I left Florida and headed north to get away from the heat, reconnect with my old life, and spend some time by the lake to contemplate what’s next and finish my book, My Caregiving Essentials.

I thought I would be in book mode this week. I thought I would be polishing chapters, checking off sections, reviewing edits, and pushing hard toward the finish line. I thought I would arrive here, settle in, open the manuscript, move steadily through the next layer of work, and be ready to publish by the middle of July.

Instead, I seem to be in self-care mode.

At first, I judged myself a little. I’ve had more free time than usual, and much of it has been spent letting my mind wander as I looked out over the water and shared special time with friends and family. There is still so much to do. But the truth is, there is always so much to do. I have a book to finish. I have a fall event to build. I have a new offer to share. I have a caregiving platform that is finally starting to come together in a way that feels aligned and alive. I have follow-up tasks, launch pieces, website updates, emails, social posts, and all the practical details that come with creating something real.

And still, when I got here, something in me exhaled.

Maybe it was the lake.Maybe it was the air. Maybe it was the sound of the loons, the familiar roads, the cooler mornings, the way my lungs feel when they breathe in the fresh mountain air, or the way my body feels when I am looking out over the lake and mountain views among the pine trees. 

Whatever it was, I could feel myself softening.
Not collapsing. Not giving up.
Softening.
There is a difference.

For so long, I have been living in a state of readiness. Ready for the next phone call. Ready for the next decision. Ready for the next care conversation. Ready for the next family update. Ready for the next unexpected expense. Ready for the next thing that needs my attention before I have fully recovered from the last thing that needed my attention.

That kind of readiness can start to feel normal after a while. You keep going because people need you. You keep going because the logistics matter. You keep going because someone has to ask the questions, notice the medication changes, read the paperwork, make the call, schedule the appointment, and follow up when something does not make sense.

If you are a capable woman, you may not even notice how much you are carrying until you finally set some of it down. The truth is, I do not remember the last time I had no real responsibility or didn't have a must-do list pressing on me.

That is what I am noticing now.

My dad is finally settled into an extended care assisted living facility. He is being cared for. He has adjusted to his new environment. He is safer than he has been in a long time. I am still very involved. I am still coordinating, communicating, watching, asking, and advocating. But the urgency has shifted. There is more space now. There is more free time now. And when time and space appear after a long season of stress, they do not always immediately turn into productivity.

Sometimes it turns into sleep. Sometimes it turns into staring at the water. Sometimes it turns into a quiet walk, a long conversation, a simple meal, or an afternoon where you meant to write and instead found yourself breathing.

I think many of us misunderstand the quiet moments. We think, “Now that things are calmer, I should be able to do more.” But sometimes when things are calmer, the body finally feels safe enough to tell the truth. It tells us we are tired. It tells us we have been holding our breath.It tells us we have been more overwhelmed than we let ourselves admit. It tells us that before we push into the next big thing, we may need to come back to ourselves.

This is where the self-care conversation can get uncomfortable, especially for people who are used to being responsible. Self-care can sound soft. It can sound optional. It can sound like candles and bubble baths and things we will get to when everything else is done.

But everything else is almost never done.

There is always one more call to make. One more chapter to edit. One more bill to pay. One more appointment to schedule. One more person to support. One more detail to manage. One more problem to solve.

If self-care is something we only allow ourselves after the list is finished, we may never get to it. And that is a problem. Because self-care is not a detour from the work. Sometimes self-care is the work that makes the rest of the work possible.

I have been thinking about this a lot as I finish writing my latest book, My Caregiving Essentials. In the ICARE method, the E stands for Empowered Caregiver Support. It is the part that many capable women tend to skip.

We do not skip it because we do not care. We skip it because everything else seems more urgent.
The medication list seems more urgent.
The legal paperwork seems more urgent.
The safety concerns seem more urgent.
The difficult conversations seem more urgent.
The appointments, transitions, family dynamics, and daily care decisions seem more urgent.
And they are urgent.

But the caregiver’s capacity is also urgent. Her health matters. Her sleep matters. Her clarity matters. Her finances matter. Her relationships matter. Her future matters. Her ability to keep showing up without disappearing matters.

A caregiving plan that depends on one exhausted person is not really a plan. It is a slow erosion of the person everyone is counting on.

I know that may sound strong.But I also know how true it is. I know how easy it is to think, “I’m fine,” because no one has time for you not to be fine. I know how easy it is to keep adapting, keep adjusting, keep making room, keep being flexible, keep being understanding, and keep telling yourself it is just a season.

Sometimes it is a season. But seasons still take a toll. There comes a point when the loving thing is not to push harder. The loving thing is to tell the truth.

I am tired.
I need rest.
I need quiet.
I need help.
I need space.
I need to remember that I am a person, not just a role.

That last one feels important. Because caregiving can blur the edges of who we are. So can building a business. So can writing a book. So can making a major life transition. So can trying to create a meaningful next chapter while still carrying responsibilities from the previous one.

Often the roles multiply. Daughter. Caregiver. Writer. Advocate. Entrepreneur. Coach. Planner. Problem-solver. Decision-maker. The one who knows what is going on. The one who can handle it. The one who keeps moving.

But beneath all of those roles, there is still a human being who needs to breathe.

That is what this season is reminding me. I thought I came here to finish a book. Maybe I did. But maybe I also came here to let my nervous system catch up with everything I have been through. Maybe I came here to remember that rest is not the opposite of progress. Maybe I came here to learn, again, that pausing does not mean I have lost momentum.

Sometimes the pause is what allows the next chapter to take root. That feels especially true right now because the work is moving. The book is moving. The caregiving platform is moving. The fall event is starting to take shape. A new offer emerged and launched faster than I could have imagined.

For a moment, everything clicked. And then, almost immediately, my body said, “Now breathe.” I am trying to listen. Not perfectly. Not without resistance.

I am listening. I am letting the lake do what the lake does. I am letting the quiet work on me. I am letting myself take a walk, sit outside, notice the breeze, have the conversation, put the computer down, and trust that the work will still be there when I return to it.

Because it will.

The work that is truly ours does not disappear because we rested. It may even become clearer.

So maybe this is the next lesson in the caregiving journey and in the creative journey. Self-care is not extra. It is not a reward for finishing everything. It is not a detour from the path. It is part of the path. It is the infrastructure that allows us to keep loving, creating, advocating, writing, building, and becoming without losing ourselves in the process.

And maybe, for today, that is enough.

​A little less pushing.
A little more breathing.
A little more trust that rest can be productive in ways we cannot always measure.
A little more willingness to believe that we are allowed to be cared for too.

Click here to explore more of my A Matter of Magic blog.
Click here to learn more about my upcoming book My Caregiving Essentials.

Caregiving often begins before anyone calls it caregiving. It may begin with a phone call. A fall. A medication change. An emergency room visit. A hospital admission. A sibling who calls because “something seems off.”

Or it may begin much more quietly. You start helping with one thing. Then another. You check in more often. You go to an appointment. You ask a few extra questions. You keep track of medications. You notice changes other people miss.

You step in because you live nearby. Or because you understand healthcare. Or because you are the one everyone trusts to handle things. Or because you are the daughter, and somewhere beneath the surface, everyone assumes daughters are the ones who will take care of aging parents.

At first, you do not call yourself a caregiver. You are just helping out. But then it grows and one day, you realize you are not just helping. You are responsible. The weight of appointments, decisions, medications, paperwork, logistics, family communication, safety concerns, and emotional labor has started to land on you.

That shift is often invisible to the outside world. Siblings, spouses, coworkers, or close friends may not notice how much you are carrying until you are already deep in the role. You may not even notice it yourself at first. You just keep doing the next thing because it needs to be done.

You answer the call. You ask the question. You make the appointment. You follow up on the lab result. You bring the paperwork. You check the medication list. You notice the confusion. You worry after you leave.

Then one day, something becomes clear. This is no longer occasional help. This is a role you are playing.
And naming that role matters.
​
Last week, I began what I’m calling The I.C.A.R.E. Series in a place I did not expect to begin: at the end. I started with E: Empowered Caregiver Support, because after several years of caregiving, I needed to remind myself that the caregiver belongs in the care plan too. Self-care, the part we often put last, may be the part we actually need first.

This week, I am returning to the beginning of the I.C.A.R.E. Method.
I: Identify Your Role.

Before we can make decisions, set boundaries, ask for help, organize documents, manage transitions, or prepare for what comes next, we have to name what is actually happening.

And we have to name who we are in it.

When my dad began taking falls, I came to Florida to put eyes on the situation and assess what was happening. He was eighty-eight at the time, still playing golf several times a week, still living independently, and still deeply committed to staying that way.

I suspected he was beginning to need more support. I got an occasional text or call from his friends and neighbors expressing their concern. So I visited for what I thought would be a temporary stay. I wanted to evaluate the situation, have some difficult conversations, make a plan, and then return to my own life.
And in many ways, I did what I came to do.

I talked with Dad about fall prevention. I helped him work through his resistance to making changes in his home. I removed rugs. I got rid of a couple of rolling chairs and replaced them with safer options. We talked about using his walker more consistently. We talked about what to do and who to call if he fell. I got him to agree to wear a fall monitor and carry a cell phone in his pocket. I helped him change his bedroom and bathroom setup to reduce the risk of falling.

I felt good about our progress and I felt like I had done what I could to reduce his risk.
And I was looking forward to heading home to my own life.

About half an hour before I was supposed to leave for the airport, Dad had a stroke in his bedroom. The bad news is that I was at the other end of the house and did not hear him calling for help. The good news is that we had placed a phone in his bedroom, where it seemed the biggest risk existed. Taped to his phone were his  emergency numbers, including that of one of his neighbors. He called and his neighbor came over, let herself into the garage with the entry code, and came to get me while I was having coffee on the lanai.

The good news is that the plan worked. The good news is that the plan worked. The hard part was walking into the bedroom and finding Dad lying on the floor, unable to get up because of weakness on his left side. I called 911 and Dad was transported to the hospital and admitted for a stroke.

Suddenly, the role I had been circling became much more real. There were medical decisions to understand, systems to navigate, professionals to talk with, discharge plans to follow, rehab goals to support, and family conversations to have. There was fear. There was uncertainty. There was advocacy. There was humility.

That is how caregiving often happens. You think you are helping with a situation. Then the situation becomes a role. If you do not stop to identify that role, it can quickly expand until it takes over more of your life than you intended to give.

This is why the first step in the I.C.A.R.E. Method is Identify Your Role.

Identifying your role means pausing long enough to understand what is really happening, what your parent or loved one needs, who else is involved, what assumptions are being made, and what role you are already playing, whether you consciously chose it or not.

Many caregivers are not officially appointed. They are functionally revealed.

They are the one who notices. The one who asks. The one who knows how to navigate the healthcare system. The one who understands the discharge instructions. The one who lives nearby. The one who sees the changes other people miss. The one who can read the situation and understand that life is shifting.
​
But being functionally revealed does not mean you have to become the whole care plan. That is the danger. Without role clarity, caregiving can feel like a constant scramble. You do not know what is yours to handle and what is not. You do not know who else should be helping. You do not know how much of yourself you can give without losing too much.

You may find yourself responding to every call, solving every problem, tracking every detail, and absorbing every emotional wave because no one has stopped to ask what your role actually is.

Clarity changes that.
Clarity allows you to set boundaries, so you are helping without drowning.
Clarity allows you to communicate your needs, so others can step in and share the load.
Clarity allows you to plan ahead instead of reacting to the next crisis.
Clarity allows you to protect your energy, so you can sustain this role over time.
Clarity allows you to keep living your own life while also supporting someone you love.

When you own your role, you begin to move from accidental caregiver to intentional caregiver. That shift alone can reduce stress, prevent resentment, and build confidence. It also helps everyone else get clarity about their role.

When your role is unclear, people make assumptions. They assume you are handling things because you have always handled things. They assume you know what is happening because you are the one closest to the situation. They assume you are available because you have not said otherwise.

Unspoken assumptions create resentment.
Clear roles create better care.

This does not mean every family member will respond the way you hope. It does not mean everyone will suddenly become helpful, emotionally mature, or available. But role clarity gives you a place to stand. It helps you name what you can do, what you cannot do, what support is needed, and what conversations can no longer be avoided.

Sometimes identifying your role means naming what you are responsible for.
Sometimes it means naming what you are not responsible for.

You may be the one nearby. You may be the one with medical knowledge. You may be the one who notices the changes first. You may be the one who first volunteered to assess the situation. But you are not responsible for compensating for every other family member’s fear, avoidance, guilt, silence, or inability to participate.

That matters.

Because caregiving is hard enough without also carrying the emotional consequences of everyone else’s reluctance or refusal to name their part.

A loving role is not always an all-consuming role. In fact, when one person tries to become the entire care system, the plan becomes fragile. If everything depends on one person having no limits, no needs, no health concerns, no work responsibilities, no sleep requirements, and no emotional breaking point, that is not a care plan.

That is a crisis waiting to happen.

A boundary is not punishment. A boundary is clarity. And clarity protects everyone.

Whether you are just entering into a caregiving role or somewhere in the middle of helping, worrying, noticing, coordinating, checking in, following up, driving, calling, researching, reminding, advocating, or absorbing the emotional weight of what is happening, it may be time to ask yourself some questions.

A Caregiver Role Clarity Check-In

1. Has helping out become caregiving?
2. What am I already doing that counts as caregiving?
3. What has changed recently?
4. What am I willing and able to do?
5. What am I not willing or able to do?
6. What support do I need?
7. Who else needs to be part of this?
8. What am I carrying that may not be mine to carry?
9. What needs to happen next?

You do not have to answer every question perfectly. You do not have to solve everything today. And you do not have to become the whole plan.

Start with one honest assessment. One clear role. One next step. That is enough for now.

Caregiving works better when responsibilities are named, shared, and revisited before overwhelm sets in and resentment builds. You can care deeply without doing everything.

And sometimes the first step is simply admitting the truth:
This is no longer just helping.
​This is caregiving.
And now it is time to identify your role.

I am writing this from a lakeside spot that feels like the best medicine for my heart and soul. It's partly sunny in the mid 80s with a wonderful breeze. I am sitting in a comfy Adirondack chair overlooking the lake through the trees. Above me the trees form a canopy from which the birds are singing. The loons are calling in the distance. And for the first time in a very long time, I am not rushing to the next thing, solving the next problem, anticipating the next need, or trying to hold all the pieces together.

I am simply here. I am resting, breathing, being. I am allowing myself to be fully present in the peace and calm of each moment in this beautiful place that I love so much.

As I sit quietly, my thoughts emerge. Thoughts I haven't had for a long time. I find myself thinking about how long it has been since I put myself first. Not in a selfish way. Not in a dramatic way. Just in a, “What do I need today, in this very moment, to take care of my body, my heart, my soul?” sort of way.

It has been almost two years. What was supposed to be a few months of getting eyes on my dad and starting the difficult conversation about what might be next for him, has turned into an almost two year process.

Two years of caregiving decisions. Two years of worry. Two years of medical appointments, hospital admissions, rehab stays, medication issues, phone calls, family conversations, uncertainty, planning, waiting, adjusting, and being on alert.

And now that I am here, sitting by the lake, I can feel something in my body finally begin to exhale.

This was not where I originally planned to put the finishing touches on my upcoming book about caregiving. This is not where I planned to begin this blog series to introduce my new I.C.A.R.E. Method. 

I had originally planned to start at the beginning of the I.C.A.R.E. Method, with the very first step:
Identify Your Role.

That would make sense. It is the first step in the framework I created for caregivers and families who are trying to prepare before caregiving becomes a second full-time job. It is a crucial step to take before crisis hits and caregiving takes on a life of its own with no boundaries.

But as I sat by the water, I realized I need to start at the end.
With the E step. Empowered Caregiver Support.

For about five days, I obsessed over tire pressure gauges, tire inflators, and portable air compressors. I researched options. I talked to people. I asked questions. I compared brands, sizes, prices, and power sources. I even stood in front of the air compressors at Harbor Freight, which is not exactly my natural habitat, fully expecting to buy one.

And then I did not.

At the time, I had no idea why. I walked out of the store empty-handed, drove away, and immediately started kicking myself. It was the last day the compressor was on sale. I had stayed until closing. I had already done all the research. Why had I not bought it?

