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.

 

Fine. I Guess We’re Just Eating Cookies.

My husband and I were watching the news today, and apparently the safest thing to consume is… anxiety.

Every story was another warning. There are viruses going around. Don’t eat this fruit. Wash those vegetables. Peel them. No, boil them. 

Rice? Oh, rice has arsenic. But don’t worry—you can buy a different kind of rice. Then boil it, dump the water, boil it again in fresh water, say a prayer, and maybe you’ll survive dinner.

At some point I looked at Dennis and said, “I think we’re just going to start eating cookies for every meal.” He didn’t even hesitate. “I could do that.” Finally. A man with solutions. Then I remembered a conversation I had with my daughter earlier today about cookies. Specifically, the kind of people who put raisins in cookies. Those people are not to be trusted. Listen… if it looks like a chocolate chip, it had better BE a chocolate chip. Don’t let me bite into what I thought was happiness only to discover betrayal wrapped in a raisin. And while we’re making requests… keep the oatmeal out too. I don’t need healthy cookies. If I wanted healthy, I’d still be standing over my sink washing, peeling, boiling, draining, and re-boiling my dinner. Give me the good stuff. White sugar. Brown sugar. Chocolate chips. Sugar, sugar, and a little more sugar.

At this point, cookies seem like less work than making rice.

Not Everyone Is Going to Like Me

I finally realized something that has brought me a lot of peace: I am not responsible for making other people happy. That’s a setup for failure every single time. Someone will always be disappointed, offended, disagree with you, or think you should be living your life differently.

I’m not going to lose sleep because someone gets mad that I’m a Republican, a Democrat, an Independent, or anything else. My beliefs are mine. Yours are yours. We all have the right to think differently, and your approval of my opinions means absolutely nothing to me because I never asked for it in the first place.

And friendships? I value real ones. But if a friendship requires me to walk on eggshells, hide my opinions, apologize for who I am, or constantly worry about upsetting someone, then it’s not much of a friendship anyway.

I’ve learned that peace is more valuable than approval. I’d rather be authentically myself and have a few genuine people around me than spend my life performing for an audience that can walk away at any time.

I’m going to be kind. I’m going to be respectful. But I’m also going to be myself. And if that makes someone angry enough to leave, I’ll hold the door open for them.

Because I’m not living my life to make anyone else happy. I’m finally living it to make peace with myself.

Putting Up With Shit Is Part of Life

Who has been teaching people that they don’t have to put up with shit? Because you do. Every single day.

You have to deal with your boss, your spouse, your friends, your neighbors, and society in general. You have to deal with politics you don’t agree with, store policies you don’t like, products disappearing from shelves, traffic, rude people, and disappointment.

You have to deal with somebody else getting the promotion. Somebody else getting the girl or the boy you wanted. Somebody else making the team instead of you. Somebody else getting the opportunity you thought you deserved. That’s called living in a society.

Somewhere along the way, we’ve started teaching people that every inconvenience is an injustice and every disappointment is someone else’s fault. We’ve convinced people that if something upsets them, they shouldn’t have to tolerate it.

Take the recent case of one boy stabbing another. You even have a small percentage of people arguing that he should somehow get away with it. Why? Because we’ve raised some people to believe that if they’re angry enough, offended enough, or feel justified enough, the rules shouldn’t apply to them. No. Society doesn’t work that way.

Maybe instead of teaching our kids that they don’t have to put up with shit, we should teach them this simple truth: Yeah, you do. You don’t always get your way. You don’t always win. You don’t always get picked. You don’t always get what you think you deserve.

Life is unfair. People disappoint you. Rules frustrate you. Somebody else gets the job, the scholarship, the boyfriend, the girlfriend, the raise, or the opportunity. And you know what? You get up the next morning and keep going. Because that’s adulthood. That’s maturity. That’s character.

The people who learn to handle disappointment become productive adults. The people who think they should never have to tolerate frustration, unfairness, or being told no become angry adults who think the world owes them something. It doesn’t.

Nobody owes you a promotion. Nobody owes you a relationship. Nobody owes you a spot on the team. And society certainly doesn’t owe you a life free from frustration. Learning to put up with things you don’t like isn’t weakness. It’s one of the most important skills you’ll ever learn.

