Author: Mikki Eveloff

Late Blooming Lessons From Life’s Second Chapter 

A journey of discovery. A discovery of self. Pieces of old. Paired with pieces of new.

Lesson #8: Happy Father’s Day

“Gone, but never forgotten. Your love still guides us every day.”

Happy Father’s Day, Greg

Ten Father’s Days.

Almost eleven years without you.
And still, it never gets easier.

Each year, as the calendar turns to June, something shifts in me. A quiet melancholy takes hold. It moves in slowly, almost unnoticed, until I feel the weight of it fully. It wraps around me like a fog—heavy, familiar, and completely out of my control.

Then the day arrives. And the ache sharpens.

You should be here.
Celebrating.
With your family.
Your children.
Your grandchildren.

We should be together—laughing, telling stories, soaking in the joy that only comes from being surrounded by love. You should be watching them grow.  Hearing their laughter.  Seeing their milestones. Their lives are filled with light, and I know that light would have brought you so much joy.

I’m sad for all that you’ve missed. The big moments. The small ones. Cruz playing basketball. Golf. Willow’s amazing dance. Her TK graduation. Riding bikes. Being silly. And baby Lennox. Her smiles. Giggles. Simply. Pure joy. The everyday magic that makes life worth living. You would have loved them so deeply. They would have loved you back with their whole hearts.

We miss you.

Your warmth.
Your wisdom.
Your laughter.
Your light.

But even in your absence, you live on—in the spirit of your children, and in the eyes of our precious grandchildren. I see your kindness in them. Your goodness. Your love. It’s in the way they care. The way they smile. The way they hold space for others.

A piece of you is in them. Always.

I still see you.
Hear you.
Feel you.
And yet… it’s never the same.
It never will be.
I will always wish for more.
And hope for just one more day.

As we welcome the official start of summer, I’m reminded that this season is one of new beginnings—of warmth, growth, and light. It invites us to reflect. To open our hearts. To pause long enough to recognize the blessings still surrounding us.

This is my prayer for Father’s Day.
For me. For our family. For all families.

May we allow the light to gently hold us.
May we find peace in the memories.
And may we live in a world where our children can grow together in love, in peace, and in harmony.

#HappyFathersDay #Blessings #Peace #LoveToAll

Late Blooming Lessons – Life’s Second Chapter

“There is no way to be a perfect mother, but a million ways to be a good one.”

 Lesson #7: Love Without Strings – The Mother I Choose To Be

It was the “job” I’d waited for all my life. When people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I always said, “A mom.” It was my dream job.

Little did I know, it wouldn’t be all giggles and diapers. It was a full-time job—one that doesn’t come with vacation days or a clear manual—and it lasts a lifetime. And as my children grew, so did I. My role constantly shifted. Nurturer. Guide. Protector. Counselor. Cheerleader. And continues to evolve still.

I was 25 when I became a mother for the first time. I was determined to do everything “right.” I thought if I tried hard enough, I could be the perfect mom. But perfection doesn’t exist—at least not in real life. Maybe in storybooks or fairy tales. But not in the messy. Beautiful. Exhausting. Soul-stretching reality of motherhood.

What I’ve learned is this: We make mistakes. We stumble. We try again. We do the best we can with what we know. And that has to be enough.

Motherhood, for me, has been an ever-evolving role—shaped by patience. Humility. Growth. And, above all, LOVE. One of the most important decisions I ever made was to love unconditionally. Not just when things were going well, but especially when they weren’t. That meant accepting and loving my children for who they are—not for what they do, how they perform, or what they become. LOVE. No strings attached. They never had to earn it. Despite the missteps. Messy moments. Or challenges. My love has remained steadfast. And unwavering.

Did I always get it right? ABSOLUTELY. NOT. But I tried. I’m still trying. Because unconditional love is what makes them feel safe. Fully loved. Protected.

Another promise I made to myself as a mother was to truly listen.
Not just to the words spoken. But to the emotions behind them. I wanted my children to feel heard. To know their voices matter. Because listening isn’t just about offering a response. It’s about connection. It’s about seeing them clearly, in everything that makes them who they are. I want them to feel safe, calling me on the joyful days. The hard days.The quiet “nothing” days. Whether they need to laugh. Cry. Vent. Or simply be. I’ll be here. To listen. ALWAYS.

