Grief and Practicality Can Coexist

Did you know I can be sad and practical at the same time? I'm pretty efficient that way.

For some reason, people seem to believe that if you're grieving, you shouldn't be thinking about anything else. As if making plans, asking questions, or handling responsibilities somehow means you aren't hurting enough. But that has never made sense to me.

Life doesn't stop because your heart is breaking. There are still decisions to make and things that need your attention. Taking care of them doesn't lessen your love or mean you're ready to let go. It simply means the world keeps turning, whether we're ready for it or not.

I think people underestimate our ability to carry more than one emotion at a time. I can be heartbroken and still think ahead. I can be overwhelmed and still be responsible. I can miss someone with every part of me while doing what needs to be done.

The human heart has room for all of it. We can cry while making plans. We can smile at a memory and ache with loss in the very same moment. We can prepare for tomorrow without wanting today to end.

Two things can be true at the same time. Grief doesn't erase responsibility, and practicality doesn't diminish love. Sometimes it's simply another way we care for the people and the things that matter most, even while we're learning how to live with their absence.

A Light Bulb Moment About Fascism

Things are clicking for me.

I’ve spent a lot of time wondering why some liberals are just so politically angry ALL. THE. TIME (And let’s take their style out of it for a minute—which often seems to scream, “Look at me!”) So many of the loudest voices come across as spoiled children who were never told no, actors and actresses who are used to being the center of attention, and people who seem heavily entitled.

I looked up the definition of fascism because that word gets thrown around constantly by people who suffer from TDS—Trump Derangement Syndrome. The level of anger, outrage, and obsession with one man has always made me wonder what is really driving it.

One definition said fascism puts the nation above individual interests. And that’s when the light bulb came on for me. It seems like that’s exactly what some people hate. Everything becomes about individual wants, individual feelings, and individual demands. They say they care about others, but sometimes it feels like they mainly care about people who think exactly like they do. But in a country of over 300 million people, no government can meet everyone’s personal wants and needs. At some point, leaders have to make decisions based on what they believe is best for the country as a whole.

Then I looked at the rest of the definition, and honestly, America doesn’t fit it.

A fascist government is centralized and authoritarian. Ours isn’t. Power is divided between the federal government, states, and local governments.

Fascism suppresses opposition. America doesn’t. People protest, criticize politicians, attack the government online, and vote leaders out of office every day.

A fascist leader has near-total control. Our presidents don’t. They can be blocked by Congress, challenged in court, investigated, and voted out.

And fascism suppresses certain groups. America protects the rights of racial, religious, and political minorities and allows people to live and speak freely.

The biggest thing that stood out to me? The fact that we can openly argue about whether America is fascist is proof that we aren’t. In a truly fascist country, people don’t usually get to publicly accuse their government of being fascist without consequences.

That was my light bulb moment.

You Asked, I Answered, And Now Your Mad?

Have you ever noticed that some people don’t actually want your opinion?

They say they do. They ask for advice. They ask, “What do you think?” But what they really mean is… “Please confirm that I’m right, they’re wrong, and I have every reason to feel exactly the way I do.” 😂

Because the second you look at the situation and say, “Well… I kind of understand the other person’s side too,” suddenly YOU become the problem.

Wait… what? You asked me!

I think we have confused support with automatic agreement. Being a good friend, family member, or even a random person giving advice does not mean I have to blindly tell you that you are right. Sometimes the people who care enough to tell you the truth are the ones you should actually listen to.

And this is where the “Pitiful Pearls” come in. You know the ones. The people who collect problems like jewelry and wear them around for everyone to see.

Nothing is ever their fault. Nothing can be fixed. Every solution has an excuse attached to it. They don’t want a ladder to climb out of the hole — they want you to climb in there with them and talk about how unfair the hole is.

I just don’t understand that mindset.

I’m a fixer. I’m a fighter. I have been knocked down plenty of times in life, but my first thought is always, “Okay… what now? How do we fix it? How do we get better? What did I learn?”

I might sit in my feelings for a minute — because I’m human — but I’m not moving in and decorating the place. 😂

If something hurts my feelings, those feelings are mine. I can acknowledge them without needing 20 people to validate them. And if I ask for someone’s opinion, I better be prepared that they might not see it the same way I do.

That’s called growth.

