of everything I make for the holiday, cranberry sauce has always been my favorite side dish to prepare.

Before that, I grew up loving the canned jellied cranberry sauce, especially the way my grandmother would shake it out of the can and let it plop into the bowl. The way it wiggled and wobbled as if it were doing a happy dance always made me laugh. When I eventually discovered a simple homemade cranberry sauce recipe, I started experimenting with ingredients, sweetness levels, and cooking times until it became my own.

Thanksgivings Over The Years

I have hosted and attended all kinds of Thanksgivings, and my cranberry sauce has been on every table. I’ve made it in a tiny, unfinished galley kitchen on a hot plate. My friends were remodeling their kitchen, and all we had was one large oven, my toaster oven, and two hot plates. The adults were busy finding creative ways to pull the meal together, while the children were outside playing games and working on art projects. The meal came together beautifully and was delicious. To this day, my daughter says it was one of her favorite Thanksgiving memories from childhood.

I’ve made it for quiet family dinners where the table felt almost too big for just us.

I’ve made it for Friendsgivings, where my guests were people who were not traveling home or could not because of some complicated family situation. Everyone was welcome at my table, and I could always squeeze in another place setting for a last-minute guest.

I’ve also made it for big Thanksgivings, like the year I hosted thirty guests. For me, that meant a whole week of cooking and long lists to keep track of. I was trying to stay ahead of the timeline so I could make everything from scratch, including two different pies. I used to take pride in doing it all, and I enjoyed my B. Smith and Martha Stewart moments. But, somewhere after turning fifty-five, the urge to produce the ideal Thanksgiving meal loosened its grip on me. It is funny how things change.

In recent years, I have enjoyed spending Thanksgiving at friends’ homes, where my only responsibility was to bring a good bottle of red wine and a side dish. Naturally, I brought a double batch of my cranberry sauce.

The Gift of Space

Making my cranberry sauce gives me something I didn’t know I needed: space. Space for calm before the intensity of the season. A chance to ease into the holiday instead of sprinting toward it, and to remember why I actually love this time of year.

Over time, I’ve learned that the best Thanksgiving gatherings are not always the most elaborate. They were the gatherings where I chose to stay flexible and let the day unfold. No pressure for perfection. Just good food, loving people, and fun stories. It has also meant letting gratitude set the tone for the day. That means feeling grateful for another year together and for the laughter at the table. It even means feeling grateful for the dishes that don’t turn out right. They make for good stories and memories.

In this next chapter, I am happy to decide which traditions to keep, which to let go of or pass on, and what new ones to create. This Thanksgiving will be small and quiet, and that feels right for this holiday. Every year is different. The guest list, the location, and the menu may change, but my cranberry sauce remains a holiday ritual I choose to keep.

Happy Thanksgiving.

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Do you have a favorite ritual that kicks off the Holiday season for you? I would love to hear about it.

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My Cranberry Sauce Recipe

If you want to make my favorite recipe that kicks off the holiday season, you can find the full recipe here: Cranberry Sauce Recipe

You can also watch a YouTube video I recorded back in the day on how to make it:
How To Make Cranberry Sauce

Forget the canned cranberry sauce from your childhood. You know, the kind that wiggles out of a can. This homemade version is incredibly easy, requires just four ingredients, and tastes infinitely better. Plus, you can make it up to three days ahead, giving you one less thing to worry about on the big day.

The Recipe

Ingredients:

1 (12-ounce) bag fresh cranberries, washed

3/4 cup sugar

2 teaspoons fresh ginger

1/2 teaspoon grated orange zest

1 cup fresh orange juice

Instructions:

1. Rinse the cranberries well. Be sure to remove any cranberries that are crushed or too soft.

2. In a medium saucepan, combine the cranberries, sugar, ginger, orange zest, and orange juice. Bring to a gentle boil over medium heat, uncovered, until the cranberries pop. Reduce heat and simmer for 8 to 10 minutes. Stir once or twice while simmering.

3. Let cool, then transfer the sauce to a dish and cover. The cranberry sauce will keep for a week, stored in a covered container in the refrigerator.

A Few Tips

Choosing Your Ingredients:

• Pick through your cranberries carefully. Discard any that are crushed or overly soft

• Use freshly squeezed orange juice for the best flavor

• When zesting, avoid the white pith underneath, which is bitter

• Use a spoon to peel off the ginger skin. It’s easy to do, and you’ll avoid wasting ginger.

