#URBAN DICTIONARY: #Black Don’t Crack: The skin of African Americans does not wrinkle and show age as much as individuals from other ethnic backgrounds.
Why did I choose the name “My Black is Not Cracking?” Well, for years I had heard that phrase. Well into my 30’s I would get carded and there would be a surprising response upon inspection of my driver’s license. If the guy carding me happened to be African American, I would often hear that phrase. “Black don’t crack.” I used to think it was funny. And it felt like a compliment. I mean who doesn’t want to be mistaken for someone younger?
And that is the issue that bugs me the most now. Why are we all so obsessed with being mistaken for someone younger? With Anti-Aging? Why is it not okay to be the age that you are? Why do we live in such a youth obsessed culture? I totally understand that looking good makes us feel good, but what I want to get to is “feeling good, making us look good!”
I don’t mean to be the bearer of bad news, but black most certainly does crack. It might crack slowly, but it cracks! I’m watching it crack…daily. And I feel bad about it, but should I? Yes, it is true the skin of African Americans doesn’t wrinkle as fast as it does for those of other ethnic backgrounds. But, as good as we may look on the outside, we disproportionately suffer from hypertension, diabetes and obesity.
Now not to get too deep into the science of why black skin doesn’t crack as fast, in a nutshell it’s because of the type of melanin found in our skin. We are walking around with natural sunscreen on. And the darker our skin, the more UV protection we get. Further, we have a type of collagen in our skin that also helps prevent sun damage.
I found this in an article in the paper some months back, that Skin specialist and aesthetician Bianca Estelle, also states that we typically have a higher oil content, so we have a natural skin hydration system that makes black skin look hydrated and smoother. In the same article, Dr. Almaani stated that although our skin does well with sun, it is still prone to discoloration, pigmentation issues from sun exposure and hormonal effects.
Another doctor, Boris Paskhover, again, same article, who is a facial plastic surgeon stated that black faces also maintain structural support longer. We are born with denser bones in our face that don’t break down as quickly as other ethnicities.
So, those are the reasons that our faces take longer to crack. In addition, we are less prone to osteoporosis. But what I really want to address is not just how we look, but how we feel. (Inside and out) Why was I so devastated when I looked in the mirror one day and pretty much every day since? (with my glasses on!) When did my face shape turn into a square?
Why are we obsessed with anti-aging, instead of aging well, with style, grace and dignity? Why is the anti-aging industry revenue projected to be some $400 BILLION, by 2027? Why do many seem to be more concerned with their face, than their bodies, minds and spirit?
That is what this is about. The title was just to get your attention. Intrigued? Offended? Curious? Whatever. You got here. I hope you will stick around because this is for all women AND those that love them.
There is loss. And there is a kind of loss that knocks the wind out of you because it arrives without warning. No slow decline. No preparation. No long goodbye that allows your heart to quietly start making accommodations for what is coming.
Someone I loved died suddenly last week at 47 years old.
Forty-seven.
He spent what sounded like a beautiful day with his family. A normal day. A day that probably felt like any other day. There were conversations, routines, maybe plans for tomorrow, a future barbecue, definitely complaints about work, maybe laughter over something silly that won’t seem silly anymore. Then he went home, collapsed, and days later he was gone.
There is something uniquely disorienting about sudden loss because your heart never got the chance to begin preparing. It leaves a feeling of unfinishedness, of “this cannot possibly be the end of the sentence.”
Gone.
Even writing the word feels strange because the mind rejects it before the heart finally catches up.
How can someone be here one moment and then not here at all?
Our family and extended family are devastated. We are walking around in that fog that grief creates, where you find yourself staring into the refrigerator forgetting why you opened it, replaying details over and over, trying to locate the moment where reality somehow got rearranged without your permission.
Sudden loss hits different. There is no runway. No chance to brace yourself for impact. No opportunity to say the things you would have said had you known there was a countdown clock quietly ticking in the background.
And if I am being truthful, this grief didn’t arrive alone. Grief rarely travels by itself. My mother also passed away and at an even younger age. So, grief has pulled up a chair and invited old grief to sit beside it.
