At 40, Liz was looking ahead to a new chapter. Her oldest child had graduated from high school, her youngest was starting kindergarten, she was excited about having more time to discover who she was outside of motherhood. She was planning to take photography classes and finally do something she had always wanted to do for herself.

Then a routine mammogram changed everything.

Liz shares how she navigated a breast cancer diagnosis, surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, reconstruction, and the uncertainty that came with each new piece of information, and all while raising her five children and trying to keep life moving.

But this conversation isn’t only about cancer.

Liz also opens up about being a single mother, financial struggles, motherhood, identity, hiking, photography, and the importance of continuing to have a life of your own while raising children.

She talks about completing a 315-mile solo hike over 25 days and how doing something difficult and unfamiliar helped her realize that she was capable of more than she knew.

She also shares a lesson that has become one of the themes of her life:

When in doubt, move.

Sometimes moving forward doesn’t mean having a plan. Sometimes it simply means taking the next step.

For any woman who has ever wondered who she is after a major life change, felt lost in motherhood, faced something frightening, or needed a reminder that she can do hard things, this episode is for you.

This is Liz’s story.

And it’s the first of many in Live Better Sisterhood: Ordinary Women, Extraordinary Lives.

Because every woman has a story.

Marge knows.

At 86, Marge has lived through divorce, starting over, finding love again in her 50s, building a new career, discovering new friendships, caregiving for her husband through dementia, losing him, and rebuilding her life once again.

In this episode of Live Better Sisterhood, Marge shares the honest story behind those transitions, and the lessons she learned along the way.

She talks about the danger of losing yourself in a relationship, the courage it took to rebuild after an unexpected divorce, and how counseling, friendship, work, and finding new interests helped her move forward.

Then, years later, she opened her heart to love again and reconnected with her high school sweetheart. Their relationship eventually brought her back to the small Missouri town where she grew up, where she once again had to find community and create a meaningful life.

Marge also opens up about one of the hardest chapters of her life: watching her husband decline as dementia progressed, becoming his caregiver, moving him into a nursing home, and experiencing what many people call the “long goodbye.”

After his death, she discovered another powerful lesson: don’t try to face grief alone.

Today, Marge’s philosophy is simple:

Believe in yourself.
Follow your dreams.
Keep making friends.
Ask for help.
Try new things.
And keep living.

If you’re a woman starting over after divorce, loss, caregiving, or a major life transition, this conversation may be exactly what you need to hear.

Subscribe to Live Better Sisterhood for honest conversations with women about the lives we’ve lived, the challenges we’ve faced, and what we’ve learned along the way.

#LiveBetterSisterhood #StartingOver #WomenOver50 #Midlife #FindingLoveAgain

In this episode of Live Better Sisterhood: Ordinary Women. Extraordinary Lives., I’m talking with my longtime friend Lauren in a deeply honest conversation about fear, resilience, gratitude, friendship, caregiving, and choosing to keep living fully, even when life doesn’t go according to plan.

Ten years ago, Lauren discovered she had a brain tumor completely by accident after falling and hitting her head. What followed was brain surgery, fear, uncertainty, and a powerful shift in perspective.

But Lauren didn’t let the diagnosis become her identity.

Instead, she learned to look for the “shiny moments”, the kindness of a nurse, a funny haircut workaround, a new friendship, a beautiful night sky, migrating birds, a favorite song, or simply another day to experience this extraordinary world.

Lauren shares how that experience changed her relationship with control, why she believes we should make our plans in pencil, and how gratitude has become part of the way she lives every day.

She also opens up about something many midlife women quietly experience: watching a parent change. Lauren talks about her mother’s Alzheimer’s, the heartbreak of seeing someone you love become dependent on you, and how she learned to hold onto the memories of who her mother really was.

And then there is the other side of Lauren’s story… the joyful, curious, wonderfully unconventional woman who travels the world, watches birds, stargazes, learns new things, writes children’s books, builds friendships across the globe, and continues pursuing purpose at 61.

Her message is simple but powerful:

You are not your diagnosis.
You are not your hardest season.
You are not what happened to you.

You get to keep becoming.

You get to find the joy.

You get to reach out.

And you get to live your life now, not someday.

If you’re navigating a difficult season, caring for aging parents, rebuilding your social circle, wondering what comes next, or simply trying to remember how to enjoy the ordinary moments of life, this conversation is for you.

And whatever life throws at you, Lauren has one important reminder:

Stay sparkly.

We are here to have real genuine connections—honest, meaningful conversations with everyday women who have faced extraordinary challenges and discovered ways to live better through them.

Some are born with challenges. Some choose challenges. And some ahave extraordinary challenges thrust upon them.

If you’re a woman navigating change, starting over, facing a difficult season, looking for connection, or simply wondering what comes next, Live Better Sisterhood is for you.

Because every woman has a story.

And sometimes another woman’s story is exactly what we need to remind us that we can keep going.

Sundays were for laundry, and as my brother and sister and I played quietly in the corner, my mom stood folding clothes. An older woman with deep wrinkled skin and sad eyes approached her, begging for work. She agreed to let the woman watch us while she was at work. It would be cheaper than sending us to daycare and would offer this woman something in return. The next day she left us with the woman, believing we were safe.

Instead, we were left in the care of the woman’s teenage daughter. We had no way of knowing what to expect.

I was seven years old.

In third grade.

The front door would close, and my heart would tighten.

The screech in her voice echoed through the muscles in my shoulders. Her eyebrows snapped together, and her jaw grew rigid, spit flying from her mouth as she growled her demands. 

I could feel my breath stop. It was my job to distract her. 

“Don’t cry. Stand tall.” I’d repeat to myself in my head.

What would she make me do today?

I was terrified to tell anyone.

I didn’t have language for what was happening. I only knew she touched me in ways that felt repulsive and made me want to disappear.

I squeezed my eyes shut. 

My fists clenched. 

I counted.

I waited.

Praying it would end.

One afternoon I broke free 

She ran after me, seething, growling.

Beating me with the heel of her shoe.

I twisted free and ran.

My feet slipped on the stairs.

I clawed at the carpet to keep from falling.

Her footsteps were getting closer.

I could hear the stomping of her feet behind me as I slammed and locked my mother’s bedroom door and raced to the phone.

I focused hard on my fingers, concentrating on them working faster. 

Don’t cry.

Frantically pushing buttons. Barely able to catch my breath. Willing my brain to remember the numbers. 

Mom‘s work. The number to Mom at work. 

I heard the first ring.

I heard her fists pounding louder. Each rattle of the door knob clenched my chest tighter.

Suddenly, the phone rang a second time, and I heard a voice on the other end of the line. My mother‘s voice answered.

I screamed into the receiver, barely able to get the words out through my sobs, I begged her to come home. 

“She’s coming!” I screamed through the door. 

The banging stopped, and there was silence. 

I kept the door locked and pressed the chair against it, grasping for air. I was hopeful, but terrified. She had to come quickly.

I heard the click of the downstairs door, my mother‘s voice in the hallway, and I could breathe for the first time. She opened the door, dressed in a suit and heels. Her manicured hand took mine, and I felt the salty wetness dripping down my face. I buried my face against her, hiding my face. The sweet smell of fabric softener filled my nose. Her voice was firm, “What happened?” 

Stand tall.

I stepped back and tried to stay calm, but my breath was coming too fast.

The girl laughed at my story, calmly, insisting it was all a lie. That I was making everything up because I wouldn’t listen.

She smiled. Her voice was soft. I felt a wave of panic that no one would believe me. I searched my mother’s eyes, instinctively knowing she could see through the girl's story. My mother’s eyebrows tensed and her tone grew deep. She reached out to me, and I ran into her arms sobbing. She held me.

I heard my mother tell the girl to leave, and I felt my heart release as I squeezed her tighter, breathing in the perfume that lingered on her skirt, as tears ran down my cheeks.

The next day we went to work with my mom. I sat quietly beneath my mother’s desk.

Curled into the corner. 

Safe. 

Stand tall, I whispered to myself. 

Coincidentally, this was also the year I became absolutely convinced I was a mermaid.

I whispered my secret to my only trusted friend and swore her to secrecy. 

Late at night, I would slip into the bathtub and wait. 

Certain that if I stayed still long enough, the water would transform me.

My legs would fuse together.

A beautiful tail would appear.

And I would finally become who I was meant to be.

My love for mermaids never left me. Only later did I understand why I was so drawn to them.

As a child, becoming a mermaid felt magical. Much like the tales that Grandmommy would tell. Suddenly, I could hear her voice weaving stories of magical faraway lands, and I found myself imagining a world beneath the ocean waves.

I imagined that I was part human and part fish. Stepping into the water brought me into the fairytale. In the water I transformed, feeling the weight of my hair swirling underwater. I could feel the warmth of the water begin to change me.

Behind closed doors, the fear, the shame, the confusion, and all the things I didn’t have words for washed away.

I was creating my own fairy tale.

Hiking Mount Everest from the start of the trek to Base Camp takes roughly twelve to fourteen days.

The journey is slow and deliberate. Some days are spent simply resting so your body can acclimate to the rising elevation. The trail winds through steep mountain passes and across rickety rope bridges suspended over deep caverns.

You do not make the journey alone.

Sherpas guide the way, carrying most of the heavy gear while hikers move forward with only a small day pack. Most days you walk five or six miles through the mountains, steadily gaining elevation.

For many trekkers, Base Camp is the destination. The end of the journey.

But for those who intend to reach the summit of Mount Everest, Base Camp is only the beginning. From there, the real climb starts. That final ascent requires months of preparation, expert guidance, and another four to six weeks on the mountain.

For most of my life, I thought of fifty as the peak of the mountain.

Everything after that felt like the downhill slope.

I could not have been more wrong.

If anything, fifty is simply Base Camp.

The real adventure begins now.

Looking in the Mirror

There was a moment when I looked in the mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back at me.

My life felt like it was spiraling out of control in the worst ways.

I was unhealthy. Exhausted. Quietly wondering if the best parts of my life had already passed me by.

In my forties I was deeply unhealthy. I was in and out of doctors’ offices with heart issues, back problems, knee pain, high blood pressure, and hormones that felt like a roller coaster I could not get off.

I was overweight. I drank daily, mostly to numb whatever was bothering me that day.

I bounced between fad diets and periods of overindulgence in nearly every area of my life.

The “We Do Not Care Club” had hit me long before it became a TikTok sensation.

I truly did not care.

Until one day I did.

I looked in the mirror and could no longer face myself.

I was sick of being sick.

Ashamed that alcohol had taken such a strong hold on my life.

Disconnected from my body, my emotions, and the woman I once believed I could become.

I remember lying in bed in the dark staring at the ceiling, alone and lost. 

My child was nearly grown. 

My career was changing.

Two failed marriages behind me. 

And a voice in my head whispering a question I did not want to answer.

Is this it? Is this all life has in store for me?

The purpose I had defined myself by for decades suddenly felt gone. The changes I was facing felt overwhelming. 

As an empty nester, it felt as though my job as a parent had ended. 

Of course that was not true.

But at the time, that is how it felt.

Everything felt uncertain.

I could not see my path forward.

I had arrived at midlife, standing at what felt like the edge of the mountain, unsure how to keep climbing.

What I did not realize then was that my life was not ending.

It was beginning.

Unsure what to do next, I did the only thing I could, I kept going.

One Step at a Time

Oddly enough, what saved me was simply having a job to do.

I was a high school teacher. The job required that I get up each morning, put one foot in front of the other, and show up for my students. 

Teenagers have a way of grounding you in the present moment whether you want to be there or not.

Enough about my feelings. The show must go on.

And so it did.

Day after day, I began to slowly climb my way out of that darkness. Not in giant leaps. Just small steps forward. One day at a time.

I started making small decisions that were better for me.

Eating a little healthier.

Moving a little more.

Each small choice lifted me just a little higher.

At the time, I was the Director of Theatre at a large high school. My classes were filled mostly with advanced actors, and I had always dreamed of incorporating yoga into our daily routine.

The funny thing was that I had very little experience with yoga at the time.

So I started simply.

At the beginning of each class, I played a ten minute guided yoga video and we followed along together.

Six classes a day meant that suddenly I was doing an hour of yoga every day.

And on Fridays, we danced.

I had discovered The Fitness Marshall and his wildly fun choreography set to popular music.

Dance Fridays quickly became a weekly celebration.

You simply cannot leave a dance session like that without feeling lighter on your feet and a smile across your face.

During those years I had a class I lovingly referred to as my “Sweat Hogs.” Those of you old enough will recognize the television reference.

They were a wonderful group of students who might have been labeled misfits elsewhere.

But I treated them exactly the same as my advanced actors.

With enthusiasm.

With joy.

And they loved it.

Friday was their favorite day.

One particular Friday we started our dance warm up.

Usher’s “Yeah!” blasted through the speakers.

The room exploded.

Students from the rough side of the tracks were dancing with wild abandon while I cheered them on from the back of the room.

“Highest energy gets to pick the next song!” I shouted.

They dug deeper.

They danced harder.

Sweat dripped from their brows as they competed for the honor of choosing the next track.

Rihanna’s “Work!”

Missy Elliott’s “Lose Control.”

As long as they were joyful and fully engaged, I kept the music going.

And something magical happened.

The energy in that room caught fire.

About halfway through class, a veteran teacher walked in through the back door.

He stopped in his tracks.

Mouth open.

He knew these students.

Seeing them choreographed in exuberant, joyful movement was the last thing he expected.

After a moment he walked over and whispered in my ear.

“How are you doing this?”

I laughed.

Because honestly, I was not doing anything special.

We were simply moving our bodies.

Sharing energy.

Being fully present together.

The bell eventually rang and forced us to stop.

But the energy from that day stayed with me.

What began as the spark of an idea grew into something bigger, something profound. It became a place where I found comfort, reinvigoration, and exuberant energy.

Moments like that reminded me that joy was still available.

More importantly, they reminded me that I must keep moving.

Discovering Yoga

In my late forties, I began exploring yoga more deeply. The spark that started with my students grew into a passion. I joined a yoga school and explored the depths of yoga both on and off the mat.

