Last week, after Allison wrote beautifully about the friends who make up the fabric of our lives, you reached out to me.

“I don’t have friends,” you told me. “And I don’t know how to get them.”

I haven’t stopped thinking about that.

Not only because I could hear the loneliness in it, but because I have heard some version of it over and over from women. And because, as someone who calls nearly everyone I know a friend, it made me stop and ask what I actually mean when I use that word. I have been told I am way to loose in my use of friend. The woman I talk to at a networking event and the woman who would sit beside me in the emergency room are both people I might call my friend.

But they are not the same relationship.

The English language asks the word friend to do an enormous amount of work.

There are acquaintances, colleagues, neighbors, old friends, new friends, close friends, best friends and friends we know only through the internet. There are the friends we call when we need help and the friends we would never call when we need help, but whom we genuinely enjoy.

There are people we trust with our deepest fears and people we trust to split an appetizer with.

They all matter. They just don’t matter in the same way.

We have tried to make sense of these differences for a very long time. Aristotle wrote about friendships based on usefulness, pleasure and mutual goodness. Anthropologist Robin Dunbar organized relationships into circles of increasing closeness. In everyday life, we tend to use vague categories like casual friend, good friend, close friend and best friend.

Then I came across a popular framework built around 12 Arabic words for friendship and companionship.

It isn’t an ancient doctrine or an official hierarchy. It is simply a way of arranging words that describe different kinds of connection, from someone you recognize and greet, to someone you enjoy sitting with, to someone concerned for your well-being, to a dependable companion, a confidant and, finally, someone who seems to know how you think without needing an explanation.

It immediately resonated with me. I was drawn to it because it gave me language for something I already knew but had not fully articulated: friendship has many layers.

Someone can be a wonderful person to have coffee with and not be the person you call during a crisis. Someone can care about your well-being without knowing your private thoughts. Someone can make you laugh until you cry but not be dependable when life gets hard.

None of that makes the friendship false. It tells us what kind of friendship it is.

And these relationships are not fixed.

The person who knew everything about you ten years ago may now be someone you exchange birthday messages with. A former colleague may become one of the people you trust most. Someone who once sat beside you during the hardest season of your life may slowly move toward its edges.

Not every friendship ends with a fight or betrayal. Lives change. People move, marry, divorce, become ill, raise children, care for parents, change careers or become different versions of themselves.

Sometimes a friendship deepens. Sometimes it recedes.

Sometimes the friendship was exactly what both people needed at one particular time, even if it could not travel with them forever.

I have taught tens of thousands of people over my life. I meet people constantly through classes, schools, events, business groups, meditation and the internet. People enter my life, stay for a season and sometimes return years later in an entirely different way.

Perhaps that is why I use the word friend so generously.

I genuinely feel connected to people. I remember their stories. I care about what happens to them. But if I am honest, caring about someone is not the same as having a deep, reciprocal friendship with them.

That distinction matters when someone says, “I don’t have friends.”

Because she may not mean that she knows no one.

She may mean she has no one she can call without wondering whether she is bothering them.

She may mean she has plenty of people to talk with, but no one who really knows her.

She may have people who will meet her for dinner, but no one who will sit beside her in the emergency room.

She may be missing someone who makes her laugh, someone who checks in, someone to do ordinary things with or someone who chooses her without requiring her to make every plan and initiate every conversation.

Those are different forms of loneliness.

And they require different kinds of friendship.

Before we can answer your question about how to get friends, we have to ask a more specific one:

What kind of friendship are you missing?

Are you longing for companionship? Conversation? Reliability? Vulnerability? Shared history? Adventure? Someone who notices when you have gone quiet?

Do you need more people in your life, or do you need greater depth with the people already there?

Those are not the same problem, and they will not have the same solution.

So I started thinking about the people in my own life.

Who do I enjoy talking to? Who do I call when something wonderful happens? Who can I ask for practical help? Who knows when I am not okay, even when I insist that I am? Who would I sit beside in an emergency room, and who would sit beside me?

The names were not always the same.

That was the point.

No single friend needs to fulfill every role. In fact, expecting one person to provide conversation, adventure, emotional intimacy, practical help, shared history and constant availability may be one reason friendship disappoints us.

But looking at those questions can show us where our lives feel full and where there is an empty chair.

So, Amy, before I tell you where to meet people or how to turn an acquaintance into a friend, I want you to try something.

Write down the names of the people currently in your life. Not only the people you consider close friends. Include the neighbor you talk to, the former colleague who occasionally texts, the woman you see at the same class, the cousin you like but rarely call.

Beside each name, write what exists between you now. Not what used to exist. Not what you wish existed. What is actually there.

Who brings good conversation? Who brings ease? Who checks on you? Who can be depended upon? With whom could something deeper possibly grow?

You may discover that you are not starting with no one. You may be starting with relationships that have not yet been recognized or cultivated.

Or you may discover that the kind of friendship you need truly is absent. That can hurt, but it is also useful information. You cannot begin cultivating what you need until you can name it.

So, Amy, I’m not going to give you a tidy list of places to meet people. Not yet. Before we talk about how to make friends, we need to understand what kind of friendship you are actually longing for.

Over my next few letters, I’m going to write to you about friendship in our 50s: how acquaintances become friends, why repetition and initiative matter, how we build trust, what allows a relationship to deepen, and how to become the kind of friend we hope to find.

And to everyone reading, I’d like to ask you the same question:

When you say you want more friendship in your life, what do you feel is missing?

Leave a comment or reply to this letter. Your answers may help shape where these letters go next.

XO,

Melanie

The Greeks had a word for this kind of love — not the big dramatic kind, not the romantic kind, but the friendship kind. They called it Philia. It’s selective, enduring, deeply personal - it’s love that shows up at the stove, on walks and in the garden. I like knowing there is a word for it (even if ancient).

One friend taught me something in the garden that was somehow about plants and not about plants at all. Leave the violets and fight the wire grass. Keep this. Pull that. Know the difference. It sounds simple until you are on your knees in the dirt, sweaty and annoyed, wondering how one small patch turned into such a situation. Which, honestly, is true of most things in life.

Another friend pops into my head, when I am tired, hungry, and deeply uninterested in making dinner, which is exactly when dinner still needs to be made. There is a special kind of drudgery to cooking when you are exhausted. When I wait to ask the important philosophical question until about 6:30 p.m., which is: why am I doing the cooking? (You’ve been here, right?) And yet there I am, staring into the refrigerator like it has personally betrayed me.

She is the friend who says, “Just boil the water, the rest will come.” And she is always right. Not dramatically right. Just quietly, usefully right. Boil the water. A pinch more salt. Start somewhere. It helps with dinner, but it also helps with the rest of life, which can feel just as absurd some days. Too many pots and too many decisions. Too little energy. And still, somehow, you begin.

There is also the friend who walks with me (or comes along even when I’m alone). The one who points out who lives in each house, who used to live there, whose daughter just moved back, whose trees are doing unusually well this year. I love that kind of knowing. We walk and talk and sometimes get dragged by the dogs, which is not dignified but character building.

