Hindsight Is 50/50

The saying is hindsight is 20/20, meaning you can look back down the history of your path and see the choices you made with the clarity of today. It becomes temptingly easy to judge your previous self with the knowledge you have today, picking apart each turn you took because you can see the outcomes waiting for you just around the corner.

“If I would’ve known.”

“I should’ve done better.”

“It could’ve been different.”

These thoughts can haunt us and ultimately erode the trust we have in ourselves to make sound and wise decisions.

So that’s the thing…how can we know for certain we would do anything different even with the eagle eye of hindsight available to us? We can hope that we would practice as Maya Angelou taught us, to do better when we know better. However, if mistakes are our best teachers, then what fun is making the “right” choice every time?

I know I’ve spent far too much of my life worrying about doing it the right way. I practiced caution and made careful choices so I could keep my side of the street clean and with the quiet hope that if I did what I was supposed to do, bad things wouldn’t happen. A superstitious way to live I guess, but it did provide me with comfort in very uncertain times in my life. However, this comforting coping strategy didn’t allow for me to question who determined the “right way” or the possibility of my “right way” not being the only “right way”.

While yes, there are many choices I made along the way that I can now look back with a shaking head in my hands and acknowledge my poor judgement in the moment. Also, many of those poor choices led to lessons I needed to make a better (not right) choice at a later crossroad.

I am a former smoker. I smoked for 14 years and only quit because I wanted to have children. I loved smoking even though I knew how terrible it was for me. When I quit, it was one of the most difficult changes I ever made. It was only then I realized how dumb it was for me to pick up that first cigarette just because everyone else was doing it. Today, I would give that girl a hug and whisper in her ear, “you are enough. Don’t try to make yourself small to fit in. This is gonna be a bitch to quit one day.”

14 years later that choice caused me so much grief as I tried to quit. It took multiple attempts to finally put down my Marlboro Lights for good. Each time I tried, I would get anxiety from the thought I would never have another cigarette. I would never smell the smoke of a freshly lit cigarette or feel the relief from the first exhale. So I would pick up where I left off the day before and light another one. It was only until I adopted a lesson I heard in Al-anon that I was able to finally put down the lung darts and let them go.

Al-anon has a saying “just for today.” It releases me from worrying about never smoking again, because it only requires me to stay in this day. Each morning, I would begin the day with the promise that I would not smoke just for today. I gave myself permission to think that I could possibly smoke tomorrow or even next week if I wanted to, but just for today I would not. After I put together a few independent days, I looked around and realized I was capable of finding relief elsewhere and I no longer required that crutch.

I still tell my daughters that lighting up that first cigarette was the dumbest decision, because it was the most difficult choice to put back down. I am not ashamed of that choice because that choice taught me a lesson I use all the time. Just for today. While I already knew that mantra, I didn’t understand how to use it and I had never let it give me the permission I needed to not be perfect and to give myself some grace.

Al-anon says, “Just for today I will try to live through this day only, and not tackle all my problems at once. I can do something for 12 hours that would appall me if I felt that I had to keep it up for a lifetime.”

There are so many moments in my life that I can examine through the lens of today’s wisdom and question my why or wonder what could’ve been if I would’ve gone left instead of right. However, that doesn’t solidify I would actually do anything different. Maybe hindsight is actually 50/50 on whether one would change their path if they knew they were destined to fall. Maybe there is just as much chance I would continue on the same path and making the same choices even if it would cause me pain. Today, I don’t have to judge myself for that.

So I will continue to try to do more right than wrong, learn from the falls and not judge my past based on what I know to be true, just for today.

Pumpkin Patch Lessons

There was an ongoing joke in my family that I couldn’t keep anything alive. For a long time, I was known as the “black thumb”. Whether it was the richness of fall mums, a full of color of spring hanging baskets or wild flowers in my yard each would meet an early demise by my hand. All the while, my mother, always maintained a lush oasis in her yard continuously adding to the beautiful landscape. My narrative to support my alibi ranged from “I don’t have time,” to “I don’t care enough to put in the effort.” All logical, but these were also excuses to support my need to avoid failure.   

A couple of years ago I decided I was going to change my identity from a black thumb to green thumb. Granted, at this time I couldn’t even keep a succulent alive. However, I wanted to make some big changes in my life, so I decided to start with my identity around taking care of what’s important. I had recently left a good paying, stable job to work for myself which was equally terrifying as it was exciting. I was struggling with the unrealistic illusion of control in the work/life balance game. I felt like a failure at every turn. I needed to literally ground myself (pun intended) in an action I could control.