At first I constantly compared myself to everyone else in class.

Was I bending far enough?

Stretching enough?

Doing it correctly?

Eventually I realized something important.

That is not what yoga is about.

Once I let go of comparison and focused on breathing and moving in a way that nourished my body, something shifted.

My body softened.

My mind grew quieter.

For the first time in years I felt centered.

Meditation came next.

And to be honest, I was terrible at it.

I wiggled. I scratched. I adjusted my clothes every few seconds.

One instructor finally looked at me and said,

“Juliet. Just sit still.”

The memory still makes me laugh.

But slowly I learned to be comfortable in the stillness.

To breathe.

To quiet my mind.

To simply be present.

To look inward and listen.

To follow my path forward.

Two Paths

By the time I approached my fiftieth birthday, I began to notice something significant among friends who were already a few years ahead of me.

Some people seemed to shrink.

They moved less.

Their health declined quickly.

Others transformed.

They became stronger, more vibrant, more alive.

That is when something clicked.

How we age is a choice.

Two paths stand before us.

Robert Frost wrote about this in The Road Not Taken:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Those words mean something entirely different to me now.

How we age is not random. It is the result of the path we choose.

One path leads toward declining health and a gradually shrinking life.

The other leads toward vitality.

Movement.

Curiosity.

Engagement.

We see examples of this in the Blue Zones, places in the world where people routinely live well past one hundred while remaining active and connected.

They move naturally throughout the day.

They eat simple, healthy foods.

They stay connected to community and purpose.

It is not enough for me to simply live a long life.

I want to live well.

I have often told my kids that I plan to be doing handstands at one hundred.

That is the goal.

Choosing to Climb

So here I am.

Standing at my Base Camp.

This chapter of life is about choosing to climb higher still.

I make time for writing, something I always loved but never prioritized.

I focus on whole foods and nourishing my body, not chasing a number on the scale.

I grow vegetables in my garden and cook with herbs and seeds.

I spend time in stillness and reflection.

I move my body with gratitude instead of punishment.

I travel with intention, exploring new places with purpose.

One of the most transformative experiences of my life was spending a month in Bali studying yoga and exploring wellness and spirituality. 

Every day my strength grew as I explored yoga further, went deeper into meditation, and spent time quietly looking inward, disconnected from the world and focused on my own transformation.

It was a glorious trip.

But the truth is you do not need to travel halfway around the world to create that experience.

You can create your own version of Bali right where you are.

Move your body.

Take time for silence.

Spend time in nature.

Journal.

Unplug.

Give yourself the space to rediscover who you are becoming. 

Find your path.

Your Next Chapter

Life after fifty is not an ending.

It is a beginning.

A new ascent.

So start asking yourself a few simple questions.

What do I want now?

What dreams have I been putting off?

What quiet longing has been whispering to me for years?

Write them down.

Do not edit yourself.

Your dream might be small.

Planting a garden.

Learning new recipes.

Taking long walks in nature.

Or it might be something big.

Traveling the world.

Starting a new career.

Climbing your own version of Mount Everest.

Whatever it is, give it space.

Because this chapter might just be the most extraordinary one yet.

So I will leave you with this thought.

If fifty is Base Camp, then the mountain is still ahead of us.

The climb may be steep.

The air may grow thin.

But your summit is still waiting.

So the real question is this.

What mountain are you ready to climb next?

And if you are standing somewhere near this midlife crossroads, I would love to hear from you.

What dreams are beginning to whisper to you?

One of the beautiful things about this stage of life is realizing we are not walking this path alone. 

You have a sisterhood of midlife women ready to lift you up. 

It’s time to take your first step.

Share your truth.

Speak your dreams aloud.

Because on this newly forged path, who knows what dreams may come.

Choose your path. 

Step forward. 

Your summit awaits.

The gray hairs begin to appear one by one.

The fine lines seem to deepen overnight.

Your skin feels thinner. Drier. Softer. Different.

Your metabolism no longer follows the rules it once did.

And whether we want to admit it or not, we live in a culture that places enormous value on how women look.

Celebrities online. The Real Housewives on TV. Models walking down the runway.

It’s hard not to compare.

To notice how your body has changed differently than someone else’s.

To wonder when the shift happened.

For years, my response was to fight it.

My bathroom counters overflowed with products. Serums. Masks. Creams. Oils. Tonics.

Salon visits became more frequent.

Hair color. Skin treatments. Nails. Lashes. Spray tans.

I was desperately trying to hold onto something that had already moved on.

Looking back, I realize I was at war with time.

And it’s a war no one wins.

The Women Who Changed My Perspective

Then I began to notice something.

There were older women around me who looked vibrant. Not because they looked younger, but because they looked comfortable in themselves.

They weren’t fighting their aging bodies.

They were caring for them.

Moving them. Nourishing them. Supporting them in the season they were in.

Through my yoga studies and some deep self-exploration, I began to see my own truth.

I had been hiding behind a version of myself that no longer existed.

So I made a quiet but powerful decision.

I stopped trying to fight nature to hold onto who I used to be.

And I began learning how to care for the woman I am now.

I finally faced the truth. I had become my own worst enemy.

It was time to raise the white flag.

Time to call a truce with myself.

The Wake-Up Calls

The signs had been there.

My knees and back ached more.

Doctor visits became more frequent.

My energy was lower. My health felt less predictable.

Carrying groceries felt heavier.

Travel felt exhausting instead of exciting.

Getting down on the floor was one thing. Getting back up was another.

I remember thinking,

When did my body get old?

How did this happen?

It’s life. It keeps moving. Slowly at first, and then all at once.

And there was a deeper reason I needed to pay attention.

I’m a Grandmomma now.

I want to lift my grandkids easily.

Play on the floor.

Have the energy to be fully present during these precious years.

At the same time, I was watching my parents and grandparents face their own health challenges.

Their experiences became my mirror. A glimpse of what my future could look like if I didn’t make changes.

One thing became clear.

The people who stayed active, ate well, and kept moving lived longer, healthier, more independent lives.

There’s truth in the old saying.

If you rest, you rust.

So it was time to get moving.

The First Domino to Drop

One of the hardest things for me to let go of was my hair.

I started coloring it in my twenties to cover a few gray strands. Over time, the gray grew in faster and the appointments went from a few times a year… to every six weeks… to every three.

And still, it never felt like enough.

The chemicals were damaging my hair. The upkeep was exhausting. But my vanity kept me going.

I used to say, I will never go gray.

Then I spent a summer in Bali studying yoga. Removed from the constant pressure of appearance and maintenance, something shifted.

For the first time, I realized something important.

I wasn’t maintaining myself. I was hiding from myself.

That was the first domino.

Then came the others:

• No more fake nails

• No more lashes

• No more trying to look younger

• No more ultra-processed “healthy” foods

• No more negative self-talk about my aging body

Instead, I began asking a new question.

What does my body need now?

I became curious. I started reading, learning, and discovering what our bodies truly need to function well and live vibrantly in this season of life.

Discovering my Midlife Body

What I learned surprised me.

Exercise was no longer about appearance.

It was about strength, balance, and mobility.

Food was no longer about calories.

It was about protein, fiber, healthy fats, and real nourishment.

I learned that muscle loss begins in midlife, which is why strength training and protein matter so much.

I reduced sugar and eliminated alcohol.

I chose whole foods instead of packaged ones.

I focused on hydration.

At first, it felt like I was giving things up.

But very quickly, I realized how much I was gaining.

More energy

Better sleep

Less inflammation

Clearer thinking

A stronger body

More consistent health

And that’s when something clicked.

This wasn’t restriction.

It was freedom.

Starting Over in the Kitchen

One day, I did something that felt dramatic but necessary.

I took a trash bag and cleared out my kitchen.

Processed foods. Packaged snacks. Refined Carbohydrates, Sugary condiments. And anything with unpronounceable ingredients.

Then I restocked with:

• Fresh vegetables and herbs

• Beans and whole grains

• Nuts and seeds

• Lean proteins

• Healthy fats

Now a typical day looks like this:

Breakfast: Coffee with plant protein powder and eggs with sautéed greens

Midmorning snack: Greek yogurt and berries

Lunch: A colorful salad with garbanzo beans and pumpkin seeds

Afternoon snack: Grapefruit with avocado and pomegranate seeds

Dinner: Salmon with asparagus and quinoa

Evening: Herbal tea and frozen cherries

And water. Lots of water.

Simple. Real. Nourishing.

The Emotional Side of Change

Here’s something we don’t talk about enough.

Change in midlife is emotional. Sometimes even scary.

Letting go of old habits, even unhealthy ones, can feel like loss.

It’s a little like leaving a long-standing toxic relationship. Even when you know it’s the right choice, it’s still hard.

But eventually, something shifts.

You stop asking,

How do I get my old body back?

And you start asking,

How do I help this body thrive?

Change can feel uncomfortable. But it can also be exciting.

Your thoughts matter. Choose ones that support you.

The Midlife Truth

My decision to live better didn’t happen in one day.

It was a decision to change everything. Then I took one step at a time.

I reexamined how I ate, how I moved, how I slept, what I drank, how I thought, and who I surrounded myself with.

I focused on one area at a time. First nutrition. Later movement. Then meditation.

Slowly, consistently, things began to change.

Today, I feel stronger.

More energized.

More comfortable in my own skin than I did years ago.

Not because I look younger.

Because I finally stopped fighting myself.

If You’re Here Too

If you’re noticing changes…

If your body feels different…

If you’re wondering where to start…

Begin here:

Stop trying to live like you did twenty years ago.

Start supporting the body you have today.

Fuel your body with whole, nourishing foods.

Move more. Take the stairs. Walk when you can. Stand more. Lift more.

Move like you love your body.

After 50, the goal isn’t to look younger.

It’s to be strong enough to live fully.

And that kind of confidence doesn’t come from the mirror.

It comes from how you feel.

And from the care you give yourself every day.

It’s time to embrace your aging body.

Give it the love and nourishment it needs to thrive.

And live better. For you.

Why is it that when we’re young, all we want is to hurry and get older… yet once we arrive, we spend so much of our lives trying to turn back time?

It’s easy to look at our reflection and wish we could rewind the clock, to erase the lines of aging, to reclaim the strength and glow of our youth. For a long time, I did exactly that. I starved myself to fit into smaller jeans. I dyed my hair to hide the silver strands that seemed to appear faster by the day. But there came a turning point when I realized I was no longer being honest with myself.

I wasn’t living in the present.

I was clinging to the past, trying to be a former version of myself while ignoring the woman I had become.

Once I saw that clearly, something shifted.

I began to appreciate what I saw as something far more meaningful: a complex tapestry woven from years of experience, both dark and light, shadow and joy. That shift didn’t happen overnight. It came after years of punishing myself throughout my forties, hating how my body was changing, aging, sagging, wrinkling, and desperately clinging to a youthful reflection I once knew.

Eventually, I came to terms with a powerful truth: aging isn’t a decline; it’s a transformation.

Much like a caterpillar entering the next phase of its beautiful life.

We get so caught up in vanity and social norms that tell us we should look forever young. But what if, instead, we embraced the complexity of our years? What if we celebrated how age shapes us into something deeper, richer, and more alluring than we ever imagined?

Instead of trying to reclaim my youth, I now honor my age and each new stage of life. That doesn’t mean I’ve “let myself go.” It doesn’t mean I accept feeling unwell or disconnected from my body. What it does mean is that I’ve gained a new perspective.

Midlife is an invitation to recognize the changes happening within us and to give our bodies what they need to remain healthy, vibrant, and alive. It’s a time to meet this chapter with grace rather than resistance.

Every wrinkle.

Every scar.

Each one tells a story.

When I finally let go of who I had been and embraced who I was, I felt a weight lift, a burden I hadn’t even realized I was carrying. Releasing the chase for youth was transformative. I could finally step forward into who I was becoming and live this season of life with a passion I had denied myself for far too long.

Recently, while taking my granddaughter to the playground, I met a beautiful young mother who shared her fears about aging. She spoke of doing the unthinkable just to hold on to a younger version of herself. If only she could see herself through my eyes: radiant, vibrant, alive.

It isn’t time that ages us.

It’s our longing for what has already passed.

Finding gratitude and grace for ourselves is deeply freeing. It allows us to release the exhausting pursuit of a former version of ourselves that is no longer meant to exist. Should we aim to be healthy? Yes. Vibrant? Absolutely. But the packaging looks different now, and that, too, is a gift.

Something else shifted for me in my late forties.

I realized I was no longer caring for my body. I was running it hard, without regard for wear and tear. I was still partying like I was in college: drinking too much, eating like a teenager, staying up too late, and ignoring my need for rest. I dismissed symptoms that could have been addressed with healthier habits: mood swings, exhaustion, all the signs of perimenopause. It’s too early, I told myself. It can’t be me.

Doctors told me to sleep more, eat better, exercise. And yet nothing truly changed, because I wasn’t really listening. Let’s be honest, salads for lunch and a few sweaty workouts weren’t going to undo years of neglect. I grew increasingly frustrated, more appointments, more pills, fewer answers. I started to believe this must simply be what getting old feels like: worn down, irritable, exhausted, disconnected from my own body.

So I settled.

I chased quick fixes, hormone shots, supplements, medications. Secretly hoping something would magically reverse the scale, restore my sleep, revive my libido, boost my energy, slow the thinning hair. Meanwhile, I filled my calendar with celebrations and late nights, thinking distraction might dull the ache I felt inside.

Then one day, I saw a photograph of myself, and I didn’t recognize the woman staring back.

I looked unwell.

Disconnected.

Worn down.

When I looked around, many of my friends my same vintage looked the same. We were all trying to mask our reality with false fixes: fake nails, fake hair, trends from our youth, all while quietly struggling beneath the surface.

It wasn’t until my health took a serious turn that everything changed. That I finally woke up.

Then I watched a friend, older than me and in a similar condition, take her life by the reins. She made new choices. She became healthier, more vibrant, more alive. She wasn’t chasing youth, she was caring for herself and living fully in the present.