On one stretch of my alone walk, I look across a field, but imagine another of my friends, as if we were heading off on some grand adventure. The ones we often take through new towns, often finding the cemetery to walk dogs, just trying to keep the leashes untangled and not get pulled into the ditch. That feels about right for this season of life too. A little reflective. A little ridiculous.

And then there are the friends you can call in the middle of the night. The ones who don’t require context or an explanation. They answer the phone, are you ok? My grandfather used to say you could count them on one hand if you were lucky. He was right about that, as he was about most things worth remembering.

I don’t say any of this in a grand way. I just notice it more now. How we are steadied by the people who know us in our daily lives. The ones who have seen us at our best and in our oldest, favorite tattered linen shirt. The ones who remind us to start with what is in front of us. The ones who know when to laugh. The ones who know when not to (and just might anyway).

Maybe that is what I have been circling around. Not some dramatic lesson. Just the fact that a good friend is part witness, part historian, part accomplice, and, if needed, part getaway car.

“Make new friends but keep the old ones. One is silver and the other gold.” One of the only things I can remember about Disney World.

I’ve been thinking about my friends a lot and feeling grateful.

No.

Consider this your official permission slip.

You don’t have to turn on your oven.

You don’t have to feel guilty because dinner came together in eight minutes.

You don’t have to earn an easy meal.

If dinner is sliced peaches, burrata, tomatoes, basil, and a hunk of good bread, congratulations. That’s dinner.

Somewhere along the way we decided that if a meal wasn’t cooked, it didn’t count.

That’s ridiculous.

So today, I’m giving you three recipes that require almost no effort, no oven, and no apology.

Save them for the next time it’s too damn hot to cook.

Stay Tart!

Melanie

P.S. Since you’ll have free time from not working over a hot stove - listen to our Joyful AF playlist

Chilled Cucumber, Dill and Mint Soup

Cool, creamy and bright, this refreshing soup comes together entirely in the blender. Serve it in small bowls, cups or glasses for an elegant first course.

Yield: 4 servings

Ingredients

• 2 English cucumbers, roughly chopped

• 1½ cups plain Greek yogurt

• ½ cup cold water or buttermilk

• 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

• 2 tablespoons chopped fresh dill

• 2 tablespoons chopped fresh mint

• 1 small garlic clove

• ¾ teaspoon kosher salt, plus more to taste

• Freshly ground black pepper

• Cucumber ribbons, dill or mint, for garnish

Instructions

1. Place the cucumbers, yogurt, water or buttermilk, lemon juice, dill, mint, garlic, salt and several grinds of black pepper in a blender.

2. Blend until completely smooth and creamy.

3. Taste and adjust the lemon, salt or pepper as needed.

4. Refrigerate for at least 30 minutes, or until thoroughly chilled.

5. Pour into chilled bowls or small glasses. Garnish with a cucumber ribbon and a few fresh herbs.

Peach and Cherry Tomato Salad with Basil

Juicy peaches and ripe tomatoes are one of summer’s best combinations. The key is to let the ingredients stay simple and speak for themselves.

Yield: 4 servings

Ingredients

• 3 ripe but firm peaches

• 2 cups cherry tomatoes

• ¼ small red onion, very thinly sliced

• ¼ cup fresh basil leaves

• 2 tablespoons white balsamic vinegar or champagne vinegar

• 1 teaspoon honey

• ½ teaspoon kosher salt

• Freshly ground black pepper

• Flaky sea salt, for finishing

• 4 ounces fresh mozzarella, crumbled feta or goat cheese, optional

Instructions

1. Cut the peaches into wedges and slice the cherry tomatoes in half.

2. Arrange the peaches and tomatoes on a platter, allowing their colors and shapes to overlap naturally.

3. Scatter the red onion and basil over the top.

4. In a small bowl, whisk together the vinegar, honey, kosher salt and several grinds of black pepper.

5. Spoon the dressing lightly over the salad.

6. Add the cheese, if using, and finish with a small pinch of flaky sea salt.

Mixed Berry and Vanilla Yogurt Verrines

A verrine is simply a beautifully layered dish served in a clear glass. These are creamy, colorful and elegant without requiring any cooking.

Yield: 4 servings

Ingredients

For the berries

• 2 cups mixed berries, such as strawberries, blueberries, raspberries and blackberries

• 1 tablespoon honey or maple syrup

• 1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice

• Pinch of kosher salt

For the yogurt

• 2 cups plain Greek yogurt

• 2 tablespoons honey or maple syrup

• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

• Pinch of kosher salt

For assembling

• ½ cup crushed shortbread cookies, graham crackers or granola, optional

• Fresh berries and mint leaves, for garnish

Instructions

1. Cut any large strawberries into bite-sized pieces.

2. Place half of the berries in a bowl with the honey, lemon juice and salt. Gently crush a few of the berries with the back of a spoon to release their juices.

3. Fold in the remaining whole berries and let the mixture rest for 10 minutes.

4. In a separate bowl, stir together the yogurt, honey, vanilla and salt until smooth.

5. Spoon a layer of yogurt into the bottom of four clear glasses.

6. Add a layer of the berry mixture, followed by a small spoonful of crushed cookies or granola, if using.

7. Repeat the layers, finishing with berries.

8. Garnish each verrine with one perfect berry and a small mint leaf.

I have spent the last month scouring Facebook Marketplace like a woman possessed, hunting for a Kubota 3-point tiller. I want furrows. I want rows. I wanted a field that looks like it’s ready for sunflowers and squash and abundance. There is a specific kind of desperation that comes when you can see the vision in your mind but the tools haven’t arrived. You start to think that if you don’t have the equipment, you aren’t allowed to begin. You start to think that the silence of the field means the land is dead. But the field isn’t dead. It’s fallow. And fallow is a prerequisite for power that you can uncover.

The Plowing and the Tilling

I’ve been thinking about the difference between plowing and tilling. It’s a debate I’m having with myself. Tilling breaks everything up; it makes the surface look neat and manageable. Plowing, however, is violent. Plowing flips the soil. It takes the things that have been buried in the dark for years, the rocks, the old roots, the forgotten nutrients, and it drags them into the blinding light of the sun. It’s messy. It’s heavy. It’s holy.

That is exactly what’s happening inside me right now, and I suspect it’s happening inside you, too. We are in a resurgence of power that is pulling from beneath the surface. My life is shifting. My motherhood is moving into a new phase as my children grow and leave the nest. My body is changing in ways that demand a different kind of attention. The identity I wore for twenty years is being turned over, clods of earth and all. If you plow a field and walk away, the weeds will win. But if you sit in that freshly turned earth and recognize it for what it is, preparation, you can grow something wild and stunning.

My Untitled Projects

People ask me what TART AF is. They want a tidy category. Is it a lifestyle brand? Is it a blog? Is it a series of women’s empowerment retreats? The truth is, it’s all of those things and none of them. It’s a community for women who are tired of the performance. It’s a space for unapologetic confidence. It’s the “Fallow Retreat” I’m building in my mind, a place where we don’t force ourselves to produce, but where we let ourselves rest so we can return stronger.