Grandkids

Grandchildren arrive

Turning Ordinary days

Into the good old days

The Picture I'll Treasure Forever

This was the last picture I took with my mom. June 24, 2026.
I was determined to get it! I climbed up beside her, but she was taking up the whole bed, so I kept sliding down or only getting my forehead in the shot with her face! Dennis kept fussing at me, saying, “Quit wallowing her!” Meanwhile, Mom and I were just giggling while I kept trying to squeeze in enough to get a picture. She kept making funny faces, which only made me laugh harder. Now, I realize this wasn’t exactly my best angle. I tried several times to get a better one, but I was determined, and this is the one we got. I’m so thankful I didn’t give up.
Every visit after this, she slept. This was the last time we laughed together. It was the last time I covered her face with kisses that she actually felt. The last time I told her I loved her and heard her say, “I love you too.”
When I walked out of her room, I leaned back through the doorway one more time and said, “I love you.” She smiled, waved at me, and said, “I love you too.”
I’m so thankful I have this picture.

The Day I Always Dreaded

It’s strange to wake up and realize you’re living the day you’ve feared your entire life.

Even as a little girl, I would think about the day my mom would die. The thought would sneak into my mind, and it would terrify me. I’d quickly push it away and tell myself I would think about it another day. There would be plenty of time for that later.

At night, I’d lie in my bed with my bedroom door open and the hallway light shining in. It was the only way I could fall asleep. And in the distance, I could hear my mom and dad talking in the kitchen or watching TV together. Those familiar sounds told me everything was okay. They were both home. They were both still here.

Now they’re both gone.

There isn’t another day to put those thoughts off. The day I spent my whole life dreading has finally come… and somehow, I’m living it.

Tonight, there won’t be voices drifting down the hallway. Just silence. No matter how many years you have with your parents, no matter how much you know this day is coming, nothing prepares you for the silence they leave behind.

The Hands That Raised Me

Friday, I took a picture of my mom’s hand.

Just her hand.

It’s amazing how, in this one picture, I can see an entire lifetime and every act of love she used those hands for.

Those hands brushed my hair before school, buttoned my tiny dresses, tied my shoes, wiped away my tears, packed my lunches, tucked me into bed, bandaged scraped knees, and held my hand whenever I needed it. They cooked thousands of meals, folded endless loads of laundry, scrubbed floors, planted flowers, wrapped Christmas presents, and somehow made our house feel like the safest place in the world.

Her hands made childhood magical. They sewed clothes for me, stitched Halloween costumes, and built me the most wonderful Barbie dollhouse a little girl could ever imagine.

My dad built beautiful things from wood, and my mom used those hands to bring them to life with paint, color, and love. Together they created treasures that fill many homes today. Every time I walk past one in my home, I don’t just see beautiful artwork—I see the love that poured from her hands.

When my own children came along, those same hands loved them just as deeply. They held babies, read stories, gave hugs that made everything better, celebrated every milestone, and decorated her home to look like the North Pole every Christmas. She made every holiday feel bigger, more beautiful, and more magical than the one before. She made each grandchild feel completely and unconditionally loved. She didn’t just raise her own family—she helped shape the generations that followed.

As I held her hand for the last time, I realized it had spent ninety-two years loving, giving, creating, comforting, and serving everyone around her.

Although her hands are still now, I will continue to see them everywhere. Because the greatest thing my mother ever created wasn’t something she painted, sewed, or built. Those hands built a family who never had to wonder if they were loved. And even now, when I close my eyes, I can still feel her hands in mine—steady, gentle, and full of a love that will never let go.

Can We Just Exist Without the Noise

The world feels chaotic right now. Everywhere you turn, someone is promoting a cause, an identity, a belief, or a lifestyle and wanting everyone else to acknowledge it. Sometimes it feels like there is no escaping the noise.

What if public spaces could simply be neutral places again? Places where people can shop, visit a museum, or take a walk without being pulled into someone else’s politics, beliefs, or personal causes. A place to just exist and enjoy the moment.

I also think there is a difference between living your life freely and expecting everyone around you to participate in or explain it to their children. Kids don’t need to be introduced to every religion, every belief system, every political cause, or every aspect of adult relationships before their parents feel they are ready. Parents should have the right to decide when certain conversations happen and how they happen.

Of course, everyone has the right to live according to their own values and beliefs. But the families you pass in public spaces have rights too. Respect goes both ways. Your right to express yourself and another family’s right to raise their children according to their own values should be able to coexist. Your rights end where another person’s begin.

Live however you want. Believe whatever you want. Fly whatever flags you want on your own property. That’s your right. But I miss the idea of shared public spaces feeling calm and united rather than divided into competing messages and causes. Sometimes it feels like we’re all asking for understanding while forgetting to extend that same understanding to others.

For me, the one flag that represents all Americans, regardless of our differences, is the American flag. In a world that often feels loud and chaotic, a little neutrality, a little common ground, and a little more respect for one another sound pretty peaceful.