Storage:

The cranberry sauce will keep for a week, stored in a covered container in the refrigerator.

Enjoy!

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The Story Behind This Recipe

This cranberry sauce isn’t just a side dish for me. It’s the ritual that officially kicks off my holiday season. Read more about how this simple recipe became a tradition.

Watch Me Make It

Want to see the whole process in action? It’s from back in my food blogging days.

In my 20s and 30s, I thought balance meant doing everything and doing it well. Long to-do lists, multitasking, and the quiet exhaustion that followed me into bed were my norm. Balance meant keeping all the plates spinning, personal and professional, no matter how heavy they felt.

It took a lot of missteps, stress, and even health issues over the years for me to understand that balance is none of that. It is less about keeping it all together and more about knowing when and how to return to my center.

A few weeks ago, I caught myself rushing from one project to another, ignoring that familiar voice in my head telling me to slow down. So I did something I would have never done when I was younger. I stopped mid-task. Closed my laptop, stepped outside, and sat in my garden.

I had no agenda or productivity goal. I just allowed myself to be still.

Of course, my mind immediately went through the list of everything I should be doing: Returning client emails, editing videos, or calling a friend for their birthday. I felt restless, as if I were wasting time. It was a familiar feeling from my past, one I never enjoyed.

But I stayed seated in my garden. And somewhere between the restless feelings and the mental checklists, my body relaxed. The noise quieted just enough for me to recognize what I had created for myself. Unnecessary overwhelm. I sat still long enough to remind myself that balance is not about juggling everything. It is about finding your centered calm, especially when life feels uneven.

Finding Your Balance

Balance in your second act has a different rhythm. It stops being about control and becomes more about choice.

You have lived through enough balanced life attempts to know that most of them are illusions. You’ve tried the color-coded calendars, the morning and evening routines, and the idea that if you optimized enough, everything would fall neatly into place.

You’ve also watched the women before you, mothers, mentors, and other women in your family, burn themselves out. All while trying to be everything for everyone all the time. And you have lived long enough to know that life will always be unpredictable, no matter how carefully you create plans.

Now, here we are at the close of another year. A season that naturally brings expectations, obligations, and emotional complexities. The holidays have a way of pulling us out of balance, stretching us in directions we don’t always have the energy for. But the gift of your second act is perspective. You get to ask yourself and decide:

How can I stay balanced in this phase of my life, knowing who I am today, and honoring my capacity, time limits, and energy level?

Your answer to that question will be fluid when you know that finding balance is not the finish line. It is a rhythm that shifts day to day, even year to year. Some weeks, that rhythm looks like a long list of commitments. Others, it looks like slow mornings and days that unfold gently.

Once I stopped chasing the mythical balanced life, I noticed how naturally my energy ebbs and flows. The key is not trying to force everything to stay even. It is noticing when you are leaning too far in one direction and knowing how to return to your middle ground. When I choose to live in alignment rather than obligation, my days take on a completely different quality. My body feels lighter and I have more energy. My creativity opens up in a way that feels natural instead of forced. Ideas flow more easily, and I find myself in a better mood. More present and more patient with myself and others.

It also inspires me to make time for the things that keep me joyful, like cooking, hiking, or spending time with the people closest to me. This reminds me of what my version of balance feels like.

Sometimes, prioritizing those moments has meant saying no to things that might have advanced another area of my life. At this stage, my peace and my health come first. I have learned that opportunities do not disappear when you choose yourself. They show up again at the right time.

Finding Your Balance

So how do we reclaim balance when everything feels like it is pulling us in many directions, especially during the holiday season?

Honor your natural rhythm.

If your creativity comes alive in the afternoon, work with it. If your mornings are slow, let them be slow.

I am a morning person, and once I accepted that and planned around it, everything became easier.

Put doing nothing on your calendar and protect it.

Yes, nothing. Not meditation. Not a purposeful walk. Not even an inspirational podcast.

Nothing, even if it is for 5 to 10 minutes.

Stillness is not laziness. It is an opportunity to pause and regroup. Sometimes, it can be the doorway to clarity.

Let your body guide you.

Your body knows when you are drifting off-center. Take a walk without your phone. Play music that slows your breath. Find moments that help you slow down and reset.

Not everything needs the same energy.

Not every day demands the same pace. Some days call for activity. Others ask for rest. Finding your rhythm is not about keeping everything balanced.

Be okay with saying no.

Saying no can be the most powerful way to stay centered. Not everything deserves your time or emotional energy. You’re not closing a door. You’re simply choosing what feels right for you in this moment.