The truth is, someone disagreeing with you does not mean they attacked you. Someone offering a different perspective does not mean they are against you.

Sometimes the thing you don’t want to hear is exactly the thing you need to think about.

And sometimes the best advice doesn’t come wrapped in sympathy and a bow. Sometimes it sounds like:

“Get up. Learn from it. Do better. Move forward.”

And honestly? Those are usually the people who helped me the most. 😉

Apparently, I’m Aging

I’ve decided I’m done with filters.

Not the funny ones that put bunny ears on your head. I’m talking about the little skin-smoothing filters that magically erase every wrinkle, soften every line, and make you look like you slept twelve hours, drank a gallon of water, and have never experienced stress a day in your life.

I’ve used them. Not a lot. I never tried to make myself look twenty years younger or fifty pounds thinner. Just enough to soften things a bit.

But lately… I’m tired of it.

The truth is, I was never the photogenic one. My daughter could look at a camera from across the room and somehow end up looking like she belonged on the cover of a magazine. Me? I could take fifty pictures and somehow blink in forty-nine of them.

It is what it is.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized something. Someday my grandkids are going to look through pictures of me. I don’t want them wondering who that airbrushed woman was. I want them to see me. The woman who laughed too hard, stayed up too late writing, worried too much, loved fiercely, and earned every one of those little lines around her eyes.

Those wrinkles? They came from 61 years of living.

The gray hair? It showed up because time keeps moving.

My face changed because I’m supposed to change.

I have single friends who may still be trying to catfish the dating world. 😂 More power to them. But I’ve been married for years. I don’t have the energy to keep pretending my face doesn’t know what year it is.

So this is me.

No more hiding every line. No more smoothing away the evidence that I’ve actually lived.

My digital image may change. My body will keep changing. That’s part of getting older, and honestly… I’m okay with that.

What I’m not okay with anymore is pretending to be someone I’m not.

If you see a picture of me from here on out, chances are you’re getting the real deal. So from here on out what youvseebisbehatvuiunget. what you see is what you get. Wrinkles, gray hair, laugh lines, and all. Because growing older is real… and so am I.

The Mom I Remember

Last night I dreamed about my mom. Not hospice Mom. Not wheelchair Mom. Not bed-bound Mom. My mom.

In my dream, I kept waking her up. "Come on, Mom. We can't stay in bed all the time."

She would get up and disappear. I'd look everywhere for her, wondering where she'd gone. Then I'd look back, and somehow she'd be in bed again. I'd wake her up again, and off she'd go… busy doing something.

That was my mom... always doing something.

For twelve years she lived in a wheelchair. Then came hospice, where the bed slowly became her whole world. Somewhere along the way, I forgot that before all of that, she was constantly moving.

She'd be in her shop, or at Hobby Lobby, or out to lunch with friends. She'd be at a play or spending the day crafting in her workshop. She'd already be decorating for the next holiday—even if the current one was only the Fourth of July. It didn't have to be a major holiday. If it was something she could celebrate with her family, she was all in.

She was never still.

Maybe that's why my dream felt so real. It wasn't trying to erase the last twelve years. It was reminding me of the eighty years before them.

The hardest part of this week hasn't just been losing my mom. It's been watching someone I loved become a body. I hated feeling how cold she was in her casket. I hated watching them lower her into the ground. I hated walking away knowing she was staying there.

When they dug her grave, I could see the side of my daddy's vault. Oddly enough, that brought me comfort. They were together again, only inches apart after all these years.

They were loved. They were wanted. They spent their lives giving everything they had to their family. Grief has a way of making us focus on the hardest moments, even when our hearts are already broken.

But maybe that's why I had that dream. Maybe my mom wasn't meant to stay in that bed in my memories. Maybe she was supposed to get up one more time. To walk away. To be busy again. To remind me that a wheelchair was only twelve years of her life. A bed was only a few months. A grave was only one afternoon.

But my mom... my mom was ninety-two years of love, laughter, creativity, and constant movement. That's the woman I want to remember.

Because my mom was never meant to be remembered by a wheelchair, a hospice bed, or a grave. Those were only the final pages of a beautiful story. The real story was the woman who couldn't always answer the phone because she was busy in another room, out for the day with friends, or off somewhere with my dad making another memory.

So I'm holding on to that dream.