Now, as the mother of adult children (with families of their own), I often find myself reflecting on the past—wishing I could go back and do some things differently. More presence. More patience. More self-awareness. But I can’t go back. I can only choose to be better now.

I will show up.
I will listen.
I will accept. Without judgment.

Simply, I will be.
Be there to support. To understand. To love. Always love. That will never change.

The greatest gift I could ever give my kids is to love myself loudly and accept myself wholly. Not waiting until I lose (or gain) the last few pounds… not waiting to smooth out the wrinkles. The lines. Or—as my granddaughter calls them—my zebra stripes. But to embrace myself, as is, as is. To show up even when I’m exhausted. Sick. Overstimulated. Or emotionally drained. To keep pouring, even when my own cup is nearly empty. Because that’s what love does.

And to every mom in survival mode right now—please know this:
You are doing an incredible job. This is not easy. But you are not alone.

💛 The Gifts Moms Really Want (That Don’t Cost a Thing)

• A long, meaningful hug
• A genuine “thank you”
• Time together, undistracted
• A moment to rest or recharge
• Being noticed for holding it together when it felt like things were falling apart
• A few kind words: “You’re doing great. I see you.”
• A simple “I love you” for no reason at all
• Recognition not for what we do, but for who we are
• A reminder that we’re enough, just as we are

These are the gifts that matter most.

In the end, what I wanted most was simple:
For my kids to grow into confident. Kind. Loving. And happy people. I wanted them to always know they could come home—to a safe place of comfort and care, where they’re always welcome. Whether they needed encouragement. Stillness. Or just a long hug. I wanted them to know they’d never have to earn my love.

Because that’s the goal:
That they walk through this world knowing they are deeply. Unconditionally. Always loved.

To all the beautiful moms who have loved. Laughed. Cried. Endured. And grown through every season of motherhood.
You are seen. You are needed. You are the heart of it all.
And you are doing the most important job in the world.

Late Blooming Lessons – Life’s Second Chapter

A journey of discovery. A discovery of self. Pieces of old. Paired with pieces of new.

#6: The Perfection Trap: Unlearning What I Was Taught to Believe

“Perfect is the enemy of good enough.”

Nothing and no one is perfect.

I know that now. But for much of my life, I didn’t.

As the eldest of five, I grew up under the weight of perfection. I wasn’t just the oldest. I was the example. The one who had to get it right. In everything:
Appearance.
Academics.
Behavior.
Achievements.

The message was loud. And clear: Follow the rules. Do the right thing. Be who they need you to be. There was no room for error. No space for missteps. And stepping out of line? Not an option.

That pressure didn’t go away as I entered adulthood. It simply evolved—shifting from childhood expectations to internalized beliefs that shaped my choices. My worth. My identity. I carried an invisible scorecard – grading myself on everything from accomplishments to how well I hid my struggles.

Somewhere along the way, I tied perfection to love. If I performed well, I was good. If I excelled, I was worthy. If I was perfect, good things would happen. But if I wasn’t? It felt like my world…would crumble.

But here’s the hard truth:
Perfection is a myth.
It doesn’t exist. And chasing it? Is exhausting.

Letting go of perfectionism isn’t like flipping a switch. It’s a slow unraveling. A reprogramming. A practice in mindfulness. And presence. A constant effort to rewrite the narrative I’ve been repeating for decades.

It’s a daily reminder:
Things don’t have to be perfect to be meaningful.
Effort counts. Grace counts. More than getting it “right.”
Progress. Over perfection. Always.

I ask myself often:

Would I ever speak to someone I love the way I speak to myself?

The answer? Always. A hard NO.

My options? 

CHANGE.

Filter what I let in.

In our world driven by curated posts and polished highlight reels, it’s easy to fall into the trap of comparison. Picture perfect families. Flawless homes. Idealized relationships. But we forget: it’s a snapshot. A picture. A selected frame. Not the full story.

We don’t see the doubts. The struggles. The tears. The arguments. The mess behind the lens. Perfection on social media isn’t real. I remind myself. Stop chasing it.

Because the truth is:

Perfection isn’t where life happens. 

Life happens…in the mess.

In the lessons.

The missteps.

The unexpected beauty of imperfection.

So. I’m unlearning.

Unlearning that my worth is tied to how flawless I appear.

Unlearning the belief that love must be earned through performance.

Unlearning the lie that I’m only enough when I measure up to impossible standards.