Something to Think About

Here are a few simple questions to help you explore what balance means for you right now:

Where in my life do I feel off-balance, and what do I need to release to find my center again?

Not what you think you should release, but what truly needs to go.

What am I still doing out of habit rather than desire?

Sometimes we keep doing things long after they have stopped serving us.

If balance is a rhythm, what does mine sound or feel like right now?

And does that rhythm match the life I want to live now?

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I enjoy discovering my different rhythms each day. I know when to choose peace over pressure or intention over speed. Some days, it all works beautifully. Other days, I might find myself spinning plates again. But either way, I know how to find my way back to my middle ground.

That moment when I closed my laptop and stepped outside? I’ve had many more of those since. And each time, I return feeling a little less frantic and a lot more grounded.

Your rhythm is there too, underneath the noise, expectations, and swirl of this Holiday season.

You just have to get quiet enough to find it.

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I opened my laptop this morning to work on my book project. Twenty minutes later, I’d reorganized my desktop folders, answered three texts, and started researching a completely different project. I hadn’t written a single word.

If you’re in the process of building something new (whether it’s a business, a creative practice, or a clearer sense of who you are now), you already know that focus feels different after 50. It’s not about willpower or discipline. Those old productivity tricks don’t work like they used to. They might feel like they were designed for a former version of you that no longer exists.

Staying focused in your second act isn’t about doing more. It’s about getting clearer on what deserves your energy and letting go of what doesn’t. Some days it’s easy. Some days it’s not. And that’s okay. The key is returning to what deserves your attention.

Here are five ways to find and protect your focus.

Choose Your Three Top Priorities This Month

Not ten goals. Not a vision board with forty dreams. Three things.

When I asked myself this question last month, I realized I’d been carrying nine different priorities and not making progress on any of them. Once I named three, everything else became secondary. When you know what’s most important, your “yes” list defines your “not now” list.

Write down three things that would move your life forward this month. Everything else can wait.

Create One Small Ritual That Signals It’s Time to Start

You don’t need a complicated morning routine. You need a simple anchor that tells your brain: it’s time to focus now. ” For me, it’s making my favorite hot tea (blueberry hibiscus) and turning on the Focus@Will music app. That five-minute ritual tells my brain it’s time to work.

Try creating a tiny ritual to start your focused session. Commit to doing it for two weeks and see what happens.

Break Your Big Goal Into Small, Easy Steps

When you’re building something new at this stage of life, the big picture can feel overwhelming. You’re not just learning new skills. You might be pursuing something you’ve never done before.

The weight of it all could make you freeze up. So what should you do? Don’t focus on all of it at once. Break it into bite-sized pieces (remember the old question: how do you eat an elephant?). For example, if you want to start a consulting business, instead of trying to market your services to a large audience, just reach out to one person who might need your help.

Protect Your Attention Like It’s Your Most Valuable Asset

Because it is.

Every open browser tab is a distraction and can drain your focus. Every “quick check” of your phone breaks your train of thought.

Try this for one week:

• Limit the number of browser tabs you have open (I’ll be doing this)

• Silence your phone during focus time (or put it in another room)

• Check email twice a day instead of multiple times a day

You’ll start to notice how much space opens up in your mind and feel less distracted.

Track What You’re Avoiding (It’s Trying to Tell You Something)

Sometimes, loss of focus could be clarity in disguise.

If you keep procrastinating on something you said was important, maybe it’s not important to you anymore. The real question to ask: Am I avoiding this out of fear, or because it doesn’t fit anymore?

Sometimes the best thing you can do is let things go.

Finding focus or the ability to stay focused in your second act isn’t about trying to control everything or optimizing every hour. It’s about choosing and prioritizing what gets your time and attention.

Three Questions to Ask Yourself

• What are the three things that would move my life forward this month?

• What am I still doing that I should stop?

• What am I avoiding, and why?

The biggest question worth asking: What deserves your attention right now?

When you know the answer to that, staying focused becomes easier. Not perfect, but easier.

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I was in the middle of a conversation at a dinner party recently when someone told me I was “aging gracefully.” She said it with such earnest warmth, as if she were presenting me with a prestigious award. I smiled, said thank you, then reached for another deviled egg. Ten years ago, that comment would have ruffled my feathers a bit. I would have picked it apart. What did she mean by gracefully? Is there an ungraceful way to age, and was I heading in that direction?