For a few precious moments, I got my mom back exactly as she belonged... on her feet, too busy for me to keep up with, living life the way she always had.

And if that's the version my dreams choose to remember, I think that's a beautiful gift.

We Do Not Repair Relationships Outside of Self

I think one of the hardest lessons in life is realizing we do not repair relationships outside of ourselves.

We spend so much time thinking, “If they would just change,” “If they would just understand,” “If they would just apologize,” then everything would be better. But the truth is, the only part of any relationship we actually control is the person looking back at us in the mirror.

That doesn’t mean every problem is our fault. It doesn’t mean every broken relationship is ours to fix. It means healing usually starts by asking the harder questions.

Did I communicate clearly?
Did I listen, or was I just waiting to defend myself?
Did I react from hurt instead of understanding?
Did I expect someone else to carry something that was mine to work through?

Sometimes the repair is an apology. Sometimes the repair is a boundary. Sometimes the repair is accepting that two people can see the exact same situation completely differently.

The goal isn’t always to save every relationship. Some relationships are lessons. Some people are only meant to walk with us for a season.

But peace usually comes when we stop trying to control everyone else’s thoughts, actions, and opinions and start working on our own.

Because at the end of the day, the only person we can truly change is ourselves.

Blessed Instead of Bitter

Blessed Instead of Bitter

I’ve always been a thankful person. Maybe that’s why I see things a little differently than some people do.

I’m an optimist by nature. I believe hard work matters. I believe effort usually pays off. And when life throws obstacles in my path, I don’t spend much time focusing on what I can’t do. I focus on what needs to be done to get where I want to go.

When my dad passed away, of course I was sad. Losing someone you love is never easy. But more than anything, I felt grateful.

I was the lucky one.

I got to have him as my dad for 47 years. I got his advice, his example, his love, and all the memories that came with it. A lot of people never get that. Some people never know their father at all. So while I missed him terribly, I couldn’t ignore how blessed I was to have had him in my life for so long.

That’s where I choose to keep my focus.

I’ve noticed that life gets a lot easier when you spend less time dwelling on what’s missing and more time appreciating what’s there. Instead of focusing on the closed door, I look for another way through. Instead of concentrating on the problem, I start looking for the solution.

That doesn’t mean life is always easy. It doesn’t mean bad things don’t happen. It just means I refuse to let difficulties become my entire outlook.

Gratitude doesn’t erase hardship, but it changes how you carry it.

And if I have a choice between being bitter about what I lost or thankful for what I had, I’ll choose thankful every time.

Wait... It's Tuesday?

 I never know what day it is anymore.

The other day, I was happily working away in my home office when my son called to tell me his interview had gone well. My first thought was, Why in the world is he having an interview on a Saturday?

"Dude," he said. "It's Tuesday."

Apparently, I have completely lost my grip on the calendar.

I've missed appointments because I thought they were next week... only to realize they were yesterday. Where is my time going? I need to get my life together and start working toward the weekend again!

Then again, maybe not.

On Sunday night, I was busy trying to finish a project when this wonderful feeling washed over me. I didn't have to rush because I didn't have anywhere to be on Monday morning. After decades of schedules, deadlines, and responsibilities, that realization was surprisingly peaceful.

Still, I spent some time this morning filling out job applications. Who knows what I'm supposed to be doing at this stage of life? I'm still figuring that part out.

Maybe that's what retirement really is—not having every hour planned, not living for Friday, and not dreading Monday. It's learning to build a life that's meaningful without a clock telling you what comes next.

I may not always know what day it is, but maybe that's because, for the first time in my life, the days all belong to me.

I might have some Spectrum issues

There are just some things I will not do unless I’m presentable.

That doesn’t always mean full makeup, curled hair, and dressed to the nines. There are levels to this. I can go to Walmart or the grocery store in comfy clothes if they match and aren’t stained. My hair can be in a ponytail or pulled back in a cute way. But I still need at least a little makeup on. I do not leave my house completely natural. Ever.

Today, my husband wanted me to run to the bank to take care of some business. I told him I wasn’t planning on getting dressed today, which in my language means I wasn’t planning on doing my makeup or fixing my hair. I was planning on a comfy, low-maintenance day. He immediately said, “Fine, I’ll go,” because he knows I have to sit down and get ready to go to the bank.