Suddenly I am not only mourning him; I’m mourning her too. I’m mourning my grandchild who at age 21, was just gone. I’m mourning every beautiful person who deserved more years.
It’s like someone opens the grief gates and suddenly…..
You grieve the mother you should still be able to call.
You grieve birthdays and holidays and ordinary Tuesdays that should have existed but never will.
You grieve conversations that never happened.
You grieve what should have been.
And sadly, at this age, I am realizing that grief starts showing up everywhere.
Not just in death.
You grieve shocking and expected losses.
You grieve children growing up.
You grieve parents aging.
You grieve your own changing body.
You grieve seasons of your life ending.
You grieve the person you used to be.
You grieve realizing that time is no longer this endless thing stretching out before you like a long open highway. When you’re young, mortality belonged to someone else. It belonged to old people.
Then, all the sudden you reach an age where every phone call after a certain hour makes your stomach knot up. The phone calls you didn’t get make your stomach knot up!
Every unfamiliar number appearing on your phone late at night creates a moment of hesitation. (During the day, it’s Spam!)
Every unexpected text begins with your heart quietly whispering, “please don’t let it be bad news”.
And maybe that sounds dark. But strangely, while grief has a way of breaking your heart open, it also has a way of stripping away the nonsense. The BS. Not the inspirational social media kind where we all pretend tomorrow is guaranteed and slap a motivational quote over a sunset.
This loss was devastating, but it was also a reminder. Today matters. You matter. In our sadness, in our shock, and in our grief, we do not have to transform this loss immediately into wisdom or gratitude just because we woke up today. We can hold both things at once: I am grateful I am here, and I am heartbroken that he isn’t. I’m heartbroken for everyone that loved him. I’m heartbroken for the son he left behind.
Today is a real reminder that none of us know….
None of us know when we have had our last ordinary Tuesday.
None of us know when we have laughed at our last joke.
None of us know when we have said our last goodbye without realizing it was a goodbye at all.
Today could be it.
For any of us.
Not in a fearful way. In a truthful way.
Today matters.
Not because you need to suddenly quit your job and move to Italy.
Not because you need to start climbing mountains, jumping out of planes, or checking off bucket-list items.
Today matters because of the small things.
So…..
Text the person.
Make the call.
Sit a little longer.
Say I love you.
Laugh at something stupid.
Take the picture.
Eat dessert.
Leave dishes in the sink if it means staying at the table longer with someone you love.
Because when everything gets stripped away, the things that remain are usually not the grand moments.
They are the ordinary ones.
And today, while I am carrying sadness and grief and questions that don’t have answers, I am also carrying gratitude.
Because I woke up today.
I got another ordinary day.
And ordinary days, it turns out, are not ordinary at all.
They are everything.
Today matters.
We love you, Keith.
Neil Diamond and Sweet Caroline are in heavy rotation in the office. By 2 PM I can barely breathe between the yawns. The busy boredom of soul-sucking work. The people are great. The environment, for the most part, is relaxed. So relaxed, in fact, that while filing, I find myself wondering exactly who the first person was that bomp, bomp, bomped during Sweet Caroline.
Was it spontaneous? Was there a meeting? Did one drunk guy at a baseball game start it and the rest of humanity collectively decide, “Yes. I’m in!”
These are the thoughts you have when your spirit quietly leaves your body somewhere between spreadsheet tabs three and four and stacks of checks not payable to you.
I struggle to balance what I want to do versus what I need to do. I’ve worked in finance and accounting for most of my professional life. Before that, banking. Apparently, my destiny has always involved fluorescent lighting and explaining numbers to people who pretend to understand depreciation schedules.
I always had side businesses that involved working with creative individuals and businesses, although still mostly dealing with numbers, with the exception of catering. Mostly, I managed finances for small businesses and artists. Even my work in music, film and television revolved around budgets and numbers. Apparently, no matter where I went, the calculator followed me.
Not sure why suddenly this all feels like the equivalent of having needles stuck in my eyes. Maybe because at this age, your tolerance for time wasting drops dramatically., along with your collagen levels and your ability to not say what’s on your mind.