For a long time, I felt like I had to apologize for the “in-between.” I felt like I needed a title to be legitimate. But the most fertile work I’ve ever done is the work that didn’t have a name yet. It was the quiet hours of self-trust and care for women who are rediscovering who they are after the world enforced a model they need to shed. It’s the work of women who rise, not because they have a plan, but because they have an instinct. Strategy is great, but intuition is the engine. Without it, you’re just driving a tractor in circles.

The Inner Acreage

What is the inner acreage you’ve been avoiding? We all have it. It’s the part of you that’s been resting, rebuilding nutrients, and gathering strength while you were busy being “productive” for everyone else. We have been taught that if we aren’t planting, we aren’t growing. We’ve been lied to. The fallow season is when the real work happens. It’s when the soil restores its balance. It’s when you decide what stays buried and what is ready to rise.

I’m building a life that is real, not perfect. I want to build a community that values living fully. And yes, I’m building a literal field of sunflowers. None of it is tidy and there are plenty of weeds, but it’s necessary right now. I got the equipment and the field was ready for the plow. I’m trying to trust that pull from beneath the surface. I’m trusting that the version of me that is currently “untitled” is actually the most powerful version I’ve ever been.

If you are in a season where you can’t quite explain what you’re doing: if you’re tilling the soil of your career, your relationships, or your sense of self: stay there. Don’t rush to name it. The naming comes later. Right now, the work is the turning.

What is a fallow season?

In agriculture, it's when land rests to restore nutrients. For women, it's a period of deep internal growth, healing, or re-orientation that often lacks a formal "title" or visible output.

What We Are Cultivating Together

You are the most fertile field you will ever tend. Bring what’s been resting back to the surface. Let yourself see it. Let yourself work with it. Let yourself grow something wild. Here’s to the resurfacing. Here’s to the untitled. Here’s to the women who aren’t afraid to get their hands in the dirt.

In July 2025, I left Microsoft. I walked away from a long corporate run as a Federal Government AE, from big rooms, sharp elbows, and constant motion, from a life measured by targets, calendars, and how fast I could recover from the last hard thing. I thought I was retiring, but that was not quite it.

12 Months Un-Retired: The Cocoon Is Done. The CHO Job Description Starts Now.

What was I was actually doing? I think I was entering a cocoon. Not a reinvention fantasy. Not a fun gap year. Not a reward for being exhausted. A cocoon. Quiet. Protective. Strange. That has been the last 12 months for me: a season in which clarity could not be forced, and the old identity had to loosen its grip before a new one had language.

I did not come out of corporate and instantly land in some polished next chapter. I did not float gracefully into leisure, and I definitely did not wake up one morning with a perfect personal brand and a color-coded plan for the next Act. What I did instead was rest, unravel, and get honest. And honesty, it turns out, is not always pretty.

There is a script women are handed in moments like this: be grateful, be graceful, be easy to explain. I know that script well, and I also know how quickly it can choke the life out of the truth. The truth is that I am grateful, and I was disoriented. I chose this season, and I disappeared into it a little. That is what a cocoon is, after all—a holding place, a breaking-down place, a not-ready-yet place.

For a while, I let myself be unformed. I slept more, pushed less, and stopped performing certainty I did not actually feel. From the outside, I am sure parts of it looked lovely: a successful woman stepping away, a well-earned exhale, a clean transition into the next chapter. But it was not clean. It was tender, awkward, and clarifying, sometimes all in the same afternoon.

Some days felt spacious, and some days felt itchy. Some days I missed the velocity of my old life so much I could feel it in my body, as if momentum itself had memory. That is the part people skip over because they prefer the exit story, the brave decision, the glossy version where a woman leaves one defined life and glides directly into another. That was not my story. My story was quieter than that, a little messier than that, and more alive than that.

Somewhere inside all that quiet, I started to hear myself again. Not my title. Not my performance. Not the polished, professional version of me who could read a room in six seconds and close the gap by quarter end. Just me. And that matters, because the next chapter deserves language. It deserves structure, humor, truth, and better titles than “just retired” or “just home” or “just figuring it out.”

So over the next several weeks, I want to start having that conversation out loud and in public. This next series will introduce what I am calling the Domestic C-Suite: LinkedIn-style job descriptions for the real roles women hold when life changes shape, for the visible work, the invisible work, and the work that counts even when nobody gives it a title.

In four weeks, we will start with the Chief Home Officer (CHO) role, not to box anyone in and not to hand women yet another label to perform, but to give language to what has always been labor, leadership, care, strategy, coordination, and power. There will be more roles after that, more naming, more reframing, and more honest conversation about what this chapter actually asks of us.

But this post is not the job description. This post is the invitation.

Melanie and I are building TART AF to hold that kind of conversation, without tiptoeing and without the polished little performance about how easy transition is supposed to look. What I want instead is honest inventory, honest language, and honest company, because women like us do not disappear when one chapter ends. We shed. We reorganize. We re-enter. And when we do, we deserve better words for what we are carrying.

So if you are in that strange middle place too, come in. If you are retired, almost retired, freshly untangled, still knotted, newly restless, deeply relieved, or quietly becoming, come in. This is where the conversation starts.

And it started, for me, in a house so quiet I could hear one cube of ice fall into the bin. That was the sound of the cocoon: quiet, protective, strange. Not empty, as it turned out, but full of the invisible work of becoming.

For the women in the in-between

• What did you leave?

• What are you relieved to be done with?

• What are you grieving?

• What are you building that does not have a tidy title yet?

If this is your season of in-between, join us. Explore Salon Conversations or work with us to keep the conversation going.

Stay tart!

Melanie

Hello one

I don’t know if you recognize this: You’re with someone you care about, your partner, a friend, one of your children, and you ask them what they’d like to do. And right away they turn it around and ask what you would like.

How do you respond? If you’re anything like me, you might return the question, saying something like: “I asked you first…What do YOU want?” And after a little back and forth you settle on what to do together. Or, they tell you what they want and you barely take a moment to check whether it’s also what you want.

Depending on that person, and how well they are able to articulate their own needs and desires, this process can be tricky. Even though I know this, I sometimes step right into it. And honestly, a lot of the time I don’t have a specific ‘want’. I’m just happy to be with that person, wherever we end up.

But every so often I catch myself going along before I’ve actually checked in with myself. If you’re highly empathetic, or highly sensitive, and those two often come together, that reflex to go along can be strong. It was for me. By now, I know I have to be more conscious about it. So, these days, I take a second to tune in and feel whether I’m really okay with it, or whether I’m just pleasing by default.

I’m much better at this than I used to be, and I learned it “the hard way.” I made a short video about how that went, and it went up on YouTube yesterday. If you have five minutes and you’d like a bit more of the story, you’ll find it here.

Behind the scenes

I started working on my upcoming book, The Selfgentleness Perspective. It’s so nice to bring everything I know and have taught so far together. I’m enjoying the process of gathering and structuring it all.

It also made me aware of something. Alongside all of this I have a full-time job at the university, and next to that I love creating for and connecting with my members in the Selfgentleness Academy, making things for Insight Timer and YouTube, writing blog posts and letters to you, and now the book.

I love all of it. That’s exactly the catch. Even the things you love can add up to too much, until there’s no room left for the rest of your life. And there’s a lot of life I want room for: my husband, the people I love, and in particular: time that isn’t pointed at any goal at all. So I’m choosing to protect that on purpose. Taking the selfgentle road, and practicing what I teach.