That’s when I knew… I had to choose differently.

I cleaned out my cupboards and started over. Fresh foods. Whole grains. Nuts. Vegetables from my garden. I stopped punishing my body through movement and began nourishing it. I started moving in ways that felt good, celebratory, alive. I prioritized sleep, slowly restoring my circadian rhythm, waking with the sun and winding down at dusk.

But it went deeper than food, movement, and sleep.

I took an honest look at my relationships. We become like the people we spend the most time with, so I began trimming what no longer served me and nurturing what did. I leaned into friendships rooted in honesty and love. I softened into gratitude for my daughter and granddaughter living nearby, a precious gift I do not take for granted.

Within six months, my health dramatically improved. And then came the deeper work… the inner work.

I began tending to my mental health, my thought patterns, my inner dialogue. Meditation became a powerful tool, not to stop thinking, but to notice where my attention was going. I faced the shadows I had ignored for decades, knowing that what we keep buried can quietly destroy us from within.

Healing required honesty.

And courage.

And compassion.

I like to call this process waking up.

It’s as if you’ve been dreaming, living in the past, replaying old stories. Until one day you open your eyes and see where you truly are. That realization can feel overwhelming, but it’s also exhilarating. A second chance. A fresh start. An invitation to love your body exactly as it is, right here, right now. To love yourself enough to stop punishing your body for not staying young, and start nourishing it so it can live vibrantly into the future.

The sooner we embrace the present and nourish ourselves according to this season of life, the happier and more whole we become.

Instead of chasing my past, I chose to create a new way of living, one that honors where I am now. I began nurturing my body from the inside out, tending not only to my physical health but also to unresolved experiences that had weighed me down for years. I released old burdens, softened into healing, and intentionally surrounded myself with people and practices that encouraged me to show up as my best self. I slowed my pace, prioritized my mental well-being, and allowed myself to set new goals aligned with who I am today.

The dreams I held in my twenties look very different from the ones I carry in my fifties. But different doesn’t mean better or worse, it means evolved. It means meeting myself exactly where I am, with compassion, clarity, and grace.

I’m encouraged to see a cultural shift beginning to take place, one that honors aging rather than fearing it. Pamela Anderson famously shedding her makeup. Halle Berry stating, “Society should look at us as jewels as we get older. Because the older women get, the more formidable we are.” Drew Barrymore sharing, “If we’re lucky, we’re all going to age.” And Jamie Lee Curtis boldly reminding us that “while there are many things to be against in this world, aging shouldn’t be one of them.” Honestly… I love her for that.

No more anti-aging.

It’s time to celebrate your aging body.

To nourish it with health and wellness.

And to love it, fully and unapologetically, into its greatest expression yet.

But what if we paused and asked a different question?

What have we gained?

This isn’t just positive thinking or wishful optimism. I truly believe, and science supports, that where we place our focus and attention matters. Not in a mystical or hocus-pocus way, but in a very real neurological and behavioral sense. Our brains are wired to notice what we repeatedly focus on. So what we look for, we tend to see. And over time, what we see shapes how we live.

If we’re always scanning for what’s wrong or disappointing, that becomes our inner landscape. But when we intentionally shift our attention, when we reframe, something changes. We begin to notice opportunity, meaning, and growth. That’s not magic. That’s how the human brain works.

Taking this idea one step further requires courage. It asks us to look back honestly at our own lives and notice patterns:

• What “mistakes” have I repeated?

• What lessons keep showing up?Where am I the common denominator?

These questions aren’t meant to shame us. They’re meant to wake us up.

I’ve learned that when we don’t stop and examine our patterns, we often repeat them, sometimes for decades. Psychologists tell us the brain prefers what’s familiar, even when it’s painful. Growth begins when we pause long enough to notice.

After sharing these reflections online, a thoughtful follower reached out and asked if I would share my own list of what I feel I’ve gained at midlife, hoping it might inspire hope for her own next chapter. I began writing, and what started as a simple list quickly became something deeper and more reflective. I pulled together my lived experience, what science tells us about focus and attention, and what life itself has taught me about purpose.

What I know now, after all these years, is this:

Nothing happened to me.

It happened for me.

The struggles, the trials, the painful circumstances, none of it was random. It shaped me. I can look back now and see how each experience taught me something I needed to learn. And when we don’t learn the lesson, life has a way of offering it again… just louder.

Psychologists call this post-traumatic growth: the idea that adversity, while painful, can deepen meaning, wisdom, and resilience.

A Thought on Menopause, Purpose, and Why We’re Still Here

Did you know that there are only three mammals on the planet that experience menopause: humans, whales, and elephants?  A fascinating truth that makes you wonder why.

I recently heard a scientist share a theory that struck me deeply. From a biological standpoint, women are often viewed as having a primary purpose tied to reproduction. So once menopause arrives, it can feel, as society sometimes implies, that our usefulness has expired.

And yet, women tend to live longer than men.

Why?

The theory suggests our role shifts. We are here to teach, guide, and mentor the generations that follow. Evolutionary biologists even have a name for this idea: the “Grandmother Hypothesis”, which suggests that women live beyond their reproductive years because their wisdom and guidance strengthen families and communities.

That rings true in my own life.

Every time my daughter struggled, whether with illness or the awkward phases of adolescence, it was my mother and grandmother I called for guidance. They didn’t have all the answers, but they had perspective. They had been there before.

Now, I find myself in that same role.

After nearly three decades as a teacher and mentor, I feel a stronger sense of purpose than ever. Teaching, guiding, listening, this has always been part of who I am. And research supports what many of us feel intuitively: having a sense of purpose later in life is linked to better emotional wellbeing and even longevity.

The more I learn, the more I want to share. The more I’ve lived, the more I want to help ease the path for other women walking through their own difficult seasons.

So here is my list. Not as a prescription, but as an offering.

What I’ve Gained in This Chapter of Life

Wisdom

I am wiser because of everything I’ve lived through, not in spite of it. We learn through our failures. We don’t learn to ride a bike without falling, scraping our knees, and getting back up again. Life is no different.

I’ve always loved learning as an educator, but the wisdom that comes from lived experience, the kind that settles into your bones, feels different. Deeper. Steadier.

But do not mistake wisdom for knowledge, or even experience.

Buddha teaches that true wisdom is not simply knowledge, but insight into reality, cultivated through a transformed, peaceful mind, self-control, and ethical living. He believed that understanding the brevity of life, the nature of the self, and the unity of all beings leads to freedom from suffering, not merely intellectual knowing.

Wisdom is stepping outside yourself, seeing patterns, understanding truth at a deeper level, and making choices for the greater good.

But as Socrates so wisely stated: “The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing." 

Strength

Emotional. Mental. Spiritual.

I’ve been through hard things, and I survived them. I can now look back at some of the most difficult moments of my life and feel grateful for the lessons they brought.

Anyone over 50 can recall moments that tested them to the core, times that made them question their purpose or wonder how they could possibly go on. Surviving those moments changes you. Studies even show that emotional resilience often increases with age.

I know it has for me.

Being a Mother, and Now a Grandmother

Hands down, the greatest gift of my life.

For me, motherhood has been both my deepest joy and my greatest challenge. Parenting humbles you. It dismantles your ego and stretches your heart in ways nothing else can.

When I became a mother, I experienced for the first time what it meant to truly step outside myself, to see the world through new eyes and make choices for the greater good of my child, even at my own expense.

Only now, as a grandmother looking back, can I fully appreciate how every tantrum, every scraped knee, every hard day was a blessing beyond compare.

Any good parent knows raising a child is not easy. It requires sacrifice, effort, and a depth of love beyond what you think you’re capable of. And yet, something greater grows within you through that giving, even when you can’t see it at the time. You’re too wrapped up in the exhaustion, the worry, the relentless day-to-day demands. It’s the hardest job, always changing, around the clock, and it never stops. Never.

An outsider might see someone raising babies, then toddlers, children, teenagers, and young adults, and think that’s where the job of parenthood ends. But even as they grow and move on to build lives and families of their own, you are still a parent, still worrying, caring, and sometimes struggling. The relationship is always evolving and never-ending.

And the reward for all that effort?

Grandchildren.

The love you feel as a grandparent is pure, expansive, and almost impossible to put into words. I get to relive moments I once rushed through, but now with presence and awe. When I look at my granddaughter’s face… her eyes, her expressions, I see my daughter at that same age.

Only now, I have the wisdom to appreciate what I once took for granted.

And here’s the best part: I get all the love and wonder without carrying all the weight.

There is no better cure for the blues than my granddaughter’s voice. Nothing lifts me like her laugh or the sweet grasp of her hand in mine.

And then the circle continues.

I now watch my aging mother care for my 94 year old grandmother much like I once cared for my own children when they were small. The roles reverse. The relationships evolve, growing more complex, more emotional, and yet never-ending.

In some cultures, families live together in communal settings, a concept that is gaining interest even here in the States. Multiple generations living on the same property or under one roof, caring for one another through every stage of life. It once felt foreign to our American culture, but when I stayed with families in Bali and witnessed their close-knit communities firsthand, I was deeply moved. There was something profoundly beautiful about nurturing one another through the full arc of life, from birth to death, together.

Long-term studies show that close, meaningful relationships are the greatest contributors to happiness. I feel that truth more every day.

Freedom

I see now how often I placed shackles on myself, through fear, expectation, and self-imposed limitations. So many times when I felt trapped, it wasn’t the situation. It was my thinking.

Whether you feel stuck in a painful relationship, a dead-end job, or strangled by the constraints of life, so much of it comes down to perception, the stories we tell ourselves and the limitations we accept.

I think of the film Life Is Beautiful, the hopeful yet heartbreaking story of a father and son finding an alternate reality that became an adventurous game all while enduring the horrors of Auschwitz. It’s a powerful reminder that while circumstances matter, perspective shapes how we experience them.

Psychology tells us that believing we have agency over our lives improves resilience and wellbeing. Freedom isn’t something we’re handed. It’s something we choose.

I’m learning how to set those shackles down and live with a sense of freedom.

Sobriety

Sobriety is the greatest gift I ever gave myself.

It changed everything.

If someone had told me years ago that I’d be sober, I wouldn’t have believed them. I once couldn’t imagine a celebration, or even a weekend, without alcohol. Now I see a world I didn’t know existed.

My health, relationships, energy, and clarity have all improved. Research shows alcohol impacts women more significantly as we age, but beyond the science, I simply know this:

Letting go freed me in ways I never imagined.

Purpose

What I’ve discovered about myself, slowly, honestly, and sometimes through fire, is that my purpose isn’t about fixing anyone.

For me, it’s about reminding women who they already are.

I am fiercely intentional, deeply authentic, and rooted in the belief that midlife and beyond isn’t a decline, it’s a rebirth. A turning point. A moment when we stop shrinking to fit someone else’s expectations and start listening more closely to ourselves.

I am both a seeker and a guide. I live with curiosity and reflection, and I turn what I learn, through experience, struggle, and growth, into something others can use.

I don’t believe in arriving.

I believe in evolving, again and again, while staying aligned with what matters most: living vibrantly and helping others do the same.

At my core, I’m an intuitive healer and a natural storyteller. I try to bring lightness, humor, and truth to heavy conversations because I know how much relief that can bring. I listen with my whole body, with presence, energy, and compassion for what’s spoken and what’s not.

That’s where real transformation begins.

I’ve walked through my own fires. I’ve felt loss, disorientation, and reinvention. And instead of turning away from the pain, I learned how to lean into it, how to let it become wisdom instead of weight.

What motivates me is simple and powerful:

To awaken women in midlife to their strength, sovereignty, and capacity for change.

To show that small shifts, made consistently, can transform a life.

To live my truth out loud, so others feel permission to live theirs.

To build something lasting, meaningful, and soul-aligned.

I’m not just a teacher, speaker, or wellness leader.

I am a movement of one, walking alongside a rising wave of women who are reclaiming their bodies, minds, and spirits and stepping fully into the power that was never lost… only waiting to be remembered.

I think of my grandmother at 99, frustrated and asking why she was still here, what purpose there could be in her still being alive. All while she wove stories of wisdom for her hospice nurse, as she always did, the nurse leaned in and whispered gently,

“This is why. You still have a story to tell.”

We all do.

Purpose doesn’t disappear when a chapter closes. It transforms.

Whether I’m guiding my daughter, loving my granddaughter, helping a friend through a hard moment, or writing words that reach someone I’ll never meet, my purpose remains.

Self-Awareness

I know who I am now, and I’m rooted there. I know my strengths and my limits, where I shine and where I need help. This isn’t ego. It’s acceptance.

I often tell my students: you wouldn’t be mad at a fish for not being able to climb a tree. You must love and accept yourself just as you are, and then have the strength, courage, and wisdom to evolve further. 

Knowing who you are allows you to live with peace and authenticity.

Spiritual Clarity

Not religion, but connection.

A quieter, stronger sense of meaning. Through meditation and learning to get still, I’ve developed a deeper trust in something greater than myself. 

Science shows that contemplative practices reduce stress and increase wellbeing, but for me, it’s also about listening to my inner voice and trusting where it leads me.

Discernment

I understand now that who I surround myself with shapes my happiness and my life. I’ve lived through seasons where I thought I had deep friendships, only to realize, once I stepped away, that they were shallow or even toxic.

Social science confirms what life has taught me: emotions and behaviors are contagious. Proximity matters.

I’m far more intentional now about who I let into my inner circle.

A Strong Bullshit Barometer

I no longer tolerate negativity or inauthenticity. Peace is precious. With age comes clarity, and the courage to name what isn’t okay. Not to be unkind, but to protect what matters most.

Inspirations

So there it is, what I’ve gained at midlife.

It’s more than a list. It’s a deepening sense of self-awareness. An understanding of who I’ve become and how I’ve evolved in this season of life. And, perhaps most of all, a profound appreciation for everything and everyone around me.

I see now that it’s the gratitude for all of it, the good and the bad, the struggles and the wins, that shapes us. Every experience teaches us something. Each one helps us understand our place in the universe just a little more clearly, and reminds us how deeply connected we all are.