I’m the same way about going to the doctor, having lunch with friends, or doing anything where I’m presenting myself to people in a professional setting. I need to feel put together. It’s not because I think anyone else cares. It’s because I care.

I don’t know why I’m this way. I don’t know when it started. Maybe it’s a Gen X thing. Maybe it’s because my mom raised me that way. Maybe it’s because I spent over 30 years as a professional, where I always had to be put together and represent myself and my business well. Or maybe it’s just my personality.

I’m not judging the girl in leggings, a messy bun, and an oversized T-shirt at Walmart. More power to her. I actually envy her a little. She’s free. I, on the other hand, have a whole process.

I don’t know if it’s good, bad, old-fashioned, or just plain weird. I just know it’s who I am. There are some places I can go looking comfy, and there are some places I simply won’t go unless I feel presentable.

And after all these years, I don’t think I’m changing.

Time to DEFUNK My Life

Today reminded me exactly why I retired.

People can be exhausting. Somewhere along the way, someone left the bag of idiots open. This next chapter is suppose to be about me.

I’m going to focus on my health—physically and mentally. I’m going to take better care of myself. I’m going to slow down, breathe a little, and rediscover who I am outside of work.

Right now, I still need to DEFUNK myself.

D.E.F.U.N.K.
Drop Expectations. Find Unexpected New Joy. Keep Growing.

Today was challenging for me.  One thing I’ve learned is that when something happens, there’s usually a reason. You may not know the circumstances. You may not have all the facts. But things rarely “just happen.”

There’s a reason the saying “Don’t shoot the messenger” has been around for generations. More people should practice it.

Here’s another thing I’ve learned: your attitude follows you everywhere. The future is wide open, but your opportunities can become a whole lot smaller when your attitude sucks. People remember how you treated them. Bridges are easy to burn and much harder to rebuild.

As for me, I’m choosing peace. I’m choosing my health. I’m choosing joy. I’m going to spend this season dropping expectations, finding unexpected joy, and continuing to grow.

This version of me also isn’t going to worry about ruffling your feathers. I’m done kissing ass just to keep everyone else comfortable. I’ve earned the right to speak my mind, set my boundaries, and protect my peace. If the truth ruffles your feathers, that’s a you problem.

Retirement didn’t make me quieter. It made me freer. I no longer owe anyone an explanation for living my life the way I choose. I’ll celebrate with the people who celebrate me, walk away from the drama, and invest my time in what fills my cup instead of drains it.

And if there’s one thing that hasn’t changed, it’s this: I will always stand up for the people I love.

So welcome to this new version of me. She’s healthier. She’s happier. She’s still growing. She has less tolerance for bullshit, more appreciation for peace, and absolutely no interest in pretending to be someone she’s not.

The Possum Lady and My Mom

My mother was 31 years old when she had me. Let's just say... I wasn't exactly part of the original family plan. 😂

Because of that, I grew up with an older mom than most of my friends. My brothers and sisters were so much older than I was that I had nieces and nephews before most of my friends did. In fact, while one of my friends' moms was busy having another baby, my mom was becoming a grandmother.

My family has always marched to its own timeline.

Even as a little girl, I worried about it. I knew my mom was older than everyone else's, and I was afraid I'd have to live without her long before my friends ever had to say goodbye to theirs. It wasn't something I talked about much, but it was one of those quiet fears that followed me through childhood.

My fear never really went away. As I got older, it just changed. Instead of worrying that she was older than everyone else's mom, I started realizing just how much I depended on her. She wasn't just my mother—she became the person I called first, the one who talked me off every ledge, celebrated every victory, and reminded me that somehow, everything would be okay.

When I think about everything life has thrown at me over the years, I honestly don't know how I would have made it through so many of life's hardest moments without her. She was my safe place—my sounding board, my voice of reason, and my greatest source of comfort. She could calm me down when I was overwhelmed, make me laugh when I needed it most, reassure me that I wasn't dying from whatever mysterious illness I'd convinced myself I had, and somehow always knew exactly what to say. No matter what I was facing, I never had to face it alone because I had her.

Even toward the end, she never really stopped being Mom. She still had a way of putting everyone at ease, even when we walked into her room expecting the worst.