Thinking of you, and sending you lots of love,

Femke

P.S. In case selfgentleness is still a new word to you: it’s radically accepting yourself as the most important person to consistently deserve your own gentleness. No exceptions.

You do not need to apologize for The Great Recalibration.

The TART AF Guide to Transition:

1. Cry when you need to. Tears are a release valve, not a weakness. Use them.

2. Move through it, not around it. You cannot bypass the hard parts. The only way out is through the center.

3. Find the joy in the mess. There is humor in the absurdity. If you can’t laugh at the fact that you’re sweating in a blizzard, you aren’t paying attention.

4. Live without apology. Whether you are starting HRT or starting a new business, do it with your head up.

It arrives uninvited. It sits at your kitchen table. It rearranges your furniture while you are trying to sleep. This month, transition didn’t just knock on my door; it took the hinges off.

On one side of the house, we are pulling together a graduation day that looks sharp from the outside. Tailored clothes. A stage. Thirty-five kids we have known for a very long time. The kind of small, intimate ceremony that makes every face feel personal. Luca is the third of four children, so this is not the first time the nest has felt a departure. Others have already left. I know this terrain. And still, this one lands with its own weight. It adds another layer to the shifting shape of motherhood, where the house changes one child at a time. My son is leaving, and with that comes the quiet, brutal truth that we will likely see very little of many of these kids now. On the other side of the house, I am sitting in a doctor’s office, having a conversation about Hormone Replacement Therapy (HRT) that feels like a poorly scripted play colliding with a major life milestone.

My son is launching into adulthood. He is leaving the nest and stepping into the world, joining the siblings who have already gone ahead. I am moving through The Great Recalibration, navigating menopause, HRT, and the strange reality of becoming new without anyone handing me a map.

We are both standing on the edge of massive, different thresholds. His is outward. Mine is inward. Both are real. Both are disorienting. Both ask for courage. And both are temporary in the way all true transitions are. The ground shifts and then it settles. And honestly? It is exactly where we are supposed to be.

The Clinical Absurdity of Being a Woman

I recently sat across from my doctor. We were there to talk about the internal weather system I’ve been living with. You know the one. The sudden spikes in temperature. The brain fog that makes a simple grocery list look like a manifesto written in code.

The conversation was strange. It was clinical where I needed visceral. It was sterile where I felt raw.

We talked about patches. We talked about dosages. We talked about “managing symptoms.”

But menopause isn’t just a list of symptoms to be managed. It is a tectonic shift. It is The Threshold. A temporary season where the old foundation shifts so a stronger one can take its place. Medicine can steady the ship, but it cannot sail it for you. A pill is a tool. It is not a cure for the existential weight of becoming a new version of yourself.

We spend so much time tiptoeing around our own biology. We perform “wellness” while our internal foundations are cracking.

I don’t want to tiptoe. I want to plow.

In my Substack reflections, I’ve talked about the difference between tilling and plowing. Tilling breaks the surface. Plowing flips the soil. It brings the deep, dark, nutrient-rich earth to the top. Transition: whether it’s hormones or heartaches: is a plow. It is messy. It is heavy. It reveals the rocks and roots you’ve been ignoring for decades.

Do not fear the rocks. They are just evidence that you have a foundation.

The Pomp, The Circumstance, and The Panic

While I am negotiating with my estrogen levels, my son is negotiating with his future.

Graduation is a polished word for a rupture. We get dressed. We show up looking tailored and composed. We sit in a room with just 35 kids we have known for years and watch them cross a stage that suddenly feels far too small for what is happening. Luca is the third of four, so this is not my first experience with a child leaving the nest. But motherhood does not hand out immunity. It recalibrates in waves. One child leaves. Then another. And each departure shifts the architecture again. Underneath all that pride sits the bittersweet truth: after this, we will likely see very little of many of them. That is how life moves. Fast. Quietly. Without asking if you are ready.

The chaos of a graduation season is overwhelming. There are parties to plan, thank-you notes to write, and a constant, low-grade hum of grief that vibrates in the chest.

It is easy to get lost in the logistics. It is easy to let the noise drown out the signal.

But transition requires focus. If you look only at the chaos, you will drown in it. If you look at the center, you will find the joy.

My son is not just “leaving.” He is becoming. I am not just “aging.” I am evolving. These are not losses. These are Salon conversations with destiny.

Stagnation is a slow death. Movement is the only cure.

The TART AF Way: Always Fun, Always Fabulous and Always Real

At TART AF, we don’t do “fine.” We don’t do “coping.”

We do Always Fun and Always Fabulous, even when the “fun” involves crying in a parked car because a song on the radio reminded you of year far away.

True women’s empowerment isn’t about having it all figured out. It’s about the audacity to be authentic while you are under construction. It is about self-trust. It is about knowing that the same woman who raised a child to adulthood is more than capable of navigating a hot flash and a career shift at the same time.

You do not need permission to feel the weight of your transitions. You do not need to apologize for The Great Recalibration.

A TART AF Guide to Transition:

1. Cry when you need to. Tears are a release valve, not a weakness. Use them.

2. Move through it, not around it. You cannot bypass the hard parts. The only way out is through the center.

3. Find the joy in the mess. There is humor in the absurdity. If you can’t laugh at the fact that you’re sweating in a blizzard, you aren’t paying attention.

4. Live without apology. Whether you are starting HRT or starting a new business, do it with your head up.

The Resurfacing

The field is being turned and

the fallow parts of my life are waking up. My motherhood is shifting from the daily tending of a garden to the quiet observation of a forest. My body is shifting from a predictable cycle to a wild, untamed frontier.

This is The Great Recalibration. A transitory state. A temporary season of shifting foundations that will settle into something stronger.

But when the threads pull apart, they make room for a new pattern. They make room for a version of you that doesn’t seek approval because she has already mastered herself.

We are not victims of our transitions. We are the architects of them.

So, put on your most fabulous outfit. Take the hormones. Hug the graduate. And keep your eyes fixed on the center of the storm.

The chaos is just the wind. You are the mountain.

Are you ready to break ground on your next season? Let’s talk about it. Work with us to find your center and cultivate your own Always

I’m not buying it. I truly believe it’s a performance. And I think my grandmother would have found it appalling.

Eloise. Born in 1911.

Her father was an artist. Her sister was a ballerina. She and the family were progressive Quakers - lots of fun, organized activities, a community that treated women as equals, not as a radical idea, but as a simple fact. They had a home in Washington, DC and another in Lincoln, Virginia. Cultured, creative, rooted in beauty and love.

Eloise went to fashion and design school in Washington, DC. I recently found a letter she wrote in 1934 to her sister, Alva, about a gorgeous green suit that would look incredible on Alva. She told Alva to save her pennies and she would have the $35 soon. After design school, my grandmother was the go-to for clothing. She had a gift and made money doing what she loved. She had independence and she didn’t have to fight for that feeling. She didn’t have to perform it. It was given to her by her faith, her family, her father who made art, her sister who danced, and her own education. It was so built into her foundation that she never had to think about it.