I’m questioning the use and value of my very precious time and talent. My need for sixteen new windows that will hopefully reduce the exorbitant heating and AC bills of this past winter — AND SPRING. WHY is my heat on in May? Why am I paying utility bills that look like ransom notes from the gas company?
Then there are refinished floors damaged by a turtle that once resided in the home. Yes. A turtle. Which somehow sounds less ridiculous than the estimate to repair the damage. Replacing a washer that decided I only needed to wash whites and a dryer possessed, that stops and starts when it gets good and damn ready. Replacing a toilet that has experienced its last ass and flush. Refinishing a space the previous owners gutted and abandoned like a home improvement crime scene.
The lack of insulation in that space has also been costly, so the investment now will hopefully reduce the utility bills and increase the home’s value. At this point, I’m basically in a committed financial relationship with Lowe’s and contractors who begin every sentence with, “Well… see the problem here is…”
Then there’s delayed dental work equivalent to the cost of a newer-model used car and health insurance premiums almost equal to the mortgage. Nothing humbles you quite like realizing your mouth now contains the resale value of a 2018 Honda Civic.
It is a sad state of affairs when you cannot wait to turn 65 and qualify for medicare! I was excited about programs NJ offers for seniors to reduce their real estate tax burden, (THE HIGHEST IN THE COUNTRY BY THE WAY! I guess maintaining that smell around Exit 13 on the NJ Turnpike is costly!) until our new governor decided, “Yeah, let’s take money from the seniors in NJ who have been paying taxes in the state the longest!” Makes total sense. NOT! Gee, thanks Mikie!
The debits and credits are definitely out of balance, and I know many seniors find themselves in a similar situation. (ESPECIALLY IN NJ) Somewhere between trying to survive financially and trying not to waste whatever years we have left doing things that slowly kill us from the inside out.
Because that’s really what this is about. Not laziness. I have no desire to SIT around counting weeds springing up five minutes after I pulled them. It is not irresponsibility, or some unrealistic fantasy about “following your passion.”
Now that I think about it, it’s actually balancing my financial needs with my heart’s desires and my soul’s calling. Which sounds beautiful and inspirational until you realize your soul’s calling doesn’t pay for windows, dental implants, insulation, appliances, or the toilet that finally gave up after decades of faithful service. I saw the asses of the sellers. That toilet owes the world nothing.
Still… something shifts as you get older. You become painfully aware that time is no longer an unlimited resource. You stop asking, “What should I do for a living?” and start asking, “What should I do for a life?”
And honestly? If I hear BOMP, BOMP, BOMP one more time this week, I may quit and open a roadside stand selling sage bundles, sarcasm, and emotional support snacks for women over sixty trying to reinvent themselves before Medicare kicks in.
Remember when you were young and every little thing felt like the end of the world? Life was over because someone didn’t call. Life was over because a relationship ended. Life was over because your boss looked at you funny. Life was over because your feelings got hurt, your plans fell apart, or somebody had the audacity to misunderstand your intentions.
Back then, we used “life is over” pretty casually. As it turns out, life is only over when life is actually over.
Everything else? It’s just living. Sometimes badly. Sometimes beautifully.
At the time, though, you couldn’t have convinced me otherwise. I thought those disappointments, frustrations, and betrayals were going to kill me. I was certain I had suffered catastrophic emotional irreparable damage.
The things I thought would destroy me, didn’t.
Time eventually walked in and said, “Move over, amateur. Let me show you what real problems look like.”
I recently ran into a friend I hadn’t seen in about fifteen years. Fifteen years. That’s long enough for technology to change, faces to change, bodies to change, and for you to become old enough that it takes a moment to see, much less recognize someone you haven’t seen in a such a long time.
Twenty plus years ago when we met, I was a completely different person.
Well, not completely different. The same basic ingredients. Just less seasoned. Less cooked. More dramatic.
Within minutes of talking, he started reminding me of things I had completely forgotten. The drama. The nonsense. The endless venting sessions. The emotional emergencies that required immediate processing because apparently, I believed the universe itself was hanging in the balance.
He laughed and reminded me how many times he talked me off a ledge. Not a literal ledge. I wasn’t standing on rooftops contemplating a jump. I was standing on emotional ledges. The kind where you’re convinced your world is collapsing because somebody didn’t appreciate you enough, or because you’re trying to force a situation to become something it was never going to be. He jokingly reminded me how he used to listen while I spiraled. How he reassured me that things would work out.