Instead. I’m embracing the real.

The human.

The beautiful chaos of a life that may not be perfect…

But. It’s completely mine.

Late Blooming Lessons From Life’s Second Chapter

A journey of discovery. A discovery of self. Pieces of old. Paired with pieces of new.

Lesson #5: Solitude vs. Loneliness: The Space Between Peace and Pain 

“Loneliness expresses the pain of being alone and solitude expresses the glory of being alone.”

After more than a decade of living alone, I’ve come to understand something that took me years to fully grasp:
There’s a big difference between being alone and feeling lonely.

Being alone is a physical state. Sometimes even a choice.
It’s carving out space to exist on my own terms. Scheduling my days. Setting my rhythm. Deciding where and how I want to invest my time.
It’s walking through my home in silence. Not minding the quiet.
It’s savoring mornings with coffee. Writing without interruption. Peloton walks, runs,  workouts that leave me feeling alive. Or long walks outdoors that clear my mind.

I’ve come to embrace this kind of independence.
I’ve learned how to fill my time with joy. Grandchildren’s laughter. Books that stir my soul. Sweat that brings clarity. Stillness that grounds me.

And most importantly, I’ve come to appreciate rest.
Not as something to earn. But something essential.
A pause that allows me to show up fully present in the moments that matter.

But loneliness?
That’s something else. Entirely.

Loneliness isn’t about being physically alone.
It’s a feeling. A hollow ache that creeps in when you least expect it.
It’s the sound of silence that feels just a little too loud.
The absence of a familiar voice saying, “How was your day?”
The emptiness where shared moments once lived. Shoulders to lean on. Hands to hold. Someone who just knows.

Loneliness is disconnection.
Not just from people. But from the world beyond my front door.
It’s the quiet whisper that says, “Stay here. Stay safe. Don’t risk more hurt. Don’t expect too much.”

I’ve come to learn that you can be surrounded by people. Laughter. Conversation. A full room. And still feel completely alone.
Loneliness doesn’t care about proximity.
It cares about connection.

And on the flip side?
There are days when I sit alone in my home. Wrapped in silence.  And feel totally at peace.
Content.
Whole.
Solitude, when chosen, is restorative.
It’s the space where I reflect. Recharge. And reconnect with me.

Loneliness never asks permission. It shows up uninvited, without warning.
And navigating that—finding my way through the shadows it casts—is the real challenge.

So I’m learning.
Learning to stay present.
To shift my focus from what’s missing… to what’s abundant.
To pause. And appreciate the quiet blessings:
A warm text.
Laughter with a friend.
The sweet sound of my grandchildren’s footsteps.
The comfort of knowing that while loneliness visits, it doesn’t define me.

Because yes. Loneliness may come and go.
But I am not alone.
Not really.

Late Blooming Lessons From Life’s Second Chapter

A journey of discovery. A discovery of self. Pieces of old. Paired with pieces of new.

Lesson #4: When Life Isn’t Fair: Choosing Forward Anyway

“Life is not always fair. Sometimes you get a splinter even sliding down a rainbow.”

Life isn’t fair.
That’s not just a cliché. It’s a hard, gut-punching truth.

No matter how much we plan, how hard we work, or how deeply we hope, challenges will come. Some arrive as mere inconveniences, the kind we shake off and move past without a second thought. Others? They hit like a freight train. They crack open our world and leave us reeling. Grief. Heartbreak. Failure. Loss.

These moments—the ones we never saw coming—are inevitable.
But how we respond? That’s where our power lies.

Do we rise above?
Adapt? Learn? Push forward?
Or do we allow pain and bitterness to anchor us, holding us back with the weight of resentment and self-pity?

Losing Greg—my partner, my person—in the prime of our life together, made me want to scream at the sky:
LIFE IS NOT FAIR.
Why him? Why now? Why take one of the good ones?

It felt so cruel. So senseless.

But grief has a way of making you look around and realize something else. My loss, as personal and devastating as it was, isn’t the only unfairness in the world. Others are grieving too. Wildfires destroy homes. Accidents take lives. Tornadoes. Floods. Infertility. Rejection. Job loss. The list of heartbreak is endless.

That truth doesn’t ease the pain.
But it shifts something inside.
It reminds me I’m not alone in this.

From a young age, we all face the same difficult lesson: Life is not fair. And yet. We keep going.
The difference between people who stay stuck and those who find a way forward? It’s not what they’ve been through. It’s how they choose to move through it.