In the fall of 2023, I bought two succulent plants and I set the intention of not only keeping them alive but finding a way to let them thrive under my care. I think there are so many times in life that we adopt identities assigned to us by other people. Whether accurate or not, we give power to a single idea about who we are as a person. Though, I believe we are much more complicated and unique that one idea or opinion. I knew I was much more than a plant killer.

I took a look at what I knew about myself:

  1. I loved and cared for three dogs who had passed on. I currently care for two who are very lucky they are cute for all the ruckus they cause. Our little odd couple of a hound dog and border collie are not hanging with bare necessities, but living their best lives with better sleeping arrangements and diets than some humans.
  2. I carried and gave birth to healthy twin girls. After 11 days in the NICU, the care of those babies was entrusted to my husband and I. The anxiety and disbelieve must have been splattered on our faces as we loaded the car with fresh car seats filled with sleeping babies because the nurse smiled confidently and said “it will be fine. You all got this.” The fast forward to our daughter’s first birthday when Matt and I high-fived congratulating each other in unison, “we did it for a whole year and they are still alive!”
  3. As much as I hate it, I learn best from failure. I don’t learn when I’m good at something automatically. AND when I let go of my ego and practice vulnerability, I have the potential to create something that brings me joy.
  4. I’m not afraid of hard work. When I set the intention of creating peace and purpose in my day, its impossible to regret whatever effort is required to get there.

After a long winter of watching, watering and talking to my succulent plants, they survived. There were some touch and go moments, but those plants survived under my care. I kept one plant close to my work station which made dark and dreary days more bearable. I gained the confidence to get some plants for outside my house. I bought my favorite herbs, lavender and sage, and some pretty begonias and marigolds for around my pool and my front porch. During the scorching days in the thick of summer, I thanked and praised those flowers for sticking with me even when I had times I was neglectful when life got in the way.

The winter of 2024 I kept the original succulents alive. This time they didn’t just survive, they thrived and I was so very proud. During that year, I continued on my new adventure in my career which had similar results from a series of educational setbacks and momentum-harnessing wins. I had to take a look at who I wanted to be and what self-limiting beliefs I needed to shed in order to authentically show up as that person. Throughout that year, I kept practicing the things I knew were good for me just as I cared for the plants; I prioritized my self-care because I have a choice in caring for myself.

As my birthday rolled around in late winter of 2025, I decided I wanted to take on the challenge of planting a garden. On Mother’s Day, my husband helped me prep the ground with fertilizer we planted an entire garden in my backyard. We planted everything from pumpkins to potatoes, the majority of which came from seed.

After the initial planting was complete, I realized how much work this was going to be but I remembered that I had already learned so much about thriving rather than surviving that I changed my perspective of resentment of the work this garden would require to the perspective of gratitude for the tasks I have in this garden. 

When I am overwhelmed with lack of control, I go pull weeds in the garden because that is well within my control and it dissolves the frustration I tend to harbor. I walk barefoot in the garden to ground myself in the moment and let go of the anxiety around what might come. I talk to these plants and practice gratitude for the growth and harvest I get to enjoy. This garden has created a space for me to sit still, be quiet and watch. This summer, I have gained more peace from literally watching plants grow than I have had since we moved in almost 9 years ago.

One morning before the sun had fully risen and mist still lingered over the warm ground, I watched a sprout from my pumpkin vine pop up and rotate slowly in a circle as it reached for something to grab onto. I got to witness this small but precious part of the life of my pumpkin vine, because I was still. Each morning, I go out to the swing by my garden and sit still and quiet while I enjoy my coffee. I’ve been able to see hummingbirds come inches from me as they enjoy my cannon lilies and watched bright and brilliant red cardinal birds chase each other around while listening to their beautiful song.

I literally changed my identity over the span of two years. I left a job that I was comfortable with but not healthy in to go out on a limb with hope for more. I continued to reach around and strive for connection and something to hold onto. It was a lonely and liberating process as I searched for direction. When I found a good spot, I held on and pulled up as I got stronger and began to blossom in a new space. I grew trust in myself again. I shed the identify of who I was to become who I am. I’m a self-employed green thumb now. When we feel stuck, we have the ability to change our perspective. We can move from fear to gratitude. We can move from nervous to excited. We can learn from our failures to improve our experience moving forward. We can take action when it is within our reach. We can become a green thumb as long as we are willing to put in the work to do so. I never would have guessed how much I could learn from watching plants grow and how much I can relate to a pumpkin vine doing what it was created to do

Imposture Syndrome

“Who do you think you are?”