I no longer fear the stigma of getting older. Age has given me much more than I imagined.

It’s given me clarity.

It’s given me freedom.

It’s given me myself.

More than anything, it’s given me the grounded insight that comes only with experience, a steady sense of purpose, and the desire to pass along what I’ve learned.

And that gives me a deep, abiding peace, and the courage to meet whatever lies ahead.

Age has given me much more than I imagined.

Mood swings. Hair loss. Sleepless nights. Hot flashes. Aches and pains. Low libido. Weight gain. Crashing energy.

And on and on and on.

I begged for help.

What hormone tests do I need? What can I do? How do I get relief?

But instead of answers, I got a barrage of unrelated tests, dismissive comments, and the same old prescriptions:

“Try this pill.”

“Just exercise more.”

“Maybe it’s stress.”

“We’re not sure what’s going on.”

Every appointment ended the same way… me walking out feeling unheard, unseen, and completely defeated.

What I didn’t know at the time (and what research now confirms) is that 93% of women never receive proper menopause care. According to Mayo Clinic, perimenopause is missed, dismissed, or misdiagnosed in most women, often for years. And the average woman begins perimenopause 7 to 10 years before her final period, long before anyone starts connecting the dots.

I was one of them.

The Search for Help That Never Came

My husband eventually suggested I look for a women’s hormone specialist. It seems like an obvious option now, but at the time it wasn’t mainstream. But I was desperate, and ready to try anything to find relief.

I found a local hormone replacement therapy clinic. Insurance didn’t cover it, and my thirty-something GP practically rolled her eyes when I mentioned it, as if I were chasing some ridiculous idea.

But something was shifting in my body. I knew it. And if there was even a sliver of hope, I was going to take it.

So I did the tests.

I started the shots.

And at first, I thought maybe something was improving, a little more energy, a little less fog.

But whatever relief I felt in the beginning faded quickly, and I found myself chasing a ghost of hope.

Six months passed. Then a year.

Then two.

Then three.

We adjusted my dosage, tried different levels, reassessed lifestyle factors… everything. But eventually I had to face the truth: the benefits just weren’t there for me.

And the clinic, understandably invested in its business, wasn’t going to be the one to suggest I stop.

So I stopped myself.

When I Considered Giving Up

I walked away after three years of trying and hoping. And in the year that followed, I did something I never expected:

I surrendered.

I remember thinking, “Maybe this is just what being an older woman feels like.”

I didn’t like how I looked.

I didn’t like how I felt.

I wasn’t sleeping.

My hair was thinning.

I was drinking more to cope and eating for comfort instead of wellness.

I was slowly becoming a version of myself I barely recognized.

And then one day, I’d had enough.

What shifted me wasn’t a medical breakthrough. It was seeing real women who looked like me, struggled like me, and witnessed them make dramatic, meaningful changes in their lives. Women who had gone through menopause and still reclaimed their health, energy, and joy through lifestyle change.

I reached out. I asked hard questions.

And that’s when I learned something that no doctor had ever told me:

Hormone therapy doesn’t work for everyone.

And even when it does, it doesn’t work forever.

NAMS (The North American Menopause Society) says the same thing: response varies dramatically, and the timing of treatment matters more than most women are ever told. Many women, like me, begin HRT years after symptoms start, which research shows decreases effectiveness.

Looking back, I now realize I had been moving through menopause long before I understood what was happening. Maybe even a decade. No doctor connected the dots. And I didn’t know what I didn’t know.

So maybe my therapy was too little, too late.

Or maybe my body just wasn’t responsive.

Either way, it wasn’t a viable path forward for me.

Becoming My Own Experiment

So I made a decision.

If the medical world didn’t have answers for me, I was going to become my own experiment.

I could either “embrace the suck” of aging…

or, like the women who inspired me, radically change my lifestyle and see what happened.

At my lowest point:

• I was 60 pounds over my comfort zone.

• I was drinking heavily.

• My blood pressure was high.

• My knees and back ached constantly.

• I spent too much time in hospital waiting rooms for unexplained symptoms: headaches, chest pain, digestive issues.

• My anxiety and depression were at an all-time low.

• My wellness was in shambles.

So I began with the simplest possible step:

I cleaned out my kitchen.

Pantry.

Fridge.

Bottles.

Boxes.

Gone.

I told myself: If nothing else has worked, I’ll try the one thing I haven’t… total, complete, intentional nourishment.

No alcohol.

No sugar.

No processed foods.

Lean proteins.

Fresh vegetables (mostly greens).

Lots of water.

Simple meals.

Whole foods.

Consistency.

And here’s the thing, there’s science that backs up everything I was learning to be true for myself. 

Nutrition researchers have consistently shown:

• Reducing sugar and processed foods lowers inflammation and improves energy and mood.

• Alcohol is one of the biggest triggers for hot flashes and sleep disruption.

• Whole-food diets can rebalance metabolism even in midlife.

• And anti-inflammatory eating helps reduce joint pain, fatigue, and brain fog.

Or as one Journal of Women’s Health review shared:

“Anti-inflammatory eating patterns consistently reduce menopausal symptoms.”

Making this change was intentional, and it required me to relearn everything I thought I knew. I had to rework my relationship with food and fully embrace a whole new set of habits:

• Eating small nutritious meals several times a day.

• Using herbs to flavor my food instead of condiments.

• Buying organic Whole Foods.

• Shopping local produce.

• Trying whole grains that were foreign to me.

• Recreating healthier versions of my comfort recipes.

Little experiments, every day.

What Happened Next Shocked Me

Astonishingly, within weeks, things began to shift.

My energy rose.

My mood lifted.

My headaches eased.

I felt lighter.

I slept... real deep, nourishing sleep, naturally, and through the night, for the first time in years.

I woke up with refreshed and invigorated with energy.

My immune health improved.

I stayed well longer than I had in a decade.

After six months, I reached a healthy weight, not from vanity, but from vitality.

My blood pressure normalized.

My hairdresser pointed out new thick healthy growth I hadn’t seen in years.

My metabolism clicked into high gear.

And now, three years later, I can say this with absolute clarity:

Eating clean and living intentionally has given me more relief than any medical intervention ever did.

Is it perfect? No.

Does it erase every symptom? Of course not.

But the reality of the life I had before, versus what I was experiencing after, was night and day difference.

And research backs this up too:

• Whole-food lifestyles improve metabolic health

• Clean eating improves sleep and energy

• Lower alcohol = fewer hot flashes and better mood

• Chronic inflammation drops dramatically with whole foods

• Stress reduction and better sleep improve hormonal regulation

But the biggest shift…

I finally feel at home in my own body.

I don’t crave the foods that used to numb me.

I no longer reach for a drink after a long day.

Instead, I crave healthy, nourishing food. And where I once poured a glass of wine, I now savor an almond-milk latte.

I meditate, stretch, and dance in my kitchen.

I want to move simply because it feels good.

I am physically, mentally, and emotionally stronger than I’ve been in years.

If You’re Struggling… You Have Options

Friend, if you’re struggling, and the medical world isn’t giving you answers… please hear this:

You have options.

There is hope.

There is possibility.

There is a path forward that doesn’t require perfect lab results or prescriptions.

A path built on:

Eating healthy.

Living clean.

Caring for your body with compassion and clarity.

Research, doctors, and lifestyle medicine experts agree:

These changes can only help you.

They support your hormones.

They reduce inflammation.

They nourish your gut.

They strengthen your metabolism.

They improve mood and energy.

They help you feel better, at any age.

And as one girlfriend to another, let me remind you:

You deserve to feel good.

You deserve a body that supports you.

You deserve relief.

My journey isn’t a prescription. It’s simply proof that change is possible… even late in the game, even when every door feels closed.

If you’re at that desperate point I once knew so well, maybe start here:

One small shift.

One clean meal.

One choice that says, “I deserve better.”

Because you do.

You always have.

And maybe, just maybe, that small shift becomes your tipping point.

Your spark.

Your beginning.

Because wouldn’t we all like to live better?

Many of us live caught between two emotional worlds. Those who dwell on the past, steeped in remorse or regret, often find themselves battling depression. Meanwhile, those consumed by fear of the unknown live in a state of anxiety. Both rob us of the only thing that’s real… the present moment.

We replay what could’ve been, what should’ve been, and every “what if” in between. But all that longing wreaks havoc on today, stealing our peace and dimming our joy.

Here’s the truth: life is hard. Pain is inevitable. Things will go wrong. That’s not a question, it’s a certainty.

The question is this:

When life falls apart, what path will you choose?

Will you choose to live in sadness, bitterness, and suffering? Or will you choose to move forward in gratitude, acceptance, and growth?

Every morning, we wake up to a new opportunity, the opportunity to decide how we’ll meet life’s chaos. Most people get lost in their circumstances. They complain, vent, and spiral, but that only magnifies the pain.

What if, instead, we decided to find lightness in the heaviness, to find small scraps of peace, moments of laughter, and gratitude even in the struggle?

You might be thinking, “Yes, but what if it’s something truly terrible, a devastating loss, a life-altering diagnosis, a heartbreak so deep I can’t breathe?”

And still, I say: you have a choice.

What a Grand Adventure

I grew up with a grandmother who was fierce, vibrant, and fully alive for every one of her 99 years. She faced hardships that would have broken most: painful illnesses, devastating losses, long nights of uncertainty. And yet, she never complained.

Whenever something went wrong, she would smile and say, “What a grand adventure.”

That phrase shaped me.

Over time, I learned to see the world not through the lens of regret or resistance, but through the eyes of gratitude, for the lessons, the growth, and the chance to evolve.

I’ve witnessed this same strength in others. In family members who battled cancer with smiles on their faces, friends who carried unthinkable burdens, and souls who faced losses too heavy to fathom, yet chose grace.

Their peace didn’t come from an easy life. It came from a powerful truth: happiness is a daily choice. Suffering is another.

It is not our circumstances, but our path forward, that creates our reality.

As a teacher, I often hear my students exclaim, “You’re always so happy!”

And my answer is always the same: “It’s a choice I make every day.”

Make no mistake, this isn’t about toxic positivity or loving every moment. It’s about meeting life’s challenges with acceptance, presence, and resilience.

It means allowing yourself to fully acknowledge your reality, to feel and experience your emotions without judgment. Then, to release what you cannot control and ground yourself in the present moment, rather than getting lost in worry, sorrow, or regret.

When you shift your perspective, you give yourself the freedom to move forward without trying to control the uncontrollable.

Every circumstance offers a choice, a path, a lens through which you see your life. The question is: what lens will you choose? What path will you take?

Pain Is Inevitable. Suffering Is Optional.

There’s a Buddhist teaching I love:

“Pain is certain, but suffering is optional.”

It’s not an easy truth to accept, in fact, it makes some people angry. But once we truly embrace it, it becomes liberating.

We don’t always get to choose what happens to us.

But we always get to choose how we respond, how we move forward.

I have witnessed this truth up close. Dear friends and family have faced losses so unimaginable they steal the breath. Spouses taken too soon, children gone before their time. The grief that follows such loss is beyond words, beyond comprehension.

And yet, within that sacred space of heartbreak, I’ve also witnessed something extraordinary: a light that rises through the darkness.

So many of them have chosen, again and again, not to be defined by their pain, but to let love lead them through it. They found ways to honor what was lost without losing themselves in the sorrow. They learned to live with gratitude for the love they were given, allowing it to become a source of strength, a quiet light guiding them forward.

Pain was inevitable.

But their choice, to walk through it with grace, became their peace.

The Kitchen That Changed Everything

My husband and I saved for years to remodel our dream kitchen. We’d worked hard, made sacrifices, and finally took the leap. My husband, ever the handy and determined soul, did the demolition and prep himself: plumbing, electrical, drywall. He worked tirelessly to keep us on schedule.

We were so excited. We were creating the home of our dreams.

Then came the call that changed everything.

The company we hired to install our kitchen, the one we’d paid in advance to lock in a “discount,” went bankrupt.

We soon discovered we weren’t alone. Dozens of families were left devastated, some losing over $100,000 or more. Then we all learned the horrifying truth, the company had a long history of deceit and had found legal loopholes to escape accountability.

We had every reason to be furious. We could have fought, raged, and obsessed over justice. But after speaking with lawyers and realizing nothing could undo what had happened, we made a different choice.

We chose peace.

We allowed ourselves to grieve the loss. Then we released it.

Instead of focusing on revenge, we decided to move forward, slowly, patiently, and with gratitude.

We paused, saved, and began again. We made do with borrowed pieces and makeshift counters. And when we finally saved enough to start rebuilding, my husband said something profound that changed everything:

“I’m going to build these cabinets myself.”

He had never done it before. But he studied, practiced, failed, learned, and tried again. Every mistake became a lesson. Every challenge became a step forward.

Now, nearly two years since we started this adventure, our kitchen is half-finished and absolutely beautiful. Not because of the fixtures or wood stain, but because every square inch was made by his hands. A labor of love so meaningful it now holds more value than anything we could have bought.

Would we have chosen this path if we’d known? Probably not. But looking back, I wouldn’t trade it. It taught us patience, teamwork, resilience, and gratitude.

Yes, the financial loss was devastating, but what we gained far outweighs the bill we paid.

Pain was inevitable.

Misery was a choice, but we chose joy instead.

The Choice Is Yours

Life will test you. It will bring losses, heartbreak, and moments you don’t understand. But when you look back, you’ll see that every experience was part of your becoming.

Each challenge is a step up your personal mountain, an invitation to grow stronger, wiser, and more compassionate.

So today, I invite you to pause and ask yourself:

• How am I moving through my life?

• Am I choosing gratitude or resentment?

• Am I choosing peace or pain?

Start and end each day with gratitude.

Choose light over suffering.

Choose acceptance over resistance.

Because in the end, it’s not our circumstances that define us, it’s the choices we make within them.

Remember: you have the power to choose peace over despair, joy over misery.

The choice is yours. 

Looking back, the trouble started long before. As a teenager, my periods weren’t just “bad cramps.” They were crippling. Pain so intense I couldn’t stand up. At first, people assumed I was being dramatic, overreacting, or just had a “low pain tolerance.” The truth was darker.