That night, I had a dream. I was standing on the side of the road next to my RV, waiting for help.
There was no panic. No fear. No clear explanation about what had happened. The whole scene felt almost ethereal, as if I were simply standing there, stranded, waiting for someone to come.

I woke up thinking about tires.
Again.

“Okay,” I said to myself. “There is obviously something about tires.”

I went to a Facebook group for RV maintenance and repair, planning to ask seasoned RVers about their experience with air compressors and tire inflators. I never posted the question because the first post on the page was exactly what I needed to see. It was from a man who had worked in the tire business for more than thirty years. He was offering a tutorial on what RV owners needed to know before summer travel. His words literally jumped off the screen and spoke to me.

It is not only the mileage, although mileage matters.
It is not only the tread, although tread matters.
The issue many RV owners fail to pay attention to is the age of the tires.

He recommended replacing RV tires every three to five years, regardless of mileage and how good they looked on the outside. He explained that tires can degrade from the inside out. They can appear perfectly fine and still be dangerously close to failure. Then he explained how to find the manufacture date.

That was it. That was what my intuition had been trying to tell me. I did not simply need a better gauge. I did not simply need a portable inflator. I needed new tires.

Once I understood that, the decision became easy. I bought the tires. And while I was sitting in the shop waiting for them to be installed, I made another decision. I decided to take the pressure off of me.

My original plan had been to drive the RV to New Hampshire. I had trip plan, a destination, a schedule, and a goal. I was going to cover the miles and get there in time to celebrate a friend's 70th birthday. But as I waited for those new tires, I realized that what I needed most was not another goal.

I needed to experience the RV. I needed a few days to drive without rushing, learn what I was doing, notice how everything felt, and let the trip unfold without turning it into another assignment.

So that is what I did. For four days, I have been wandering. I have driven three-hundred-mile days and have learned a lot about my RV and about myself along the way. Yesterday, I drove out to see an old friend I had not seen in years. The visit turned into the kind of magical spiritual reset I did not know how badly I needed.

She is living her life untethered. Ironically, she lives only a few minutes away from Michael Singer, the author of The Untethered Soul, and his Temple of the Universe. No wonder I felt drawn to visit her. I read his book awhile back. Ever since, I've been longing for a life more untethered, more free. Visiting the temple, walking the property, feeling the energy, remembering some of his teachings, I realized that there was a reason I had come. 

From there, we went to a spectacular plant-based food truck. Then we visited a two-hundred-year-old tree in a county park and had an encounter with a woman who talked about losing herself in her caregiving journey. She reminded me of myself. The encounter brought me me to tears and back to myself and the undeniable longing for freedom.

There are moments in life that do not look dramatic from the outside, but something inside you shifts. That day was one of them. As I said goodbye to my friend, I could feel a shift in me. I headed to my next campsite ... a very special place right on the water. I am feeling especially drawn to the water. This morning, I am sitting in bed with a cup of tea, a multitude of pillows, and the water right outside my window. The curtains are open. A palm tree fills part of the view. My laptop is in front of me, but for once I do not feel as if I am supposed to be producing something.

I am simply here. I am simply doing what I love to do. 

Later today, I will drive about an hour south. I will spend some time by the pool and then go to Honeymoon Island Beach. Two days later I will put the RV back in storage and hop on a plan, go to my friend's birthday party, reconnect with my NH people, and relax my days away by the lake.

That is the whole plan. And even typing those words helps me take a long, deep, peaceful breath.

The truth is, if I had driven all the way to New Hampshire in the RV, I do not think I would have fully enjoyed the experience. It would have been goal based. There is nothing wrong with that. Goals have carried me through much of my life. But that was not what I needed this time.

I needed to understand the RV before asking it to carry me across the country. I needed to understand myself, too. I needed a break from always having to do something, accomplish something, fix something, build something, or arrive somewhere.

Sometimes what looks like a practical problem is really life asking us to slow down, listen closely, and choose a different season.

The tires were real. The safety issue was real. I am deeply grateful that I paid attention. But I also think the tires became the language my intuition used because they were impossible for me to ignore.

What began as an obsession with air compressors became a lesson in trust.
What began as a travel plan became permission to wander.
What began as a concern about getting stranded became an invitation to stop pushing so hard.

There is a metaphor here that I cannot miss. Tires can look perfectly fine on the outside and still be deteriorating within. So can people. We can keep moving. Keep producing. Keep meeting expectations. Keep following the plan. And still know, somewhere deep inside, that something needs attention.

I thought my intuition was warning me about tires. It was. But maybe it was also warning me about the cost of continuing to move through my life as if every season had to be productive.

There is a time for goals.
There is a time for deadlines.
There is a time for long drives, ambitious plans, and getting where we said we were going.
And there is a time to wander.
A time to sit by the water.
A time to reconnect with an old friend.
A time to stand beneath an ancient tree and cry.
A time to follow the next small invitation instead of the entire map.

The song “Turn! Turn! Turn!” has been running through my mind. To everything, there is a season. For now, this season is joy, peace, love, freedom. 

I will get on a plane. I will get to New Hampshire. I will sit by the water until I feel called to do something else. And soon enough, my RV journey will continue.
​
So will the journey of my untethered soul.

This morning I was in a training for a business coaching program I've been involved with for the past year. The facilitator opened with a simple question.

“What is your superpower?”

I literally had no words. The word "intuition" came to mind, but that was not quite it.

Yes, I am intuitive. Yes, I use my intuition when I work with clients. Yes, I use my intuition when I write, teach, live my life, and try to make sense of the world around me. Intuition is definitely part of how I move through my life and my work.

But I knew that was not the answer. It felt too vague. Too easy. Too incomplete.

And then this happened ...

I went to ChatGPT and asked the question I could not answer for myself. “From all you know about me and my work, what are my superpowers?”

I know. It sounds a little strange. It may even sound a little egotistical. But honestly, I was curious. I wanted to see what would come back when something outside of me reflected on the patterns I could not quite see or name for myself.

What came back stopped me. Not because it was flattering, although I will admit it was kind. It stopped me because it gave language to something I have been doing for most of my life without realizing it and without fully embracing that it was a gift.

The answer was not that I am a good writer. It was not that I am a teacher, a coach, a pharmacist, a caregiver, a speaker, or a workshop facilitator.

Those are roles. Those are containers. The deeper gift underneath them was this:

I help people turn overwhelming life experiences and transitions into clarity, meaning, and next right steps.

That landed. Because as soon as I read it, I could see the thread that runs through all my experiences. I could see it in my years as a pharmacist, when I translated complex medical information into something patients, students, and healthcare teams could actually use. I could see it in my years teaching sex education, when I helped young people ask questions they were afraid to ask their parents, or that adults were often afraid to answer. I could see it in my coaching work, when people arrived with a tangle of fear, longing, confusion, and possibility, and we worked together to find the truth underneath it all.

And now I can see it in this caregiving season of my life. Caregiving is one of those life experiences that can become overwhelming very quickly. My caregiving journey began with my mom having a stroke at the dinner table when I was in Florida on business and popped over for a quick overnight. That moment changed everything. Not all at once, but in the way family caregiving often does, one decision, one conversation, one medical concern, and one new responsibility at a time.

At first, you may not even call it caregiving. You are just helping. You are making the call. You are checking the medication list. You are driving to the appointment. You are noticing the change in their voice. You are texting your siblings. You are asking the nurse one more question. You are lying awake at night wondering what happens next.

This is why I have become so interested in the gifts we dismiss because they come naturally to us. Women tend to dismiss their gifts all the time. Whether we are caring for an aging parent, a family member, a work team, or a friend in need, we often do what comes naturally and fail to recognize the gifts underneath it.

The person who can stay calm in a crisis may not realize that calm is a gift.
The person who remembers the medication changes may not realize that attention is a gift.
The person who asks the hard question or starts a difficult conversation may not realize that courage is a gift.
The person who notices the family dynamic no one wants to name may not realize that clarity is a gift.
The person who says, “We need to talk about what happens if things change,” may not realize that leadership is a gift.

The truth is, not everyone can translate chaos into clarity. Not everyone can sit in the middle of uncertainty and find the next honest step. Not everyone can hold both the practical and the emotional truth of a situation. Not everyone can say, “I love you, and we still need a plan.”

And maybe this is why the question felt so hard for me this morning. Because the thing we do most naturally often feels ordinary to us. It does not feel like a superpower. It actually feels like breathing. It's simply what we do. And sometimes what feels ordinary to us is exactly what someone else needs most.

So today I want to ask you the question I could not answer easily:
What are you doing in your life, your family, or your caregiving role that you keep dismissing?

Are you the one who notices when something feels off?
Are you the one who can read the room?
Are you the one who can translate medical information into plain language?
Are you the one who remembers what was said at the last appointment?
Are you the one who can sense when a family member is scared, even when they insist they are fine?
Are you the one who can ask, “What do you want if things change?”
Are you the one who can bring order to the paperwork, the calendar, the medication list, or the family text thread?
Are you the one who can sit with the discomfort of a hard conversation?
Are you the one who knows that love is not enough if there is no plan?

That may not feel like a superpower to you. But it might be.

So I will leave you with this:

What comes so naturally to you that you keep dismissing it?
What do people come to you for, over and over again?
What hard thing are you able to sit with that others tend to avoid?
What do you know how to translate?
What do you know how to notice?
What do you know how to make a little less overwhelming?
What else have you been doing for so long that you forgot it was a gift?

And if you use ChatGPT or another AI tool in a way that has helped you reflect on your work, ask it what patterns it sees. You may learn something about yourself.

Do not dismiss it too quickly.

The superpower that feels ordinary to you may be the very thing someone else is praying for.

Click here to explore more of A Matter of Magic.www.amatterofmagic.com/

I have been distracted lately. At least, I thought it was distraction.

I’ve been preparing for a long RV trip this summer to get out of the Florida heat and return, for a little while, to a piece of the life I left behind when caregiving became more central. I hired an RV tech to walk me through the RV systems. I ordered new windshield wipers and a new faucet to fix a leak in the sink and asked a friend to help me. I updated my pre-trip checklist. I took my cats on a test run. The list goes on and on. 

I'm trying to finish up my latest book, My Caregiving Essentials: What to Say, Do, and Prepare Before Caregiving Becomes Your Second Full-Time Job, before I leave, but keep getting distracted. For the past several days, my attention has been completely hijacked by RV tires, air compressors, tire pressure, cold inflation, portable inflators, truck stops, pressure gauges, and every possible scenario that could unfold on the side of the road while traveling in an RV with two cats.

It has been a lot. There were moments when I thought, “Really? This is what we’re doing now?”

I have a book to finish. I have offers to create. I have clients to coach. I have a trip to plan. I have taxes to catch up on. I have chores that needs my attention. And yet, there I was, researching air compressors like I was preparing for a final exam in tire maintenance.

At first, I judged myself. I was sure I was procrastinating. I wondered if I was avoiding the harder things. I thought this was just another rabbit hole or a strange way to feel productive while not doing the deeper work in front of me.

Maybe there was a little truth in that. Sometimes I do distract myself. Sometimes I wander into the land of details because details feel more manageable than big life transitions, big creative projects, and big unknowns.

But this time, I am not sure it was only distraction. This time, I think it may have been intuition wearing a very practical disguise and guiding me to exactly what I needed to know. I found myself in an RV Maintenance Facebook group as part of my tire obsession and asked for air compressor recommendations.

And there it was. The exact information I had no idea I needed to know. When it comes to tires, age matters. A lot. My tires look great on the outside. They have good tread, no dry rot, and only 7000 miles on them. But were they too old to be safe on the long trip I have been planning?

A man in the group suggested that the manufacture date is stamped on the tire will determine how old the tire is. I went to where I store the RV and looked more closely at my actual tires. I looked for the date codes. 

And that is when the story changed.

The tires looked fine at first glance. The tread was good. They did not look worn out in the way most of us think about worn-out tires. If this had been a car I was driving around town, I might not have thought much more about it. But this is not a car I am driving around town. This is an RV. This is my 28 foot rolling tiny house.  This is the vehicle I am planning to drive a few thousand miles with two cats, my belongings, my courage, and some version of the next chapter of my life packed inside.

What I discovered is that although the tires may have good tread, they are much too old for the kind of long-distance travel I am planning. No wonder I had been obsessed. My intuition had been speaking to me incessantly.

That was not the discovery I wanted. I did not wake up hoping to add a major tire expense to my summer plans. I did not want to look at numbers and logistics and realize that something I thought was mostly handled was not quite handled after all.

But I also could not un-know it. Once I saw the date codes and understood what they meant, the whole situation shifted. Suddenly, my so-called obsession felt a little different. Maybe the part of me that could not stop thinking about tires was not being ridiculous or obsessive. Maybe she was simply trying to get my attention.

That feels important.

Intuition does not always arrive as a calm, mystical voice in the quiet of the morning.
Sometimes intuition sounds like, “Why can’t I stop thinking about this?”
Sometimes it looks like researching the same thing fifteen different ways.
Sometimes it comes through a friend’s suggestion, a random conversation, a photo you zoom in on, or a question you ask one more time even though part of you feels silly asking it.

Sometimes intuition is not dreamy at all.
Sometimes it is deeply practical.

Check the tires.
Ask the question.
Look again.
Do not assume.
Pay attention.

I think this is one of the lessons this RV is already teaching me, and I have not even left yet. Freedom is beautiful, but freedom also asks for responsibility. Adventure is exciting, but adventure also asks for preparation. Trusting the road does not mean ignoring the dashboard, the tires, the weather, the route, or the quiet nudge that says, “You might want to look at this before you go.”

That is not fear.
That is wisdom.

Of course, the next layer of the lesson was money. Once I realized the tires needed to be replaced before a long-distance trip, I had a choice. I could panic. I could freeze. I could collapse into frustration and tell myself the whole thing was too much. I could use the expense as evidence that maybe I should not go, maybe I was being foolish, maybe this dream was too big or too complicated or too expensive. Or maybe I should just make plane reservations.

I did feel some of that. I felt the disappointment. I felt the weight of the expense. I felt the little internal sigh of, “Of course. One more thing.” But then something else showed up.

Resourcefulness. Instead of only focusing on the problem, I started asking different questions. What can I do to cover this expense?  What do I know how to offer? Who could use support right now?  What could I create quickly that is real, useful, and aligned? How can I generate some income without abandoning the bigger work I am already doing?

That shift felt important too. Because for much of my life, I have been very good at being responsible. I can figure things out. I can handle logistics. I can manage crises. I can make things work.

But this felt a little different. This was not just about handling a problem. This was about trusting that I have something valuable to offer and that a real need in my life can become an invitation to be creative, not just stressed. So the tire situation nudged me to create a small, focused offer. Not a giant new business plan. Not a complicated launch. Not another huge project to distract me from the book or the road or the life I am trying to live.

Just something simple, useful, and immediate. An offer that lets me bring in some quick cash, support people in a meaningful way, and keep moving forward.

There is something humbling about that. There is also something empowering about it. So often, when unexpected expenses show up, especially in a season of transition, it is easy to feel like life is blocking us. It is easy to think, “Well, there goes the plan.” It is easy to turn one expensive discovery into a much bigger story about what is possible.

But maybe not every obstacle is a stop sign.
Sometimes it is a course correction.
Sometimes it is a safety check.
Sometimes it is a reminder that the next chapter is going to require both faith and common sense.
Sometimes it is life asking us to become more capable, more creative, and more honest about what we need.
Sometimes it is remembering that we really do have all we need to live our dreams.

I keep thinking about how close I came to dismissing the whole thing as distraction. What if I had told myself to stop obsessing? What if I had pushed the thought away and forced myself to focus on something I thought was more productive? What if I had decided that my concern about tires was just anxiety and ignored it?

I do not want to turn every spiral into a spiritual message. That would not be honest. Sometimes a rabbit hole is just a rabbit hole. Sometimes distraction really is avoidance. Sometimes fear keeps us circling the same question long after we already have the answer. But sometimes, the thing that keeps tugging at us is tugging for a reason.

Discernment is learning to tell the difference.

Is this thought draining me or guiding me?
Is it keeping me stuck or helping me take a next step?
Is there useful information here?
Is there a practical action I can take?
Is this fear asking for endless reassurance, or is this intuition asking me to pay attention?

