The Aging Optimist

There’s a funny thing that happens as you get older. The decisions don’t necessarily get easier… but the way you think about them changes. When I was younger, decisions were often about momentum . Career moves. Cities. Relationships. Opportunities that looked shiny and exciting. The question was usually simple: Will this get me somewhere better? And if I’m being honest, sometimes the decision was simply: Does this look impressive enough to say yes? But somewhere along the way - after a few decades of living, working, loving, worrying, succeeding, failing, and getting back up again - the question shifts. Now it’s more like: Will this actually make my life better? At this stage of life, decisions come with a slightly different set of considerations. Energy matters more. Peace matters more. Time matters more. You start realizing that energy is a currency . And frankly, I’m a lot more careful about where I spend mine these days. I’ve also noticed something else. Things th...

My favorite time of the year is here. Spring never really bursts onto the scene. It slips in quietly. One day you notice tiny green shoots pushing through the dirt. The next, the forsythia are blazing bright yellow like little bursts of sunshine along the road. The birds seem to have turned up the volume, carrying on their cheerful morning conversations as if they’ve all been waiting months to catch up. And then there’s the air.  It’s warmer. Softer. The kind of air that makes you open the windows, linger outside a little longer, and start thinking it might be time to move again. Every year spring feels like optimism returning to the world. Winter has a way of making life smaller. Heavier coats. Shorter days. More time indoors. But spring gently nudges things open again. The layers get lighter. Walks get longer. The evenings stretch out just enough that staying outside suddenly feels like the best idea of the day. Nature seems to understand something about starting over. Thos...

He is strength wrapped in warmth. Intellect laced with instinct. A man who thinks deeply and loves even deeper. Every morning, he brings me coffee. Not occasionally. Not when convenient. Every morning. A quiet offering. A gentle beginning. A small, steady act that says I am here. I choose you. Again. Then he challenges me - not to diminish me, but to sharpen me. He irritates me - because he expects more. Because he sees more. He laughs loudly. Dances freely. Touches intentionally. He is swarthy and steady, sweet and strategic, thoughtful enough to listen and bold enough to disagree. And after all these years - after the debates and the sparks and the choosing each other again and again - He still brings me coffee like loving me is the easiest habit he has. He may challenge my conclusions. But he never questions us. And that quiet certainty… that daily devotion… that love you can hold warm in your hands before you even open your eyes… That’s the sexies...

Lately, my body has been filing… complaints. Nothing dramatic. Nothing headline-worthy. Just small, persistent reminders that certain parts of me have opinions now. Knees that negotiate stairs like tiny union representatives. Feet that track mileage like competitive athletes. A back that remembers everything I’ve ever lifted… and a head that occasionally reminds me I am no longer powered entirely by adrenaline and caffeine. It’s not pain exactly. It’s awareness. And honestly? I’m a little offended. Because in my mind, I am still fully capable of jumping up from the floor without planning the exit strategy. I still think of myself as someone who recovers quickly, moves easily, bounces back. My spirit has not aged one bit. My playlists haven’t slowed down. My curiosity certainly hasn’t dimmed. But my body… has entered commentary mode. And to be fair — I’ve given it plenty to talk about. I was working in EMEA last week. Trade show days meant standing and walking ten hours a day...

As I get older, I think of friendship the way I think of seasons. Some friendships arrive with energy and light. Some settle in slowly and become steady. Others appear exactly when they’re needed, shaping the life we’re living in that moment. Each season brings its own people. Each one matters. And then there are the friends who seem to move through every season with you. My birthday always brings them back to me. Messages from women who knew me early -before life scattered us, before we became the women we are now. Before calendars. Before distance. We didn’t plan connection - we lived inside it. We showed up, lingered, laughed, and believed - without knowing it - that these moments would matter forever. Life unfolded and expanded, as it does. Different paths. Different rhythms. Different ways of growing into ourselves. And still, somehow, the thread held. We’ve come back together in moments - class reunions, beach reunions - where time softens and the years fall awa...

There is something quietly astonishing about watching your child fall in love -  especially when that child is your firstborn. The one who made you a mother. The one who taught your body and your heart how to stretch into something larger than you ever imagined. Loving your firstborn doesn’t mean holding on tighter. It means trusting the bungee cord was built to stretch. My son has met a girl. A really wonderful girl. Watching them together is its own kind of joy - not loud, not performative, just steady and real. They touch each other without thinking about it. A hand at the small of the back. A glance that says I see you . They move through rooms together like they’re already a team, still learning the rules but clearly invested in figuring them out side by side. They’re both in their late twenties - that in-between space where life is no longer theoretical but not yet settled. Where careers are still forming, identities still under revision, and the future feels both wide o...