A gynecologist discovered my hymen was almost completely closed off, leaving only an opening the size of a pen tip. Every month, blood had nowhere to go, causing unbearable pain. His solution was to put me on birth control pills for temporary relief and the warning that surgery would be inevitable. He also told me that attempting sex could be dangerous, even fatal, if hemorrhaging occurred. That terrified me.

The summer before my senior year, surgery was unavoidable. The procedure was quick, recovery manageable, and for the first time, I could use tampons and feel like a “normal” teenage girl.

But the relief didn’t last. The pain crept back. Doctors told me I might just have to “live with it.”

Living With Pain

Through my twenties, I pushed through. I had a child, built a career, but by my early thirties, the pain was back full force. Some days it was so unbearable I had to call someone to drive me home from work.

Family history weighed heavily too, both my grandmothers and my mother had hysterectomies for cancer concerns. My gynecologist told me surgery was my only option.

By then, I was underweight, exhausted, and emotionally depleted. The hardest part was knowing my dream of more children was gone. I dried my tears, checked into the hospital, and trusted my doctor.

The surgery went as planned, but recovery was brutal. Uncomfortable catheters, excruciating constipation from pain meds, humiliating setbacks. At one point I hemorrhaged and was rushed back into surgery. I’ll never forget my doctor, who was supposed to have left on vacation, calmly walking in, whistling, right before I went under again. His steady presence gave me the strength I needed.

I survived. But I was never the same.

What No One Told Me

Because my ovaries were left intact, my doctor assured me:

“You won’t go into menopause. You’ll be fine.”

Not true.

Almost immediately, my body changed: weight gain, erratic moods, dry skin, hair falling out, anxiety, exhaustion. My metabolism slowed to a crawl.

Research now shows that even when ovaries remain, hysterectomy can disrupt blood flow to the ovaries, accelerating ovarian failure and triggering early menopause (Mayo Clinic, 2021). But no one explained that to me. I had to suffer through that one out on my own, completely unaware, unprepared, and with no help in sight.

When I asked questions, I got dismissive answers. One doctor blamed my weight gain on the sodium in the artichokes I’d eaten. Another said weight gain was “just part of aging.” Meanwhile, I didn’t even recognize myself. I was crying, snapping, spiraling, and all while trying to hold my life together.

Years later, desperate, I went to a hormone therapy clinic in a strip mall tucked between an adult book store and a vape shop. For three years, I took injections and prescriptions. They even prescribed me legal stimulants to suppress my appetite. Nothing worked. Looking back, it’s clear what was really going on, they weren’t healing women, they were selling legal drugs to desperate midlife women like me in order to earn a buck.

At my heaviest, I was at least 50 pounds overweight, exhausted, and hopeless. That’s when I finally stopped searching for a magic pill and started searching within.

Choosing Myself

I had to accept that this was my reality. But acceptance didn’t mean giving up, it meant taking my power back.

The first step was food. I cut out sugar, refined carbs, and alcohol. I focused on real, whole foods, green vegetables, lean proteins, natural fiber, and healthy fats.

Science backs this up too. Diets high in sugar and processed foods drive inflammation, worsen insulin resistance, and amplify menopausal symptoms like fatigue, hot flashes, and mood swings (Harvard School of Public Health, 2022). Once I learned this myself, I was infuriated. Why isn’t this common knowledge? Why aren’t women educated on this from their gynecologists?

Within weeks of starting my healthy journey, I had more energy and slept through the night. My night sweats calmed. My anxiety softened. Within months, I realized I was healthy for the first time in years, I hadn’t even caught a cold, something that was ongoing in my previous less healthy lifestyle. My immune system was back online and so was my metabolism. Without stepping foot in a gym, I lost 65 pounds in seven months. I continue to live my life in this healthy lifestyle. My husband has joined me and we have both seen incredible improvement, not just in our bodies, but in our overall health and wellness. 

In my past, I was constantly battling illness, constant colds, allergies, stomach and digestive issues, back pain, knee pain, blood pressure issues. I was constantly in and out of the hospitals and seeing doctors who prescribed medications that never seem to make a difference. But all that changed once we took the reins on what we were allowing in our bodies. The all natural ingredients we were eating made all the difference. We were healthy and vibrant, sleeping well, and living healthier than we had in decades.

A New Chapter

It’s been three years since that turning point. Along the way, I discovered yoga, breathwork, and meditation.

Mindfulness practices don’t just “feel good.” Science shows they lower cortisol, rebalance the nervous system, and improving hormone regulation during menopause (Frontiers in Psychology, 2021). For me, meditation wasn’t just stress relief, it was a lifeline, a way to reconnect with myself after years of feeling broken.

My inner stillness became the real medicine. And once again, adding these practices made all my symptoms improve further still.

The Bigger Picture

Not long ago, I spent time with one of my cousins, a retired physician. She admitted that in medical school, she had only two weeks of nutrition training, and none of it prepared her to help patients with food as medicine. She had to learn that on her own after battling cancer. Doing her own research she made remarkable improvements in her healthy by making natural healthy choices in what she was eating. She then passed that knowledge along to her patients, a rarity in the current medical industry.

This confirmed what I’d already begun to see. The medical system isn’t built to keep us healthy, it’s built to prescribe pills and perform procedures. Books like Good Energy by Dr. Casey Means, make this painfully clear. The medical industry profits when we’re sick, not when we’re well. And the food industry has been complicit for decades, pumping sugar into almost everything on the shelves while funding research to blame obesity on “lack of exercise” instead.

But the truth is highly processed, sugar-laden diets are directly linked to higher risks of type 2 diabetes, cardiovascular disease, and cancer (American Heart Association, 2022). We can’t ignore it anymore. 

The Medicine Was Always Within

I used to think the answers were “out there” in pills, diets, doctors.

But the truth is, the medicine I needed was always within me:

🌿 Stillness.

🌿 Breath.

🌿 Presence.

🌿 Food that truly nourishes my body.

This path hasn’t been easy. I had to totally reconstruct my relationship with food, but it has been absolutely worth it. Honestly, living on highly processed foods, popping pills, and fighting my body was much harder. I was constantly miserable, living in and out of hospitals, doctors offices, and spending most of my waking hours fighting debilitating illness. All of which magically went away once I made better healthier choices.

So if you’re in your own version of this, whether it’s menopause, chronic illness, or the pain of being dismissed by the system, please hear me:

✨ You are not broken.

✨ You are not alone.

✨ How you live your life can change everything about your health.

✨ Everything you need to heal is already inside you.

Gentle Steps You Can Try Today

If any of this resonates with you, I invite you to try one small step forward today:

• Swap one processed snack for a whole food.

• Or, pause right now, inhale for 4 seconds, exhale for 6, repeat for 5 rounds.

• Take a walk around the block. Turn off your phone and just focus on your breath and nature around you.

• Tonight before bed, write down: “I am not broken,” and challenge yourself to one simple shift towards better health.

It doesn’t have to be complicated. Healing starts with one small choice, to live better.

What if I told you that you create your reality? That the thoughts you focus on are shaping the world around you, moment by moment.

Let me tell you a story…

I’ve been a teacher for 25 years, but early in my career, I was teaching middle school theatre, a wonderful, chaotic, overstimulating world with absolutely no cap on class size. By my fifth year, 45 students in each class period had become the norm. It was shoulder-to-shoulder chaos. Kids sat at my desk, in my teacher chair. Just imagine wall-to-wall mayhem and you’re halfway there.

One day, after a long morning of overcrowded classes, a counselor popped in with yet another student. I pleaded with her, “I don’t even have any more chairs for another student.” She laughed and turned on her heel: “I’ll bring you some more.” I was exhausted, frustrated, and frankly, losing my mind.

At lunch, I vented to a friend. Sarcastically, I quipped, “The next thing you know, they’ll bring me a blind, deaf, mute in a wheelchair.”

I kid you not… the next day. The counselor wheeled in a young girl named Emily who had Locked-in Syndrome, fully conscious, but unable to move or speak. My heart sank as the thought hit me like a lightning bolt… I created this.

I had said it. I had called it into being. But something else happened too… I shifted. I welcomed Emily not as a burden, but as a beautiful soul I had the privilege to teach.

I introduced her to her scene partners and told them that while she might not be able to communicate, she could understand every word. I asked them to include her fully. And they did. They made up a dance, incorporated her into their scene, and treated her just like any other kid, laughing, giggling, and goofing around. And while she said nothing, Emily’s eyes sparkled. She was beaming with delight in that moment, and we all felt it. 

That day forever changed me forever. It showed me how powerful our thoughts really are. It also taught me how important it was for me to change my perspective on my reality.

Remember the movie The Witches of Eastwick? The three women speak their desires aloud, and suddenly… they manifest exactly what they ask for. It may seem like fiction, but I’ve seen it happen over and over again in my life.

Years ago, when I was on the search for a house, someone suggested that I write down exactly what I wanted. I made a detailed list of everything I desired in my future home, right down to the must-haves and deal-breakers. I didn’t want to get swept away by a cute front yard and forget what really mattered. And I found the exact house I described.

So when I started dating again, I decided I’d do the same to find a partner. I made another list, ten things I wanted in a partner and ten things I didn’t want. And wouldn’t you know it… I attracted someone with all of it, the good and the bad. That’s how I learned one of the cardinal rules of manifestation: 

State everything in the positive.

The universe doesn’t respond to “don’t.” It responds to energy, focus, and intention.

I’ve used this same method for career shifts too. A few years ago, I was ready for a change but wasn’t sure what it looked like. So I got out my notebook and wrote a detailed vision, the kind of people I wanted to work with, the hours, the income, the purpose, the skillset. Within one week, someone walked into my office without warning and offered me a job that matched every single item on my list. Down to the dollar. Down to the hour. Down to the task.

Here’s what I want you to know:

If you’re always expecting the worst, that’s exactly what you will get.

But if you shift your mindset, you can shift your reality.

Now, this doesn’t mean you’ll never have another tough day, or that you can bypass real life. But it does mean you get to choose your lens. When negative thoughts come up (because they will), treat them like passing clouds. Acknowledge them, then gently sweep them aside and replace them with something you do want.

This is not “woo-woo.” It’s neuroscience.

It’s energetic alignment.

It’s the law of attraction.

Famed actor Jim Carrey tells the story of how, when his family was homeless, he told the universe he wanted a new bike. The next day, someone gave him one he’d “won” in a raffle that he’d never even entered.

Recognizing the powerful coincidence, Carrey then wrote himself a check for $10 million for “acting services rendered” and dated it for a future year, long before he ever had the money, and he kept it in his wallet. Years later, he got paid exactly that amount for the film Dumb and Dumber.

So, you can call me crazy. But let me ask you… how’s the current strategy working out for you? If it’s not, maybe you’re ready to try a new plan.

Here are a few things I would recommend as next steps to shift your reality:

1. Create a list of positive affirmations to replace any negative thoughts.

2. State your desires in the present tense, as if they’re already true: “I am working a job I love,” or “I am in a relationship that brings me peace.”

3. Avoid affirming the negative. Don’t say what you don’t want, focus on what you do want.

4. Practice mindfulness. When those “Negative Nancy” or “Doubting Thomas” thoughts show up, notice them, release them, and replace them.

5. Speak your affirmations out loud. If you catch yourself saying something pessimistic, pause and restate it in the positive.

At first, it may feel like you’re just faking it. But as Amy Cuddy brilliantly states in her famed TED Talk:

“Fake it till you become it.”

And if your manifestation doesn’t show up exactly how you imagined, trust that it’s arriving in the right form for your highest good.

There’s a Chinese parable I love that goes something like this…

A farmer’s horse runs away, and his neighbors say, “That’s terrible.”

The farmer replies, “Maybe.”

Then the horse returns with three wild stallions. “How lucky!” they say.

“Maybe,” the farmer says again.

The farmer’s son breaks his leg riding one of the horses. “That’s awful,” they say.

“Maybe,” says the farmer.

And it goes on and on like this. But the lesson is an important one, we shouldn’t label something as good or bad, just trust the process.

Years ago, my marriage ended abruptly when my ex left me after having an affair with one of my closest friends. I was devastated. Everything I knew had been ripped apart in a moment, and I struggled to move forward. But even in my grief-stricken state, I told myself, “This is happening for a reason.” 

And it did.

Looking back, I can see that had the ending of that marriage not been so final, and painful, I would have stayed. Stayed in something that was hurting me and my children. Stayed for more years of lies, deception, and betrayal.

So yes, while my experience was painful and horrible to go through, it was also necessary. An unforeseeable blessing that got me out of a toxic relationship.

Even when life feels unbearable, trust that there is something for you in the unraveling. Certainly a lesson to be learned along the way.

Let your story be bigger than your pain.

Let your future be shaped by your faith, not your fear.

I am constantly inspired by this quote from Gandhi:

Your beliefs become your thoughts,

Your thoughts become your words,

Your words become your actions,

Your actions become your habits,

Your habits become your values,

Your values become your destiny.

You are creating your reality right now with your own words.

Choose wisely.

Choose consciously.

Choose better.

Theatre started for me at an early age. My Grandmommy was a professional storyteller who had a tremendous influence on me. But even in the womb, I felt drawn to the stage. My mother swears she heard voices calling, “Juliet!” as she was giving birth to me. A hilarious story, but fitting. That name, made famous by Shakespeare himself, stuck with me. From the moment I could talk, I had endless questions, wild curiosity, and a flair for performance.

I was ready to take the stage from day one, reciting poems in kindergarten, delivering readings at weddings, acting in school plays, and daydreaming about Hollywood. I even had a strange (and slightly inappropriate) childhood fantasy of being part of the Make-A-Wish program, not fully understanding what it meant, only that it made dreams come true. And my dream was to be in a movie with Olivia Newton-John.

“Tell me about it, stud.”

I was obsessed with the film Grease. She was the coolest person alive in my book.