In this case, paying attention mattered. It changed my preparation. It changed my budget. It changed my risk. It changed how I am thinking about the trip ahead.

And strangely, it also made me feel more confident. I followed the nudge. I asked the questions. I found the information I needed. I made a decision. I started looking for a solution. I was able to take the content of my new book and my skills and experience and create an offer that will help women who find themselves at the beginning of their caregiving journey with their own next steps. 

So yes, I lost some time to air compressors and tire pressure charts and handheld inflators and all the tiny details I never expected to care about. Maybe I did not lose time after all. Maybe that strange tire obsession helped me find something I needed to know before I got on the road and gave me something I can do along the way to create some extra income, support my book, and help some people just starting their own caregiving journey.

Maybe the road was teaching me before I even left the driveway. Maybe intuition does not always arrive wrapped in mystery. Sometimes it arrives with a pressure gauge in one hand, a tire date code in the other, and a very clear message:

Pay attention. You are preparing for much more than an RV trip.

In case you or someone you know is at the beginning of a caregiving journey and could use practical support, I created a new Aging Parent Preparedness Plan. It is designed to help women get clear about what to say, what to do, what to prepare, and what questions to ask before caregiving becomes overwhelming.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be grateful and still want more. I don’t mean more in a never-enough kind of way. I mean more in the sense that something in my soul is still calling me forward. I find myself wanting more space, more freedom, more beauty, more time near water, more room to hear  myself think, more rest, and more opportunities to follow the nudges, notice the signs, and see what life wants to show me next.

At the very same time, I am deeply grateful for what is here now. I am grateful my dad is safe and cared for. I am grateful I can be close. I am grateful I have the ability to spend time with him without being completely consumed. I am grateful for simple mornings, cat snuggles, a cup of tea, and the strange kind of stability that comes from knowing I am exactly where I need to be in each moment, even when I don’t yet know where everything is going. I'm grateful for the progress I'm making on my book and the support I have as I prepare for the launch later this month.

And still, I am aware that something in me is stirring. It has been stirring for a long time. For the past few years, so much of my life has been shaped by responsibility, transition, uncertainty, and adapting to new environments. I sold a property. I closed a business. I finished a chapter. I let go of an identity that had been wrapped around work, serving others, and taking care of so many moving pieces.

I moved through the strange hallway between the no longer and the not quite yet. For a while, I think I assumed that when one chapter ended, the next one would immediately announce itself with clarity and confidence. Instead, life has been quieter than that. It has been less like a grand reveal and more like a slow unfolding. A whisper here. A course correction there. A moment of peace I didn’t expect. A new idea that won’t leave me alone. A memory that reminds me where I came from. A dream that nudges me toward what's next. A conversation that opens a door. A road trip that ignites the adventurer within.

This summer, I am giving myself something I am not sure I have ever fully given myself before. I am giving myself space to explore. Space to practice trusting myself. Space to move at a different pace. Space to remember who I am when I am not organizing everyone else’s needs, navigating the next crisis, or trying to prove myself to anybody.

That does not mean I am disappearing from responsibility. I am still a daughter. I am still a caregiver. I am still a writer. I am still a creator. I am still someone who notices what needs to be done and usually finds a way to do it. But I am also becoming someone who is learning that caring deeply does not mean abandoning myself.

I can be close and still live my own life. I can be available and still have boundaries. I can love my family and still follow my own path. I can be grateful for the safety and simplicity of this season and still admit that I want open roads, quiet mornings, lake views, meaningful conversations, and a deeper sense of aliveness.

That feels important to say.  So many of us, especially women, were taught to confuse gratitude with silence. We were taught that if we have enough, we should not want more. If other people need us, we should not need much. If life is stable, we should not rock the boat. If we are blessed, we should not complain.

But wanting more does not always mean something is wrong. Sometimes wanting more means something is waking up. Sometimes it means our next chapter is beginning to stretch inside us and asking to be brought out into the light. Sometimes it means the life we built served us well, and now we are being invited to listen for and acknowledge what wants to be lived next.

I feel that this summer. I do not feel it as a perfectly mapped-out plan. I feel it more as a season of letting the road teach me what my overthinking and overachieving never could.

I head out in a few weeks. I have my first few nights planned and after that I will allow the plan to emerge. There will be RV lessons, I’m sure. There will probably be wrong turns. There will definitely be cat logistics. There may even be moments when I wonder what on earth I was thinking. And I hope there will also be moments of wonder. Moments of quiet. Moments of magic. Moments when I look around and think, “Oh. This is why I felt drawn to do this.”

I am not running away. I am not ungrateful. I am not trying to escape real life. The truth is that real life is asking me to make room for all of who I am now.

I am making room for the caregiver and the dreamer. The planner and the wanderer. The responsible one and the woman who still wants adventure. The one who has spent a lifetime helping others find their way and the one who is still finding her own.

Maybe that is what this season is really about. It is not about choosing between gratitude and desire, but rather embracing both. It is not about choosing between caregiving and freedom, but rather finding the balance between them. It is not about choosing to be there for others or being there for myself. It is about learning to do both.

It is about being able to say thank you for the life I've been living while also saying yes to what is calling me forward. It is about honoring where I have been, being honest about where I am, and staying open to where the road may lead next.

Indeed, we can be grateful while we still want more.

We can love what is and still feel called toward what’s next.
We can appreciate the life we've been living and still make room for the life that is quietly asking to be lived. We can make our real life our dream life and make our dream life our real life.

But sometimes we just need to give ourselves grace and create a bit more space for dreaming.

Take a few quiet minutes today and ask yourself:
​
Where am I grateful for what is?
And where am I being called toward something more?

You do not have to have the whole plan. Sometimes the next chapter begins with the simple willingness to listen.

I usually publish a new blog post on Tuesdays. Today is Thursday. That probably tells you something about the week I’m having. Or maybe it tells you something about the season I’m in.

I’ve been making real progress on my caregiving book, My Caregiving Essentials. I just got the first section back from my editor and I'm pleased with how it is looking. I’ve been watching the response to the Refrigerator Emergency Kit I just released and paying attention to how deeply people seem to be resonating with practical, simple tools that help families feel a little more prepared.

I’ve been working on the book website, planning the launch, looking at my publishing timeline, and feeling the weight of a mid-June goal that is both exciting and slightly terrifying. And yet, today, when I could have been fully focused on finalizing the next section of the manuscript, I found myself staring out the window and petting my cat. Then I turned on the WNBA Dallas Wings replay. Then I took a call with a colleague who needed some support. Then I made plans to go grab an afternoon bite with a friend.

At first, I wanted to call it procrastination and be frustrated with myself for not accomplishing what is on my list for today. And maybe, partly, it was. But I decided to take a step back, reflect and write a bit about it.

There is definitely a place in me that knows when I am circling the work instead of entering it. I can organize the desk, check the stats, tweak the website, look at the calendar, make one more cup of tea, and convince myself I am still “working.” There have even been the days that I have found myself in the middle of a cleaning project that I didn't intend to do. 

But I am starting to understand that what looks like procrastination is sometimes more complicated than that. Maybe it is resistance. Maybe it is creative style. Maybe it is a nervous system asking for a little room. Maybe it is the part of me that has been living inside deadlines, logistics, decisions, and caregiving responsibility for a long time saying, Could we please have a little fun too?

The truth is, I am not writing this book from a quiet lake-front cabin with unlimited stretches of uninterrupted time or sequestered in a hotel room for the sole purpose of finishing the manuscript. I've done both. But this time I am writing it from inside the life that inspired it.

I am writing it after almost two years of being deeply involved in my dad’s care. Hospital admissions. Rehab. Assisted living. Medications. Appointments. Paperwork. Conversations. Worry. Relief. Gratitude. Exhaustion. Recovery. I am writing it while still navigating the emotional and practical realities of caregiving.

Just like you may be doing your thing in the middle of the life you're living.

And that matters.

Maybe the pauses, the interruptions, the moments when I cannot quite sit still and finish the next section are not failures. Maybe they are information.

Sometimes procrastination is avoidance. Sometimes it is fear dressed up as busyness. Sometimes it is perfectionism trying to keep us from taking the next messy step.

But sometimes, I think, what we call procrastination is actually a signal that something inside us needs attention before we can keep going. A meal. A laugh. A walk. A basketball game. A friend. A moment away from the seriousness of it all. A little breathing room. A whole day off.

I have spent a lot of my life being capable. Responsible. Productive. The one who can figure things out. The one who keeps going. And caring for an aging parent or a family can intensify that part of us. There is always something else to do. Something else to prepare. Something else to follow up on. Something else to research, schedule, ask, fix, organize, or anticipate.

No wonder so many of us feel like we are always behind. No wonder rest can feel like laziness. No wonder fun can feel irresponsible. No wonder a missed Tuesday blog post can feel like evidence that we are somehow failing, even when we are actually carrying a lot.

But here is what I am learning.

Being behind on one thing does not mean I am behind in my life. Missing my usual rhythm does not mean I have lost my way. Taking an afternoon to watch a game or meet a friend does not erase the work I have already done. And needing a pause does not mean I am not committed.

In fact, I wonder if honoring the pause is actually how I stay committed.

The truth is, this book matters to me. The Refrigerator Emergency Kit matters to me. Helping families prepare before the crisis matters to me. Supporting women in honoring themselves before they get lost taking care of others matters to me. 

I matter too. And so do the parts of me that need friendship, laughter, movement, delight, and something other than responsibility. That is so easy to forget when we are in a season of caring for others.

It is easy to tell ourselves we will have fun later. We will rest later. We will write later. We will live later.

Later, when things calm down.
Later, when everyone is settled.
Later, when the deadline is met.
Later, when the crisis has passed.

But lately I am questioning that.

What if “later” is part of the problem?
What if the life we are trying to build has to be allowed into the middle of the life we are already living?
What if a Thursday blog post, written after a Tuesday deadline slipped by, is not a failure at all?
What if it is simply the truth of one moment in time?

The truth is, I am making progress on the book. The truth is, I am also tired.
The truth is, I am committed. The truth is, I am also human.
The truth is, some days I need deep focus and some days I need a chicken sandwich with a friend.
The truth is, this is how the work is happening right now.

Not perfectly. Not on the exact schedule I imagined. Not with some fantasy version of me who wakes up every morning with total clarity, unlimited energy, and perfect productivity.

But with the real me.

The one who is living the caregiving story while writing the caregiving book.
The one who is watching what people respond to and realizing that simple tools, like a Refrigerator Emergency Kit, can make a real difference.
The one who is trying to meet a deadline and also trying not to disappear inside the deadline.
The one who is still learning that productivity and presence do not have to be enemies.

So yes, I missed my Tuesday blog post. Here is what happened instead.

I lived. I noticed. I resisted a little. I rested a little. I connected with someone I love. I asked myself whether I was procrastinating or protecting my creative energy. And then I came back to the page.

Maybe that is the practice. Not never drifting. Not never delaying. Not never needing a break. But learning how to return. Again and again. To the work. To the truth. To ourselves.

If you are in a season where you feel like you are behind, overwhelmed, distracted, or not moving as quickly as you thought you would, maybe this is your reminder too.

You may not be failing. You may just be carrying more than you’ve acknowledged. You may need a little support, a little structure, a little break, a little laughter, or one small next step that helps you feel less alone in the middle of it all.

Because sometimes the next right step is not doing everything. Sometimes it is doing one thing that makes the next hard moment a little easier.


If this resonated with you and you know someone who might also need it, feel free to share the link to this post: 
https://www.amatterofmagic.com/blog/when-procrastination-may-actually-be-a-sign-you-need-a-pause#/


If this spoke to you, I invite you to explore more reflections from A Matter of Magic — stories, insights, and heart-centered reminders for navigating real life.

I recently created the Refrigerator Emergency Kit after a serious medication error during an emergency room visit almost cost my dad his life.

As a pharmacist, I know how complicated medical decisions can become when the full picture is not clear. Medication lists, allergies, medical conditions, emergency contacts, healthcare proxy information, and key documents all matter. When that information is scattered, outdated, unavailable, or hard to access, everyone can be left scrambling. EMTs. Healthcare providers. Hospital staff. Family members.

But as much as I know, my dad was not prepared ... and his caregivers scrambled. I could have helped them if they had my number. I have all of my dad's info on my phone. But I was on a plane and unavailable. And my dad had fallen, hit his head and was a bit disoriented. Plus, he didn't have his hearing aids in and the EMTs didn't know to bring them. It was a recipe for disaster.

When I started creating the Refrigerator Emergency Kit, I reached out to a good friend I used to work with years ago. He is a paramedic with many years of experience, and I wanted his honest opinion. I asked him if something like this was actually needed. His answer was immediate.

“Yes!”

He told me there are programs out there, like Vial of Life, that are designed to help people keep emergency medical information available. They are good, but in his experience, many homes are still not well prepared.
When EMTs arrive, critical information is often missing, scattered, outdated, hard to access quickly, or nonexistent.

Medication lists may not be current. Allergy information may not be easy to find. Medical conditions may be incomplete or misunderstood. Emergency contacts may be buried in someone’s phone. Do Not Resuscitate orders may be filed away somewhere no one knows to look. Healthcare proxy information may not be available at all, even when it is critical because the patient cannot speak for themselves.

In an emergency, every one of those details can matter.

It is easy to assume emergency responders or hospital staff can “just look it up.” That is exactly what the staff taking care of my dad did that night. They looked it up. But what they found was old information from a hospital admission years earlier that had him on cardiac medications he no longer needed because he had open heart surgery they did not know about.

They put him on the cardiac drugs. One of them nearly killed him.

Essential information needs to be accessible in case of emergency. Not in an online portal no one can access or in a locked drawer no one knows to open. It may be in the memory of one family member, like me, who is not there, cannot be reached, or is too overwhelmed to think clearly.

Once the patient is transported, the need for clear information does not end. In many ways, it becomes even more important. The level of care changes. Decisions become more complex. ER staff may need more complete information about medications, diagnoses, allergies, recent changes, baseline mental status, code status, healthcare proxy contacts, and who is legally allowed to make decisions if the patient cannot speak for themselves.

This is especially important for older adults. I can't tell you how many times a healthcare provider assumed my 90-year-old dad was cognitively not okay. In reality, he is sharp as a tack and just didn't have his hearing aids in. 

My caregiving experience made some things very clear to me, both as a healthcare provider and as a daughter:

1. In a medical emergency, the right information needs to be easy to find. Not buried in a drawer. Not locked behind a phone passcode. Not sitting in an online portal no one can access. Not dependent on one overwhelmed family member trying to remember every medication, diagnosis, allergy, provider, document, and phone number while sitting in an ER waiting room.
2. Families do not need one more complicated system. They need something simple. Something visible. Something that can be easily updated. Something easy to find when it matters.

That is why I created the free Refrigerator Emergency Kit. The idea is simple. Gather the most important medical information and keep it in a clearly labeled red folder, envelope, or packet on the refrigerator.

Why the refrigerator?

Because it is one of the most common, visible, easy-to-identify places in a home. And my paramedic friend told me, and I confirmed, that most EMTs are trained to look there.

The Refrigerator Emergency Kit is not meant to replace full legal planning, medical records, or important conversations with family. It is meant to be a practical first step. A quick-access snapshot. A way to help the people who show up in an emergency have better information when it matters most.

It does not have to be fancy.
It does not have to be perfect.
It just needs to be visible and available.

Because the truth is, caregiving often begins before anyone is ready to call it caregiving. It begins with a phone call. A fall. A medication change. A hospital admission. A confused parent. A decision no one expected to make that day.

And in those moments, being prepared is not about being dramatic or expecting the worst. It is an act of love.
It is a way of saying:

I want the people helping me to have what they need. I do not want my family scrambling. I want important information to be easy to find. I want safer decisions to be possible.

We cannot prevent every emergency. We cannot control every outcome. But we can make sure critical information is not missing when people are trying to help.

​That is a small act of preparation that could make a very big difference.

It would have for my dad that day. That experience is the inspiration behind the free Refrigerator Emergency Kit.

It is free. It is simple. And it could save a life.

Download the free Refrigerator Emergency Kit here:
[Insert link]

And please share this with anyone you think needs to hear it. Quite honestly, I think that includes almost everyone who has someone they love and care about.