“You are not smart enough.”

“Stay in your lane.”

“You are not good enough.”

“No you cannot.”

“You are NOT a writer.”

An actual recreation of the dialogue in my head during a battle of the dreaded imposture syndrome.

            As a therapist, many may think I am immune to some struggles. Maybe you think since I “know better” I do not wrestle with the questioning voice in my head as the rest of the human race. I am here today to bust that myth. I too suffer from imposture syndrome.

            If you are unfamiliar with this expression, let me give you a lesson because I bet your lack of experience with the phrase is less about not suffering from the symptoms and more about not having a term to describe it.

Imposture syndrome begins with a whisper of doubt. Many times this symptom presents itself when one is trying something new or going out on a limb with an innovative idea. The whisper may be easy to shake off at first, however the slightest acknowledgement provides the necessary energy for the whisper of doubt to grow into declarations of uncertainty. Before you know it, one can then find themselves engaged with an internal battle of constant destructive and discouraging narratives that gain enough momentum to have the power to shut down the novel innovation so that the individual remains stuck in their safe comfort zone of the same.

Strike a nerve yet?

I began writing my novel ten years ago. I wrote it because I love to write and I had a story to share. As recent as October 2024, when my novel was published on Amazon, I still struggled to claim the identity of being a writer. I continue to fight imposture syndrome.

I am a therapist (I have no problem letting that roll of my tongue or allowing my fingers to type). I have a degree in social work. I hold a license to practice therapy with multiple states. I have held jobs with title of “therapist”. Therapist is not a self-proclamation. The fact still remains, I am a therapist because I practice therapy. However, it has taken me years to accept that I am also a writer simply because I write.

When I worked nights in the emergency psychiatric unit at University Hospital, I would use downtime to work on my novel. I actually took that job so I would have more time to juggle being a mother, a wife and a social worker so I could write. I remember when one of the nurses, who happens to be the very first person to finish the very first version of my novel and remains a good friend to me today, caught me writing one night when our census was low. She asked what I was working on and I stuttered all over myself trying to come up with a feasible answer other than “I am writing a book.”

Once I professed this secret, there were no imposture police ready at the helm to call me out and no buzzer sounding off alerting everyone that I was not a “real” writer. My friend appeared genuinely excited to learn this about me and wanted to read what I had written. When I was vulnerable, the imposture syndrome symptoms were kept at bay.

Imposture Syndrome is rooted in fear. That fear can stem from fear of judgement from others to fear of failure. Unfortunately, we are all guilty of acting out of fear and the results rarely work out as we intended. Fear is no place to function from.

So what do we do? How do we begin to recover from this sinister syndrome? What is our weapon against this infectious self-doubt?

Radical self-acceptance.

That’s it.

A simple but not easy practice of fully accepting who you are in this moment. The willingness to be vulnerable and the practice of acceptance is the remedy for imposture syndrome.

Acceptance is not reserved for only the good stuff. Acceptance also allows us to acknowledge the flawed parts of us along with the shiny parts we are proud of. We are not required to like something or someone to accept them in their true form. This rule also reigns true for ourselves. 

The act of being vulnerable allows us to show up as our rawest selves. No filters. No explanations. We are fully present and fully us. Though, this does not protect us from criticism or struggle to claim who we are. This does not guarantee we will be fully accepted by anyone other than us. Vulnerability does not require validation from anyone else. (That doesn’t mean it isn’t nice to receive though).

There is no absolute cure for all the symptoms of imposture syndrome. Some may lie dormant for years, but given the right circumstances they can kick into high gear and return to wreak havoc on your thoughts. The maintenance plan of acceptance and vulnerability are the best defense to keeping your thoughts free from doubting yourself. Let’s all take a look at chatter going on in our minds and the words we use especially about ourselves.

I am who I am because I say I am (period).

I’m STILL Not Fine and Neither Are You

I get to train leaders of a large company on trauma. Granted, there aren’t gobs of people lining up to teach trauma, however, I get to. My work-wife (aka colleague) and I have to prepare ourselves before getting up in front of a room of very smart and responsible people to teach them how to allow themselves and their employees to be human. We don’t share our personal traumatic histories and stories, however it takes a lot of energy to make the impact we feel is important to make.