Now? I had to smirk to keep from laughing out loud. Not at her (she meant well). But at the whole absurd dance of it. The careful wording and earnest delivery. There’s an unspoken assumption that aging requires the gracefulness of a seasoned ballerina performing on a stage full of banana peels.

I’m not complaining. I’m celebrating because I know that women over 50 often hear a particular set of phrases. They’re delivered with the best intentions as compliments, but I sometimes find them amusing.

The Greatest Phrase Hits

The next time you hear them, you might start smirking too:

“You look great for your age!” The qualifier does all the heavy lifting here. It’s like saying, “This tastes good for cafeteria food.”

“You’re aging gracefully,” As opposed to what? Aging with wild abandon? Wait, that sounds like much more fun.

“You’re so brave” For existing? Living alone? Wearing this outfit? Traveling solo? Ordering dessert? The bar for bravery has gotten remarkably low.

“I hope I look like you when I’m your age.” Is that the verbal equivalent of a participation trophy? Congratulations on making it this far! I hope to do the same.

“You don’t look 50!” What does 50 look like? Is there a coffee table book about it available on Amazon?

“Age is just a number.” Do I get to choose which number? 21 and 73 were always my lucky numbers.

“Fifty is the new thirty!” No. Fifty is fifty, sixty is sixty, and so on. And that’s fine with me.

“At least you’re healthy.” OK, I don’t know what to think of that one.

“Have you met anyone? Are you dating? You’ll find someone.” The rapid-fire question trilogy (seriously, it is always asked in a set of three in a far too excited tone). The assumption that I’m actively searching feels like I’ve misplaced my keys and need to retrace my steps.

“You’re in your prime!” Which prime? Prime Rib? A prime suspect? A prime number?

I don’t find these phrases to be mean-spirited. They’re just a little clumsy. Well-intentioned phrases loaded with old-fashioned assumptions. And for me, they’ve become amusing conversations to participate in. I’m not making fun of the people delivering them. These are the answers that sometimes swirl around in my head. I never say them out loud, but they make me smile because I love my age.

So How Did I Get Here?

A few things:

Learning to find the humor. These phrases are genuinely funny to me. The careful qualifiers. The loaded compliments. The assumptions wrapped in concern. Once I noticed them, these conversations got a lot more amusing.

Selfishly enjoying my internal monologue. All those thoughts bouncing around in my head? They’re my silent entertainment. Which leads me to the next point...

Realizing these moments are connection opportunities. It makes me curious about the person making the statement or asking the question. What’s behind it? How do they feel about their own aging? Once I started getting curious, these conversations became more layered. Sometimes, even meaningful.

Loving your age. There’s genuine confidence in liking who you are in this moment in time. Hearing these phrases can make you realize you’re not trying to prove or defend anything. You’re just... good.

When my daughter was in grade school, she wrote in a birthday card to me that I was aging like fine cheese. I’ve taken this as the highest compliment. The only question is: am I an aged Manchego (complex, a little sharp, definitely an acquired taste)? Or am I a brie (soft, accommodating, universally loved at parties)? I’m still deciding. But here’s what I do know. All those phrases people say? They make me smile now. Not a polite smile. A real one.

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We talk about energy like it’s a bank account. Something we deposit into and withdraw from. It’s either full or empty. I’ve started to realize that my energy is more like water. It flows, pools in unexpected places, then finds its own level. There are some mornings I wake up feeling I have nothing left in my energy tank. Other days, I’m buzzing with a hyped up energy that won’t settle down. Sometimes my energy feels thick and heavy, like I’m moving through honey. And other times it feels light and easy, like I could take on anything with a smile.

These aren’t good days or bad days. They’re just different kinds of energy asking for different things. What if the question we ask ourselves isn’t “Do I have enough energy?” but “What kind of energy do I have right now, and how do I move through my day with it?”

Five Ways Energy Shows Up

Energy shows up in different ways. Here are five of them, and how to work with each one.

Feeling Like You Have Enough

There are days when energy feels steady, not too high, not too low. Just enough to carry you through what life is asking of you. This is the quiet type of energy that hums along in the background and makes daily life flow easily.

How to move through your day with it: Trust it. This energy doesn’t need correcting or amplifying. Move through your day without overthinking whether you can handle the next thing. These are the days when everything gets done. Phone calls are returned, and projects get finished. It might not feel that exciting, but this steady energy is solid.