She didn’t marry until 1941. She was thirty years old - practically scandalous, and definitely a spinster, by the standards of her era. The story goes that my grandfather wasn’t sure he wanted to get married. Eloise’s position was simple and unambiguous: we’re getting married, and if we’re not married by the time I’m thirty, I’m dragging you down the aisle.

She was the initiator. In 1941. Let that land.

My dad was born in 1942. He was her only child. And for the rest of the years I knew her, Eloise didn’t drive, didn’t work outside the home, and not once raised her voice. By every external measure, she looked exactly like what the trad wife crowd is cosplaying.

But nobody in that room was ever confused about who held the ground.

That’s the thing about actual power. It doesn’t need a performance. It doesn’t need an aesthetic. It doesn’t need to announce itself in a linen apron with a Pinterest-worthy caption. Eloise had authority the way some women just do - quietly, completely, without ever asking permission for it.

The trad wife trend isn’t about loving your home. Plenty of powerful women love their homes. I grew up on a farm in Virginia where food was the center of everything - community, connection, love. That’s not smallness. That’s richness.

What the trad wife trend is selling33 is smallness dressed up as virtue. Submission repackaged as softness. Dependence framed as devotion.

And the women doing it aren’t returning to something real; they’re performing a version of womanhood built on a foundation they were never given.

Eloise lived life entirely on her own terms. Trad wife, progressive icon, spinster, wife - she wouldn’t have cared about any of those labels. She knew who she was. That was enough.

Who’s your Eloise? Tell me in the comments - who is the woman in your life who held her own?

Eloise, husband and son.

From Allison -

Waking this morning, before everyone else, I stretch, carefully slide the covers over, and in my PJs shuffle into the kitchen. Water pot filled and coffee ground, I rinse the French press and mix what’s boiling with the ground beans. This morning’s pot of Trager

Brothers’ coffee fills the room with aroma and nostalgia. How many years has this smell, or some variation of it, awakened my senses and sparked a memory?

As I wait for the coffee to steep, I’m filled with memories now and a jukebox of moments start to surge across my mental record player. I imagine what so many of us across this country are doing this morning—likely something similar in many households—and the tune “Everyday People” by Sly and the Family Stone sneaks into the subtitles of my brain, reminding me of its message about learning to live alongside one another despite our differences.

In our home, we love music. We share it. We dance to it. We sing (some of us have great voices, others not so much). I particularly love the drive-share, in the car, where access is ridiculously quick to find any song that jumps to your memory with a search and a press. Lately, with my youngest daughter, I hear her play a song that is making a comeback. It’s the Eagles, and from the first few notes, I recognize it.

“Where did you hear that obscure one?” She shares that it showed up in the soundtrack for some hot new series episode she’s watching. It’s a flashback to my elementary school days when I was just beginning to hear and pay attention to the songs on the radio. I had a few cassettes; dang, I remember my first Sony Walkman! Did you have one? Mine was yellow.

I’m filled with a jukebox of moments surging across my mental record player.

I also love to get introduced to those new artists that have a sound that is a bit similar, slightly derivative of one from the past. You know the ones that spark a parallel memory track in your brain from 5,10 or 20 years ago, and the chorus starts playing. I don’t know if this is how your brain is wired, but I’ve had plenty of experiences when I’m in a group, recall a line from a song that mimics the moment and others who recognize it break out in song to finish the next line.

Recently, one of my children said, “There’s a lot of lyrics in your head!” It’s true; I have a relatively consistent slow train of music and sound in the background of my mind. I always try to honor those favorite musicians who have passed, too. This month, it was the news of musician Dave Mason that gave me an opportunity to revisit Traffic’s “John Barleycorn (Must Die)” on my long drive to Kentucky for a visit with family.

I remember when Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys left us, it was an all-week Beach Boys soundtrack—like summer had lost a little luster. Ozzy Osbourne was another memorable listen; while I love some of Black Sabbath’s songs, an hour provided a true education in why not the others.

When I have a day of particularly difficult physical work—mixing dirt in the garden, pulling out old fence posts, shoveling horse shit, and dragging it out of the barn—Black Sabbath’s “Iron Man” seems to ring in my ears.

The spring I got in the best shape of my life (post-gymnastics, but pre-wedding), Red Rider’s “Lunatic Fringe” played on repeat—its opening line about someone “out there” and “in hiding” like a broken record, chiding me out of bed to run and do pullups to actually fit in the damn dress I bought.

When my first daughter was born, despite the potentially mismatched sentiment, The Wallflowers had a track with her name— “Josephine”—and it became a constant replay in my head. Later, when Brandi Carlile released “Josephine” (2007), that one took over, with its sense of longing and absence capturing something I couldn’t quite name at the time.

For my second daughter, Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl” was a familiar refrain. And it was my grandfather who also carried a tune in his mind—one that dated to his birth year. He even shared the vintage piano sheet music with her as a framed gift. The song was “Chlo-e,” and he’d sing a short, memorable hook to her on visits, marveling as she grew.

I spent years driving these kids back and forth to an elementary and middle school that was 35 minutes away. We did a lot of “I Don’t Like Mondays” by the Boomtown Rats, too. My son mostly remembers Meat Loaf in the car, since that was the era of the minivan—and it only had a CD player with Meat Loaf or (for whatever reason) Bunbury options available. Our youngest is now uncovering The Cure thanks to her introduction in the car; on Fridays on the way home from school, we’d play “Friday I’m in Love.”

On this Mother’s Day, I am also remembering some of the ways my mother shared her music with me. She loved music; I got to see Led Zeppelin on the Washington, D.C., Mall when I was just 3 years old. My love of music—growing up with her hit list—was a heavy influence. She and my Aunt Judy always shared their music through their curated record collections.

My mom and I would always treat ourselves to our favorite songs when we cleaned house. This was a ritual for us — singing loudly as we swept or mopped. Unfortunately, I didn’t carry this ritual over into my own kids’ lives.

Frankly, I could kick myself for it now (with the phrase “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head” instantly queuing the old standard made famous by Dean Martin). We would pick out the albums, lay out the plan for tackling the housework, and off we’d go.

Al Jarreau was always a pick-me-up to get started with “Breakin’ Away.” The Beatles always had a few numbers in the cleaning playlist—specifically “Love Me Do” and “I Am the Walrus.” And at times, when the world felt heavy on her shoulders, she would sing “Side by Side,” a classic tune from the late 1920s that many people know through later recordings (including Brenda Lee’s). She didn’t need the whole verse—just the reassuring idea that whatever the weather, being together was what mattered. This Mother’s Day, what tracks do you have playing?

What takes you back to the time you were experiencing life with your mother or children? Maybe it was a song you still associate when you hear it on the radio. Did you kick off the day with a song to get you into a place of calm, reflection or happiness? Do you sing in the car? Shower? While you’re drinking a glass of wine, making dinner?

Maybe it gives you strength or stops you in your tracks when you have that moment to reflect when a song comes on that hits a memory.

Do you have an earworm today?

I have a habit of saying the thing nobody else will. Not to make anyone uncomfortable - though that happens, but because I am genuinely curious about what people actually believe underneath the version they decided was safe to share. And if you’ve ever had a deeper conversation with me, you know it’s safe to go there. I’m not waiting to judge - I’m listening to understand.