NOTE: The Refrigerator Emergency Kit is part of step A of my 5-part I.C.A.R.E. framework that is the foundation of my book, My Caregiving Essentials: What to Say, Do, and Prepare Before Caregiving Becomes Your Second Full-Time Job. To learn more about the book, click here.

Maybe you know this feeling too; the sense that life is calling you forward, but something invisible is holding you in place. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s responsibility. Maybe it’s love. Whatever it is, there comes a moment when we have to ask: Am I staying because I’m needed, or because I haven’t given myself permission to take my next right step?

Today, Facebook reminded me that it was one year ago today that I bought my RV. A year! I had to sit with that for a minute.

When I bought the RV, I wrote about what it represented to me then: freedom, possibility, and the beginning of a new chapter. It represented a way to finally begin living the life I had been dreaming about after years of working, building, serving, caregiving, and holding so much together.

In many ways, it still does represent a new chapter for me. But the year since I bought it did not unfold the way I imagined. There have been several hospital admissions for my dad. Home PT and OT. A three-month rehab stay. And a move to an extended care assisted living facility. There have been countless decisions to make, difficult conversations to have, forms to fill out, medications to track, appointments to coordinate, systems to navigate, and emotional landmines to step around.

In between all that, I was determined to not lose myself and my dream. I took a couple of local RV trips. I completed a major RV renovation project. I've set the RV up for living, working, relaxing, and sharing with friends. There has been a lot of learning and a lot of waiting. I've had some tender glimpses of the life I've  imagined, along with a lot of “almost.”

In my business I've built a new coaching program for 50+ women leaning into their retirement years and wanting to create a legacy of impact, called From Career to Calling.

I dipped my toes into the world of vibe coding and learned how to create websites, landing pages, and slide decks by simply talking out my vision to an AI agent and letting the agent bring my ideas to life. Ideas I used to carry around in notebooks and “someday” folders have come alive and taken a front row seat on my to do list. And then another round of COVID. More recalibrating. More surrendering. More becoming.

The list goes on and on. And here I am, a full year later. Still at my dad’s. Still talking about hitting the road. Still feeling tethered to something I can’t quite put my finger on.

Maybe it’s guilt, or fear, or responsibility, or love. Maybe it’s the years-old role of being the capable one, the available one, the one who figures things out. Maybe it’s something I haven’t fully named yet.

But I can feel something shifting. Because the truth is, my dad is in a good place right now. He is comfortable in his new home. He is safe. He is cared for. He has people around him who show up every day with skill, patience, and compassion.

And I am still close. Still available. Still part of his life.

But I do not need to remain frozen in place in my own life to prove that I care.
That sentence feels important and worthy of repeating.
I do not need to remain frozen in place to prove that I care.

I have been living the role of caregiver for my dad for almost two years now. Not theoretically. Not from the outside. Not as a concept I write about from a distance.

I am in it.

I have lived the phone calls, the hospital rooms, the medication questions, the rehab meetings, the safety concerns, the paperwork, the emotional complexity, the moments of fear, and the strange mix of gratitude for the connection I've been privileged to share with my dad and the sheer exhaustion that comes when someone you love needs more from you than you ever expected.

And maybe that is why I have decided to fully commit to writing the My Caregiving Essentials book.

Because this is no longer an idea I had that lives on a list somewhere in my file cabinet.
It is an experience I've been living every single day. It is the book I wish more families had before the crisis. Before the confusion. Before caregiving quietly becomes a second full-time job.

I have decided to put a couple of other projects on hold for now, not because they no longer matter, but because this one is asking for my full attention.

And rather than fighting it, I am listening and I am 100% committed. My goal is to launch it in mid-June.
That feels both ambitious and right.

Sometimes the thing we are living is also the thing we are being called to teach or share or write about. 
And sometimes the work we are meant to create does not come from stepping away from life, but from standing right in the middle of it and finally saying:

This is what I know now.
This is what I wish I had known sooner.
This is what might help someone else.

At the same time, I can feel another truth rising. It is time for me to lean into living my own life again. Not someday. Not when every detail is perfectly resolved. Not when no one needs me. Not when I have earned enough permission to go.

Now.

That means putting the finishing touches on the manuscript.
It means vibe coding the final changes to the website (and celebrating that at my age I even know what vibe coding is!)
It means creating the book launch plan.
And it also means hiring my RV tech, Kirk, for a couple of hours so he can meet me at a campground and walk me through every system in my RV, get it all hooked up, and help me feel ready to take it on the road with more confidence.

It means pulling out the map and planning the trip north. Or maybe it means parking the RV for a bit longer and just jumping on a plane, and heading back to a place and people I miss so much for a much needed break from everything.

Maybe it does not have to look one certain way.
Maybe freedom begins before the road trip.
Maybe freedom begins with telling the truth.

I bought the RV a year ago because some part of me knew I was ready for a different life. I may not have driven as far as I imagined. I may not have traveled the way I thought I would. I may still be sitting here at my dad’s, looking at the same Florida sky, wondering why I have not quite left yet.

But I am not the same woman I was a year ago.

This year has taught me things I may not have learned from a travel itinerary.
It has taught me about caregiving.
About responsibility.
About love.
About boundaries.
About the stories we tell ourselves about what it means to be a good daughter.
About the difference between being present and being consumed.
About the quiet courage it takes to choose your own life while still loving someone deeply.

Maybe that is the next leg of the journey. Not just learning how to drive the RV and feel confident using all its systems. But learning how to trust myself enough to go ...

To write the manuscript.
To launch the book.
To take the break.
To visit the people I miss.
To let myself be supported.
To let my dad be cared for by others.
To stop waiting for a perfect moment that may never arrive.

A year ago, I bought an RV. Today, I am realizing that the road may have been calling me all along. Not just the physical road. The inner one. The one that asks me to release guilt, soften fear, honor responsibility without being swallowed up by it. The one that is asking me to take the next right step for me.

The one that asks me to remember that my life still belongs to me. 

Maybe you know this feeling too. Maybe there is something you have been postponing until life settles down, everyone is okay, and the path feels perfectly clear.

But what if the next right step does not require abandoning anyone? What if it simply requires remembering that you are someone worth caring for too? That is where I am standing now, one year after buying the RV. Not fully on the road yet. Not fully untethered. But awake to the truth that love does not require self-abandonment.

And maybe that is where freedom begins.

If this season of caregiving, responsibility, and trying not to lose yourself sounds familiar, I’m writing My Caregiving Essentials for you. You can learn more about the book and join the launch list here.

I was driving a long distance the other day and wanted something to listen to that wouldn’t pull me into the news cycle. Before I left, I opened my Audible account and searched for something that felt more nourishing. The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron popped up as a suggestion. I had read the book years ago, and I had one credit left on my account, so I clicked, downloaded it to my library, started the car, and headed out.

A few miles in, I was already remembering why this book has stayed with so many people for so long. Julia teaches about creativity and overcoming blocks to creativity. Her two main suggestions come in the form of practices. Morning pages and artist dates. I’ve done artist dates for a long time. I’ll probably write more about that another day because the practice has brought a lot of beauty, curiosity, and unexpected magic into my life. But this time, morning pages caught my attention.

Three pages of longhand writing first thing in the morning. Stream of consciousness. No editing. No performing. No trying to make it useful or beautiful or profound. Just grab a journal and a pen and write for three pages.

I decided to commit to the practice for a while, mostly because I’ve been feeling flat. Not depressed exactly. Not hopeless exactly. Just… not quite myself.

A little foggy.
A little tired.
A little disconnected.
A little too willing to drift through the day without much direction.

Maybe you know that feeling too. That quiet sense that nothing is exactly wrong, but something in you is asking to be heard.

And wow! Just three days in, morning pages started telling on me. They started revealing things I already knew but hadn’t fully admitted.

I am eating more carbs than my body wants or needs. I am at my highest weight ever. My health isn’t terrible, but it isn’t where I want it to be. My energy is lower than I’m used to. My mental health feels tired. Not broken. Not beyond repair. Just exhausted.

I’ve also been escaping in small ways. A stop at Ollie’s for carb snacks I don’t really need. A ride to IKEA to wander aimlessly that somehow turns into spending money I could have saved. A trip through the drive through for french fries for dinner, not because it serves my goals, but because it gives me a temporary escape from the weight of things. 

And the truth is, none of those things are the actual problem. They are symptoms. They are little attempts at relief. Little hits of aliveness. Little breaks from the pressure of caregiving, uncertainty, money concerns, stalled momentum, and the strange grief of knowing that the life I’ve been living no longer fully fits.

That is what just three days of writing morning pages showed me. I am not lazy. I am not undisciplined. I am not failing. I am under-structured. Or maybe more accurately, I am ready for a new kind of structure.

And I don’t mean structure in the old productivity-obsessed way. I know that world well. I used to write goals. Real goals. Clear goals. Breakthrough goals. SMART goals. I reviewed my goals and created action  plans and tracked progress and moved through life with a level of focus and drive that got a lot of things accomplished.

I still get things done. That’s the funny part. Even in this foggy, tired, wandering season, I have managed my dad’s care through a myriad of health issues. I have renovated and organized my RV. I have written another book. I have kept writing blog posts. I have found gratitude in simple moments. I have created beauty and meaning and connection.

From the outside, it might look like I’m still producing. But inside, something has been off. I keep working and writing and creating, as I always have, but often with very little financial return. I get comments and kudos and beautiful encouragement. People tell me my words matter and encourage me to keep going. And I continue to feel inspired to write, and connect, and have an impact.

But the return is not always in the language this world understands.
It is not always money.
It is not always growth.
It is not always followers.
It is not always security.
It is not always success as the world defines success.

Sometimes the return is connection.
Sometimes it is love.
Sometimes it is one person feeling less alone.
And while that matters deeply to me, I also live in a body. In a world. With bills. With an RV that needs gas. With a nervous system that needs rest. With a future that needs some tending.

That may be the deeper truth morning pages are helping me see.

I do not need to abandon flow. But I may need to give my freedom some structure. Not the kind of structure that turns my life into a performance report. Something softer than that. Something truer. Something I am beginning to think of as devotional structure.

That phrase landed in me like a bell. Devotional structure.

I don’t think I need more pressure. I don’t need to bully myself into better habits. I don’t need to shame myself about my body, my bank account, my productivity, or the ways I’ve been trying to soothe myself.

I need to honor the life I say I want. That’s different. Very different.

Honor my body. Not punish it.
Honor my money. Not obsess over it.
Honor my freedom. Not postpone it.
Honor my creativity. Not demand that it perform.
Honor my next chapter. Not wait until I feel fearless.

That is the shift just three days of morning pages have revealed to me.

The old way of goal setting often sounded like: What do I need to accomplish?
This new way asks: What am I devoted to?

The old way asked: How much can I produce?
This new way asks: What kind of life am I creating with the choices I make today?

The old way asked: What is the measurable outcome?
This new way asks: Does this choice honor my body, my money, my freedom, my creativity, and my peace?

The question, "What am I devoted to?" changes things. It changes what I put in my grocery cart. It changes whether I wander through the Ollie's candy section or head to the beach for a walk instead. It changes whether I spend another hundred dollars at IKEA on something I don’t really need or save it for the road I say I want to take. It changes whether I sit in the chair scrolling and snacking, or take one small action that makes tomorrow feel lighter. It changes whether I keep waiting to feel fearless before starting the RV and heading toward the life that is calling me.

Because here is another truth the morning pages revealed:
I can feel the freedom when I imagine starting up the RV and heading out on an adventure. I can feel the space. I can feel the possibility. And I can also feel the fear that comes in the form of a bunch of what if questions ... 

What if I break down?
What if I don’t know what I’m doing?
What if I don’t have enough money?
What if I get stuck somewhere unfamiliar?
What if I leave and wish I had stayed?

But there is a bigger “what if” underneath it all that is far more important right now: 

What if I don’t go?
What if I don’t take the break my soul has been begging for?
What if I keep living in the same loop, soothing myself with snacks and spending and small escapes, while the bigger freedom waits for me to choose it?
What if I gain more weight?
What if I waste more money?
What if I keep writing about transformation while quietly postponing my own?

That is not an easy question to sit with. But it is an honest one. And I think honesty is where the healing begins. Not dramatic honesty. Not performative confession. Not public unraveling for the sake of attention. Just the quiet truth on the page.

The kind of truth that says:
Something is off.
Something wants to shift.
Something in me is ready for a different way.

The way forward is not to resurrect the old version of me who could set a goal, make a plan, and push herself across the finish line.

Maybe the way forward is to become the next version of me. The one who lives with devotion. The one who builds structure not as a cage, but as a container. The one who understands that freedom without structure can quietly become drift. And drift, over time, can become its own kind of prison.

That sentence is hard to write ... Freedom without structure can quietly become drift. And drift, over time, can become its own kind of prison. But I think it’s true.

I have loved being someone who can go with the flow. I have loved having the time and flexibility to be able to go with the flow. I have needed that, especially in this season of caregiving and uncertainty. I have needed room to respond to what life brings in each moment. But I am beginning to see that “going with the flow” can sometimes turn into a beautiful-sounding way of not choosing.

Not always. But sometimes.

I am ready to choose again. Not everything. Not all at once. Not in a massive life overhaul fueled by shame and panic. But just for today.

Today, I can honor my body with one nourishing choice.
Today, I can honor my money by not spending to soothe myself.
Today, I can honor my freedom by doing one thing that prepares me for the road.
Today, I can honor my creativity by writing for the sake of writing, without expecting that it bring something back to me.
Today, I can honor my next chapter by taking one step before I feel completely ready.

That is devotional structure. Not rigid. Not punitive. Not hustle in spiritual clothing.

Devotional. A way of arranging my day around what truly matters. A way of saying, with my actions, “This life matters to me.” My body matters. My energy matters. My money matters. My work matters. My freedom matters. My joy matters. My next chapter matters.

And maybe that is what morning pages are really giving me. Not answers. Not a perfect plan. Not a five-year vision with color-coded milestones.

They are giving me access to my own truth. They are showing me where I have been leaking energy. They are showing me where I have been asking small escapes to meet big needs.

They are showing me that I don’t need to punish myself into change, but rather honor myself into alignment.

That feels like a much better way forward. So for now, I will keep writing.
Three pages. One morning at a time. And I will keep listening for what the pages are trying to tell me.
Because apparently, they know ... and they are not afraid to tell the truth.

​Maybe there is a part of you that knows too. Maybe all it needs is a quiet page, a little honesty, and a willingness to listen.


Explore more from A Matter of Magic here

I didn’t realize how tightly I’d been holding my breath until a single phrase loosened something inside me. 

Chosen proximity.

And suddenly, something shifted inside of me. I wasn’t trapped. I wasn’t disappearing. I wasn’t failing. I was here because I chose to be.

Right now, I’m staying at my dad's. He’s safe. He’s cared for. His needs are being met by people who show up every day with skill, patience, and compassion. For that, I am deeply grateful.

And I’m here too. Close. Present. Available.
But, gratefully, I'm not consumed.

For a long time, I didn’t have language for the tension I was carrying. On the surface, my life looks stable, perhaps even fortunate. I have low day-to-day expenses, warm weather, some time freedom, some space to create, and the ability to build something meaningful without the constant pressure of making money to survive.

And yet, underneath all of that, there was a quiet fear humming in the background:

What if I get stuck here?
What if caregiving slowly becomes my whole life?
What if choosing love means losing myself?

The "what ifs" don't seem to end. The fear isn’t dramatic. It doesn’t shout.
It just keeps me braced ... waiting for the next shoe to drop.

Caregiving, especially for aging parents, carries so many invisible stories. That if you love someone, you should do more. That if you’re capable, you should carry it all. That setting boundaries mean abandonment. That wanting freedom somehow makes you selfish.

Most of us never question these assumptions. We absorb them quietly and then wonder why we feel resentful, exhausted, or guilty, even when we’re doing “the right thing.”

The hardest part wasn’t what I was doing. It was what I was telling myself about what it meant.

Chosen proximity gave me a different frame.
It doesn’t mean distance.
It doesn’t mean detachment.
It doesn’t mean indifference.
It means closeness without collapse.
Love without losing myself.
Presence without impatience.
It means I am near because I choose to be ... not because I’m trapped, obligated, conditioned, or proving my worth.

That distinction matters more than I ever realized.