Feeling Like You Have Too Much

Welcome to the buzzing days. When you have energy, but it feels restless and scattered. You might be moving around the house, straightening things that don’t need straightening, or starting projects you don’t finish. On the surface, it seems like you have plenty of energy, but it doesn’t feel good to hold onto it.

How to move through your day with it: Give it a place to ground itself and redirect it by completing simple tasks or activities. Organize one drawer, water the plants, or go for a walk. The busy buzz you’re feeling needs direction, not suppression.

Feeling Drained

There are times when your energy is depleted. You feel empty after giving too much away, or you feel slow leaks that chip away at you without giving anything back.

How to move through your day with it: Notice the leaks and what caused them. People, habits, and obligations that don’t replenish you may drain more than they restore. Find ways to plug one leak at a time and protect what’s left.

The Tone of Energy

Energy isn’t only about quantity, it’s about quality. Some days your energy feels light and expansive. Other days, it feels heavy and contracted, even when you have the same amount.

How to move through your day with it: Pay attention to the feeling. When your energy feels light and expansive, notice what’s creating that. Remember it. When it feels heavy, ask yourself: Is this excitement or obligation? Curiosity or dread? The shift isn’t always about doing more or less. Sometimes it’s choosing one thing that lightens the feeling.

Energy in Motion

Energy isn’t static. It shifts throughout the day and throughout the seasons of our lives. What energized you at 30 might drain you at 55. Tasks that feel impossible in the morning might feel manageable after lunch.

How to move through your day with it: Work with the rhythm instead of against it. Notice what time of day your energy rises and when it falls. Try to plan demanding tasks or conversations for when your energy is higher. Save the gentler tasks for when it dips. The key is to work with your rhythm, not against it.

Something to Think About

Take a few minutes to check in with where your energy is right now.

Which of these five feels most like your energy today?

What’s been giving you energy lately, even in small ways?

Where might energy be quietly leaking away without you realizing it?

At this stage of life, we know ourselves well enough to work with our energy instead of against it. We can notice the patterns, honor the rhythms, and make choices that support rather than deplete us. It’s not always about having more energy; sometimes it’s about redirecting what’s already there.

This week, pay attention to your energy. See what shifts when you notice the level and what you need to move through your day.

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This post is part of my bi-weekly One Word series, where I explore words that keep appearing, demanding attention, and shaping how we think about living with more intention and less noise.

Remember childhood broccoli? Mushy, overboiled, and just sort of sitting there limp on the plate? I do. Because of those memories, I avoided making it for years. Turns out, I was missing the right technique.

This version, crisp-tender florets with garlic, lemon, and olive oil, is the one that changed my mind completely. It’s simple, fast, and now I crave it.

Why It Works

The secret is a two-step technique: blanch first, then sauté. Blanching keeps the color bright and gives you that perfect tender-but-still-has-bite texture. Adding the lemon at the end, both juice and zest, lifts the flavors.

The Recipe

Ingredients

• 1 lb fresh broccoli, cut into florets

• 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

• 2 garlic cloves, minced

• 1 teaspoon kosher salt

• 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

• 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

• 1 teaspoon fresh lemon zest

• 1/8 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes (optional)

Instructions

1. In a large bowl, prepare an ice bath.

2. Bring a pot of salted water to a boil. Add broccoli and blanch for 1 to 2 minutes until bright green and just slightly tender. Transfer immediately to an ice bath to stop the cooking.

3. Drain the broccoli thoroughly and pat dry.

4. Heat olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat.

5. Add garlic and cook for about 1 minute until fragrant. Watch it closely. You want golden, not burned.

6. Add the broccoli, salt, and pepper. Sauté for 5 to 7 minutes, letting the edges caramelize slightly.

7. Remove from heat and finish with lemon juice and zest.

8. Add red pepper flakes if you like a little warmth.

A Few Things Worth Knowing

Don’t skip the blanching. It’s the difference between broccoli that stays vibrant and green and broccoli that goes dull and limp in the pan.

Use the stems. Peel the woody outer layer, slice them up, and cook them right alongside the florets. No need to waste them.

Want to take the flavors further? Add a handful of grated Parmesan or some toasted pine nuts, tossed in at the end, to make this feel like a whole different dish.

Share An Appetizing Life

Finally, broccoli that doesn’t need to be hidden under cheese sauce.

I’m pulling this one from the Wayback Machine. It’s a video I made six years ago, but the method is exactly the same.

Watch how it comes together:

I hope this becomes a regular in your kitchen. Enjoy!

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