What I miss is the ability to talk. To sit with someone who disagrees with you and not have it turn into a performance of diplomacy. To be around well-meaning people who will finally say what they actually think instead of what sounds right. I am exhausted by surface level. By the careful, the polished, the perpetually unoffensive. It’s its own kind of dishonesty and I think a lot of us are quietly starving for something realer.

On June 7, 5-7PM I’m opening my living room for an evening of conversation the old-fashioned way - ideas on the table, disagreement welcome, nobody performing.

All are welcome here. The only thing I’m asking is that you stay in the room.

This event is free. Space is intentional and small. There will be snacks and beverages.

In the spirit of honesty - if you sign up, I'm counting on you to show up.

Hope to see you there!

Sign up here

Melanie

Our last gathering!

This post is from Allison - who had her substack hacked and hijacked - so I am posting for her in the meantime. Melanie

I’ve been building what I call The Mother Wall — a growing photo gallery of the women who made our family. Mothers, grandmothers, great‑grandmothers. Women whose faces I know, but whose stories I’m still piecing together.

Standing in front of that wall, this weekend, something clicked: so much of who we are comes from stories we were never told.

Some were lost.

Some were silenced.

Some were never allowed.

My grandmother’s life in intelligence work is the perfect example — extraordinary, brave, and almost entirely hidden. It took the women in our family to uncover it, and even now that she’s gone, there’s plenty we will never know. That’s when I realized:

if we don’t tell our stories, they disappear.

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” — Maya Angelou

For generations, women carried the world quietly. In many ways this is a silence we Inherited - they led quietly from the background. They held families together. They survived things they never spoke of. We inherited that silence — not by choice, but by culture.

But we’re living in a different moment now.

We have voices.

We have platforms.

We have the responsibility to speak.

This week, my sister and I shared stories about our mother — same woman, completely different truths. And both were right, but obviously coming from a different experience.

That’s the beauty of lineage: it’s not one story — it’s a mosaic. Those layered perspectives help us understand not just our mothers, but ourselves.

Storytelling is a lineage practice. This isn’t nostalgia and it’s not scrapbooking. It could be a hobby, but one I think means you take seriously.

It’s how we preserve identity, context, and meaning in our lives, but also for our future generations.

When women tell the truths about their lives, it becomes a map for the next generation. A kind of guide, a mirror or a warning.

For twenty years, I’ve been reading SouleMama. She continues to write honestly about motherhood — the messy, beautiful, real parts. Her voice wasn’t polished. It was human. And it made other women (and me) feel less alone.

That’s the power of everyday truth‑telling.

Mother’s Day could be your day to begin. Historically, Mother’s Day wasn’t created for brunch and flowers. It began as a way to honor the work and sacrifice of mothers — the emotional, physical, and spiritual labor that holds families together.

This year, I’m suggesting we approach the day with a new perspective.

Tell the stories of the women who came before you.

Take a moment to tell your own.

Tell them imperfectly and tell them honestly. Tell them in whatever format feels true:

• A short written memory

• A voice memo or video

• A digital or physical photo story

• An interview with a mother, grandmother, aunt, or daughter

• A shared family archive

• Your own “Mother Wall”

When I look at my Mother Wall, I see a thread that connects us, the women who lived then so I could speak now. Women who endured so I could choose. Women who survived so I could thrive.

Their stories shaped me and now it’s our turn. We tell the stories so the next generation doesn’t have to guess who they come from.

Go tell your story and ask of others to do the same this Mother’s Day.

And so this weekend, we had a few Tart AF friends over to celebrate.

Where we are headed

One place - creating Salon style Dinners and Talks in NY and VA. The ones in our homes will be intimate gatherings designed to foster deep discussions and connections around specific topics. In this space, all opinions are welcome.

Our first topic: the friendships we’re cultivating, and the ones we’re letting go.

There’s no charge to attend. Spots are intentionally limited - please only register if you’re available to be there. Join us

PS. While we were outside planting, we heard a distinct skin tingling bird call- a powerful piercing - warning other birds to stay away. We jumped, turned to each other and both whispered - Bald Eagle (and the app, Merlin, confirmed). The symbolism of this wasn’t lost on me.

Nothing wakes you up faster than realizing your horses are on a joyride and you’re sprinting outside half‑dressed, praying no one dies — including you.

The phone was vibrating in the other room, first woven into a dream, then dragging me awake. My neighbor’s voice cut through the fog: all three horses were out, running loose through the neighborhood. Before I could even form a sentence, I heard them thundering down the driveway. A truck followed. My stomach dropped. They’ve never gotten out. And we live on a major road.

I bolted outside with my pants half on and my shirt still over my head — a look I do not recommend. Up in the top field stood our neighbors. A white pickup I didn’t recognize was parked in the open pasture. And next to the barn: three horses, bedraggled, wide‑eyed, one with blood streaking her white front leg. I was disoriented, trying to piece together what had just happened.

At the gate, the man from the pickup and our neighbor’s son explained how they’d managed to corral them. The horses nosed my pockets for treats while I checked them over — scraped, shaken, but likely fixable without a vet. Relief hit me like a wave. Gratitude, too.

Here’s the thing: neighbors and friends — the people who live within shouting distance of your life — are a kind of everyday miracle. We see each other constantly: mowing, gardening, hauling feed, living parallel lives. We SEE each other, but we don’t always stop. We don’t always connect. Proximity isn’t community. But in this little corner of the world, we look out for one another. And this morning reminded me that caring is only the spark. Community is the tending.

Community isn’t cute. It’s work. It’s accountability. It’s showing up even when you’re tired, busy, or wearing yesterday’s sweatpants.

In the rush of our days, it’s easy to make excuses for why we don’t have time. But the truth is: anything can happen at any moment. We are temporary. We get each other for only a brief stretch on this planet. And if that’s true, then I want to be more deliberate with the time I give to the people around me.

Having strangers who care enough to stop their truck and help wrangle three panicked horses? That’s luck. That’s civic virtue in action. And it reminded me that each of us carries responsibility for the tone of our neighborhoods, our families, our evolving circles.

Once the horses were safely back in the pasture, I turned to the stranger who had saved them. I thanked him over and over. The horses were scraped up but home. I felt lucky — for the neighbors, for the stranger, for the reminder.

So…what does it mean to be a better neighbor?

Maybe it’s passing food over the back fence.
Maybe it’s checking in on a Saturday morning to see if someone needs a hand.
Maybe it’s simply waving hello and noticing a new flower bed.

What small thing can each of us do to care a little more for each other — not perfectly, but presently?

If this story nudged something in you — a memory, a neighbor, a moment you meant to follow up on — we’d love to hear it.

Share your own “kindness of strangers” moment in the comments.
Let’s remind each other what community looks like in real life, not just in theory.

If you are curious about the TART AF community we are building, come to our salon.

Saturday, April 18 6:30 PM Westchester, NY

Join Us

“Why do I care so much about performing for other people?” “Can you help me?”

These came up again and again this week.

This past week, I worked with two meditation teachers on confidence.

Confidence isn’t something you earn. It’s something you practice.

And one of the most effective ways to start?

You give yourself permission.

Not in theory. In language.