I know what it feels like to stay stuck.
I lived in that space for a long time.
It felt safe to expect the worst. Predictable. If I didn’t allow myself to feel hope, then disappointment couldn’t gut me. I thought I was protecting myself. But really, I was just surviving. And slowly, that survival mode became a trap.

It’s easy to play the blame game. To point fingers at the unfairness of it all. To dwell on the injustice. But here’s the thing: staying bitter doesn’t change the past. It doesn’t give us back what we lost. It just keeps us tethered to pain.

So what’s the alternative?

Acceptance. Not in a passive way. But as a way to take back our power.

Accept that life is unfair. That we won’t always understand the why. That some days will feel impossibly hard. That we can hate what’s happened and still choose to keep moving.

This isn’t about pretending everything is okay. It’s about giving ourselves permission to move forward, even when nothing makes sense. It’s about choosing growth. Healing. And the possibility of joy. Again.

Because sometimes, the worst moments eventually open the door to something we never expected.
Perspective. Purpose. New beginnings.

When life knocks us down and leaves us breathless, there may be no perfect words to fix it. No reason that makes it all make sense.

But in the mess. In the unfairness. We still have a choice:

Let it consume us.
Or choose. Inch by inch, to rise.

This isn’t about toxic positivity. This is about resilience.
It’s about saying: “I don’t like this. I hate this. But I’m still here.”
And that? That is strength.

At the end of the day, life will keep being unpredictable.
It will bring both joy. And heartbreak.
And we may never fully understand why some things happen the way they do.

But we can still choose to keep going.
We can still choose to live.
Even when life isn’t fair.

Because it’s not about what happens.
It’s about who we become in the process.

Late Blooming Lessons From Life’s Second Chapter

A journey of discovery. A discovery of self. Pieces of old. Paired with pieces of new.

Lesson #3: When Life Changes in an Instant: Finding Purpose in the Pain

“Life is always happening for you, not to you.  Appreciate that gift and you are wealthy. Now and forever.”

Life has a funny way of throwing us into the deep end without warning.

One minute, everything feels steady.
The plans we’ve made. The dreams we’ve nurtured.
Everything is unfolding the way it’s supposed to.

And then.
In an instant. It’s gone.
The life we built.
The certainty we held onto.
The future we imagined.
Vanished. Just like that.
Leaving behind a trail of questions.  Heartache. And confusion.

I thought I knew my path.
I was exactly where I was meant to be.
The years of hard work. The sacrifices. They were finally paying off.
The kids were grown. Our nest was empty.
We were stepping into what we called “our time.”
Freedom. Adventure. Ease.

But then… WHAM.
Without warning. Life changed.
There was no time to prepare. No gentle transition.
Just a crash.
And suddenly, I was standing in the wreckage of what once was. No map. No direction. No idea how to move forward.

I spiraled through the familiar questions:
Why me?
Why now?
What am I supposed to do with this?

The pain was suffocating.
The fear. Overwhelming.
Some days, all I wanted to do was crawl under the covers and disappear.
But somehow—within the mess. The chaos. The heartbreak. A quiet truth began to rise:

This wasn’t happening to me. It was happening for me.

At first, that idea felt impossible. Even offensive.
How could something so painful be for me?

But over time, I realized something:
I couldn’t control what had happened.
But I could control how I responded.

I had a choice.
Let it break me.
Or let it build me.
Sink. Or rise.

The road ahead wasn’t smooth.
It was full of twists and turns that left me breathless.
There were days that tested every ounce of strength I had.
Moments when I wanted to quit.
But with each challenge, a new lesson revealed itself.
And with each lesson, a deeper desire to keep going.

To grow.
To evolve.
To live. Not just exist. But truly live.

Here’s the truth no one really prepares us for.
Life is unpredictable.
We don’t always get a say in what happens to us.
But we always get a say in how we respond.

When life throws a hurdle in your path, you can freeze.
Or you can jump.
And if you fall?
You learn to get back up again.

Because on the other side of pain, beyond the fear and the loss and the uncertainty, something greater is waiting.
A stronger version of you.
A deeper understanding of your purpose.
A life you never imagined. But one that was meant for you all along.

I’m not here to pretend it’s easy.
It’s not.
The road is hard. And messy. And unpredictable.
But it’s also filled with meaning—if we’re willing to look for it.