I used to tease that Mom was the "possum lady." More than once, my sister would call and say, "I think this is it." We'd all gather ourselves, prepare for the worst, and head to see her. Then we'd walk into her room... And just like clockwork, she'd perk right up, straighten herself in the bed, flash that familiar smile, and say, "Well, hello!" You'd think she'd just been waiting for an audience.

But my sweet momma fooled us all. She lived to be 92 years old and gave me 61 wonderful years with her. Looking back now, I realize what an incredible gift that was. So many people never get that much time with their mothers.

For years, I worried that having an older mom meant I'd have less time with her. Instead, I was blessed with more than I ever dared hope for. The little girl in me was right about one thing—losing my mom would be one of the hardest things I'd ever face. She just got the timing wrong. And for that, I will be forever grateful.

When Your Hobby Needs Its Own Hobby Room

The Way I Craft

I have a tiny little writing hut in my house because I love to write. It has my computer, my desk, and shelves all around me. The funny thing is, because I already have a library in another part of my house, those shelves aren’t filled with books—they’re filled with craft supplies. Apparently, I do crafts in my writing hut too.

The problem is, I don’t have just one craft. I have several. And when I decide I like a craft, I don’t just dip my toe into it. Oh no. I go all in. I buy the equipment, the tools, the supplies, the accessories, and every single thing that goes with it. I don’t have hobbies; I have full-blown commitments.

So my little writing hut has turned into a combination writing space, craft room, supply closet, and probably a fire hazard. There are too many crafts, way too many supplies, and barely enough room left for me to sit down. I hate it! I can’t let my creative juices flow in this tiny space, and I really try!

Every shelf tells a story about something that once caught my attention and made me excited enough to learn something new. But I also know myself well enough to know there will be another craft someday, another set of supplies, and another machine that I absolutely have to have. The problem is, I’m already out of room.

Maybe that’s just who I am. I don’t do things halfway. Whether it’s writing, reading, or crafting, I go all in. My writing hut may be cramped, cluttered, and one Cricut purchase away from a structural collapse, but it’s mine… and it’s full of inspiration.

Apparently My Hobby Is Buying Hobby Supplies… Just in Case I Become a Professional

If I decide to try a new craft, I don’t just buy what I need. Oh no. I buy what 'future professional me' might need someday. I’ve never made a single project, but somehow I already own enough supplies to open a small specialty store.

I used to think it was because I’m a perfectionist. Now I think it’s because I just like being prepared. My pantry is the same way. If the grocery stores all closed tomorrow, I’d probably be just fine for a month. Apparently my craft room follows the same philosophy: What if I need this random tool three years from now? Better buy it today.

The funny thing is, I rarely regret it. I genuinely enjoy almost every hobby I try. Maybe I don’t stick with every one long enough to justify the amount of equipment I’ve collected… but that’s just a minor detail. I even have supplies for hobbies I haven’t started yet. That’s called planning ahead… or a craft addiction. Stop judging me!

Over the years I’ve drifted away from some things. I spent years scrapbooking Creative Memories albums, but life went digital. Pictures live on our phones and Facebook now instead of in printed albums. Cards, though? I’ll probably make those forever.

My newest obsession is felt. I’ve always loved it but never really knew what to make with it. Once I finish all the birthday crowns for the year, I’m diving into felt play food. And yes… I already have everything I need.

Well… almost everything. I’m sure I’ll find something else I absolutely have to have before I even get started. And right after that, I’m definitely going to stop buying craft supplies. Probably.

Welcome to the World of Self Diagnosis of a Hyprocontriate

I’m just gonna say it… I wasn’t emotionally prepared for cholesterol medicine to choose violence.

You know how the commercials casually say, “May cause muscle pain?” Like you might pull a hamstring reaching for the remote. What they don’t mention is waking up feeling like your entire body got into a bar fight with itself overnight—and nobody’s willing to apologize.

One minute I was fine. Then my back hurt. Then my shoulders. Then my ribs. Then my arm. Then some mystery spot under my armpit I didn’t even know existed.

Naturally, I did what every calm, rational person does… diagnosed myself with everything on the internet. Lupus? Probably. Fibromyalgia? Sure, why not. Polymyositis? Dermatomyositis? I can't even pronounce them, but they sound expensive. A thyroid problem? Toss it in. Vitamin deficiency? Maybe. A rare muscle disease found only in people over 50 who Google symptoms after dark? Seems legit. I am over 50. Or maybe an alien is using my muscles as a trampoline. Honestly… still not ruling that one out.

