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.