Inevitably, there are head nods in agreement and note taking as we continue through our material making good points that deserve highlighting. However, my favorite part is when we give the group permission to not be okay. We get to see a communal sense of relief roll over the group as shoulders release with a chorus of grateful exhales. By simply giving permission for people to be human we allow people to step into their truth so they can then welcome others along with them. When we all show up a little more honestly, we have a chance to truly live rather than survive.

I said these words in the training we facilitated yesterday, “I’m not fine and neither are you. And who wants to live as fine? I don’t. I have no desire to survive life. I want to live and that requires me to show up in an honest way.”

A harmonious, concurrent head nod occurred from the group. I thought to myself ‘my work here is done.’

I’m Not Fine And Neither Are You (scarymommy.com)

I remain proud of this piece and the positive impact it had on people. It was a giant step into the light of truth and vulnerability in writing that I had not been brave enough to share before. I am so grateful I did and so grateful to continue to be on that path with you all!

Thank you for reading & supporting me!

Peace and Love,

Steph ✌️🧡

The Beauty of Being a Woman

Our ability to use delicate strength as well as brutal force when necessary.

The rainbow of colors and shapes of our hair which pulls back the curtain to tell a piece of our story.

How a trademark ring can be more than an accessory and transform into an heirloom.

When the type of shoes she wears can tell you the kind of day she is heading into – whether it requires shit-kicking boots or the clack of heels on the hallway to get the job done.

A magical kiss of a mother to heal any wound or the silent look she gives to shut down a situation without the need of threat.

The comradery acknowledged using one word between two women… ‘GIRL’…

The immeasurable energy created when a group of women gather and hum of laughter and conversation between friends of any length of time.

We are women and we celebrate each other today for all that we are.

The roles we play in our families, our workplaces, our friendship circles and our communities are vital and irreplaceable. The conventional roles of nurturers and healers for communities are not to be dismissed by but commended in addition to the innovative paths women are paving in careers and solidifying other respected roles.

Our history includes times of pain and grief to ensure our rights as human beings and not the lesser sex. Equal access to health care and even voting was not inherently bestowed to us, so we had to take those rights through whatever means necessary. Those rights were taken by women coming together in support of each other.

We spend far too much time sitting in comparison judgement of one another. Whether it’s through social media posts or carpool lines, rather than celebrating the woman next to us we tend to criticize her for the car she drives, the job she does or doesn’t have and if she is wearing the current trend. Some of these traps to keep us against one another are by design, so let’s breakthrough the smoke and mirrors to come together for one another.

I see you. I celebrate you. I am grateful for you, phenomenal women!

Present for 43

43. An age my father never saw. Outliving your parent is a strange feeling.

Living in a world they no longer exist in hurts. A certain level of fear comes with navigating life without the guidance of the man programed to protect me.

My father died very suddenly one night due to a blood clot in this lung at the age of 42. Nine days after my 14th birthday. One week after my mother turned 40.

In October last year, I was diagnosed with a blood blot. At the age of 42. The irony was not lost on me, however the anxiety exponentially multiplied. One of my first thoughts was, “are you kidding me?” The Universe enjoys surprising me.

This news forced me to examine everything. While testing and appointments and arguments with insurance ensued, I sat with my thoughts. I was the same age as my father when he died. I have two almost 14-year-old girls. I’m now fully aware I am not in control of what goes on in my own body much less the entirety of my life.

Sitting with my thoughts alone is a dangerous path to take, so good for me I have a killer support network. It was a wonderfully enlightened friend who suggested this was my chance to free myself from the fear I carried a majority of my life and accept life on life’s terms. I became open to finding the truth within myself, and accepting that right now, this moment is where life is. Not in the regrets of the past or the fears of the future.

Addressing the medical and physical dynamics of this diagnosis included blood work, multiple procedures and countless appointments. Taxing on my energy. However, the mental and emotional dynamics were continuous, non-stop and all-consuming drain on my daily functioning.

This experience took my enlightenment journey to a new awareness. It forced me to be honest with myself. To pull out my fears from the darkest parts of me and hold them out into the light. I found out there are parts of me I don’t like – parts of me I would rather keep hidden, however I am not pieces of a person. I am a whole person, darkness and light. Altogether beautiful – not only the shinny photo-ready parts.

I fell down.

I made mistakes even when I knew they were mistakes as I was making them.

I covered up.

I isolated.

All of which impacted people around me in a negative way. Not something I’m proud of.