Here’s the truth I needed to say out loud:
My dad is safe.
I am grateful for the people who care for him every day.
I am grateful that I don’t have to do everything to prove that I love him.
And I am grateful for the freedom I've been able to create over the past few months.

All of these things can be true at the same time. Love does not require martyrdom. Care does not require collapse. And choosing yourself does not mean abandoning someone else.

I know I’m not alone in this. So many caregivers, especially women, are walking around with the same unspoken fear ... that once they step fully into this role, there will be no way back to themselves. And at the same time, this is the role most women been raised to take on. 

What if that doesn’t have to be true?
What if caregiving could include choice?
What if boundaries were an expression of love, not a failure of it?
What if staying connected didn’t mean giving everything away?
What if asking for help was the starting point and not the only thing left when burnout takes over?

I don’t know exactly what the next chapter looks like yet, but what I do know is this:

I’m no longer confusing sacrifice with love.
I’m no longer measuring devotion by how much of myself I give up.
I’m no longer holding my breath.
And I’m no longer putting my own life on hold.

Or at least, I’m learning not to.


If I’m honest, there are still pieces of my life that feel paused right now. I’m still living where I’m living. I’m still doing the back-and-forth visiting ritual. I’m still learning how to trust that my dad is safe, cared for, and supported even when I am not physically nearby.


That part is still unfolding.


But something in me has shifted. I can feel the difference between staying close from love and staying close from fear. And that distinction may be the beginning of finding my way back to myself.

This reflection is becoming part of a larger body of work I’m creating around caregiving; one that centers on clarity, compassion, honest conversations, and sustainable support for the people who are trying to care without disappearing.


My Caregiving Essentials will be released in June. If you’d like to stay in the loop and receive book launch updates, event announcements, and free resources, you can join the launch list click here. 

Yesterday opened something up for me.

I’m still not feeling quite like myself. I’m in a recovery season. I’m five days post-antibiotics for a pretty bad sinus infection. It’s allergy season where I am, and that’s stirring up my asthma. I’m feeling caregiving burnout, with a bit of guilt to go along with it. And the energy of all that’s happening in the world has been affecting me for a while.

Needless to say, I am exhausted.

Even through that fog, yesterday I had a powerful training day inside my LEAP session, part of a high-level coaching program I’m involved in. I learned a couple of new AI tools to use in my new business project, and it was literally mind-blowing.

Say what you want about AI, but my recommendation is this: embrace the fact that it’s not going away, and figure out how to use it in a way that enhances your work, your life, and your future.

But I digress.

Yesterday felt exciting in that deep, meaningful way that happens when something clicks. When a vision that has been living inside you starts taking shape in a new and tangible form. When you can suddenly see what might actually be possible.

And today? I’m wiped out. Not metaphorically. Literally. I’m feeling the kind of tired that settles into your bones. The kind that makes even a simple task feel heavier than it should. The kind that reminds you, very clearly, that your body is still keeping score, even when your spirit is lighting up with possibility.

There is something quite humbling about that.

We don’t talk enough about the tension between momentum and limitation. About what it feels like to have your mind buzzing with ideas, your heart pulled toward what’s next, and your body saying, Not so fast.
My nature is to resist. To push through. To keep going. To tell myself this is not the time to slow down. But the truth is, my body is calling the shots.

That’s why I’m sitting in a chair with a cup of tea, not doing much of anything today. I am humbled by the fact that I can’t override what my body is asking for. I have no choice but to slow down and honor it.

Maybe the real work is not just in creating momentum, but in learning how to hold it gently. Maybe the lesson is not to override myself the moment I feel a spark, but to trust that what is meant to grow does not disappear just because I rest. That can be hard to remember, especially for those of us who are used to pushing through. Especially when we’re excited. Especially when we can feel the energy of something new beginning to come alive.

Healing has its own timeline. So does integration.

I’m learning that sometimes a breakthrough day is followed by a day in bed. I’m noticing that sometimes clarity arrives before stamina does. I’m accepting the fact that sometimes life gives you a glimpse of what’s next, and then asks you to pause long enough to absorb it.

Not because you’re failing. Not because you’re off track. But because your body is asking for care at the same time your future is asking for courage and action.

Both matter.

Today, my only real job is self-care first. Later this afternoon, I’m taking my dad to a doctor’s appointment. If I have it in me, I may drive a few minutes farther to the beach and catch the sunset. And if I don’t, I’ll come home and rest.

Maybe that is enough. Maybe that is more than enough. Maybe resting in the middle of momentum is its own kind of wisdom. Maybe this is what it looks like to honor the season I’m actually in, instead of forcing myself into the one I wish I were in.

So this week, I’m not writing from a place of polished certainty. I’m writing from the middle. From the place where inspiration and exhaustion coexist. From the place where something new is clearly emerging, but my body is still asking me to move much more slowly than I want to.

And maybe that’s the invitation for all of us:
To stop believing that slowing down erases momentum.
To stop being afraid that rest will somehow lose the idea or dull the inspiration.
To trust that sometimes the best thing we can do is pause without judging ourselves or trying to squeeze in just one more thing.

What if rest is not interrupting the path?
What if, sometimes, it is the path?

Here’s a simple but powerful technique I use when I need to slow down and come back to the present moment. I’ve been using it a lot lately to help me get out of my head and give my body what it needs: 
trishajacobson.kit.com/f8b2368757

If you’d like to explore more reflections like this, you can browse the A Matter of Magic blog here.

I’m taking part in a Joy Challenge again this year. It's something I’ve done for several years now. Usually, I’m more actively engaged in it. This year, not so much. I haven’t been feeling well, and to be honest, just getting through the day has felt like enough some days.

And yet, maybe because of that, I’m noticing something deeper about joy. Not the loud, obvious kind. Not the performative kind. Something quieter. More subtle. More available than I might have realized before. Yesterday, joy showed up unexpectedly.

I was still feeling worn out, but I needed to take my dad to the doctor. He also wanted to run a couple of errands while we were out, which meant lugging his heavy wheelchair in and out of the car with a body that already felt spent, making small talk when what I really wanted was silence, and counting the minutes until I could crawl back into bed.

We made it through the appointment. The errands got done. On the way back to Dad’s place, we drove past SweetBerries Frozen Custard & Eatery, and I felt a little spark.

In that moment, I forgot how tired I was. I asked Dad if he wanted to stop, and of course he said yes. He loves SweetBerries. So I turned the car around and went back. He wanted to go inside. In that moment I remembered how tired I was and I set a boundary. I couldn't even think about dragging the wheel chair in and out of the car another time. I heard myself saying no. I'll just pull the car over into the shade and enjoy our custard in the car. 

Normally I would put his needs and desires first. But this time, I took care of myself first. It was an odd feeling but inside of it there might have been just a hint of a new sort of joy that celebrated me taking care of myself first and setting a boundary that served me in that moment. 

While I was ordering, I got a text from my cousin saying she and her husband were at Dad’s place hoping to visit. I told them where we were, and they came to join us. What followed was one of those simple, lovely moments life sometimes slips in when you least expect it. A spontaneous visit in the parking lot over frozen custard. My dad was happy. It was good to see my cousin. And I felt a pause in the heaviness I'd been feeling.

Later, after I dropped Dad off, I went home, laid across my bed, fell asleep immediately, and woke up surrounded by my cats and just in time to see my favorite UConn women’s basketball player go first in the WNBA draft and join my second favorite former UConn player on the same team.

Not exactly a great day.
Not exactly an on top of my game day.
And still, there it was ... Joy.

This morning, joy found me again, this time through a Facebook memory in the form of a YouTube video: Seasons of Love from the musical Rent.

“Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?

In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles. in laughter, in strife?

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure a year in the life?

How about love?
Measure in love ... "

As I listened, something clicked. Joy, at least the kind I’m noticing right now, may simply be love noticed in the present moment. It’s noticing the places where love exists.
​
In our friendships.
In our relationships.
In nature.
In our bodies, even when they are asking more of us than usual.
In our connection with animals.
In play.
In a conversation.
In simple moments and simple pleasures.

Even when life feels hard. Even when we’re tired. Even when things are not quite right.

Joy is not always the absence of struggle. Sometimes it is the willingness to stay present enough to notice what is still beautiful, what is still warm, what is still connected, what is still alive with love.

Maybe that’s why joy can feel so profound. Not because everything is easy. But because something deeper is always there waiting for us to notice.

I’m thinking another trip to the doctor may be in order, because something still feels off physically. But I’m also aware that even in the midst of that, there is always joy to notice or create in and around the less than joyful moments of life.

Joy really is a state of mind.
A way of seeing the world.
A way of meeting the moment.
A way of being.

And maybe, just maybe, joy is what happens when we become present enough to recognize love where it already lives.

If you want to listen to Seasons of Love, here’s the version that found its way back to me this morning:
https://youtu.be/UvyHuse6buY?si=ookpFkNrsFOwoxoB

If you'd like a wonderful tool to help you be present in the moment no matter what else is going on, check out my favorite tool here. 

After two weeks of dealing with allergies with an asthmatic component, this morning, I finally gave in. I spent the morning on the couch.

Not in some noble, intentional, self-care kind of way. More like, I woke up with a fever, a sinus headache, stuffy head, a touch of dizziness, and barely able to make it to the couch. 

Exhausted. Congested. And humbled. The kind of tired that makes it clear your body has moved beyond gently asking for attention and into the no turning back place. I curled up with pillows, a blanket and a cat on either side of me and took a three hour nap.

I’m a pharmacist. I know the difference between allergies, a cold, and a sinus infection that has been quietly brewing. I would be the one to coach a friend to take care of the symptoms before they turned into an acute situation. But when it comes to myself, I tend to push through it all until my body takes over and puts me on the couch to get my attention.

I have been focused on my dad. On what needed to happen. On getting him settled. On making sure the moving pieces were handled. Somewhere in the middle of all that, my own body became one more thing to deal with ... but later. There were so many things on my to do list that got pushed aside so I could support my dad. 

There were social plans that I didn't want to cancel because I needed to have some fun and find some joy with friends.

Around 2:30 this afternoon, I dragged myself to the pharmacy to get a decongestant to relieve the pressure in my head. I pulled out of the parking lot to head home and I heard a voice in my head tell me to go to the walk-in clinic to get antibiotics. I almost ignored it. I just wanted to get back on the couch. 

Instead I made a U-turn, and went to the walk-in clinic.

It was such a simple moment. And somehow, not simple at all. Sometimes the hardest thing for caregivers, helpers, and women who are used to holding it all together is admitting that we need care too.

The walk in visit took all of 15 minutes. Never in the history of me have I ever experienced such a quick, efficient visit. My diagnosis was confirmed. They sent in a prescription for antibiotic and I was on my way back to the couch. 

While I was waiting for my prescription, I connected with another woman who was also there waiting. She shared that she was caring for her husband who is disabled. We found our way quickly into conversation about caregiving and how hard it can be. She spoke first and shared about the toll it takes. The way women so often keep going, keep managing, keep carrying, even when their own bodies are clearly asking for attention.

She also validated something I’ve known for a long time and keep hearing again and again:
This caregiving conversation matters.
The support matters.
And the book I’m writing is needed.

Maybe part of why it is needed is because so many women have been conditioned to treat themselves as the most flexible part of the system.
The appointment for our own care can wait.
The rest can wait.
The walk can wait.
The healthy meal can wait.

We wait and wait until the body finally says no.

Not because we are weak.
Not because we do not know better.
Not because we do not value our health.
But because when someone else needs something, especially someone we love, our own needs become negotiable.

We tell ourselves we will deal with it tomorrow.
After this appointment.
After the paperwork.
After the crisis.
After everyone else is okay.

The truth is, caregiving has a way of expanding to fill every available space ... if we let it. Self-care,  at least in seasons like this, is rarely glamorous. It is not a bubble bath, a spa day, or a perfectly curated morning routine.

Sometimes it is getting honest. Sometimes it is canceling the thing. Taking the meds. Going to urgent care. Getting back on the couch. And admitting you are not fine.

Sometimes it is letting your body matter as much as everyone else you have been caring for. That was the lesson for me today. It is not a shiny one. It is not a pretty one. It is just a real one. The kind that leaves you a little wrung out, a little more tender, and maybe a little wiser.

I’m on the mend now, but I can also see how easy it would have been to keep minimizing this for another few days. To push through. To override. To postpone.

I know I am not alone in that. If you are caring for someone right now, or carrying more than most people can see, let this be your reminder:
Your needs are not the interruption.
Your body leaves clues.
Your exhaustion is not a character flaw.
And taking care of yourself before you completely crash is not selfish.

It is part of how you keep going. Sometimes the most loving thing we can do is stop waiting until we are completely flattened to finally listen.

Yesterday, I was out meandering with a friend I haven’t seen in years. She is down from New Hampshire, visiting, and called me out of the blue to get together for a few hours. It's one of those friendships that doesn’t require catching up all at once. You just start talking, and somehow it all finds its way in.

We ended up in a part of the state I never go to. Traffic slowed on the highway, and without much thought, I got off at the next exit and took a detour to avoid the traffic ... or so it seemed.

We drove for a while, talking, not really paying attention to where we were. And then something began to feel familiar. Not in a clear, conscious way. It was more more like a quiet recognition. 'I've been here before," I heard myself say out loud.

And then I knew.

Without meaning to, without planning to, I had found my way onto the road that leads to the hospital where my dad was taken eight years ago to be weaned off the ventilator that saved his life and learn how to deal with his new trach.

I hadn’t been back there since. Not once. There was no reason to go back. No desire to be anywhere near that place. And yet, there I was.

At first, it was just a feeling. A subtle shift. A kind of stillness inside me.
And then it all came back.

I felt the ventilator again. Not as a thought. Not as a memory I was trying to recall.
I felt it in my body. I heard that sound. I saw the numbers on the screen. I remembered the waiting. The not knowing. It came back all at once, as if no time had passed.

March 27 is my brother’s death anniversary. My dad had a cardiac event the next morning. In an instant, as I drove by that driveway, it all flooded back.

And then this morning, Facebook memories reminded me of Covid times, when the mention of the word "ventilator" caused shock waves to go through my body. I didn’t connect it all yesterday. But I did this morning. The body has its own way of keeping score. The past has a way of finding us.

Eight years ago, everything was happening all at once.

My dad was in Florida, fighting to live after a cardiac event. His heart had been repaired, but his kidneys and liver were shutting down, and we didn’t know where he stood neurologically. He was on a ventilator and had several IV bags dripping into his veins to keep him alive. 

I was sitting at his bedside as his medical proxy, holding his living will, leaning on my medical background and consulting with dad's team, doing my best to handle something no one is ever fully prepared for. What does "heroic measures" really mean when navigating an actual clinical situation and considering all the variables? I learned through immersion what my medical training didn't teach me. 

At the same time, my brother Kevin had lost his battle with cancer. He was being laid to rest in Rhode Island. My family gathered for his funeral in Rhode Island while I sat in a hospital room in Florida, holding space between life and death.

I remember feeling something take over the room. 
Not metaphorically. Literally. Energetically.

I knew it was connected to my brother. I could feel my mom’s presence too. Almost as if she was telling me that she was there to help Kevin along the way. She had passed just six months earlier. I had been with her when she made the decision to die. She told me she needed to be there for Kevin … to meet him when he arrived.

That moment still gives me goosebumps.

My dad’s nurse came in to change his IVs and stopped in her tracks. She typically moved fast to keep up with the pace her job demanded. But not this time. 

She dropped the IV bags on the bedside table and sat down next to me, “There’s something strange going on in this room. It's energetic," she said.

I told her what was happening in Rhode Island. She took a deep breath and sunk deeper into the chair. She just sat with me. In silence. As if honoring something neither of us needed to define.

I could feel the energy moving. Around the room. Around the bed. And as quickly as it had shown up, it was gone.

Dad recovered with minimal deficits. He had no memory of all that happened to him while he was intubated in the hospital, or at the vent/trach hospital. It was as if part of his brain had lost something or as if the effects of the drugs he was on made him forget. He had even forgotten that his son had died the day before his own health issues began.

About six months later, during a routine visit to his rehab facility, he asked if we could talk. He was hesitant. He asked me not to speak until he finished telling me the story and told me to answer only when he asked me a specific question. He thought I might think he was crazy.