What I know now is this:

It’s not happening to you.
It’s happening for you.
And what you choose to do with it?
That’s where your power lies.

A journey of discovery. A discovery of self. Pieces of old. Paired with pieces of new.

Lesson #2: When I Became Enough…Choosing Me Part 2

“I will not apologize for choosing myself this time: self-love is the chapter I’ve always wanted to write.”

As I’ve grown older, my perspective on life—and my place in it—has shifted in ways I never saw coming.

Being the oldest of five, I naturally stepped into the role of the “perfect” eldest child. Responsible. Empathetic. A caretaker. A perfectionist. And perhaps most defining of all… a people pleaser.

For most of my life, I truly believed that putting others first was the right thing to do. That being selfless somehow equaled being lovable. That if I could make everyone else happy, I’d feel fulfilled too.

But after spending the last decade on my own, I’ve come to understand a much harder truth: people pleasing might leave others satisfied, but it often leaves me feeling empty. Unheard. Disappointed in myself. Like I betrayed the very person I’m supposed to be loyal to. Me.

That’s not the life I want anymore.

Some might ask, “WTF took you so long? Seventy years? And you’re just now figuring this out?” And as wild as it may sound, my answer is a resounding YES.

Yes. It took me this long.
Yes. I stayed stuck in old cycles far longer than I should have.
Yes. I kept running on a hamster wheel of approval and expectation.

But here’s what I know now:
It’s. Never. Too. Late.

It’s never too late to rewrite your story.
To choose yourself.
To find joy that doesn’t rely on applause or permission.

So I’m starting now.

At 70, I am choosing happiness—not the kind that depends on validation or fitting into someone else’s mold, but the kind that comes from making choices that align with who I am. From honoring what feels right in my soul. From trusting that I deserve a life rooted in peace and self-respect.

This isn’t about being selfish.
It’s about finally, finally recognizing that my needs. My voice. And my well-being matter just as much as anyone else’s.

For most of my life, I followed the rules. I was the “good girl.” The peacekeeper. The one who didn’t rock the boat. I carried the weight of not wanting to disappoint others—believing that if I did, I’d somehow be unworthy of love.

That belief shaped everything.
My relationships.
My marriage.
My role in the family.

I convinced myself that if everyone else was happy, I’d find happiness too. But instead, I ended up drained. Unseen. And honestly? A little broken.

Eventually, life forced me to ask the harder questions. And the answers weren’t easy. But they were clear.

Following the rules to keep the peace? It wasn’t working anymore.
Choosing myself came with consequences, yes. But I was finally ready to face them.

The details don’t really matter. What matters is this: to me, family means showing up. Through the highs. And the lows. Through love. And hardship. Supporting each other, even when life doesn’t fit neatly into a box.

I will no longer punish myself for being true to who I am. I will no longer shrink to make others comfortable. If someone can’t offer love, respect, and support without strings attached, then I’m stepping away.

Because here’s the hard truth:
You don’t abandon the people you love when things don’t go your way.
You don’t exile them for choosing themselves.
That’s not love. That’s control.

The reality is—we just see the world differently.
To me, LOVE is LOVE. Without conditions. Without judgment. Without expectations.

And I will no longer stay in spaces where love is transactional.

Not with family.
Not with friends.
Not with anyone.

Life is too short to keep living a version of it that doesn’t feel like mine.

So I’m choosing me.
And for the first time in my life…
That choice feels like freedom.

Late Blooming Lessons From Life’s Second Chapter 

A journey of discovery. A discovery of self. Pieces of old. Paired with pieces of new.

Lesson #1: When I Became Enough…Choosing Me Part 1

“Choose to put yourself first and make you a priority. It’s not selfish. It’s necessary.”

Turning 70 this year was a wake-up call. Ten years without Greg. Ten years navigating life on my own. A whole decade. Passed in a flash. And what did I have to show for it? Did I want to live the rest of my life this way? The hard, resounding truth was NO.

It hit me like a ton of bricks. I didn’t want to stay stuck. But, I also knew no one was going to pull me out of it. If I wanted change, it had to start with me. So, I began the uncomfortable process of self-reflection. A deep, honest look at my life. And how I was living it. That’s when I realized: I had been pouring so much of myself into others that I had nothing left for me. And after 70 years, it was time to rewrite the story. Late Blooming Lessons From Life’s Second Chapter. The first of which started with me: My self-care. My self-worth. My self-love.