I do not write to you from this euphoric location of enlightenment. I am not “fixed” and sitting on a high horse somewhere. I write to you from the mud – tripped up by a giant pothole. Drenched in failure and questioning all life’s choices. I’m in the middle of the struggle. Continuing on the path.

During my travels so far I’ve learned a simple, yet daring lesson on how I want to live. What I’ve found as the only way I have a chance at being happy and healthy. It takes vulnerability and energy and dedication. You must be brave enough to adapt and accept this way of life.

(Pause for dramatic effect)

Be present now.

That’s it. 

In this moment…

I am healthy.

I write from my make-shift-sick-bed on my couch at home on the other side of major surgery which provided me the solution to blood clots developing in my body, and have been granted freedom from the fear of what may come.

I have a warm house during this cold night.

I have a fridge full of food from friends & family who’ve taken care of me and mine these last few weeks.

I have a husband who literarily held me up when needed during my recovery.

I am breathing.

I am alive on the last night of 42, right now.

(See how I sprinkled gratitude in there without even writing the word).

As this posts, I turn 43 years old. I write that with gratitude and pride. I promise to live in the moment this year. And if I begin to time travel and seek out the anxiety, stress and pain caused by regrets from yesterday or fears for tomorrow, I also promise to be still until I find the moment again so I can live in it.

43 is good for me!  

*I want to give a special shout out to the medical professionals who walked me through this journey and fought for me to get a solution rather than pass me off and continue a treatment that would not have worked anyway. So grateful for the care you took for me!

Dr. Julie Ellis – who found the clot and hugged while I cried in fear of what was to come

Dr. Wangjian Zhong – who patiently explained everything, including the uniqueness of my cases and the possible unique cause and solution

Dr. Charles Bush III – who talked to me like he would his own sister & who found the evidence of my diagnosis which FINALLY secured my approval for surgery from the insurance company (after multiple denials)

Dr. Nabeel Gul – who kindly walked me through the entire surgery and the need for it, who personally called me to explain delays and what he was doing to advocate for me with the insurance company and who operated on me and went the extra step to ensure my care.

Geri at Dr. Gul’s office – who answered every call and message from me with kindness & who advocated for me all the way.

Courtlant, RN nightshift on 5E at Baptist Health – who hugged me through the pain & helped me fall asleep.

(I know there are many more of you who took amazing care of me I was medicated so well it effected my memory 😉

To all the medical staff at Baptist Health, I am so grateful for the care you took in my health. Every. Single. Person myself or my family interacted with was so kind and caring.

Thank you so very much for taking the very best care of me.

Freedom Claustrophobia: The Fear of Disappearing Choices

Claustrophobia is an extreme fear of confined spaces. When my options are limited, I struggle
with the lack of freedom in choices. However, I make choices every day that affect my body and
my life. Choices that I intentionally make with the help of my past experiences.


As a therapist, I assist people with processing their experiences and choices. And while I have
the professional experience and education to help, I am not the best person to dictate decisions
for other people. We are all the experts of our own lives.


Recently, I made a choice to have a medical procedure to improve my quality of life. I did
research. I spoke with my doctor. I asked other women who’ve had this procedure about their
experience. I used my skills to make a choice for me.


As I prepared for the procedure, I was asked questions which limited my access to care. My
answers would not change the procedure itself nor the status of my health. The questions were
asked because the laws around women’s healthcare have changed. My access to care is limited. I
am no longer the expert on me.


I made a choice to be a mother and assumed the risk of pregnancy and giving birth. Our
experience included eleven days in the NICU for our daughter and five days in the hospital due
to complications for me. I had a c-section because my doctor said that was our best chance of
survival, which included major abdominal surgery, a massive needle stuck in my back risking
paralysis, organs pulled from my body lying on my chest while remaining awake to bring my
daughters safely into this world. The recovery was difficult. Sitting on the toilet was unbearable
for weeks, pads filled with bloody uterine lining, and a massive scar that I still do not have
feeling around. And yet, we are lucky this was our experience.


I was pregnant with twins before my daughters. Babies I planned for and wanted and loved. At
20 weeks an ultrasound showed no heartbeats. No viable pregnancy. I got a choice. I could leave
those dead babies in my body risking infection and continuing the trauma of a failed pregnancy,
feeling the loss every minute of every day. Or I could have an abortion. I could end the physical
trauma and start the healing process. In an impossible situation, I got to be an expert on my life.
Only because I exerted my right to choose, three months later I was pregnant with my daughters.