He started with a question. "Did Kevin die?" he asked. "Yes. He died of a brain tumor," I responded. "I thought so," he answered. 

Then he proceeded with his story. He told me he had been at Kevin’s funeral. He named the restaurant where everyone gathered afterward. He told me about the weather. "It was raining cats and dogs," he said. He told me who was there at the service and who went to the restaurant after the service. He mentioned people who had already passed including my mom, her brother, and her two sisters. He went on to mention the people who were there who were still living. 

Then he asked me why I wasn’t there. I explained that I was at his bedside while he lay there in a coma connected to life saving machines and IV drips.

He took a deep breath, shook his head in disbelief, and continued with his story. He told me that after the funeral, he took a walk with mom. He described the light and the tunnel. And he told me that she told him he needed to go back. That "the kids" had experienced way too much loss in a short period of time and that we needed him to live. 
​
The logical part of me could have probably explained it away. Drugs. Trauma. Hallucination. But something in me chose not to.

I called my brother and asked him to tell me about Kevin's funeral. Details. Who was there. Where it was. Where they went after the service. Even what the weather was. "It was raining cats and dogs," he said. My dad had it all right, except for the people who had passed. 

I didn't really need proof, but confirming the details my dad had shared somehow validated something deep within me that I already knew. 

What we see and what we understand about life may only be a small part of what is actually happening.

At the time I first wrote about all of this, the pandemic was unfolding. The word ventilator was everywhere. Messages about living wills and end-of-life decisions were constant.

And I felt teary, triggered, and emotional. I remembered my own experience with my dad while also staying grounded in something deeper that was reminding me to breathe, to be present. to live fully, to take one step at a time and to trust the unfolding.

I remember asking myself: What if all of the loss, the intensity, the experience with my family was somehow preparing me for something I couldn't see? What if it gave me the perspective, the tools, the capacity to move through something like this?

Back then, the answer felt like a quiet yes. Now, eight years later … standing on that road again, without even trying to find it ... it felt a loud yes. 

It's all connected. It's all for a purpose. And we can't always see the whole picture when we're living it. But every once in awhile, we get a glimpse of the tapestry of our lives and how it's all woven together and connected to the present moment. 

And how ironic that while this was all happening inside of me, I was connected to someone I never see, on a road I never travel, with a person who gave me a reference point to connect it to all that has happened in the past eight years and how life has changed.

I am amazed at how the universe masterfully pulls threads from the past into the present to remind us of the growth we've experienced and how much we have to be grateful for, no matter what happens in life. 

The past finds me. Not to keep me there. But to remind me ... 

Of what I’ve lived through.
Of what I’ve held.
Of the growth.
Of what has shaped me in ways I’m still discovering.

There is something sacred in the way memory lives in the body and the way time folds in on itself.

There is something powerful in the way connection, love, energy doesn’t disappear, but instead is woven through the tapestry of our lives.

There is something profoundly powerful in the way that unexpected moments like this can remind us of how far we've come in our journey, how powerful our learning and growing is, how far love can stretch, and how much we have to be grateful for every single day.

PS This morning I am snuggled up with furry friends in a beautiful spot contemplating life, sipping tea, and writing. After I'm finished writing the next chapter of my new book, My Caregiving Essentials: What to Say, Do, and Prepare Before Caregiving Becomes Your Second Full-Time Job, I will do some work tasks to bring in some money. And then I am heading to dad's assisting living facility to hang out and watch the NCAA Women's Final Four March Madness games. He and I have been through a lot and have both come a long way from that day in that hospital room. We are both still breathing, We are both still learning and growing. And we both have so much to be grateful for. 

I recently had one of those days that leaves you exhausted deep down to the bone.

I started the morning at the hospital around 10:00 a.m. My dad had been admitted by ambulance from his assisted living facility at 3:30am the previous morning with painful urinary retention.

Two days before he was showing signs of a urinary tract infection and I noticed some cognitive decline. I spoke to the nurse and asked for him to be evaluated. The nurse sent out a culture to the lab to confirm a UTI and told me they would wait for the cuture and antibiotic sensitivities to come back before they started antibiotics. I asked that they start a broad spectrum antibiotic to get a jump start on the infection that was already affecting his cognition. She quoted me policy. I get it. But we’ve been here before and each time ends in an ER visit.

In the ER, the catheter had resolved the retention. But the much bigger issue was still sitting there, untreated.
He has a UTI.

Not a hypothetical one. Not a “maybe.” A confirmed culture had already been done at the assisted living facility, with sensitivities pending. By the time I got to the hospital, he had likely had this brewing for more than four days. And his cognition had declined so significantly that it was difficult to even have a conversation with him. He was mumbling incoherently, nowhere near his baseline.

I asked to speak with his nurse.

She was kind. She gave me report. He was resting comfortably. They were keeping him another 24 hours for observation. Most likely discharge tomorrow. Then I asked the question that should have had a clear answer:

“What about antibiotics?”

She told me she was waiting for the doctor to do rounds. That was the same answer I had heard from his nurse the day before. And yet, there were still no antibiotics while my dad was showing progressive cognitive decline.

I asked about the culture and sensitivities that were completed from the assisted living facility. She had no documentation of it. None.

That moment said everything. This is what makes care transitions so dangerous. Details get lost. Paperwork gets lost. History gets reduced to a chief complaint with no supporting documentation of the course of the chief complaint. The patient becomes a symptom instead of a whole human being with a history, baseline functioning, disease progression, allergies, risks, and context.

The nurse apologized. She assumed that his cognitive status was his baseline. I assured her it was not. I told her he had been declining for four days while waiting for the system to do it's thing. Filling in the missing pieces the nure didn't have elevated the urgency. UTI’s in the elderly can be dangerous.

A couple of other issues were revealed that happened during his transfer of care from the ALF to the hospital ER. My dad’s DNR had not been documented. His allergies had not been documented. His history of present illness had not been effectively communicated. And instead of treating the bigger clinical picture, they were treating only the immediate presenting problem: pain due to urinary retention.

As if the rest of it didn’t matter.
​
I called the assisted living facility myself and asked them to text me the culture results and sensitivities. They did. I asked them to fax it to the hospital to help expedite an antibiotic order. That happened around 10:30 a.m.

And there I was, once again, inside the soul-sucking machinery of a broken system filled with good people trying to function inside processes that do not serve patients well. That’s the part that is so hard to explain unless you’ve lived it. Most of the people in the system are not bad people. They are caring. They are trying. They are doing their best to function efficiently and responsibly and provide the best care for their patients.

But the system itself is fragmented, overloaded, inconsistent, and, sometimes, shockingly unsafe.

And family caregivers?
We become the backup system.
We become the memory.
We become the historian.
We become the medication checker.
We become the allergy alert.
We become the person standing there saying, “No, that’s not his baseline.”
We become the one making sure the right paper gets into the right hands at the right time because somehow, in a world of electronic medical records, fax machines still determine whether a patient gets treated.

Oh, and did I mention that when I first tried to communicate with the nurse about what was going on with my dad, he clicked, clicked, clicked on the computer and told me that he couldn’t talk to me without dad’s permission as he did not have Health Care Advocate paperwork on file in the system. I have delivered a paper copy of that document to both medical records and to the clinical floor at least 6 times over the past several years. My dad has been a patient there at least 12 times. I literally carry it with me in a file on my phone and a paper copy in my car for occasions like these, when such paperwork gets lost. I think it happens when system software gets updated. At least that is my best guess. But I digress.

At one point I left to get something to eat. I should have gone somewhere and had a decent meal. Instead, I went to Walgreens and bought jelly beans and chocolate. Honestly? That felt about right.

People talk about caregiver burnout as if it’s caused only by the emotional toll of loving someone who needs care. But there is another piece of it too: the constant vigilance. The hyper-alertness. The knowledge that if you do not stay on top of everything, important things may be missed.

Not small things.
Important things.
Potentially dangerous things.

I went back to the hospital just in time to catch the physician during rounds around 3:30 p.m. She told me they were waiting for sensitivities and that it would take another 24 to 48 hours. I was livid. I took a deep breath before I spoke. I let her know that I was a health care provider and was clear about how the system works and where things are broken. I explained that a culture was done 4 days ago when all this started and that I had the results on my phone from the facility. I explained that they had faxed the results to the hospital, but apparently it never got past medical records to where it needed to go so quick action could be taken.

I showed her my phone with the sensitivity results that were done at the assisted living facility. She said she would start him on an IV antibiotic right away. I told her my dad is actually allergic to drug class she wanted to start him on. The allergy wasn’t listed in his electronic chart!

I told her what antibiotic made the most sense based on the sensitivity report, my father’s history of allergies, and where he would be going upon discharge. If she gave him an IV antibiotic, he would have to go to a skilled nursing facility for treatment. He’s 90. He just wants to be home. If he was given an oral antibiotic, he could go back to his apartment in assisted living. 

She agreed to prescribe the oral antibiotic and consider discharging him in 24 hours. 

At that point, I honestly didn’t know whether to scream, cry, or laugh in disbelief ... or take a deep breath and be grateful that we finally had a plan in place. 

Why weren’t his allergies documented?
Why hadn’t anyone integrated the information that came with him from the facility?
Why was his acute cognitive decline not driving more urgency?
Why did it take a family member standing at his bedside, holding the lab results on her phone, to move this forward?

These are not rhetorical questions. These are the questions caregivers ask every day in hospitals, rehab centers, assisted living facilities, emergency rooms, doctor’s appointments, and during every handoff in between. No wonder I was stress eating chocolate and jelly beans! 

That evening, I stayed until I physically witnessed the nurse give my dad his first dose of antibiotic. It was 6:30 p.m.

After more than four days of a brewing infection.
After significant cognitive decline.
After chasing paperwork and providing missing paperwork.
After documenting missing allergies.
After pushing back on delay after delay after delay.

I was exhausted. I did not get any of my own work done. I had to cancel clients. I lost money. And I didn't give it a second thought. 

Instead, after leaving the hospital, I went to the river and wrote another story for my Caregiving Essentials book I'm working on. Because this is the work too.

Telling the truth about what caregiving really looks like.
Naming the hidden labor.
Exposing the gaps.
Guiding families around how to navigate broken systems.
Helping them learn how to best advocate for their loved ones.
Saying out loud what too many family caregivers and health care providers already know:

Care transitions are dangerous.
Not because no one cares, but because the system is not built to reliably hold all the pieces together.

So family members do it. And it costs us time, energy, peace of mind, our own health, our financial status, and our nervous system, more than most realize. Caregivers end up depleted, running on sugar and adrenaline, trying to hold themselves together while holding everything else together for their loved ones.

I know I am not the only one living this.

If you have ever sat in a hospital room wondering how you became the last line of defense for someone you love, I see you.

If you have ever had to repeat the same history five times to five different people, I see you.

If you have ever caught an error, filled in a missing detail, pushed for a next step, or stayed just a little longer because you didn’t quite trust that the system had it handled, I see you.

If you are tired in a way that sleep doesn’t quite fix, I feel you. 

Caregiver support matters. Advocacy makes a difference. Good communication is essential.
And this is why we need to stop pretending that family caregivers are just “visitors” or “helpers.”

In many cases, we are the continuity. We are the safety net. We are the glue holding fragmented care together.
And that is too much to carry alone.

Sometimes the system really is that broken. And sometimes love looks like standing there until the antibiotic that is 4 days late is finally administered.

​Here is my favorite breathing tool that always calms me down and gets me through. 

This is Part 3 of my Road to Reinvention series ...

When I began this Road to Reinvention blog series, I thought I’d be writing mostly about my RV renovation, the road ahead, and the adventure of building a next chapter that feels more like my own life. But a few days after publishing the first post, something else came through. It didn’t come from my content plan or a carefully mapped-out posting strategy. It came in that in-between space between sleep and waking, when thoughts are less filtered and deeper truth emerges.
​
What showed up had little to do with RV projects and a lot to do with becoming. With age. With creativity. With the realization that I am still learning, still growing, and still being called into something new.

At first, part of me thought, Wait. That’s not the next post in the series.

But the more I sat with it, the more I realized it was. Because this journey was never really just about the RV.
The RV may be the visible part. It's the symbol. It's becoming the setting and the vehicle, in every sense of the word. But the journey is much deeper.

The journey is about what happens when the life you’ve been living no longer feels quite right. When the structures that once held you begin to feel too small. When, after years of doing what needed to be done and what was expected of you no longer seems to fit. And when you begin to ask what it would look like to follow what feels deeply aligned instead.

That’s the real road I’m on. And if I’m honest, it is not unfolding in a neat, linear way.

In one part of my life, I’m trying to be focused, strategic, and disciplined. I’m working on creating and launching something meaningful. The project requires that I think about timing, structure, messaging, and execution.

In another part of my life, I find myself longing for something much less controlled. I want to wander. I want to explore. I want to go with the flow. I want to follow my intuition. I want to notice what shows up. I want to be fully present in each moment. I want to trust the next right step, even if I can’t yet see the whole map.

And then there is the caregiving part of my life. My dad is settled in assisted living and surrounded with wonderful support. My day to day involvement has decreased significantly.  But ... and that is a big but, seems to be fueled with some old stories around roles and responsibility and infused with some guilt I haven't quite fully sorted out. 

Some days, those three ways of being feel beautifully complementary. Other days, they feel completely at odds.

One part of me says, You need more structure.
Another says, You need more space. 
And yet another says, You need to take less responsibility for others and more for yourself and your own life.

One part wants a plan.
Another wants to be quiet long enough to hear what is actually true.

One part wants momentum.
Another wants rest.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, I find myself wondering what this tension is really about.
Is it boredom? Fear of success? Fear of failure? Resistance? Procrastination? Exhaustion? Intuition? Some form of self-protection? Maybe it’s some combination of all of it.

Or is it simply the honest complexity of being human in a season of change?

What I do know is this: reinvention sounds inspiring from the outside, but from the inside it often feels messy, tender, contradictory, unsettled, and unfinished.

There is a part of me that still wants reinvention to behave itself. To show up on time. To fit neatly into a plan. To move in a straight line from inspiration to clarity to action. But that has not been my experience.

My experience has been more like this ...

A desire begins to stir. An idea takes shape. Fear comes along for the ride. I work through the fear. Inspiration takes over. Real life shows up . Today it was a 3:27am call that my dad is being taken to the hospital. Last week it was two missed renewal notices I never got, one for my drivers license and the other for my car registration, and the realization that both had expired while I've been out of state caregiving for my dad. And I was still driving!

Responsibilities remain even as I dream of hitting the road and making my dream life my real life.  My energy rises and falls. I do my best around self-care. And somewhere in the middle of it all, something unexpected arrives that alters my course and leads me to a place I didn't see coming.

Perhaps before I do anything, I need to embrace something more foundational:
I am still becoming.
I am in the messy middle.
I don't have all the answers.
Life will continue to do what life does no matter what I choose next. 

Maybe that is what all of this is really about. Maybe it's not about getting the RV ready to hit the road. or supporting dad through another hospital admission, or a lost piece of mail. or writing a blog series. or hosting another event, or working with another coaching client. .

Maybe it's about learning how to live between structure and surrender. 

Perhaps it's about learning:

• How to create enough structure to support me without suffocating me.
• How to make plans without being attached to them.
• How to leave room for what wants to emerge.
• How to move forward without forcing.
• How to rest without disappearing.
• How to be responsible without being constrained
• How to have impact without burning myself out

That feels like its own kind of practice. My sense is that this is something many women experience in seasons of transition. We are told to be organized, productive, strategic, and responsible. We are also told to trust ourselves, listen inward, and follow what feels aligned.

But nobody really tells us what to do when those things seem to pull in opposite directions.

Nobody tells us how to live when we are no longer willing to abandon ourselves for the sake of obligation, but we also don’t want to drift so freely that nothing solid gets built.

I suspect that is exactly the work.

Not choosing one over the other, but learning the dance between them. Learning when structure is support and when it becomes pressure. Learning when surrender is wisdom and when it becomes avoidance. Learning how to tell the difference. Learning how to stay honest. Learning how to trust ourselves enough to keep listening.

I don’t have a tidy conclusion to this, because I am in the middle of it.

I’m still figuring out what belongs to fear and what belongs to wisdom. I'm still learning what needs more structure and what needs more room to breathe. I'm still deciding what needs accountability and what needs grace. 