You Can Do Anything… Until You’re Doing Everything

To me, if you’re constantly overwhelmed by all the things you should do and never have any time left to do the things you want to do, it usually means one of two things: you’re ambitious, or you are doing things alone.

Ambitious people are always finding things that need to be done. They have goals, projects, ideas, and responsibilities. They want their homes clean, their finances in order, and their lives moving forward. They don’t sit still very well because their minds are always on to the next thing.

But sometimes the problem isn’t ambition. Sometimes the problem is that one person is carrying the mental load and the physical load while another person is just… there.

One person is making the appointments, planning the meals, paying the bills, cleaning the house, remembering birthdays, making the grocery lists, and keeping life running. The other person somehow has plenty of time for hobbies, naps, television, or scrolling their phone. Of course you’re overwhelmed. You’re doing the work of two adults.

I’ve learned there’s a difference between being busy because you’re driven and being exhausted because you’re carrying someone else. One is ambition. The other is imbalance. And if you never have time for yourself because you’re always taking care of everything and everyone else, it may be time to ask yourself an uncomfortable question:

Am I overwhelmed because I want a lot out of life… or because someone else expects me to do it all?

The American Dream Still Exists… But It Requires the Annoying Part of actually working!

Maybe I’m just old. That’s always a possibility….. but I keep hearing people say the American Dream is dead, and every time I hear it, I think… is it? Or did we just stop wanting to do the part that makes the dream possible?

The American Dream was never, “Congratulations! You were born here. Here’s your house, your car, your healthcare, your college, and your retirement. Enjoy!” No… that’s not how this works.

The dream was always about opportunity. The chance to build something. To start with nothing and end up with something because you worked your tail off.

Somewhere along the way, it feels like we’ve started expecting the reward without the work. We complain about not having enough money, but don’t want overtime. We want the promotion without learning the job. We want success delivered like Amazon Prime.

Then I hear people say, “Healthcare should be free.” Here’s the thing… nothing is free. Somebody always pays. If the government pays, taxpayers pay. We can debate whether that’s the right approach, but calling it “free” doesn’t make it free.

And I think some people imagine that if healthcare were government-funded, it would automatically be faster, better, and available whenever you want it. I’m not convinced. Every system has trade-offs. Countries with publicly funded healthcare often have strengths, but many also deal with longer waits for some non-emergency procedures, limited provider choices, or budget constraints. There isn’t a perfect system anywhere.

The same goes for just about everything else. We all want good roads, good schools, safe communities, affordable healthcare, and opportunities for our families. The question isn’t whether those things matter. The question is who pays for them and how they’re sustained.

I’ve spent my entire adult life working. I wasn’t waiting around for someone to hand me a better life. I built one. Was it perfect? Nope. Was it exhausting? Absolutely. Was it worth it? Every single time.

The American Dream isn’t dead. It just still has the same job description it’s always had: show up, work hard, keep learning, fail sometimes, get back up, and repeat. I know… not nearly as exciting as waiting for someone else to fix everything.

Call me crazy, but I still think earning something feels a whole lot better than expecting someone else to provide it. Maybe that’s just my generation talking… but I don’t think hard work has gone out of style. I think we’ve just stopped advertising it.

This Blog Is Brought to You by ADHD and Oklahoma

​I write stupid blogs from whatever random thought my ADHD brain is having that day. I’m not the most eloquent writer, and let’s face it… my vocabulary is straight out of Oklahoma. Some of my favorite words ain't even real words.

Take “gollywopper.” I spent most of my life thinking it was that little muscle in your throat that moves when you swallow. I also thought it was responsible for making “sugars” when you wanted to kiss somebody. Apparently… none of that is true. And if your doctor asks what’s wrong, don’t tell him your gollywopper hurts unless you want him staring at you like you need a different kind of appointment with a tight jacket!

So, if you’re reading one of my blogs and thinking, “What in the world is this woman talking about?” just remember… writing is my therapy. My ADHD brain has about 47 thoughts happening at the same time, and getting them out on paper keeps them from bouncing around in my head.

Honestly, writing it all down has probably saved a life. Maybe mine, maybe my husband’s. It helps me sort through things, make sense of feelings I don’t fully understand yet, and come to terms with whatever season of life I’m in. So these silly little blogs? They’re less about writing and more about keeping my brain from exploding.

Apparently, I’m Mr. Rogers Now

​You go from watching Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood and wondering why he changed his shoes and cardigan every day to suddenly thinking, “Wait… why do I have three pairs of glasses scattered around my house?”

I swear I’ve reached the age where I need driving glasses, computer glasses, and reading glasses. I sit down at the computer and have to swap glasses like Mr. Rogers swapped shoes. Then I pick up my phone and need another pair. Then I look up to watch TV and can’t see because I still have my reading glasses on.