Even as a child, I wasn’t just drawn to performing, I had the soul of a director. One summer, at age seven, I posted signs offering ballet lessons to the neighborhood. Another year, I convinced my apartment complex to let us use the community center so I could direct Cinderella. I cast all my friends (and of course, gave myself the lead) and pulled it all together with the joyful determination only a ten-year-old can muster.

My love for theatre deepened through summer camps and school productions. The moment theatre became an elective in sixth grade, I signed up. By high school, I was all in. Freshman year, I boldly volunteered to be the assistant director of the senior play. That move changed everything.

I had the privilege of learning from one of the best. My high school theatre director, Rachel Mattox, was a legend, one of the top directors in Texas. Under her leadership, our program thrived, often advancing to the state finals, in Texas’ One Act Play Festival, which is the largest contest of its kind in the world. She nurtured my passion, and I soaked up every lesson.

Naturally, I majored in theatre in college. I still dreamed of acting, though I had no clear roadmap for what came next.

And then life rerouted me, I became pregnant during my senior year.

With a baby on the way, I had to pivot… fast.

After graduation, I sold used cars.

Did I know anything about cars? Not a thing. But my grandfather was a used car salesman and gave me a few solid tips. With a theatre degree in my back pocket and a baby to support, I stepped onto that lot like it was opening night. I was 22, surrounded by a dozen greasy slick talking old men, and somehow, I became the top salesperson. I talked fast, thought faster, and used every ounce of improvisation and intuition to read people and close deals.

There was a sign over my manager’s desk that read King of the Hill, a rotating title for whoever made the highest profit on a car sale. Within a month, I tore it down and replaced it with Queen of the Hill. And there I stayed.

The job was outrageous. The characters felt straight out of a sitcom: one guy was a natural-born comedian who danced every night at an over-50s club; another was a former professional basketball player who had lost everything. One was a guy my boss feared would hit on me, he frequented adult bookstores, but after a year, when asked why he hadn’t, he said, “She’s too old for me!” Yikes.

I grew up fast. I learned to stand my ground, trust my instincts, and be a bulldog when I had to be. It was cutthroat. But I held my own. I became strong. Earned respect. And learned what it meant to own a room.

That season of life taught me how to stand tall in rooms that weren’t made for me. How to read people. How to speak with conviction. It was my tapas, my spiritual grit forged in the fires of survival. I didn’t know it then, but even in the hustle, I was practicing. Embodying. Learning how to lead.

Eventually, the 80+ hour work weeks wore me down. I realized I was missing my daughter’s babyhood. Something had to give. I walked into my manager’s office with tears in my eyes and told him I had to leave.

It may sound crazy, but it remains one of the hardest jobs I’ve ever quit.

Someday, I’ll write the musical I’ve imagined in full: Used Cars: a riotous, heartfelt tale of grit, inappropriate humor, hustle, and high heels on hot pavement.

Next came event planning, a better fit for my creative energy. I booked talent, managed performers, and planned everything from elegant weddings to massive corporate events. I once hired a Robin Williams impersonator dressed as Mrs. Doubtfire to surprise a local mayor (he was the talk of the town).

One of my favorite events was a black-tie, circus-themed gala for a law school with over 1,000 guests. We rented out the entire downtown convention center, brought in gourmet caterers, booked over 30 clowns, flew in a Chinese acrobat troupe, and had a live elephant greet guests at the entrance… who, at one point, started eating the landscaping.

Another standout was a high-end family night at the zoo. I rented out the entire facility, served dinner in classic Chinese takeout boxes, set up 20 craft booths run by my old theatre friends, and had a dragon dance troupe from Hawaii parade past the giraffes and gorillas. Guests even sumo-wrestled in inflatable suits. It was a magical night to remember.

But unfortunately, the joy of event planning didn’t match the paycheck.

So, I hustled: substitute teaching by day, waiting tables on weekends, and selling security systems door-to-door in between. All while returning to school to earn my teaching certification. The theatre classroom had called me back home. My love for teaching was instant. I belonged in the classroom.

I started teaching middle school theatre in a small one high school town. I built up the program, directed productions, and co-founded a districtwide mentorship initiative for theatre students. If you’ve ever taught middle school fine arts, you know class caps don’t exist. My average class size was around 45 eleven year olds. All day.

Each semester, my theatre course ended with every student performing in a full production, complete with costumes, sets, lighting, and sound. I directed six performances every semester, one from each class. Then, I collected the best of each cast to create an “All-Star” show for the community. Families began joining waitlists to get into my classes.

I was guiding young souls through the messy middle of becoming. Coaching them to take up space. To fail in front of others. To trust their instincts. We built entire worlds out of cardboard and duct tape and belief. I witnessed miracles disguised as middle schoolers learning to stand in their light.

Through the years, I mentored new teachers, trained sixth-grade theatre faculty at our sister school, and helped grow the program districtwide. Midway through my time in middle school, the district added fifth graders to the mix. Let me just say, there is a massive developmental divide between fifth and sixth grade. Fifth graders still cried if they didn’t get the color they wanted. It was a learning curve, for sure. But quickly, I found joy with my younger students. They were still young enough to think I was cool, to give me hugs, and they were fearless on stage. 

The years were busy, and they flew by. But after 12 years in middle school, I was ready for a change.

I transitioned to high school in a bigger school district, stepping into a role that scared me: technical theatre. I wasn’t a tech expert, but I taught from the only place I knew… presence, process, the stage. My first year, I had only two tech classes with a total of 24 students. By my second year, I had six full classes and my student numbers grew to well over 120. They learned every tool, ran every event, and built every set. Most had taken the class just to check off a fine arts credit. Nearly all walked away wanting more, and bringing their friends along with them.

After two years, I was recruited by the top high school in our district to teach acting, direct shows, and eventually lead the entire department. I worked alongside two of the most brilliant, big-hearted colleagues I’ve ever known, people who became dear friends. When they moved on, I took over the program.

At our peak, we had nearly 700 students and four full-time teachers/directors in our department, and we were pushing to add a fifth director. The work was rewarding, but relentless. The long hours and overwhelming stress began to consume me. My health began to suffer. My family felt the impact.

And once again, I found myself lost in the hustle.

So, I paused.

In yoga, we call this kumbhaka, the sacred pause between breaths. It’s where clarity lives.

I asked myself some hard questions:

What do I want?

Who am I becoming?

What kind of life do I want to create?

I wrote it all down. Reflected. Breathed.

What I discovered was simple, but life-shifting: While I loved theatre, my deepest joy came from teaching. Helping students discover the light inside themselves. Teaching them to find their voice, stand in their truth, and direct their own story.

In that space, I began a new kind of study: svadhyaya, the yogic practice of self-inquiry. I read. I wrote. I walked. I cried. I listened for the parts of me I had abandoned for productivity, perfection, or praise. I started to see that every chapter, every “mistake,” every reinvention had been part of my curriculum all along.

Once I made that realization, I got crystal clear about the qualities in the job I wanted. I wrote down the hours, the pay, the kind of leadership I needed, and the student population I most wanted to serve.

A week later, someone walked into my office and offered me the exact position I had envisioned.

I became an Early College educator.

Now, I help students prepare for college, career, and life. I get to teach my students all the things everyone wishes they were taught in school. How to work on a team, discover your career path, write a resume, create a budget, interview, and communicate professionally. And yes, theatre is still woven into everything I do. From helping students develop presence and presentation skills to building safe, collaborative spaces for growth, it’s all theatre. It’s also life.

I also lead programs like Safe School Ambassadors, using empathy, team-building, and improvisation to help students become the kind of people this world needs more of, that lead with kindness rather than judgment. I mentor teachers. I lead workshops. I still plan large-scale events, like my daughter’s wedding. And deeply personal ones, like family memorials.

I bring story, soul, and sacred structure into every project I tackle.

Everything I’ve learned came from showing up, saying yes, falling down, and trying again. Theatre may have been my foundation, but it helped build every single room of my life. But it was yoga that helped me appreciate it, and guides me wherever I go next.

As Shakespeare wrote:

“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.”

It’s not enough that I just play a part, I have a vision of how to create something better, to help others see the light and strength within themselves so they may shine brighter.

So in the words of Shakespeare, and the greatest lesson theatre ever gave me…

To thine own self be true.

So here I am. Still evolving. Still exploring. Still directing. Still living, leading, and loving the next act of this beautiful, messy, soulful production. Because as any Theatre lover knows…

The show must go on.

Good golly, where do I begin?

Let’s get one thing straight… gray hair does not make you old.

I spent most of my adult life covering mine up. My first gray strands sprouted when I was just 22 years old, right after my daughter was born. The first time I noticed those wiry devils, I rushed straight to the beauty parlor to have them dyed. At first, every six weeks was enough to keep my roots hidden. But as the years passed, they started coming in faster. Every six weeks turned into every three. Then even that wasn’t enough. I was fighting a losing battle, lost in my own vanity and terrified of the stigma of looking old. I even bought cans of spray-on root cover-up, desperate to hide those stubborn silver strands that would peek out just days after my color appointment.

But then, after twenty years of hiding behind never ending dye jobs, something shifted.

I started noticing the beautiful, vibrant, radiant women around me. Women owning their silver hair like glowing goddesses. And I thought, Why am I fighting this?

And while we’re at it, who decided women have to chop off all their hair once they hit a certain age?

I never understood it. I love big hair! I grew up in the ’80s in Texas, where the motto was: the bigger, the better. My hair was frizzy, fluffy, thick, and full… a true lion’s mane.

But in the summer of 1986, there was the haircut that scarred me for life.

It was the summer before sixth grade, and for some reason (probably a coupon or one of my mother’s notorious barter deals) my mom decided to take me to an actual salon instead of cutting my hair herself. After a childhood of home haircuts, I was elated. Little did I know what was coming. 

I don’t know what backwoods, five-dollar hair shop we wandered into, but I do know this: the woman who cut my hair had never done a haircut outside of men who drove El Caminos and spit dip into tin cans.

And no offense to them, but that was not me.

I was a sweet, innocent 12-year-old girl, just trying to look cute for my first day of junior high.

When she spun me around to face the mirror, I gasped in horror.

The woman had given me a full-blown mullet.

For those of you who don’t know (or have blissfully erased this hairstyle from your memory), a mullet is short on top, long in the back, like a duck-billed platypus landed on your head. My thick, frizzy hair exploded from the top of my head like a fluffy Q-tip. I quietly sobbed in the chair as the woman tried to tell me how good I looked. I knew better.

I went home that day and immediately begged my mom to cut off the long, stringy flap in the back. If I had to suffer, at least I wasn’t walking into junior high with a rat-tail. But that moment cemented something deep in my soul… short hair was not for me.

And as I sit here at 50, I’m still holding onto every last strand for dear life.

My thick lion’s mane has thinned with age, but lucky for me, I had so much hair to start with that now it just looks fairly normal. So as I looked around at these silver-haired goddesses embracing their natural beauty, I realized… I was a fraud.

I couldn’t live with it anymore.

Suddenly, my inhibitions melted away. My vanity disappeared. I was ready to embrace my silver fox era.

So I marched into my hairdresser’s salon, sat in her chair for what felt like the 10,000th time, and declared:

“It’s time. I’m ready to go natural.”

She paused, narrowed her eyes at me in the mirror, and tested my bold statement.

“Do you know what this means?”

I met her gaze, steel in my spine, and said, “Yes. I’m never going back.”

I had no idea what was about to happen. I braced myself, expecting to walk out looking like a crazy person. But instead…

She worked her magic. I strutted out feeling like a damn rockstar.

Stand back, Stevie Nicks!

Now here I am, 50 years old, a grandma in the thick of menopause, rocking my long silver locks. And all I can think is:

What took you so long, girl?!

If I’m being honest, I didn’t choose sobriety because I believed I had a drinking problem.

No… other people had drinking problems. I didn’t have a problem. I just chose to drink every day.

But the truth is, I was living in denial. I was avoiding the mirror.

I can distinctly recall calling others out on their issues with drinking, turning my nose up at how they couldn’t handle themselves. But now I know better… I was really disgusted by the reflection of myself I saw in them.

I couldn’t face the truth.

I couldn’t see it until it was in my rearview mirror. Yoga teaches that avidya, spiritual ignorance, is mistaking the painful for pleasurable, the impure for pure, the non-self for the self. I couldn’t see the truth in myself, only in the reflection I judged in others.

Three years ago, I was terribly unhealthy. I had persistent medical issues that caused me to be hospitalized multiple times. I was uncomfortable in my own body, miserable with how I looked, and how I felt. I had come to a breaking point, desperate to get healthy and take my life back. I knew something drastic had to change, so I made a bold decision to overhaul my life.

My plan was to eat clean: protein, vegetables, no sugar, no refined foods, and definitely no alcohol.

I tried to quit drinking before. I’d made empty promises to myself more times than I can remember:

I’ll only drink on weekends.

Just one glass tonight.

I’m cutting back.

But who was I kidding? There was always another glass… another bottle.

I couldn’t see it then. I didn’t recognize who I was becoming or how far I’d strayed from the woman I wanted to be. Looking back now, I think my health issues were a gift. They gave me the chance to try sobriety again.

I had done it once before, years ago, when I was seriously ill and on medications that were dangerous to mix with alcohol. I quit for over a year, not because I wanted to, but because I had to. The doctors explained that any amount of alcohol would prevent my medication from working properly. At the time, the pain was so intense that the thought of drinking and letting the pain creep back in was absolutely unthinkable.

Still, I felt like a party pooper at gatherings, left out when everyone else was “having fun.”

Fast-forward to three years ago, and something in me had shifted. I was done living unhealthy. Done feeling miserable all the time. I felt heavy, stuck, like I had lost myself.

So I embraced the drastic change.

I’m sure those around me were beyond cautiously optimistic. But I pushed through.

A week turned into a month.

A month turned into three.

Three months turned into a year.

As Patanjali wrote, transformation takes a “long time, uninterrupted practice, with devotion.” That’s how new roots take hold, and mine were finally growing.

And here’s the funny part… I didn’t even realize I had hit that one-year mark until it happened.