A toughie for sure. A real challenge.

For so long I lived by the rules: This is what I should be doing as a“ good” daughter…wife…mom. But where was the rule that said, “This is what I should be doing for me?”

Selfish? Self-centered? No. If I didn’t take care of myself first, I was no good to anyone else. I was stressed. Anxious. Even a bit angry. Why? Because I was living for them. Not for me. And the “me” showing up, was a version I didn’t like.

In no way did these choices mean abandoning my family or making decisions that didn’t include them. It meant the choices I made were fully mine. No influence or pressure from outside sources. No one telling me what my priorities should be. Those choices were mine. I owned them. No longer would others dictate how I should choose. Or how I should live. Those voices? Muted. Today. And forever. The only voice I needed was my own.

Self-care is one damn hard lesson. Not just to learn, but to actually practice. After years of taking care of others, I asked myself: What does it even mean? Life doesn’t hand you a “choose me” button. After years of constantly giving. Overachieving. And striving to please everyone around me, the challenge felt overwhelming, like a mountain too steep to climb. But it was time. Choose me. Fight for myself. Be brave enough to accept disappointment. Face rejection. From family. Friends. Whoever. Open the door to my true self. Embrace who I am. No matter the consequences. It was more than survival. It was my way to thrive.

Choosing me meant understanding my actions. Reactions. Even when they were driven by fear. I couldn’t keep living my life constantly trying to figure out what others needed, knowing I’d never please everyone 100% of the time. That path only led to burnout.

What did I need? Time. Patience. Practice. The courage to step into the unknown. Tiptoeing into this new reality, I felt all the “scaries.” The fear of getting it wrong. The pressure of accountability. But that was okay. Because. When I showed up as my true, authentic self, I knew I could handle whatever came my way. The Shame. The Blame. The Judgment. The Backlash. The days of winging it.

Choosing me meant understanding my actions. Reactions. Even when they were driven by fear. I couldn’t keep living my life constantly trying to figure out what others needed, knowing I’d never please everyone 100% of the time. That path only led to burnout.

I was learning. About myself. About life. About what truly mattered. To be real. Honest. To separate who the world expected me to be from who I chose to be. To say “no” without guilt. No more saying “yes” just to keep the peace. No more carrying the weight of others’ expectations. No more pretending to be okay when I wasn’t. No more explaining myself to those unwilling to understand. 

Mistakes are never failures. They are lessons. Opportunities to grow. To evolve. To step into the best version of myself. I was finally getting to know me. Choosing me. Because. At the end of the day, the only person who truly knew what was best for me…was me.

It’s taken me 70 years to get here. But. Now, with whatever time I have left on this earth, I choose to live a life filled with Love. Joy. And Peace.

Because. I am finally choosing me.

“And suddenly you know…It’s time to start something new and trust the magic of beginnings.”

I’m BAAAAACK! But this time, it’s different.

It all started with The Fairytale—stories about my life with Greg, keeping our memories alive. Writing became my therapy, a way to release my pain, to navigate my grief. It was raw. Real. A lifeline during the darkest days, connecting me with others who knew the ache of loss.

Then came The Gregger. A tribute. A way to hold onto him, to honor the selfless, generous, kind, and compassionate man he was.

Moving On. The tough times. The days I didn’t think I’d get through. Holidays. Birthdays. Anniversaries. The weight of absence. The attempt at healing—if you can even call it that. The beginning of the rollercoaster, riding the unpredictable waves of grief.

The Third Year. A step toward the light. A flicker of hope. Learning to find solace in small blessings. To be grateful for the now.

Year 5. The woulda, coulda, shouldas that haunted me as the journey continued. It became harder to write. Harder to find the words. The ups. The downs. The space in between.

Embracing the Unforeseen Journey. More reflection. More self-discovery. Trying to find my place in a world that felt unfamiliar. Struggling. Searching. Hoping.

And now? Now, it’s about ME.

A journey of self-discovery. Reclaiming the pieces of who I was, blending them with who I’m becoming. After years of taking care of everyone else, I’m finally turning inward. Picking up the broken pieces. Piecing them back together—so I can be whole again.

It’s time.

Seventy years in, and still… it’s never too late to discover.

Coming soon…Late Blooming Lessons From Life’s Second Chapter