Find your mantra and make it specific.

Not a generic “I am confident” (though hey, if that lands, use it). Get specific. Get granular. One of the women I worked with this week landed on something like: I am a motivational meditation teacher who is worthy of being paid for my work.

Other mantras that have come through this week”

“I don’t need to perform to be respected.”

“I am allowed to take up space as I am.”

I’ve been doing this since I was a kid, before I even knew what a mantra was.

It works because you stop waiting for someone else to approve of you.

You decide.

And then you practice that decision - out loud, in your body, in your work.

A mantra is a private permission slip.

Want to see this in action?

Join Allison and me at our next salon - Permission Slip Party - where we do exactly this kind of work, together,

We’re not talking about confidence.

We’re handing it back to you.

You will walk out with real, usable permission slips:

- to be confident

- to be authentic

- to stop performing

- to take up space without explaining yourself

Saturday, April 18 6:30 PM Westchester, NY

Join Us

Do you ever get desperate for what is to be? For the vision you can already see in your mind, even if the tools aren’t in your hands yet? Do you let the lack of something convince you that you’re incapable of beginning?

I’ve been saying for months that I want a field of sunflowers next summer. I don’t have the equipment yet, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t coming. I keep searching. I keep asking. I keep imagining. And I trust that the solution—whether borrowed, leased, begged for, or discovered—is already on its way.

What’s Under the Surface Always Finds a Way Up

At a recent gathering, I once again made my plea for something—anything—that could move earth. This turned into a debate about plowing versus tilling. Tilling breaks everything up; plowing flips the soil so what’s been buried comes to the surface.

Honestly? That feels exactly like what’s happening inside me right now. Maybe inside you too.

Spring always brings the urge to sprout, but this year there’s something deeper—a resurgence of power, a pull from beneath the surface. The fallow parts of us are waking up.

Farmers intentionally leave land alone so it can rebuild nutrients, restore balance, and regain strength. We don’t force it to produce. We let it rest so it can return stronger.

What if the same is true for us?

The Inner Acreage We’ve Been Avoiding

I’m thinking more about that inner tending than ever before. My motherhood shifting as my children grow and move away. The seasons changing in my own body. The ache and beauty of becoming someone new while honoring who I’ve been.

All of it is rising to the surface like overturned soil—clumps, rocks, roots, and all.

When we plow the top layer, we finally see what’s been hiding. Some things need to be cut back. Some need to be moved. Some are ready to grow.

My fields—literal and internal—are full of places that need turning. This isn’t a single furrow; it’s acres. Deep, wide work. The microbial life under the surface—the wisdom, the instincts, the parts of me I forgot—are ready to integrate again. Some things will be pushed back down to rest. Others will rise.

This uncovering requires tools. It requires intention. If you plow a field and walk away, weeds take over. But if you drop seeds into that freshly turned earth, you get a garden that can feed you and everyone around you.

What’s Been Resting in You?

I’m excited for what will grow—on my land and in my life. I’m excited for the flowers I haven’t met yet, the parts of myself I haven’t seen in years, the new companions rising from the soil of my own becoming.

So I’ll ask you:

What is lying fallow in you?
You are the most fertile field you’ll ever tend. Bring what’s been resting back to the surface. Let yourself see it. Let yourself work with it. Let yourself grow something wild and stunning.

Here’s to the resurfacing.
Here’s to the field inside you.
Here’s to the season of becoming again.

The Fallow Retreat — September 2026

A gathering for women ready rise into their next season

If this piece stirred something in you—if you feel the pull to tend what’s been dormant—our Fallow Retreat this September is designed for exactly this season of life.

Drawing from the kind of experiences women rave about—mindfulness practices, sound baths, yoga, deeply nourishing meals, and the thoughtful, heart-centered curation we are known for—the retreat is built to help you reconnect with what’s been resting beneath the surface.

If you feel the ground shifting under you, you’re not alone.

This retreat is your invitation to step into the next season with clarity, courage, and community.

https://www.nourishandgather.co/fallow-retreat

Not packed schedule full. Full full- the kind where you drive home happier than you arrived.

We gathered for a sound bath (almost everyones first), mindful cooking, and a day built entirely around slowing down, being present and nourishment. It sold out. That tells me something important about what we’re all hungry for right now.

Here’s what the research actually says: 1 in 6 people worldwide experience loneliness and about 1 in 2 adults in America report experiencing it. The WHO Commission on Social Connection released a report June 2025 calling this a global public health crisis.

Strong social connections reduce inflammation, lower the risk of serious health problems, and protect mental health across your entire lifespan.

And the solution most people agree on - including those who are lonely - is available to almost all of us.

There are so many ways to do this and most of them are right in front of you. Call a friend. Ask them to take a walk with you. Start a club with friends - book, cooking, mahjong (these are three of my favs). Take a class together. It’s not complicated. We just keep forgetting it’s an option.

Be the one who makes the plan.

Or, come find us.

The Permission Slip Party

Consider this our coming out party. Food, cocktails, and conversation. Everyone leaves Saturday April 18 6:30PM Westchester County, NY (Exact address to follow after registration) Book here

This is the room where you stop waiting for someone to tell you it’s okay. You give that to yourself - surrounded by people who get it.

Fallow Retreat

Fallow is an agricultural term for land that’s been intentionally left unplanted - not abandoned, but resting. Recovering. Getting ready to produce something extraordinary.

That’s the retreat.

Three days to step away from the noise, tend to yourself, and remember that rest isn’t the opposite of productivity. It’s the prerequisite.

September 25-27 Gordonsville, VA More Info

Part of being able to speak your truth, hold your ground, and show up fully is having people around you who make that possible. Not cheerleaders, but the friends who see you, challenge you, and show up for you.

That’s community and it isn’t just a nice to have thing. It’s lifesaving.

Let’s connect,

Melanie

The transition of seasons has arrived, and the air is rich with frog song. That chorus, the croaks, that call — their yearning, their advertisement of availability.

Something about that natural chorus kicked off a reflection for me this morning. Those female frogs being asked to choose. We don’t label female frogs — it’s part of their process. No labels that misrepresent their strength or drive. They are being authentically frogs.

What is it about women who lead with strength and choice that gets them talked about?

The sneaky power of language with words like too much, intimidating, masculine energy, while they may seem subtle to some, they are loaded. We live in a world where gendered language carries old dusty assumptions that undermine our culture in silent, but power ways.

Women who take up space, still get framed as threats. We all have stories; you’ve likely heard these from your family and friends and have a few to share. This past week, a couple stories were shared that featured these triggers - old myths and double standards. This is exactly the kind of outdated narrative TART AF exists to disrupt.

I had a chance to meet up with a new friend over coffee. Her significant other happens to be a bit younger. She shared a story from her recent travels, hearing second-hand via an old friend, that an acquaintance referred to her as a “Man-Eater.” That word is dark for me. My history perhaps. You know how this feels though, right? Someone whispering behind your back, these words and labels that throw shade. Our unconventional choices often highlight our confidence, desire or otherwise. But they often get reframed as negative. We live in a world of double-standards. When men are married to women a bit younger, they are pat on the back with comments like, “Trophy Wife”. To me sounds like success, you won something! He’s not being devoured.