I was on my own at a conference in San Antonio on a hot summer day. I decided to explore the city, one I used to visit every summer as a child when I stayed with my dad and stepmom, so I was thrilled to walk through my old stomping grounds. I strolled the River Walk, soaking in the heat, the memories, and a sense of rediscovery.

As I wandered through a park, I passed a sign that read:

“No Alcohol Beyond This Point.”

It stopped me in my tracks.

Suddenly, I realized the date. And it hit me:

It had been exactly one year since I quit drinking.

I laughed out loud. What a wild, serendipitous moment.

But then I saw the sign again:

No alcohol beyond this point.

And it became something deeper.

A declaration.

A vow.

A line in the sand.

There is no drinking beyond this point.

Period.

Game over. 

End of story.

I felt giddy, proud, and completely lit up.

I had done it.

I was sober, not because I was forced to, not because I was sick, not because someone told me to.

Because I chose it.

And that changed everything.

In the days that followed, I reflected more on my past, and I began to face the truth. I was a nightly wine drinker. We opened a bottle every night, sometimes more. On weekends, there were multiple bottles to be had. Afternoons day drinking with girlfriends, happy hours, cocktails, it all felt normal. Celebrated, even.

But the truth was I drank until I was tipsy nearly every day.

Then came the memories…

Things I said that I regretted.

Things I didn’t remember.

Ways I had humiliated my family.

The shame I carried in secret.

One memory in particular still haunts me.

It was Mother’s Day weekend, years ago.

We had an annual tradition of going to a local festival: music, food, and lots of drinks. The tradition had gone on for years, and early on my friends and I joked about how many bottles of wine we could finish. Each year, we tried to beat our record.

Nineteen.

We bragged about it.

But this particular year, I was stumbling drunk 2pm. I’m not sure how many bottles we had that year, but regardless, I’d had far too much, as usual. I passed out while getting a massage under a tent… only to wake up and continue drinking into the night.

But I don’t remember anything after two in the afternoon.

The next day, I learned we had stayed until after eight.

Six hours… gone.

I had no memory of any of it.

And what I was told the next day was horrifying.

That wasn’t the last time I drank, but it was a wake-up call.

A gut punch.

A whisper from the future saying “This isn’t who you are.”

So when I hit my one-year sober anniversary, it meant everything.

I had finally taken my power back.

I’d done it without a program, without a rehab center, just raw, stubborn commitment.

That doesn’t mean it’s been easy. And I don’t pretend it’s this simple for everyone. In fact, I think I unknowingly tricked myself into it.

But now that I’ve made it this far…

My sobriety is sacred.

It means freedom.

It means peace.

It means I no longer live at the mercy of a bottle.

In my past life, everything was an excuse to drink.

If I had a bad day, alcohol was the first thing I reached for.

If I had a good day, I celebrated with a bottle.

If it was the weekend, I added liqueur to my coffee.

If it was summer, day-drinking with friends was always acceptable.

Any excuse.

Any trigger.

It didn’t matter what promises I had made to myself, anything could set me off.

One image on the TV, and I was reaching for a glass.

It felt beyond my control, even when I knew better.

But now… I have three years of sobriety. And I’ve made peace with those old urges.

That is no small thing.

Sometimes I want to run back to my former self and wrap her in the biggest, fiercest hug and say:

Thank you.

Thank you for choosing health over escape.

Thank you for choosing presence over numbness.

Thank you for choosing your family over the next drink.

Sobriety is the legacy I want to leave for my daughter. And for my granddaughter, who was born just one month after I started my sober journey.

Someone asked me recently, “Do you ever get the urge to drink again?”

As anyone in recovery will probably tell you…

Of course I do. The thoughts still pass through my mind now and then.

But the desire?

No.

That’s long gone.

Thoughts and memories creep in, but just because I have a thought doesn’t mean I have the urge to act on it. Ever.

My sobriety means more to me than any passing craving.

It has given me back my life.

Believe it or not, we have a built-in bar in our home, and it’s been stocked and untouched for years. I’ve considered turning it into an extra bathroom, or maybe just leaving it there as a monument to how far I’ve come.

Because I can now say, with absolute clarity and confidence, there is absolutely

No Alcohol Beyond This Point.

So today, on my three-year sober anniversary, I’d like to propose a toast…

To clarity over chaos,

To presence over numbness,

To becoming the woman I needed all along.

Cheers to freedom, forgiveness, and fierce self-love.

And to many more years of waking up proud.

Facing the Mirror

I distinctly remember, as a little girl, standing in the bathroom, staring into the mirror, looking deep into my eyes and wondering, What will I look like when I grow up?

It’s funny now. Back then, I was so consumed by how I’d look, and didn’t spend a single second wondering about everything else: life, choices, relationships, heartbreak, trauma, adventure. My little brain simply couldn’t fathom what was coming.

These days, I still see that same girl in the mirror, but now she asks very different questions:

• What can I make of this day?

• How can I love better? Live better?

• Am I living with purpose and truth?

• Am I becoming the woman I was born to be?

• Am I proud of how I show up?

Here’s one thing nobody tells you about aging: Inside, you feel exactly the same.

In my head, I’m still 20-something Juliet: wild, curious, and full of dreams. But the mirror tells another story. The tiny aches and squinting eyes remind me I’m older now. I fumble for my glasses more than I care to admit. But emotionally, I’m still that same girl: goofy, imaginative, loud-laughing, and deeply sensitive.

So what’s changed?

The journey.

The lessons.

The heartbreaks, the breakdowns, the breakthroughs.

The scars that became superpowers.

The things I once excused are no longer negotiable. I won’t settle for half-love or one-sided friendships. I won’t tolerate any BS. I won’t shrink myself to make others comfortable. 

But I also show up differently. I’m more present. More mindful. I try to love better, listen deeper, and give more than I take.

Aging hasn’t made me fade, it’s made me bolder, stronger, more resilient, but also more reflective.

Lessons Learned

Years ago, my husband used to go out to lunch at a Chinese buffet with his coworkers. Every week, his buddy Bob would leave a tip on the table, even though it was a buffet. No servers. No table service. One day, someone finally what they were all thinking, “Bob, Why do you tip here?”

Bob leaned in, grinned, a knowing look behind his widened eyes, and stated something profound, 

“Because I can.”

What a lesson. 

There’s been so many moments like this throughout my life, lessons learned from someone older and wiser, a moment when someone leaned in and taught me something that you can’t learn from a book.

If I could lean in to my younger self, I’d tell her:

• Learn everything you can. Knowledge is power.

• Say yes to real love and big adventures.

• Don’t ignore red flags, because they only get redder.

• Write the letter. Say the words. Don’t wait.

• Walk away from anyone who makes you feel small.

• Savor the little things.

• Stay curious. Ask questions.

• Read books. Then read more.

• Spend less on a house full of stuff and overpriced lattes, and more on experiences and meaningful moments.

• Care for your body, not to look a certain way, but because it’s the only one you have.

• Chase your dreams. You only get one go at this life.

Now, at 50, I finally get something I’ve probably heard a hundred times, but never truly understood:

Time flies. And then it flies faster.

The years go by in a blink. The clock never slows, which is why I’ve learned to cherish the small stuff more than ever.

Wisdom comes, not wrapped in tidy lessons, but earned through scraped knees, broken hearts, and growing pains. Each step we take up the mountain of life builds strength, deepens character, and teaches us to love better.

Along the way I’ve learned that the people who stick around when everything hits the fan, they’re your people. The ride-or-dies. The magic-makers. Hold them close. Thank them. Love them back. Show your appreciation.

Take a lesson from Bob, when we can do better, we should do better. Tip more. Thank more. Because showing up with generosity is always the right choice.

Love, Loss & Trusting My Gut

Relationships are a two-way street. They require showing up. again and again, with appreciation, intention, and love.

I’ve stayed in relationships where I felt small. Invisible. Dismissed. Once, my ex-husband casually told me one of my girlfriends was his “best friend.” (Hello red flag).

Something deep in me whispered, This isn’t okay.

I wish I’d listened to that voice sooner. But back then, I didn’t trust myself. I doubted. I feared. I played small.

My age and experience changed that. Now, I trust my gut like she’s my ride-or-die. I know her wisdom. I listen to her fiercely. 

I’ve learned through wisdom, and more red flags than I care to admit, that the right person isn’t the smooth talker with a clever pickup line. It’s the one who sees you.

Who lifts you up without keeping score.

Who cheers your wins.

Holds your hand through your losses.

Who isn’t jealous of your shine, but proud of it.

But you have to be that for them, too. Giving back, paying it forward. Holding them up. Standing beside them, especially when it’s hard.

But here’s the real deal… to love well, you have to love yourself first. You must know who you are through and through and love yourself, warts and all.

I used to chase self-love, as if it lived in someone else’s opinion. I thought if everyone liked me that somehow I would be worthy. But it doesn’t work like that, we must know it for ourselves. 

It’s taken me a while to get here, but this is what I know now, deep in my bones:

I am the only approval I need.

Validation doesn’t live outside of me anymore. I stand firmly in who I am:

Strong. Sensitive. Goofy. Generous. Honest. But also a little dramatic, awkward at times, and totally extra. And I’m good with it, I love it, that’s me. 

The Sacrifice of Growth

Life is a book, with chapters full of challenges and change:

• Childhood

• Young adulthood

• Career, parenthood, stability

• Midlife and rediscovery

• And the golden years of hard-earned truth and wisdom

For some, midlife is where they start fading into the recliner, remote in hand,  slowly drifting away. But not me.

Last summer, my husband and I climbed a volcano. And by climbed, I mean I suffered up a rocky beast of a mountain. We woke at 1 AM, rode through winding narrow roads to meet our friendly guide along a dirt path, and began our ascent up the mountain. Our goal, to reach the top by sunrise.

As I carefully made my way up the slippery rocks, I quickly realized: I had made a tragic footwear choice. My shoes didn’t fit. My socks were all wrong. With every step, my feet screamed. Pain shot into my heels like daggers.

We paused numerous times. Our guide kindly offered to trade his shoes with mine. My husband offered to carry me. They even suggested a motorbike to take me the rest of the way up.

But I refused.

This was my mountain to climb.

So I sucked it up and trudged onward. Because no matter how much it pained me, I was going to climb it myself. Not because I’m a masochist, but because I knew something important:

Nothing good ever comes easy, but it’s worth it.

And let me tell you, the view was worth it.

Everyone wants more out of life, to reach their own mountain top. But not everyone is willing to climb, to put in the work, to dig their heels in when it gets hard and keep going. 

Whatever your dream, you must ask yourself this all important question:

What are you willing to sacrifice?

Because if you’re not willing to give up time, energy, or comfort…

You’ll end up giving up your joy.

Your purpose.

Your fire.

And oh man, do I wish I had known that sooner.

I wish I’d traded a few lazy days for focused ones.

I wish I’d believed in my worth earlier.

I wish I’d seen how powerful I am, how powerful we all are when we choose to fight for what matters.

Because joy? Dreams? They’re worth fighting for.

But you’ve gotta do the work.

You’ve got to face your fears.

You’ve got to dig in when things get hard and push through the discomfort.

You’ve got to show up like this is the most important chapter of your life, because it is.

So as you read this, I challenge you:

Are you sacrificing for the life you want…

Or are you sacrificing the life you want… for nothing at all?

If you’re like most people, you’ve probably fallen into a few digital rabbit holes. Hours (maybe days?) lost to the death scroll, numbed out by Netflix, caught in a vortex of mindless media.

Welcome to the modern zombie apocalypse:

The Matrix.

Digital quicksand, sucking your energy, time, and soul.

But here’s the thing, you can break free. You can make a different choice. You can escape the mindless media death spiral, step away, and walk into the vibrant life you were meant to live.

Start today.

Unplug.

Find what lights you up.

Reconnect to what’s real.

Because aging doesn’t mean slowing down. It means evolving.

And with every new chapter, you’ll face a choice:

Comfort or Growth.

Comfort is safe, but stagnant. Growth is opportunity.

Aging as Rebirth

Maya Angelou once said, “We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.”

Aging is like that. A rebirth. A sacred metamorphosis. It’s messy. Awkward. Sometimes painful. But it’s also the only way to become something new.

I recently heard a story about aging eagles.

At midlife, an eagle’s beak becomes too curved to hunt. Its talons grow dull. Its feathers heavy. To survive, it must endure a brutal transformation:

Break its own beak.

Tear out its talons.

Pluck every feather.

Only then can it be reborn: stronger, lighter, sharper.

That’s aging.

Not fading. But becoming.

For me, that means using my voice, my story, my pain and my power, to serve others.

To follow my joy:

In writing.

In yoga.

In speaking.

In teaching.

In helping women rise.

This chapter you're facing, it isn’t the end of your story. It’s the beginning of your rebirth. Embrace your age, appreciate your wisdom, and climb on.

So what do I wish I’d known about aging?

That time is sacred.

That your body is miraculous.

That your truth matters.

That life isn’t about racing, It’s about savoring.

Like Ferris Bueller once said:

“Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

So go ahead:

Look in the mirror.

Ask yourself:

What do I want to live for?

And what am I willing to sacrifice to get it?

Because this life is worth living. It’s worth fighting for.

So live big.

Love hard.

Laugh loud.

Trust your gut.

Make the call.

Write the letter.

Tip your waiter.

Face the mirror.

Climb the mountain.

Because aging isn’t about shrinking back. It’s about living the hell out of this life, Sucking the marrow out of every chapter, and becoming everything you were meant to be. 

You may not always recognize the woman in the mirror. But look a little closer. She’s still in there… the wild one, the silly one, the fighter, the dreamer.

She’s grown, scarred, softened, and strengthened. She’s not just surviving. She’s becoming. Be grateful for your journey, it’s beautiful to witness.

So, to the girl I used to be:

Thank you for getting me here.

And to the woman I’m still becoming:

Keep climbing.

“Go,” he said. “You deserve this.”

And so I went… to Bali. A trip just for me. A trip to remember who I was before the world told me who to be. I went seeking growth and exploration. I didn’t expect to crack wide open.

But I did.