And standing there listening, I had one immediate thought:
What I wouldn’t give for those kinds of problems now!
For one, I would’ve started using the phrase “kiss my ass” much earlier.
Age changes a lot of things. One thing you don’t grow more of is tolerance. Maybe tolerance for human imperfections. Maybe tolerance for waiting in lines. Maybe tolerance for realizing that most people are carrying invisible burdens.
But tolerance for bullshit?
Yeah. No. That tank runs real low.
Lack of time does something interesting to your perspective. When you’re young, time feels unlimited. You spend it freely because you think another truckload is arriving tomorrow. You argue longer. Worry harder. Stay in situations too long. You chase people who are walking away and force yourself in to spaces you were never designed to fit.
Then somewhere along the line, you realize time isn’t renewable. For me, it was 60. Time gets extremely valuable, and suddenly nonsense becomes way too expensive.
As I stood there talking to him, I found myself revisiting my past. A time before losses I didn’t see coming. Before grief changed the landscape. Before devastating changes in my family. Before mistakes that looked reasonable at the time and ridiculous in hindsight.
Our conversation felt like opening an old photo album and meeting someone I vaguely recognized.
Me.
A version of me twenty-some years early when we actually met.
And now I imagine we’ll catch up again soon. He’ll ask about my family, and I will have to explain all the ways life quietly rearranged itself. I’ll have to tell the parts of the story I never imagined I’d have to tell.
As I walked away, I felt something I wasn’t expecting.
I wanted to go back.
Not because life was better. It wasn’t. Not because I was wiser. I WAS NOT. Not because I had everything figured out. This will sound crazy. I wanted to go back because I missed being stupid. I missed believing heartbreak was the worst thing that could happen. I missed believing disappointment was devastation. I missed the innocence of not knowing what was coming.
Because once life introduces you to real loss, you never completely unknow it.
But maybe that’s the trade-off.
You lose innocence and gain perspective.
You lose certainty and gain wisdom.
You lose time and finally understand its value.
And for a brief moment, I found myself missing a version of life where my biggest problems weren’t really problems at all.
A time when what felt like life or death…
wasn’t either.
Aging, I have determined, is the longest-running reality show none of us auditioned for! Yet, here we are, still somehow making it to the next episode. (No one wants to be sent home just yet! You know? Yeah, if you believe in that sort of thing. I’m referring to the “upper room!” Okay, now I can’t stop hearing Eddie Murphy singing that in the film, Life.)
That said, lately, the plot seems to have taken a turn.
We used to compare vacation photos and questionable dating decisions. Now we compare specialists. Orthopedic vs. cardiologist. Knees vs. hips. Which teeth need to come out and which organ I have to sell to finance the procedure! Whose prescription list reads like a CVS receipt. And let’s be honest, it sucks A##! Watching people you love slow down, get sick, lose body parts or the ability to use them, is part of life. In my opinion and for some, prematurely due to poor lifestyle choices, but again, such is life. (This is the part of aging no one puts on a cute mug with a motivational quote.)
This is the full-circle moment no one warned us about.
Many of us started in daycare; tiny humans with snacks, naps, and someone reminding us not to eat crayons or lick snot. Many of us will end up right back there. Different name, same concept. Scheduled meals. Group activities. Someone checking if we’ve wandered off or climbed in bed with Mr. Anderson in room 401.
The real kicker? In the beginning, we couldn’t wait to grow up and be independent.
Now the ultimate goal is… to stay that way as long as humanly possible.
Because independence, at this stage, is the new six-pack.
And yes, unless you’ve been living under a rock, (Which might be the only thing some of us will be able to afford before this year is out!) we’ve all heard about the magical places where people live forever. The Blue Zones. Places where 90-year-olds are hiking hills, drinking red wine daily, and casually outliving everyone’s expectations. Meanwhile, the rest of us are Googling, “Is this normal?” at 2 a.m. because our elbow made a strange sound. I live in the suburbs of New Jersey, surrounded by junk food, pizza places, strip malls and potholes. No Toto! This is definitely not Sardinia. No hills and no vineyards. (Unless of course, you count my recycling bin!)