That word, “devouring” takes me directly to the Prado Museum, Spain, my first experience at 19 years old on summer study. I was standing under the mythic painting by Francisco Goya, Saturn Devouring His Son. I was dumbstruck by that dark work, the awful forms. That painting moved me for what I believe it shares, the myth of a patriarch terrified of being overthrown. Systems devour what they fear. Women who step outside the script often get symbolically “devoured” by labels.

How do we reclaim virility? Strength shouldn’t be gendered. I want to flip the script on man-eater. Virility isn’t just masculine; it’s vitality, force, aliveness.

I feel virile when I’m in the barn, making that system work. Owning the strength to lift the heavy shit, caring enough to be there every day. Women embody virility every day— on farms, in cockpits, in boardrooms, in classrooms, in marriages that don’t follow the perceived rules.

I think we need to reclaim the energy behind words. How can we flip the script? Today those who sling words like “man-eater” generally direct it as an insult. A man‑eater? Maybe. But, maybe we’re just not willing to starve anymore.

The wilder truth is what I want/we strive towards. I hear truth in the frog’s chorus. Their advertisement call. And while the females listen, evaluate and choose – this is a competitive display of vitality. They get to choose!

Nature doesn’t punish female power. Nature is a reminder, and the truth is just down at my creek. In nature, “man‑eating” isn’t scandalous—it’s survival, instinct, balance. It’s a part of a system that repeats because it works.

The frogs sing without permission, without apology. And their potential mates respond. Let’s reclaim this narrative. Nature doesn’t punish female power, but it absolutely rewards boldness. Humans flipped the script, nature doesn’t shame power; humans do.

If the frogs can belt their desires into the night without apology, why are we still tiptoeing around outdated labels? Why are women still being framed as threats for taking up space, choosing boldly, loving boldly, or refusing to shrink? The truth is we can reclaim what has always been ours, let’s keep having the conversation.

If this resonates, you’ll love what we’re building at TART AF — a space for women who are done shrinking and ready to live with unapologetic vitality and freedom. These are the conversations we’re having all the time at TART AF — the labels that misrepresent us for simply living with vitality.

This is exactly why we’re hosting our first quarterly No Permission Slip Party — a space to drop the old narratives, reclaim the ones that were stolen, and step into the kind of vitality nature celebrates without hesitation.

If you’re curious, let us know in the comments — we can share the invite.

It’s a space to shed labels, rewrite narratives, and step into unapologetic vitality with each other.

• No more shrinking.

• No more asking.

• No more swallowing yourself so others feel safe.

Come join us. Bring your voice, your story, your too-muchness.
No permission slip required.

I wasn’t. I was hired to elevate it. There’s a difference.

I told her that. She didn’t believe me. And years later, the animosity is still there - low and steady, like something left on the back burner too long.

I’ve watched her do this with others, too. The posturing, the guardedness, the assumption that anyone in her orbit is a threat. It’s exhausting to witness. I can only imagine how exhausting it is to live.

But here’s what I’ve had to sit with: threatened people don’t appear out of nowhere. Something taught them that there isn’t enough. Not enough space, not enough recognition, not enough room for two people to both be good at something.

And if we’re being honest - which is kind of our whole thing here - most of us have felt it. That flicker. Someone gets the opportunity we wanted. Someone’s praised in the room we’re in. Someone shows up and does the thing we do, maybe differently, maybe even better, and something in us tightens.

That’s the moment. Right there.

What we do with that tightening determines a lot.

So when it comes up - and it will - try asking yourself three things:

What does this person have that I want? Not to shame yourself for wanting it. Just to name it honestly. Be aware and curious, not judgmental.

Is there actually a finite amount of it? Someone else’s success, visibility, or talent is not a withdrawal from your account.

What would it feel like to be in her corner instead? Because the women who have changed our lives are almost never the ones who competed with us. They’re the ones who said I see you, and there’s room for both of us here.

And when you feel it coming, here’s what to actually do:

In your body: Before you react, take one slow breath and drop your shoulders. Threat lives in the chest and jaw. Loosen both. You cannot think clearly when you’re braced for a fight that isn’t happening yet.

In the moment: Say less than you want to. Smile if you can mean it. Exit the conversation before you perform a version of yourself you’ll regret. You don’t have to resolve it right now.

Later, privately: Write down what triggered you and what you think it means. Not to process it forever - just once. Threatened feelings that get named lose about half their power immediately.

That’s the energy. That’s what we’re building. Glad you are here.

When was the last time someone told you to simmer down? Reply and tell us. We want to hear it.

This Valentine’s Day, I kept thinking about that chubby little angel shooting arrows at unsuspecting souls. An arrow looking for love. It made me reflect on my own luck: I am surrounded by love’s warmth every day, and my life with my husband has only grown more tender, more alive, more ours. He’s confessed that when we’re getting ready in the morning, he sneaks glances as I dress or undress. He loves my body. Through the years of heaving pregnant bellies, curve and bone, stretchmark and softness—he has loved my body so consistently that I eventually learned to love it too. But it took a long, winding path to get under my own skin.

I’m only now realizing what a gift this strong body has been. Yes, it grew me—and it grew four strong, beautiful beings. But it has also carried me through every season of my life. I’m learning to love this skin, bone, and muscle. This deeply connected tissue.

That connection started where I grew up: on a farm. Physical labor was my first teacher. Dragging hay bales, digging weeds, wrestling tractors, hauling feed sacks, carrying water. Returning to the farm now has given me the chance to rediscover all of it. Climbing fences, riding horses, braving bitter cold and harsh sun—my body keeps showing up. At the end of the day, my back tells me to stretch, and my hands tell me it’s good to be of use.

Do you hear your body? Is there a conversation between you and the vessel that moves you through your days?

This body has been my lifeline. It endured the corporate years—high heels, stiff suits, long commutes, the after‑hours excess. Every ache is a message. Every breath a reminder. This body lets me see and experience everything I cherish: walking the hills of Virginia, riding my horse, loving my husband with the same intensity as ever, keeping up with my children.

With spring on the wind and the ice finally melting, I’m ready to use this body to prepare for the season. The garden is revealing itself. The dirt is waking up. The seeds are waiting. Maybe I’m the odd one out, but I’m excited for the ache in my hands and the tension in my legs. I’m grateful for this body.

We’ve all been told stories about how our bodies should look—what counts as good or bad. Recently I listened to a woman speak about her lifelong struggle with self‑image and disordered eating. She described the churn of therapists until one finally asked her what she truly loved in her life. He suggested she focus on those priorities instead of the body she wasn’t in love with. It was an epiphany. As she centered what she loved, she realized her body was helping her get there.

These bodies help us get there.

On that lazy Valentine’s Day, my husband and I talked about menopause—my changing body, his learning, our future. It was one of the first times we’d spoken about my body’s next chapter in such an intimate moment. We renewed our commitment to caring for our bodies, honoring the ways aging invites us to adapt.

Have you talked about your body with the people you love? My body deserved kindness long before I learned how to give it. I hope you can look in the mirror and see how beautiful your body is—to you, and to those who love you.

Spring is in the air. Love and light are strengthening.
Your body knows the way.