The Energy

Ubud, the heart of Bali, is known for its spiritual healing. Nestled at the crossroads of powerful ley lines that stretch across the globe, Ubud is a place where sacred energy converges. The Great Pyramids, Stonehenge, and countless other revered sites around the globe align with these energetic pathways. In Ubud, seven ley lines meet, creating one of the most energetically potent places on Earth. The word Ubud itself means "healing," and for centuries, people have traveled from far and wide seeking the magic and mysticism of this place. Today, it still calls out to souls seeking a deeper connection.

It was here, almost 10,000 miles away from home, that I came on my own to study and earn my yoga teaching certification. From the moment I stepped off the plane, I felt it. A surge of energy pulse through me. My hair stood on end. It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced, yet it felt familiar, like an ancient pulse I’d been waiting to reconnect with. Every day, I felt that energy deepen within me.

The Healers

On my days off, I didn’t follow the typical tourist path. Instead, I sought out healers, intuitively guided toward those who could help me unravel the deeper layers of my soul. 

I met Papa, a humble healer, in a small open-air room filled with his art. His walls adorned with hand painted images of Shiva, Durga, Saraswati (yogic deities) and a large, vibrant painting of Ganesha, the elephant-headed god of wisdom and fortune, that peered straight into my soul.

As I lay on his table, Papa worked with a small, hand-carved wooden dowel, pressing deeply into the soles of my feet. I felt electric shocks rush through my body as years of stored pain began to release, and energetic blockages melted away.

Every corner of Ubud seemed to offer a new experience: Balinese yoga teachers, ancient astrologers, kundalini classes. But it was one evening, in the back alleyways, that I found myself at the most profound session: a sound healing led by a local shaman. We lay on the floor as the shaman played ancient instruments, and the vibrations coursed through me, lifting my body and rippling like waves, weightless. I was transported to another realm.

After the session ended, I sat frozen in stillness. The shaman approached me, knelt beside me, and gently took my hand.

“You are extremely intuitive,” he proclaimed.

“You have a gift. You are the fire.”

He spoke of my ancestors… women four generations back from my Grandmommy, who worked with herbs and energy. We come from a long line of first born women as far back as anyone can tell, and still going strong through me, my daughter and granddaughter. 

The shaman’s wife, also a healer, gifted me a beaded bracelet. A reminder of my strength and ability. 

I’ve worn it every day since.

Sacred Symbols

In Bali, every moment felt alive with energy. Each morning, as I stepped into the shower and let the water rush over me, I felt something sacred awaken within. My intuition grew sharper, and my eyes became wide open to the signs around me.

I returned home from Bali a changed woman, with a deep longing for the sacred energy I had experienced in that mystical place. I missed the profound spiritual awakening I’d felt during my time there. Back home, I continued my practice (asana, meditation, and breathwork) but found myself watering it down, trying to make it more digestible for others. Writing became an outlet, though I only began in small doses. Over time, my words began to carry pieces of healed trauma and past grief. But even now, I sense there is more. There’s always more.

Still, the signs were all around me.

There was the mermaid necklace, a silver pendant with an opal center, I’d worn since Bali, but whose symbolism had lived in me long before. As a child, I believed I was a mermaid. That mystical, feminine force had always called to me. I bought the charm a decade ago, on a beach in Mexico. But just before Bali, I began wearing it daily as a talisman of the woman I was becoming.

A year to the day since Bali, sitting in my car beside my daughter, the necklace suddenly broke. The chain snapped without warning, the charm falling gently at my feet.

Days later, the beaded bracelet from the shaman’s wife, my daily spiritual armor, fell to pieces. I wasn’t moving. I was sitting quietly by my granddaughter at our sacred family cabin when the beads suddenly scattered across my lap. I gasped. And then I gathered them quietly, heartbroken, placing them in a small bag.

The cabin is holy ground for me. It’s where my Grandmommy took me as a little girl, and now, I take my granddaughter. A few days after my grandmother’s funeral (she passed this March at age 99), I returned to the cabin with my daughter and granddaughter. We stood in the living room by her old vanity mirror, the same one we’d stood before for decades, that had reflected how we all grew and aged over the years. We weren’t touching it, weren’t near it, it hadn’t been turned on in months. And yet, without warning, one of the bulbs burst… exploding with a loud pop of shattered glass.

Was it her? Reaching out? Or the energy between generations, so strong it couldn’t be contained?

The Light

Back home, the signs have been constant. Flickering lights, always the one near my bedside. It blinked when I was near, often in the middle of the night. On my 50th birthday, the flickering was relentless, dancing wildly for over an hour.

Was it a signal? A spiritual birthday message?

And then there were the candles.

I kept battery-operated candles in the bathroom, just a few feet from my bedside. More than twenty of them surrounded the tub, all controlled by one remote. But they began turning on by themselves. Never the same ones. Always different. Sometimes two. Sometimes five. Sometimes just one.

I wondered if it was my stepfather, whose ashes we had recently moved to another room. Had I disturbed something?

The flickering happened daily for over a month before I began documenting it in photos. But when I moved the candles after the holidays… it stopped.

Until now. A year after Bali.

Full Circle

We had just returned from the cabin, the same day my bracelet broke in my lap. My granddaughter was taking a bath in my tub, playing with her light-up mermaid toys. They glow when submerged in water, then slowly dim once removed.

She dried off, we tucked her in.

All was quiet.

Until the middle of the night.

I woke without prompting to a bathroom rave of bright flashing lights.

Every single mermaid toy, now dry and sitting at the same spot where my candles once lived, were lighting up again, only brighter and faster than I had ever witnessed before. Flickering. Flashing wildly. As if something was trying to reach me.

The signs were growing stronger all around me. Something is happening. Something is near.

And then it returned: the ache.

That dull, burning pain in the back left side of my head, occipital neuralgia. A pain I hadn’t felt in many years.

It began long ago, during a time of immense stress, when my former marriage was unraveling and my health was declining. I was dismissed, accused of imagining it, of being dramatic. I saw dozens of doctors. Finally, a diagnosis. Then came the pills. The numbing. The forgetting. I lost pieces of myself to the fog of medication.

This went on for more than a year. But finally I made it out. I weaned off everything. I walked through the fire into the light.

And then, just as I was finally free of the pain (returning to health and finding my way back to myself) I met Tom, a partner who sees me fully, who champions every step of my journey. He was the one who sent me to Bali last year. He was the one who said, “Go. You deserve this.” A selfless gift of love that has healed me in ways I can’t fully describe.

And now, over a decade after my painful journey had finally subsided… the dull ache has returned.

But why now? 

The Call

When the emotional, spiritual, and physical align, the body speaks. Sometimes with whispers. Sometimes with aches. Sometimes with bursting bulbs and glowing toys and broken bracelets.

I don’t know exactly what it all means, yet.

But I feel it.

The signs are speaking.

I am listening. I am awake.

This isn’t an ending. This is a calling.

Something sacred is unfolding.

Something ancient is awakening.

This is my next chapter.

One story stood out in particular.

I had just finished telling her about the exciting adventure I was about to embark on: a month in Bali to study yoga and explore the world. She was over the moon for me. Her eyes lit up, and she immediately launched into a memory of her own.

She’d always had a gift for stories. With her theatre background and that rich, captivating voice, she could silence a room with a word. When I was little, she was a featured storyteller at the Texas Renaissance Festival every year. Children and adults would gather around, completely mesmerized, as she spun tales of fairytales and myths, giants and elves, legends and laughter.

But the story she shared with me last summer was from later in her life… decades after escaping a tragic first marriage that left her utterly heartbroken. After finding Al, her second husband, the kind of love she had always deserved. After reinventing herself, following her bliss, developing her craft, and making a name for herself as a professional storyteller. 

Her story last summer began when she was my age, deep in midlife. She had been invited to perform at a national storytelling festival, an honor that reflected her years of hard work and passion. She told me how she ran to Al, bursting with excitement… but then, in almost the same breath, she hesitated. Maybe it was too much. Too expensive. Maybe she shouldn’t go.

Without missing a beat, my Grandpa Al looked at her lovingly and said:

“We only get one go at this, babe.”

That line brought me to tears.

In that moment, I felt the depth of their love. The unwavering support. The kind of love that believes in your dreams and gently reminds you that you are worthy of them.

I had spent years trapped in relationships that made me feel small, invisible, forgotten. And while my first marriage was painful, the second was even worse. It took me far too long to see my own patterns, to recognize my worth, but thank goodness, eventually, I did.

And as I sat there tearfully listening to my Grandmommy’s story, I realized something: I had found my Al. Someone who lifts me up. Who sees me. Who says, “Go. Live your dreams. You only get one go at this life.” Through her example, I had finally found the love that I deserve.

This past February, we celebrated my Grandmommy’s 99th birthday. As I held her fragile, wrinkled hand, I saw something in her eyes I had rarely seen before: tears.

She had never been the emotional one, always strong, vibrant, bursting with life, energy and adventure. But in that moment I saw her tears were full of gratitude. For the life she had lived. For the love she had known. For the people she cherished.

And oh, how we cherished her.

There are so many stories I could tell, but I think better, are greatest lessons she taught me, without ever saying a word:

Embrace every moment.

Live the life of your dreams.

Climb the mountain.

Follow your spark.

Love deeply.

And see every crazy, beautiful, messy moment as part of your grand adventure.

I try not to take a single day for granted. I keep learning, growing, and doing my best to live with intention. I try to love people out loud and give back in ways that matter.

Because as I was reminded today, this moment—right now—is the youngest I will ever be.

Every day is an opportunity. And one day, when this beautiful life begins to wind down, I know I’ll look back on the most ordinary moments with the people I love, and whisper lovingly to my own granddaughter as she kneels before me:

“Cherish each moment. You’ll never get another like it.”

Let no day be wasted.

Let no dream go unturned.

At the end of our lives, all we truly have are our memories, and the tribe of love we’ve built along the way.

So to my Grandmommy, who’s now up among the stars… your adventure isn’t over. It lives on in me. It lives on in all of us, in every story, every choice, every moment of courage and joy and love passed down through the generations you created.

I’m doing my best to live better and love more fully, just like you taught me.

And to live each day like it’s a grand, shining, never-ending, wonderful, messy, magical grand adventure. 

Sometimes, when I realize I’m in a funk, or a full-on fog, I give myself a nudge (okay, a swift kick in the butt). I shift my thoughts, push myself out of bed, and do the things I know will help, even when I don’t feel like it. When my mind starts to reel or I catch myself hiding under the covers, that’s my red flag. That’s my cue: Get up, Juliet. Time to reboot.

So today, when the alarm went off at 5 am, I didn’t hit snooze. I let my feet hit the floor and started my morning… gently, quietly. Coffee. Lunches. A few peaceful minutes of reading and prepping for the day. A soft kiss and a “have a great day, honey” to my husband before heading out the door.

With the windows cracked and soft music playing, I drove to the yoga studio. That first breath of fresh air, that first step on the mat, it’s everything. Yoga isn’t just about movement for me. It’s how I get back to center. It clears my mind. It anchors me in my body. It gives me the gift of presence.

During class, I smiled as I saw an old friend I hadn’t seen in over a year. We shared a hug and a warm glance, just a moment, but it meant something.

Back in the car, windows down, gentle music on, I felt peace. I noticed the trees swaying, sunlight glistening on the water in the bay, birds chirping overhead. The simple, sacred beauty of being present. I drove slowly through the winding roads of my neighborhood, then walked through the back door to the sound of my cat calling and the familiar pitter-patter of dog feet greeting me in the kitchen.

I went straight to my office, gently closed the door (leaving the cat to fend for herself) and settled into meditation. It had been a while. Too long, honestly. But within moments of sitting tall and still, I felt at home.

My breath moved slowly up and down my spine. My mind relaxed. My body softened. I let go of the guilt over falling out of practice. And just like that, like riding a bike, I slipped right back in.

I remember the first time I took an advanced meditation class. I was a fidgety mess, couldn’t get comfortable, couldn’t stop judging myself, couldn’t stop wiggling. Until the instructor finally said, “Juliet… stop moving.” I still laugh about it. I just didn’t know how to be still back then.

But over time, with lots of practice, I learned that when I could push past those distractions and allow myself to settle, I could access this deeply nourishing place. A place where I’m not turning off my mind, but gently focusing it, on my breath, my inner spirit, my thoughts. As memories or ideas arise, I let them float by like clouds in the wind, returning again and again to stillness. To presence.

Last year, I began introducing yoga and mindfulness to my students in small ways. We started gently, just five minutes of quiet breathing and stillness. At first, there were giggles (of course), but they quickly realized we were creating something special. A pause. A window to themselves.

Eventually, we worked up to 20-minute guided meditations, where they imagined, dreamed, and simply were. We didn’t practice often, just a handful of times throughout the year, but something clicked. They began to ask for it. Beg for it, even. And sometimes, we’d steal a few sacred minutes at the end of a long week just to reset.

Toward the end of the year, a major college exam loomed, and the panic was real. Stress levels were through the roof. So I did what I knew to do: I guided a 20-minute meditation where they visualized themselves walking calmly into the exam room, trusting their knowledge, and moving through the questions with ease.

When I stepped into that classroom, there were no giggles. No mumbling. No fidgeting. I turned off the lights and simply said, “You know what to do.”

Stillness. But not silence. There was energy in that room, vibrant, focused, peaceful energy.

With every class I led that day, I felt a wave of deep gratitude. My students had embraced this practice. They’d made it their own. And I could see, really see, how it empowered them.

This is the power of mindfulness. Of coming home to yourself. Of calming the mind and focusing inward. Most people don’t give themselves that gift. But I’m so thankful to have it in my life, and in my classroom.

As I prepare for a new school year, I’m excited to share this gift with a brand-new group of students. It’s more than a practice. It’s a way of being.

So as I move forward today, gently easing my mind out of that old funk, I feel tremendous gratitude for this practice that brings me back to center. I’m grateful for the ability to step away… and, in doing so, rediscover the tools I’ve always carried.

With deep gratitude and loving abundance, I greet this day.

Namaste.