My nephew Karter died in utero. My sister had a healthy pregnancy until she didn’t and she
almost lost her life for it. By the time she made it to the hospital, she was rushed into surgery.
She had to make choices and answer questions no one dreams of when they become pregnant.


Do you want to be awake or sedated while we remove your dead son from your body?
Do you want to hold him?
Do you want to bury him?
Can you afford it?
Do you want an autopsy?
Do you want him baptized?

I question where Karter’s life was documented. A traumatic stillbirth of a loved baby boy two
days from his due date or was his life used as a “late-term abortion” statistic?


The trauma of this loss changes the choices and questions surrounding a pregnancy. Those who
have suffered this physical and emotional pain understand, as perhaps few others can, the risk
involved with giving birth. They are the experts in their experience.


Having children, in any circumstances, involves trauma. What happens to our minds, bodies,
spirits, careers, relationships, finances, and wellness is massively shifted when a pregnancy
happens, no matter the outcome.

I am freedom claustrophobic. I am afraid of losing the choice to do what I want with my body. I
am afraid of limited healthcare and risking death because we are no longer able to be the experts
on ourselves.

The right to a life of freedom and choice is what I gave birth under and what I lost my babies
under. However, today my choices are limited on how I access medical care. While I have the
resources necessary to meet my needs, resources should not be the limiting factor in the
freedoms I have as a woman.

My claustrophobia has spread to realize that confined freedoms are more terrifying than the
smallest elevator or coffin. Our paths are narrowing right before our eyes. I refuse to sit by in
fear while I watch freedom disappear for myself, my daughters and all women. I know the risks.
I know the power in choice. Our lives are worth the choice.

mid-life crowning

Midlife Crisis or Crowning?

As a woman of a certain age (somewhere in my mid-thirties) I swore I would never have a mid-life crisis. With images of hysterical females shoving themselves into clothes they aged out of and watching salt & peppered-haired men driving gas-powered penis extensions, I wanted no part of it. The fear of aging we have been spoon-fed has prompted an entire industry of age-defying potions and tricks to stop a process of privilege.

The fact is not everyone gets to grow old.

Even more ironic, this same brand of magic would have gotten us all an early death throughout history.

So why do we continuously, cut on ourselves and cover ourselves with whatever they say will make us appear younger? And who decided that being younger is the ultimate goal?

I have no desire to be 25 again…it was hard enough the first time around and even with the knowledge I have today, 25 wouldn’t be as much fun as it was when that was my actual age.

As we approach “mid-life” I also ask, who the hell determined when “mid-life” actually takes place?

Is there a crystal ball somewhere or a game clock buzzing indicating half-time?

And if this is in fact the mid-point of my life, what is the point of trying to reduce myself to what I have already been?

Isn’t the point, growth? Change? Knowing better, so I can do better?

A couple of years before my 40th birthday, I made a promise to myself – absolutely no mid-life crisis! Instead, I began work on self-discovery. My thought was, “in 40 years I’ve bound to have learned a few things, so instead of seeking out youth, I want to uncover the lessons of aging.”

Great idea, right?

I thought I had tricked the system! ‘Okay society, you want me to long for my younger years, I’m going to celebrate the aging process!’ Haha!

Upon this brilliant journey, I completely lost my mind.

I uncovered so many pieces of myself that were hard to look at. I charted mistake, after mistake doing the same wrong things over & over expecting different results (aka insanity).

I found traumas I thought I had laid to rest, but in reality I just took a giant step over as I passed by, thinking that acknowledgment indicated acceptance.

While I did not dress like a 25-year-old or purchase a mobile penis, my behavior & mindset were in a full-blown crisis.

So there I was, broken.

Broken promises to myself.

Questioning all my life’s choices.

Berating myself for in fact having the mid-life crisis I promised I would not.

I wanted out of that feeling immediately!

The healing began.

Acknowledging my mistakes & traumas was step one. I had to figure out a way to heal.

Therapy. Meditation. Writing. Making amends (to others & myself).

This was not a weekend retreat & all was right in the world (btw…still in process).

This is accepting the lessons of life so far and actually implanting them in my life.

It’s being brave enough to own my shit and start something new.

This crisis became my crowning. My celebration that I get to move to the next round-I get to keep living & learning.