Getting older is wild. One day you’re singing along with Mr. Rogers, and the next day… you are Mr. Rogers. 😆

Maybe We’re All Just Winging It

I recently learned there’s a name for something I’ve felt most of my life.

Imposter syndrome.

At first, I wasn’t sure it fit. I don’t walk around pretending to be a brain surgeon or a rocket scientist. I know what I know, and I know what I don’t. If I’m being honest, there are days when I feel like people give me way more credit than I deserve. They think I’m smart. They think I’m capable. They think I know what I’m doing. And somewhere in the back of my mind is this little voice that wonders what happens when they figure out I don’t know nearly as much as they think I do.

What if they realize I’ve been making it up as I go along? What if they realize I’m just figuring things out one day at a time like everyone else? What if they realize I don’t have all the answers? The funny thing is, I’ve spent my entire life expecting someone to discover that. And nobody ever has.

I’ve raised kids, built a business, managed employees, solved problems, handled crises, and survived things I never thought I’d survive. Yet somehow my brain still likes to say, “Yeah, but anyone could have done that.”

Could they? Because when I really stop and think about it, not everyone did. Not everyone stayed when things got hard. Not everyone figured it out. Not everyone kept going when they were scared, overwhelmed, tired, or completely unsure of what to do next.

Maybe what I’ve always mistaken for not being enough is simply being human. Maybe nobody knows everything. Maybe most of us are just learning as we go. Maybe the people we admire aren’t confident because they have all the answers. Maybe they’re confident because they’ve learned they don’t need all the answers to keep moving forward. I’m still working on that lesson.

But at this age, I’m starting to suspect that nobody really has life completely figured out. Some people are just better at hiding it. The rest of us are winging it, making the best decisions we can with what we know at the time, and hoping it works out. And maybe that’s not failure. Maybe that’s life.

So if someday everyone discovers I don’t know everything, I guess they’ll be disappointed. Right after they discover nobody else does either.

Whatever Happened To Bikes?

Lately I’ve found myself asking a question I never thought I’d need to ask: When did kids stop riding bikes and start driving golf carts?

Seriously. I remember neighborhoods full of kids. They were walking to their friends’ houses, riding bicycles, playing ball in the street, building questionable forts out of scrap lumber, and generally staying outside until somebody’s mom started yelling their name from a front porch. Now I leave to run errands and find myself following a twelve-year-old driving a golf cart decorated like a Fourth of July parade float. Apparently that’s normal now.

Maybe I’m showing my age, but it seems odd that kids who aren’t old enough to have a driver’s license somehow have access to vehicle keys. They’re driving around the same streets where the rest of us are headed to work, the grocery store, doctor’s appointments, and everywhere else... and before anyone says, “Well, if you had a golf cart when your kids were young, they’d have driven it too,” you’re probably right. They absolutely would have.

That’s because kids will drive anything with wheels if you let them. But should we let them? Part of being a kid was getting places under your own power. You walked. You rode your bike. You burned off enough energy that your parents didn’t have to wonder why you were bouncing off the walls at bedtime.

The other thing that worries me is that driving a golf cart around a neighborhood can create a false sense of confidence. When you’ve spent years cruising around at fifteen miles an hour while everybody watches out for you, it’s easy to think you’ve mastered driving.

Then one day you’re handed the keys to an actual car and discover traffic has considerably less patience than Mrs. Johnson and her poodle. Maybe I’m overthinking it. Maybe this is just another one of those moments where I realize the world changed while I wasn’t paying attention. But I still think it’s strange that the kids have vehicles. The golf carts have cup holders. And the bicycles are sitting in the garage wondering what happened.

The Next Super Hero Could Be A Kid With Star Power

Look, the odds are pretty slim that any of us are raising the next President or a movie star with a ten-bedroom mansion in Beverly Hills. (Honestly, I consider it a massive win if my kid just manages to put their shoes on the correct feet before noon). But while we might not be raising Hollywood royalty, we can absolutely raise good humans.

We can teach our kids that making a big impact usually comes down to doing the little things right. It’s about teaching them to be genuinely kind to others, to volunteer their time, and to be deeply thoughtful. The whole "it's all about me" attitude is exhausting—trust me, I have lived with a tiny dictator who thought the sun raised and sat on their snack schedule. We have to gently remind them that the world doesn't actually revolve around them, and that worrying about someone other than ourselves is a beautiful thing.

Whether it's helping a neighbor carry groceries, volunteering a few hours, or just being there for a friend in need, those small acts of thoughtfulness often leave the biggest mark. Deciding to make a difference in someone else's life just because you can? Now that is true star power.