But I do know this:

I no longer believe that every detour means I’ve lost the path. Sometimes what looks off-track is actually revealing the deeper track underneath the one I thought I was supposed to follow. Sometimes the “random” thing that shows up is not random at all. Sometimes it is the thread that leads me to the magic. 

I'm learning that reinvention is not about finally becoming disciplined enough to control the journey.
It is more about learning how to stay present enough to fully participate in it.

To notice.
To listen.
To choose.
To trust.
To act.
To pause.
To breathe.
To begin again.

So for now, I’m staying with the question. I’m still dreaming of hitting the road and taking steps to do that by the end of May. At the same time I’m staying with responsibility and heading to the hospital to check in on my dad. And I’m staying open to the possibility that this space between structure and surrender is not a problem to solve, but part of the path itself.

If you’re in a season of transition too ... trying to find your footing between planning and listening, effort and ease, momentum and rest ... maybe you’re not doing it wrong either.

Maybe you’re just on your own messy middle and if you fully embrace it while doing your best to be present in the experience, you will find the insight and inspiration to guide your next steps. 

One thing I know for sure, I am grateful for my coach and accountability partner who help guide me through this process.I'm also grateful for the tools I use to help get me out of my head and into my heart.

I've created the free Heart Reset Toolkit that includes these tools: Heart Breathing. Heart Hugs. Heart Talks. I used all three of them this morning sorting through what's happening with my dad (and me). Maybe you'd like to see how they can support you? Click here to download.

This is Part 2 of my Road to Reinvention series ...

Lately, I’ve been learning to use new tools and technology to bring ideas to life in ways I never could have before. And what’s striking me most isn’t just what these tools can do. It’s what becomes possible when wisdom, curiosity, and willingness meet in the same season of life.

There’s something kind of surreal about realizing that at 67, I am still learning, still growing, and still creating things I would not have been able to create back in the day.

And honestly? That feels really good.

Not because I think I should be proving anything to anyone. Not because I’m trying to keep up. And not because I suddenly became someone different.

It feels good because I can see, maybe more clearly than ever, that growth doesn’t have an expiration date. Creativity doesn’t dry up just because the calendar keeps turning. And the part of us that longs to create, contribute, explore, and become more fully ourselves does not retire when we do.

In some ways, I think it gets stronger.

Years ago, I had ideas. I had heart, work ethic, passion, and a voice. But I didn’t yet have this version of me. I didn’t have the same perspective. I didn’t have the same confidence. I didn’t have the gift of time. I didn’t have the same freedom to experiment. And I definitely didn’t have access to the kinds of tools that can now help bring an idea to life in a fraction of the time.

Back then, there were things I simply wasn’t able to create, not because I lacked intelligence or desire, but because I was in a different season. I was carrying different responsibilities. I was building a life, a career, a business, and a reputation. I was doing what needed to be done.

Now, here I am. Older. Wiser. A little bolder. A lot less interested in other people’s opinions. And more willing than ever to follow what feels aligned, meaningful, and true.

There is something deeply empowering about that.

I think one of the biggest lies women absorb is that creativity belongs to the young. That reinvention has a deadline. That learning new things is for other people. That if you didn’t build it earlier, maybe you missed your chance.

I don’t believe any of that.

I believe there are things we can create now precisely because of everything we’ve lived. Because we’ve had our hearts broken. Because we’ve had to start over. Because we’ve cared for people. Because we’ve worked hard. Because we’ve lost things. Because we’ve learned what matters. Because we’ve stopped needing every step to make sense before we take it. Because we’ve faced fear and found out where our courage lives.

There is a depth available to us now that simply wasn’t there before ... and maybe that’s the point.

Maybe this season isn’t about trying to recreate who we used to be. Maybe it’s about becoming more of who we actually are.

That’s what I feel happening in my own life right now. I’m creating things I couldn’t have created years ago. Not in spite of my age, but because of it. Because now I bring a lifetime of experience into the room.

I bring discernment. I bring compassion. I bring intuition. I bring a stronger sense of what matters and what doesn’t. And I bring a willingness to keep learning, even when it stretches me.

Especially when it stretches me.

There is something alive in that. Something hopeful. Something freeing. And I have a feeling I’m not the only one.

Maybe you’ve been feeling it too. That quiet nudge. That inner stirring. That sense that there is still something in you wanting to be expressed, created, explored, or shared. Maybe you’ve been wondering whether it’s too late. Whether you still have time. Whether you have what it takes to build something new, or begin again, or finally listen to that part of yourself you’ve been putting off for years.

I want to say this as clearly as I can:
It is not too late.
You are not too old.
You are not behind.
And you do not need to have it all figured out before you begin.

Sometimes the next chapter starts with nothing more than a willingness to say yes to what’s calling you now. That’s really what this season of my life is about. It’s not about going backward and trying to reclaim an earlier version of myself. It’s about listening for what is true now and having the courage to create from that place.

That is the energy behind so much of what I’m building. It is exactly why I created From Career to Calling. Because I know I’m not the only woman standing in that in-between space between what was and what could still be.

If something in you has been stirring ... if you’ve been feeling the pull toward more meaning, more alignment, more creativity, or a deeper sense of purpose in your next chapter, I’d love to invite you to join me for From Career to Calling: A 3-Day Experience for Women Ready to Create What’s Next.

It’s a space for reflection, possibility, courage, and honest conversation about what it means to create a life that feels like it belongs to the person you are ... and the person you are becoming. If you’re ready to stop circling the question of what’s next and start creating it with more clarity, courage, and intention, learn more about From Career to Calling: A 3-Day Experience for Women Ready to Create What’s Next here.

This post begins a short series about my RV renovation; a project that has turned into something far more meaningful than paint, tools, and design choices. Along the way, it has become a reflection on freedom, reinvention, and creating a life that feels deeply aligned with who I am now.

If you’re in a season of transition yourself ... wondering what’s next, feeling the pull toward something different, or simply wanting a life that feels more like you, I hope this series offers a bit of inspiration, encouragement, and perhaps even a little magic along the way.

Over the next few posts, I’ll be sharing the real story behind this journey—how the RV found me, what the renovation (and reinvention) process has been like, and how it’s helping me shape the next chapter of my life. I’m glad you’re here for the ride.
​

Sometimes the next chapter of your life doesn’t arrive as a carefully thought-out plan. Sometimes it shows up quietly on your phone while you’re sipping your morning tea.

That’s more or less how my RV came into my life.

After selling Ripple on Silver Lake, my beloved Victorian lodging dream property, I found myself in unfamiliar territory. Ripple had been a huge chapter of my life and something I had manifested quite literally out of thin air. Before that there was my ski school chapter and my sex ed teacher chapter, both of which came to an abrupt end during Covid.

The day of the closing I headed into my next adventure without really knowing how it would play out. My plan was simple: spend a few months in Florida getting eyes on my dad and helping him  figure out his next steps.

I never planned on staying. But life had other ideas.
After a few falls, a couple of hospital admissions, an extended rehabilitation stay after a fractured arm, and helping him move into assisted living, a few months had stretched into more than a year and a half.

I was grateful to have the flexibility to be there for my dad and dedicated time to spend with him. But there was always a quiet voice inside reminding me that I was not living my own life.

Some days were stressful. Some days were overwhelming. Some days were depressing. Some days consisted of taking care of everything on his list and nothing on my own. There were times when I only stopped long enough to take in the sunset over the ocean. Those were the times when I remembered that although this was the life I was living, I was not living my own life. I was living someone else's version of it.

When I let my thoughts wander, I remembered the life I had left behind up north and compared it to the life I was living in a Florida retirement community. Deep down I knew something had to change. I was losing myself, little by little. 

I started to set some boundaries around my time. I spent more time writing. I chose to invest a portion of the proceeds from Ripple into a long-term coaching program that would support me in offering virtual live events in the human potential space. I briefly considered buying another property—a tiny house on a quiet piece of land beside a brook, but after being tethered to Ripple for so long, the thought of owning and maintaining another property didn’t feel like the right path.

I started letting myself dream about what might be out there beyond my caregiving responsibilities. One thing was crystal clear. I wanted freedom. I wanted that peaceful, easy feeling. I wanted to wake up in a beautiful place and do exactly what I wanted to do. I wanted a change of scenery. I wanted to be close to nature. Not the manicured lawn and gardens I'm surrounded by now, but rather the under the open sky kind of nature. I wanted to travel ... but not the kind most people think of. I wasn’t interested in packed itineraries, tight schedules, or checking destinations off a list.

I was craving something different.
The freedom to wander.
To explore at my own pace.
Or to just be.
To live in that peaceful, easy feeling I’ve heard about in that song.

I wanted my own space, on my own timeline, where I could write, teach, coach, train, spend time in nature, and create a life that felt authentic and fully alive.

Somewhere along the way, the idea of a tiny house slowly evolved into the idea of an RV.
Not a luxury tour bus style coach. Just a small home on wheels. A place that could serve as my hotel room, writing studio, and sanctuary wherever I happened to land.

I had been casually looking for months, but nothing quite fit. Nor did it need to as my plan to travel was off in the distant future. Maybe a year or so down the line.

Then one morning in June of 2025, while I was staying overnight with a friend in Tampa on my way to a training in Charleston, South Carolina, something unexpected happened. I packed my suitcase and set it by the door, ready to begin the long drive north. I made one last cup of tea, curled up on the couch for a few quiet minutes, and picked up my phone.

And there it was.

An RV listing popped up on Facebook Marketplace. It was bigger than what I had originally been looking for, but the price was right, the mileage was low, and it seemed to check all the boxes.

I called immediately. The woman on the other end answered a few questions, and the whole thing started to feel too good to be true. I assumed I would have to fly back later to see it, and that it would surely be gone by then.

But then she told me something that made me laugh out loud. At the same time I got goosebumps. I always pay attention to goosebumps. The RV was just two and a half miles away from where I was staying. It felt like my RV had found me.

Ten minutes later I was standing inside it. The owner walked me through everything, and I’ll be honest—it scared the hell out of me. RVs are essentially small houses on wheels, complete with electrical systems, plumbing, propane, generators, water tanks, and a variety of other things I had never managed before.

When I owned Ripple, I had a whole list of professionals I could call when something broke.
This was different. I mentioned that to the owner while we sat down to talk.
“I have to admit,” I told him, “owning an RV scares the hell out of me.”
He asked, “Have you ever owned a house?”
“Yes,” I said. “I just sold a circa-1903 Victorian lodging property.”
He laughed. “Now that would scare the hell out of me,” he said. “If you could manage that, you can certainly manage an RV. You’ll learn. And I’ll help you.”

That reassurance mattered. But truth was, the RV had appeared about a year earlier than I had planned to buy one. Yet there it was. 

Before committing, I called two RV-savvy friends and asked them to walk me through what I should check. One of them even came out to look at it. Structurally, it was solid. In fact, it was in great shape for its age.

Aesthetically, however, it had clearly lived through several design eras. Some of the vinyl wallpaper was peeling from years of Florida heat. The window treatments were brown, gold, and painfully outdated. The walls were a mix of brown vinyl and an unfortunate shade of gold. The kitchen backsplash was brown, tan, and white. The countertops and tables were a sort of marbleized rose-taupe mix that never quite decided what color it wanted to be. The cabinets were a dark maple somewhere between golden maple and cherry, and the floors were a brown faux tile.

None of it was my style. My friends had renovated several RVs and assured me that everything was fixable. I didn't give much thought to what that actually meant, but fixable got filed as a positive.

The good news?
The L-shaped couch was brand new and would make a cozy writing nook.
The driver and passenger seats were new as well—and they swiveled, reclined and were so comfortable.
There was even a little desk setup on the dash that I could imagine using as a writing space.

Beneath all the dated design choices and peeling vinyl wallpaper, I could see something else.
Potential.

I also had something incredibly valuable.
Time.

This RV had arrived about a year earlier than my actual travel plans, which turned out to be perfect. It meant I could learn slowly while making the space my own. So I took a deep breath, sealed the deal, and drove it straight into storage.

Over the next few months, I took it out occasionally to a nearby state park campground so I could begin learning how everything worked. Electric hookups. The generator. I learned just enough to run the air conditioner, the fan, and the microwave. Water, propane, and sewer systems felt overwhelming at first, so I happily used the campground bathhouse.

During one of those visits, I lived in the RV for a full week. It was pure heaven to be in my own space and not have the responsibility of caring for my dad. 

That week became something unexpected. It became a pause. I had the chance to sit quietly inside my little house on wheels and notice how it felt. What worked. What didn’t. What felt right and what I wanted to change. I began to see it not as the space it currently was, but as the space it could become.

In many ways, it mirrored the season of life I was in. Letting go of what no longer fit. Imagining what might. And perhaps most importantly, paying attention to how I felt along the way.

This wasn’t a thinking journey.
It was a feeling journey.

Eventually I started focusing on the physical transformation. I spent hours watching YouTube videos about repairing vinyl, priming walls, painting cabinets, caulking seams, decorating, and generally figuring out how RVs are put together. I spoke with professionals who understood paint, materials, and what works inside a moving vehicle. I also talked with ChatGPT, my AI friend who patiently walked me through all kinds of projects.

It became a long season of learning, imagining, and preparing. 

Then in March of 2026, I finally picked up an X-Acto knife and went to work cutting away the loose vinyl. I removed all the window treatments that had been tightly screwed into the walls. Throwing it all out the RV door felt therapeutic. And on the inside, the space began to breathe a bit.

Looking back now, that moment feels symbolic. That knife. Those screws. Everything that came after. It was the beginning of cutting away what no longer fit. Throwing away what no longer looked good to me. Discarding what no longer served a purpose. And most importantly, letting go of anything that didn’t match the energy I wanted to create for my next chapter.

But the real transformation of the RV—and of me—was only just beginning.
That story is coming next.

This season of my life has been filled with questions. Not the kind you answer quickly, but rather the kind you sit with. If you're in a similar place, you might enjoy a simple reflection guide I created called “What Would Your Life Be Like If…?”  Just three powerful questions designed to help you pause, reflect, and reconnect with what matters most as you imagine your next chapter.
👉 Download the free 3-Question Reflection Journal instantly.


If you enjoy the reflection process, there’s also a full 12-Question Reflection Journal available for those who want to explore these questions more deeply.
👉 Download the 12-Question Reflection Journal instantly.
or
👉 Purchase the paperback 12-Question Reflection Journal on Amazon.

In 2010, while attending Jack Canfield’s Breakthrough to Success event, I met Jana Stanfield. She was introduced as the Queen of Heavy Mental. Jana is a singer-songwriter who came on stage between sessions to inspire workshop participants with her music. One of her lyrics inspired me then and has stayed with me ever since:

“Just keep taking the next right step.”

At the time, I was navigating a period of transition and uncertainty. I was searching for clarity and didn’t have a clear roadmap for what was ahead. I was in that familiar “this can’t be all there is” place, and I knew something had to change. I remember feeling the pressure to figure everything out before deciding to act.

But something about that line in her song landed deeply. It offered a different way of approaching life. One that didn’t require certainty about the entire path, but instead invited a simple focus on the next right step.

After the song, Jack came back on stage and talked about how an airplane moves through the sky on the way from its departure point to its destination. The plane is always in motion, constantly adjusting its course. In fact, if one analyzed the plane’s flight path, we would see that it spends much of its time slightly off course, making tiny corrections along the way and yet it still arrives at its destination. 

Over the years, the simple idea that it’s okay to be off course sometimes, as long as we course-correct along the way, has given me permission to let go of some of the fear and perfectionism that once kept me stuck. That, combined with the idea that I only need to take the next right step, has been enough to keep me moving forward in the direction of my goals.

​And that has become the way I move through the world.

When things feel overwhelming or unclear, I remind myself that I don’t need to see the whole journey. I just need enough clarity to take the next step.

Another thing I’ve come to value deeply is using a simple but powerful reset tool that gives me the chance to disconnect from my head and reconnect with my heart when life gets noisy or chaotic. That quiet, heart-centered space helps me access my intuition and discern what that next step might be.

Recently, I realized how much this philosophy shaped the renovation of my RV.
​
When I first bought it, the vinyl was literally pulling away from the luan in places. Apparently, vinyl wall and ceiling coverings don’t fare well in the Florida heat. The ceiling repair alone felt intimidating. For a while, it felt overwhelming and I just sat with it. Then I started researching. I watched videos on YouTube. I talked with people who knew more about RVs than I did, asking curious questions all along the way.