So I’m going to challenge society (or whoever reads this post), to change our mindset of mid-life crisis to mid-life crowning. We are privileged to experience this moment in time, so let’s embrace it rather than run from it. There are so many who do not get the opportunity.

Let’s aim for being grateful rather than grimaced.

Thriving instead of surviving is a much better place to function from so we might as well get a crown out of it instead.

The Switch Has Flipped

I’ve been robbed!

I’m under attack!

I’m taking on water!

My walls have been breached!

The world I carefully constructed for my babies has been destroyed.

My precious cherubs have moved outside my reach. They were in public without parental supervision (pause for dramatic effect).

Go ahead & roll your eyes, teenage parents. Tell me “welcome to the club”.

I do not want to be in your club. Your club is scary AF.

Yes they are equipped with cell phones.

Yes they are VERY aware of stranger danger (I’m a social worker for the love of all that is holy).

Yes I trust them-it’s the rest of this jacked-up world I struggle to trust with my most prized possessions.

(And yes they are mine!)

I grew these humans inside my body. Mother Nature said “hey lady, here are two humans. Keep them safe from everything & teach them how to be decent. Okay, cool? love ya, good luck!”

Okay, Mother Nature…WTAF?!?

Before motherhood, the world was all mine-wide open and ready for me to explore.

I knew the dangers.

I knew the costs.

And I ran and pushed the boundaries as long and far as I could without suffering too many consequences.

I stepped over the line and got my hand smacked a few times.

I said “why not” and later found out the answer.

I did things that would have made my mom clutch her pearls and gasp (hope she skipped this post).

I have a few good stories and scars to prove it. And yes-I lived to tell the tale.

Then Mother Nature gave me these babies…my world shrunk into a circle big enough for my huge pregnant body and I was the omnipotent ruler.

Everything I did directly impacted my girls.

(*side note these babies were after I lost two, so trauma and grief has a major role to play here.)

When they came into this world, my circle was forced open just enough…like when you park too close to car next to you and you hold your breath to squeeze out of your car-just enough.

I controlled what they ate. When they ate. What they wore. Where they went.

I even manipulated their first steps (can’t have one twin out do the other before the age of 1).

I was terrified to do the “wrong thing.”

I remember in the hospital someone told me, “they will never be as safe as they were inside of you.”

I cocked my head with complete panic and rage…seriously?!? You tell me this now!

This illustration is to show for 12.5 years we lived in the same world. Sure I traveled to different places from time to time. Whether it was work, out with my girlfriend or even a vacation with my husband (aka their father) I expanded my world to meet my needs from time to time. I preserved my sanity.

However, now is different.

These babies want to expand their world.

They have friends.

They have places they want to go without me.

They do not require me tucking them in to go to sleep.

They have inside jokes I don’t get.

And they even get embarrassed by my singing in the car.

I am not okay!!

These girls are growing up.

They are running far and pushing hard against boundaries at every turn.

They don’t subscribe to what society tells them to wear.

They don’t make themselves small and accept what is given to them – they take what they want and make things happen.

They ask questions and make up their own rules – sometimes even making the consequences worth it.

So I will be over grieving the knowledge that my babies are no longer babies. That is my right and that is okay.

I earned the right to miss the smell of their sweet heads, the sound of their precious laughter and their tight hugs gripping my soul. That is what no one told me.

About the light switch from babies to badasses.

Watching this instant shift and hearing the lessons I’ve preached roll off their tongues is exciting. It takes just a twinge of the sting away because I realize they are setting the boundaries in their new world and I’m just lucky enough to help.

So send me your sympathy or laugh and shake your head at me. Either way, I’m swimming in the deep end of my new world so allow me some grace while I figure out how to float.

I’m sure you can remember what this push and pull feels like and if not, let me be the first to warn you – You will be filled with terrifying pride.

It is a strange combination.

This is the part no one prepared me for. Watching these girls jump out of the world I created for them and building their own. I’m not okay…but I will be and so will they.

Haunted by Approval

Next week, I will turn 42 (the good Lord willing)!

This is the age my father was when he died. To act as if that has not been weighing on me would be inauthentic.

I love my birthday. I really LOVE my birthday. It may be due to the fact I was born in the armpit of winter and celebrating my birthday gives me something to look forward to. Or, maybe I am a self-centered, egotistical asshole. Either way, I celebrate all month long and I have no intention of stopping.

Turning 42 has haunted me from the day my dad died. I wanted to achieve so much with my life – do so many things that he would never have the chance to do. My unwritten, unrealistic expectation was to turn 42 with the knowledge that my dad was proud of me. The problem with this plan – it’s impossible!