Now while geography helps, it’s not the whole story.
You don’t have to relocate to a hillside in Sardinia or start herding goats in Okinawa to age well. You do have to stop treating your body like it’s a rental car you never plan to return.
Move your body on purpose.
Eat like you have a future.
Sleep like it matters, because it damn sure does.
Stay connected to people who know your stories (and your passwords).
And maybe most importantly, keep a reason to get up in the morning that isn’t just… your bladder.
Because it is possible, at least more possible than we’ve been led to believe, to reach the end of this ride NOT completely wrecked by disease, but simply… finished. Worn out in the way a well-loved book is worn out. Pages softened, spine a little crooked, but the story fully told.
I have a plaque on my bookshelf behind me that says: Motto to Live By
“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well-preserved body, but rather skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, wine in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and screaming WOO HOO, what a ride!”
I thought it was funny. I’m not trying to skid in sideways, but I have no issues with the chocolate or the wine. Maybe some cheese in a pocket! Yes, live fully, but all things in moderation! People used to die from old age!
And dying of “old age” isn’t some mythical unicorn. It’s often the result of stacking small, boring, daily decisions in your favor for a very long time. It’s not glamorous. It’s not a detox tea once a quarter. (Although detoxing is necessary!) It’s consistency, community, and a stubborn refusal to give up ownership of your own life.
So yeah, watching friends struggle is hard. It’s sobering. It’s also a flashing neon reminder:
Take care of yourself now, while you still can.
Delay the sequel that is daycare.
Hold onto your independence like it’s the last cookie at a family gathering. (Gotta watch out for that aunt with the baggie!)
Because if this is the full circle of life, we might as well roll through it with a little humor, a little grit, and enough strength to get out of our own chairs without assistance. Maybe even dance.
That, my friends, is the goal.
There is a squirrel outside my window who lives a more decisive life than most humans I know.
Not a better life. Not a more comfortable one. But definitely a more committed one.
I mean being a squirrel is basically a full-time job of split-second, life-or-death decision making. Every. Single. Day. All Day!
Cross the street? Risky.
Stay put? Also, risky.
Climb the tree? Depends. Who the hell else is in the tree?
Grab the acorn? Sure, but now you’re exposed, vulnerable, and possibly someone’s lunch. Cats? Dogs? Birds?
(Yes, I watched a huge bird snatch a squirrel off a roof once while on a walk. I was horrified, sorta.)
But, back to the squirrel’s decision-making process. There is no committee meeting. No pros and cons list. No “let me circle back after I’ve processed this emotionally.”
Just move or don’t move.
We’ve all seen it. Pretty much every day, unless you live in NYC or LA. Although those NYC squirrels are special. For years, we had an apartment in NYC and one of our neighbors was this black squirrel. That squirrel was crazy. I swear if your eyes met the squirrel’s he would charge at you. He once chased us all the way to our apartment door. We were laughing and running that final block. (Yes, from a squirrel!) The best part was when we ran into the glass door, and the squirrel appeared to throw himself into the door in a threatening manner! Yeah, that NYC squirrel was different. The rats, on the other hand, don’t seem to care! But I digress…..
We’ve seen it. That squirrel.
The one that runs halfway into the street, locks eyes with an oncoming car, and suddenly forgets how decisions work.
Left?
Right?
Wait? Left again?
No. Think I’ll just freeze. Yeah, I’ma definitely freeze. Right here!
Because nothing says survival like standing completely still in the middle of danger, hoping the situation resolves itself.
Spoiler alert! It rarely does.
Now, before we get too judgmental about our furry little friends… (Well, they’re not exactly friends of mine. Destructive little creatures. They not only ate through my siding, they’re chewing the bench by my door, and the support beam for my porch. They are definitely not furry friends of mine!)
But how many of us are doing the exact same thing?
Not with cars.
But with our life.
We step into something; a new idea, a relationship, a career shift, a boundary, a dream we’ve been quietly carrying….
…and then we freeze. (Trust me, this is me right now! Sitting on a completed book, several scripts, and a potentially successful business plan! Frozen AF!)