Eventually, I made the decision to begin repairing the vinyl.

I was afraid. I had never taken on a project quite like this before. Repairing the vinyl involved cutting away the loose material with an Exacto knife. Then came the cleaning, spackling, sanding, priming, caulking, and painting ... none of which I had ever really done before.

But I just kept taking the next right step.

Over time, the process became surprisingly simple. The deeper I got into the project, the more I realized that I wasn’t merely fixing some loose vinyl. I was actually creating a sanctuary on wheels.

The truth is, if I had focused on much more than simply taking the next right step, I’m pretty sure I never would have finished. But I did finish. On my birthday. And I'm pretty sure it was the best gift I could have ever received. As I spent the day putting on the finishing touches, I realized I had created a whole new space with beautiful light and energy flowing through. It is now the perfect space for living, working, writing, adventuring, and simply being. 

One step led to the next, and slowly the space transformed.

There were days I was bone tired and frustrated. But I came home. I rested. I took ibuprofen when I needed it. I took time off when I needed it. And little by little, it all came together. 

Step by next right step.

The other day, a friend who had been with me when I first picked up my “new-to-me” RV came to see it after all the renovations. As she stepped inside, she stopped in the doorway and said,
“Wow … this looks sooooo good.” She wandered through the space repeating, “Wow … what a difference.”

The funny thing is that when you work on something little by little, day by day, you stop seeing the transformation yourself. You still notice the small things that need attention or the paint splotches that need cleaning up. But in that moment, hearing her reaction, I realized something. I didn’t just renovate an RV. I created a space that feels cohesive, calm, and full of light and good energy. And along the way, I learned a lot of new skills and something important about myself.

I learned that I can move through the world on my own; using my resources, asking curious questions, and trusting my instincts.

Step by next right step.

And if I get off course, I can take a breath, adjust, and get right back on track.

If there’s something in your life that feels overwhelming right now—a decision, a project, or a transition—maybe you don’t need the entire path mapped out today.

Maybe all you need is the next right step.

Get quiet.
Give yourself a moment to get out of your head and reconnect with your heart.
Breathe.
See what shows up.
Then take that next right step.
And then the next.

You might be surprised where the path leads. ✨

Download my free Heart Breathing Tool and learn the powerful technique I use to move from stress to clarity and to my next right step.

There are moments in history when the world feels like it has tilted off its axis. We are in one of them.

We feel it in our bodies before we can explain it with words. The constant stream of breaking news. The arguments that divide families and communities. The sense that something fundamental—decency, accountability, shared responsibility—has begun to erode.

Lately, I’ve caught myself feeling something I don’t particularly like admitting. I’ve wanted to check out. Not dramatically. Not in a “sell everything and disappear into the woods” kind of way. But quietly. Subtly. A kind of emotional withdrawal. A temptation to look away from the chaos and retreat into my own small world.

I’ve felt the pull to isolate. To stop engaging. To stop caring quite so much. Because caring, right now, can feel exhausting.

It’s hard to watch systems fail people.
It’s hard to watch leaders evade accountability.
It’s hard to watch human beings dismissed, diminished, or devalued.

If I’m honest, there are days when the sheer weight of it all makes me want to shut the door and say, “I’m done with this.” In addition to all that is going on in the world, I've been supporting my dad through some health challenges and through his transition to assisted living. I recently celebrated my 67th birthday. I was touched by the card my dad gave me and the conversation he initiated. "I appreciate all you've done for me over the past year or so, but now it's time for you to start living your own life, whatever that means for you." His words were genuine and sweet and I took them to heart. Yes, indeed, it is my time! He is settled. He is safe. He is surrounded by people who take good care of him. And it's time for me to get on with planning the next phase of my own life. 

I drove away from my visit with dad feeling free. I just finished renovating my RV. I just got word that I received a scholarship to attend an RV training program to help me build confidence and a bit of autonomy for when I hit the road this summer. For the first time in a long time, I felt excited for what's next for just me and not having to spend another brutally hot summer in Florida.

Two days later, while I was at my computer mapping out my trip to RV training school in the spring and then continuing on to New England, I got a call from my dad. Actually three calls. He always forgets something on the first call. And then he calls to be sure I got the other two messages. His messages told me that he needed a ruler to measure his puzzle, an ear syringe (he lost the one that came in the package) so he can prep his ears for wax removal at the audiologist appointment, and a box of Kix cereal because he forgot to put it in his recent grocery order and he didn't want to pay the delivery charge.

In a matter of a minute, I no longer felt free. I felt trapped. And, if I'm honest, a tad bit angry and resentful. How did my life turn into being a delivery service for things that seem so unnecessary to my own life. Use a sheet of paper to measure the puzzle. You don't need a syringe to put Debrox in your ears. And how many other boxes of cereal do you have in the cupboard that are not Kix that will get you through until your next grocery delivery. Or go to the breakfast meal we're paying for!

I took a deep quick coherence breath and could feel myself calming down immediately. The truth is, it has been an honor to support my dad through some huge transitions and difficult decisions over the past year. The other truth is that it has been challenging and I need a break. The old me would have rushed to bring him the ruler, the ear syringe, and the box of Kix. Instead, I called him back when I knew he'd be at dinner and left him a message that I would be there in a couple of days ... and I went back to planning my RV trip.

I did not react on emotion. I allowed the emotion to move through me. I felt them all. And then I responded with intention. I acknowledged that reactions show up in the midst of the emotions. However, if I take an intentional breath while I'm focused on something I'm grateful for, my responses are calmer and much more effective for all involved. 

And that realization brought me back to something important that I have been teaching, in one form or another, for most of my life. A simple equation that I believe is a powerful formula for life: 

E + R = O
Event + Response = Outcome

The events of our lives are not always within our control. In fact, many of them aren’t. We cannot control:

• the political climate
• the economy
• other people’s choices
• global crises
• the systems we inherit

But there is one thing that always remains available to us. Our response.
Not our reaction. Our response.

A reaction is automatic.
A response is intentional.

A reaction is driven by fear, anger, or overwhelm.
A response is chosen with awareness.

And that distinction changes everything.
For decades, I’ve watched this principle play out in real life.

I saw it as a teacher working with teenagers navigating risk and pressure.
I saw it coordinating reproductive health services for young people facing life-altering decisions.
I saw it in conversations with parents trying to understand their children.
I see it now in families caring for aging parents and dealing with complex healthcare systems.
I see it in women navigating major life transitions including divorce, career change, health challenges, and retirement.

In every one of those situations, the event matters, but it is the response that determines what happens next.

Two families can face the same diagnosis.
Two teenagers can face the same pressure from peers.
Two adults can face the same career ending or life transition.

The event may be the same.
But the outcome is shaped by the response.

That truth has never felt more important to me than it does right now.
Response matters. The world we are living in is pulling us toward constant reaction based on pent up emotion. Outrage. Blame. Fear. Division. These emotional reactions spread quickly and easily. They are contagious.

But reaction rarely creates meaningful change. Response does. Response requires something deeper. 

Pause.
Reflection.
Discernment.
Courage.

Response asks us to step out of the emotional storm long enough to choose who we want to be in the moment we’re facing. That is not always easy, especially right now with 24 hour news cycles, social media, algorithms, and automatic notifications delivered to us in real time.

There are days when I feel frustrated enough with the state of things that the idea of responding thoughtfully feels almost naïve. But I keep coming back to the same realization. If we give up our response, we give up our power.

Not political power.
Not institutional power.
Something far more fundamental.

Human agency. Agency is the ability to decide who we are going to be in the face of what is happening.

That is why I’ve decided to focus on this idea right now.
Not because the world is calm and stable.
But because it isn’t.

We are living through a time when people feel overwhelmed, angry, exhausted, and powerless. And in moments like that, it becomes very easy to believe that the events of the world have total control over our lives.

But they don’t.

The event matters.
Our emotions mater.
But our response matters more because it is our response to the events that create our outcomes. 

This is not about pretending things are fine when they aren’t. It’s not about suppressing anger or frustration. It’s about remembering that those emotions do not have to make our decisions for us.

We still have a choice.
We can respond with curiosity instead of contempt.
We can respond with courage instead of avoidance.
We can respond with compassion instead of indifference.
We can respond with boundaries when necessary.
We can refuse to participate in systems or conversations that diminish our humanity.

Those choices shape our lives. They shape our families. They shape our friendships. They shape our communities. And collectively, they shape the future.

Today I am thinking of this as The Response Revolution. I am choosing to allow my responses (not my reactions) to prevail.

This is not a revolution of protests or politics. It is a revolution of personal agency. A quiet but powerful shift in how we show up in the moments that test us most. Because every day, in ways both large and small, we are being presented with events we did not choose. These events elicit emotions that, if we're not careful, can push us into reactions that are not in our best interest.

We are never completely without a response. When we pause, take a breath, and allow our emotions to move through us, we regain the ability to choose one. And the response we choose determines what happens next.

That idea is simple, but it takes practice. When emotions are strong, it’s easy to slip back into old patterns of reacting instead of responding. Over the years, I’ve found that the more we intentionally pause and reflect on the R in the equation, the easier it becomes to choose responses that create better outcomes.

If the idea of the R Factor resonates with you and you’re curious about exploring it a little further, I created a short 3-Day Reflection Experience built around the formula we’ve been talking about:

E + R = O
Event + Response = Outcome

Over three days, you’ll look at real situations from your own life and experiment with choosing responses that create different outcomes. It’s simple, practical, and a powerful way to begin noticing the role your responses play in shaping your life.

You can download the 3-Day R Factor Experience here and begin whenever you’re ready.

Lately, I’ve found myself captivated by Alysa Liu, the U.S. Olympic gold medal figure skater. For me, it’s not about her athleticism, although she is incredibly talented. It’s not about her technical precision or creative choreography, although both were beautiful to watch. It’s not just about her medals or rankings.

It’s about the journey that got her to gold. She skated for the pure joy of it.

There is something unmistakable about her. She doesn’t appear burdened by anyone else’s expectations or opinions. She isn’t performing to prove something. She looks alive. Free. Lit from within. As if the ice is simply the place where her joy gets to fully express itself.

And I found myself reaffirming what I already feel deep in my soul:
Isn’t that what life is really about?

Today is my birthday. It’s a big one, with big questions and big feelings. And that question feels less philosophical and more personal.

When I look at my own life right now, I see that I am choosing joy. And yet, I have to admit, I sometimes feel a twinge of guilt about what I’m not doing to support a more traditional, predictable, or socially acceptable lifestyle.

Instead of doing things that might put more money in my bank account, I’ve been immersing myself in a major RV renovation project. It’s way outside my comfort zone. It’s challenged me physically. It’s consumed time. It’s cost money that many would say should stay safely invested.

And it has been pure joy.

It’s not just an RV renovation. It’s eliminating what doesn’t inspire me and slowly replacing it, step by step,  with colors, curtains, linens, and decorative details that make me feel comfortable, cozy, and alive. It’s creating a magical and inspirational space where I can write, work, play, rest, and live freely and lit up from within.

I found a magical coverlet in a department store hidden beneath a pile of comforters that felt like a treasure hunt victory. To make it even more magical, it was marked down to just 44.99 (from 149.99) and I had a gift card left over from Christmas that still had 42.00 on it! In another store, I stumbled upon the perfect shower curtain in the same gauzy fabric of the coverlet. It was in a place in the store it shouldn’t have been, as if it was waiting for me. And it was on clearance, of course. I'm adding a lamp from one of my guest rooms at Ripple, a cherished painting an artist friend of mine created out of a scene she captured on the way to our favorite ski mountain, and a couple of other touches that warm my heart.  My RV bedroom is shaping up to be my sanctuary.

I’m one coat of paint away from cleaning up the construction zone and pulling all the pieces together ... just in time to begin planning my spring adventure.

In the middle of the renovation are the curl-up moments with my cats, the messy middle of Pinterest analytics, preparing for my next webinar and the program I'm offering in April. On top of that is taking care of my dad and managing the ordinary tasks that make up a life ... qll woven together with the righteous fire of my “so done with this” stance against the cruelty of the current administration.

In the middle of it all, I feel something.

I feel joy.

Not the loud, performative kind.
But the quiet, intentional, chosen kind.

Joy in the renovation.
Joy in imagining life on the road.
Joy in time with my dad.
Joy in aligned connection.
Joy in helping other women rediscover their magic.
Joy in purpose.
Joy in freedom.
Joy in the sacredness of ordinary moments.

I’ve been skating for joy on my own kind of ice. Even in the struggle. Even in the heaviness. Even in the uncertainty.

There are still financial pressures. There is still political anger. There is still physical and emotional fatigue some days. There are still unanswered questions about what comes next. But underneath it all, there is something steady.

A decision.

This next year, and most likely all the years I have left, will not be about proving, chasing, or performing.
It will be about joy. It will be about finding magic and purpose in each moment, no matter what is happening around me. It will be about choosing alignment over approval. Presence over panic. Response over reaction. Freedom over fear.

Watching Alysa skate reminded me that excellence and joy are not opposites. In fact, joy may be the very thing that unlocks excellence. What if the point isn’t to win? What if the point is to feel alive while you’re doing it? What if legacy is not built from grinding but from devotion to what lights you up?

On this birthday, I’m not asking, “How much did I accomplish?”
I’m asking:
Did I pursue joy?
Did I honor what feels magical?
Did I build a life aligned with the essence of who I am?
Because in the end, medals fade. Numbers fluctuate. Noise shifts.
But the way you feel while you’re living your life?
That’s everything.

This is the year I choose joy on purpose.
In the RV.
In the writing.
In the resistance.
In the quiet mornings.
In the imperfect middle.

This is the year I skate on my own kind of ice, simply for the love of it.
The truth is, I think that’s what life has been inviting me to do all along.

Happy birthday to me. And maybe … to the next version of you too!

If this reflection stirred something in you, take five quiet minutes and answer this question honestly:
If the point were joy … what would change?

And if you need help calming the noise long enough to hear your own answer, you can download my free Heart Breathing reset here.

There’s a kind of tired that sleep fixes. And then there’s the kind that settles deeper. The kind that feels physical, emotional, and spiritual all at once. Not dramatic. Not collapsing. Just … heavy.

You’re functioning. You’re showing up. You’re doing what needs to be done. But there’s a weight in your body, a fog around your spirit, and a quiet ache in your heart that, more than likely, no one else sees.

This isn’t laziness. It isn’t lack of discipline. It isn’t weakness. It’s what happens when you’ve been carrying a lot. Responsibilities. Deadlines. Decisions. Other people’s emotions. The state of the world. And your own  questions about what this life is really all about.

Women in this phase of life often carry more than they admit. Caregiving. Transition. Reinvention. Financial pressure. A desire to make the years ahead meaningful while wondering, is this really all there is? We don’t always stop to acknowledge the toll. We just keep going.

But here’s the quiet truth: you cannot access clarity from exhaustion, you cannot have the impact from a place of burnout, and you cannot build legacy from a state of depletion. 

You don’t have to power through this season to prove you’re strong. Sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is pause long enough to feel what your body and spirit are asking for. Not a full retreat. Not a dramatic overhaul. Just one small act of honoring and caring for yourself. Just you. In the moment. Perhaps that means a longer exhale, having a conversation you don’t rush, rescheduling a task to next week, taking ten minutes outside without your phone, a moment to focus on gratitude, pausing to allow joy to find you.

This isn’t quitting. It’s recalibrating. And recalibration is sacred.

This Week’s 3 I’s
Insight: Deep fatigue is often a sign that you’ve been strong for a long time.
Inspiration: You don’t have to prove your strength by continuing to push.
Inquiry: What would it look like to honor your tired instead of overriding it this week?

If this resonates, let yourself answer that question honestly. You are not behind. You are not broken. You are not failing at this phase of life. You may simply be carrying more than anyone knows.

It’s okay to set some of it down and put yourself first. Even if just for a moment.
When I'm in this place, there is one tool I use that provides near instant results:

Quick Coherence Heart Breathing 
(click here to get my version of this tool)

Add that to some extra snuggle time with Luna and Sundae over a cup of tea in my favorite chair and I'm on my way back to myself.