Poor Dennis has heard more about my muscles in the last four days than in the previous 33 years. I'm pretty sure he's quietly eyeing the guest room until the nice people arrive with the white jackets.

The good news? Every blood test came back normal… except one white blood cell count that apparently didn't get the memo and decided to add a little drama. So now I'm stuck wondering if my statin threw the world's biggest temper tantrum, or if I picked up some random virus just to keep things interesting.

The worst part isn't even the pain. It's that once you hit a certain age, every symptom becomes a new rabbit hole. "Oh... my left pinky twitched." Five minutes later you're reading about six diseases you've never heard of and somehow convincing yourself you have all of them.

Apparently aging now comes with a side hustle in overthinking and symptom tracking. Every ache is homework. Every weird twinge is an unscheduled pop quiz.

If you've ever wondered what getting older feels like, it's basically your body sending out complaint notices on a rotating schedule while the maintenance department is permanently on vacation.

So for now, I've broken up with my statin, I'm cautiously reintroducing my muscles to normal life, and I'm trying very hard not to Google anything after 9 p.m. Because if the internet has taught me anything, it's that by 9:15 I'm either dying… or I just slept funny. Honestly, I'm rooting for "slept funny."

If nothing else, I've learned two important things: my body has a real flair for theatrics, and I am absolutely not cut out for a career in self-diagnosis.

My Creative Juices Have Terrible Timing

I have discovered something about myself… apparently my creativity clocks in for the night shift. Around 10:00 p.m. my brain suddenly decides, “You know what sounds like a great idea? Let’s write a blog, or romance novel! We can make a birthday card, start a Christmas project, reorganize the craft room, tune the violin, and maybe clean out the garage while we’re at it.”

Really? NOW?

The problem is that grown-up responsibilities expect me to be awake tomorrow morning. And if I stay up following every brilliant little idea that pops into my head, tomorrow night’s creative genius is going to be replaced by a woman asleep on the couch by 8:30. This system is not sustainable. My brain has a waiting list. Daytime Raven says, “You should probably get some rest.”  Nighttime Raven says, “Sleep is temporary. Inspiration is forever.”

Honestly, I wish my creativity would punch a time clock and show up around 10:00 in the morning instead. We’d get so much done! But no… apparently my imagination is part vampire.

So if you see me wandering around tomorrow looking a little tired, just know it’s because my brain spent half the night beginning seventeen crafts that my body now has to figure out how to finish.

Creative people… please tell me I’m not the only one whose best ideas arrive precisely when common sense has already gone to bed.

I Planned for Getting Older, Not Retirement

 Retirement is weird.

You spend your whole working life thinking, "One day I'll have all this free time." Then one day you wake up and realize... nobody gave you any instructions on what you're supposed to do with it. Don't get me wrong. I have plenty to do. I just haven't figured out what my "next thing" is yet.

What I do know is that I want to build one more house. I built this one. I even designed it. At the time, I thought I was planning for getting older. I made the doorways a little wider and tried to think ahead.What I didn't plan for was retirement.

I didn't think about having a place where my grandkids could spread out their toys while I spread out my craft supplies. I didn't think about wanting a room where glitter explosions wouldn't have to be cleaned up before dinner. I didn't think about one side of the house being loud with kids laughing, playing games, or staying up way too late while the other side stayed quiet enough that Dennis and I could pretend we were going to bed early.

Apparently, I planned for aging. I forgot to plan for living.

So now my brain spends entirely too much time designing a house we haven't even built yet. I know where the craft room goes. I know where the grandkids will play. I know where the coffee pot belongs because, let's be honest, that's important information.

I've probably built this house seventeen times in my head already. The funny thing is, I think I want this house now more than I did when I was still working. Maybe it's because I finally have the time to enjoy it.

Or maybe retirement gives your brain entirely too much free time. If I'm not designing a house in my head, I'm wondering why my shoulder hurts, convincing myself I have some rare disease Google discovered at 2:00 a.m., or trying to remember why I walked into the laundry room in the first place.

Honestly, building a house sounds like the healthiest hobby I've come up with so far. Because the longer I wait, the more my current house reminds me of all the things I wish I'd thought of 10 years ago.