I would never get that validation, because he would not be here to witness my life.

So instead, I sought out approval from every other corner of my life. From grades, to sports, to career choices, outside validation became the measuring stick of my worth.

Am I good enough? Says who…always you, never me.

My desires, my reasons were never enough.

I required the co-signing of other people’s opinions.

I spent so much time worrying about what everyone thought of everything I did, I forgot that the first person I need to be accountable to and approve of is ME!

If you disagreed with how I did things, my first inclination was to question myself. I couldn’t possibly be right, if someone questioned me.

I feel so much empathy for that girl, today.

So rigid. Functioning out of fear. And judging herself constantly.

The girl who never felt secure – in her thoughts, her actions, her dreams and even her own skin. I didn’t want to be liked as much as I wanted to be right, validated for being me.

Along with my birthday celebration, February also brings the anniversary of my dad’s death. I remember every detail of that morning, to my mother’s voice telling me he’s gone to the emptiness that filled our home with the absence of his presence. I remember feeling helpless and a strong desire to do something, anything that made sense because the realization that my father, the strongest person I knew, was not coming home was inconceivable. Not only my brain, but my soul refused to accept it.

I did not want to be a cautionary tale, a girl with daddy issues who sought comfort in all the wrong ways. I channeled my fear into action and the race to perfection began. It was a game of whack-a-mole.

School struggles?? Nope-fixed it!

Typical teenage antics?? Not me!

Grieving correctly?? Sure am!

“Nothing to see here! I’m fine.”

So at the ripe ole age of 14, I set the expectation of perfection. All the while, managing overwhelming grief from the loss of my parent and not processing this with anyone.

The real achievement is that I am alive to tell this tale.

And my career choice…helping people, of course. Because what better way to hide from my troubles than to dive head-first into someone else’s?

For the next 25 years, I spent my life chasing approval from a ghost, setting a bar of achievement to an unreachable level and berating myself along the way for not being what I was “supposed” to be. I did not do this without many failures and much self-inflicted pain.

The theme of not feeling “good enough” has been heavy on my mind recently.

The pressures from work. The failures at home. The lack of peace of mind. These are common struggles I hear during therapy sessions as well as in my own thoughts.

We all are hurting.

We all have failures.

We all need more peace.

Right before COVID hit, I promised myself I would not have a ‘mid-life’ crisis when I turned 40. I would cross that threshold with grace and embrace aging.

Though it may have looked more like a brace-for-landing situation rather than a graceful entrance into my forties, here I am nonetheless.

What I did have was an awakening.

I realized what I had been doing to myself my entire adult life. I looked around and saw no one was keeping score, but me.

No one (that mattered) judged me for my pain or my faults.

I was my own worst enemy standing right in my way.

With no plan, other than change I promised myself I would learn to love and be proud of me. That became my guiding manta – I would trust myself above all else.

Since that birthday, I have made huge strides in that change.

I am more comfortable in my own skin, but there are days I still cover up and fight that shaming voice.

I am confident in my accomplishments, but there are moments I suffer from imposture syndrome.

I find purpose and peace in my day, but I fight storm of chaos to gain perspective.

What I’ve learned is, struggling does not define my life, I do. I write this narrative. I validate my experience.

I have hard days. I cry often because it heals me. I soak in my bathtub to let go of the day. I talk to my therapist to unpack my baggage. I still have hard days, the difference is I don’t live there all the time.

This is not a how-to-post. I do not know a secret. I have not found an “answer”, I found options. When letting go of expectations, some of my rigid ways went also. The more I let go of, the more my mind opened up to opportunities for a more peaceful existence. I blew up the walls that confined the narrow path I traveled for so long, to uncover unlimited choices for where I want to go next. Empathy and intentionality became more comfortable to me. I started to give myself grace and felt lighter. Grace and options are a beautiful combo.

I have rough times, not a rough life. I define my own narrative. Change promises change. My job is to navigate my journey and be accountable to myself.

My life is beautiful chaos, simply because I say so.

So 42, I am ready for you! I embrace this birthday full of gratitude and a ton of grace to give myself as I mess-up, succeed and enjoy all the moments (even the ugly ones because that is part of my story). I miss my dad all the time. There are still moments I pause to look for his nod of approval. However, I no longer chase that impossible expectation. I am learning to be proud of myself, because I am enough.

I am not finished. More to come.