Not because we don’t know what to do.
But because we are terrified of choosing wrong.
We don’t apply.
We don’t leave.
We don’t start.
We don’t stop.
We hover. We don’t move. We are just stuck. In the middle of the road.
Here’s the thing squirrels understand that we seem to have collectively forgotten.
Indecision is also a decision.
And it is often the most dangerous one.
Because while you’re standing there, paralyzed by the fear of making the “wrong” choice…
Life is still moving. Cars are still coming. But worse than that is that, Opportunities pass. Time passes. Your energy drains into overthinking, instead of action. And suddenly, the risk you were trying to avoid finds you anyway. Squirrels don’t have the luxury of perfection. They don’t get to sit around wondering if the tree on the left is emotionally aligned with their long-term vision.
They move. They adjust. They pivot mid-sprint if they must. And yes, like us humans, sometimes they guess wrong. But more often than not, what saves them isn’t making the perfect decision…
It’s making a damn decision!
Somewhere along the way, we were taught that every choice needs to be final, flawless, and fully guaranteed. That if we pick the wrong path, everything falls apart. So, we wait. We wait for certainty. We wait for clarity. We wait for a sign written in the sky with excellent lighting and a clear call to action.
Meanwhile, life is like,
“Ma’am… the car is coming. MOVE!”
So, here’s a thought. What if the goal isn’t to avoid wrong decision, but to get comfortable with making them? What if changing your mind isn’t failure?
What if choosing anything, with awareness and willingness to adjust is far more powerful than standing still out of fear?
The squirrel doesn’t need a five-year plan. It needs courage for the next five seconds. And honestly? So do we.
Okay, maybe twenty seconds! One of my favorite lines in one of my favorite movies, which I also had the privilege of working on and earned my first screen credit, was We Bought A Zoo. Matt Damon’s character, Benjamin Mee, tells his son, “You know, sometimes all you need is twenty seconds of insane courage. Just literally twenty seconds of just embarrassing bravery. And I promise you, something great will come of it”.
A fully lived life isn’t built on perfect choices.
It’s built on movement. It’s built on risk. It’s built on deciding, recalibrating, and deciding again. And maybe twenty seconds of insane courage!
So, the next time you find yourself frozen, halfway into something that matters, hear the tiny, chaotic wisdom of the neighborhood squirrel and…
Pick a direction.
Go.
And if it turns out to be the wrong one…
adjust mid-run.
Because the only truly dangerous place to be…
is stuck in the middle of the road.
Where are my 70’s people? There was a song by BT Express in the early 70’s called “Do it.” (You know that period where all the best music was created!) Anyway, the first few lyrics were, “Ooh go on and do it. Do it. Do it til you’re satisfied. Whatever it is, do it! Do it til you’re satisfied.” Later in the song it went, “Everybody knows what they like to do. Whatever it is, do it, ‘long as it pleases you. Just take some time and relax your mind, then DO IT, DO IT, DO IT til you’re satisfied.” Life advice from BT Express.
Lately I’ve been feeling that quiet, but persistent itch of dissatisfaction. Not, exactly the dramatic, throw-a-chair-out-the-window kind. More like the kind that sits next to you every day whispering, “This can’t possibly be it.”
You know the feeling.
You wake up, do the things, check the boxes, repeat the routine, and somewhere deep inside there’s a voice clearing its throat like an impatient dinner guest. “Ahem!” At first you ignore it. Which is pretty easy when the volume of every day life is there to distract you. There are plenty of distractions. But the voice doesn’t go away. If anything, it gets louder. It rises above all the BS noise.
Mine has started officially started shouting. Typically, first thing in the AM, when it’s time to punch the clock, halfway through the day, and a few times while watching TV or when it’s time for quiet. Oh, it is loud as hell around 11pm.
Apparently, my soul has decided it’s time for a major overhaul.
And naturally, it picked something I find mildly terrifying.
A podcast.
Now let me explain something. I would rather walk calmly and voluntarily in front of a firing squad than step onto a stage to speak publicly. (I often wonder if the sound of my voice annoys anyone more than it annoys me!) When I produced my play, at the end of the performance someone decided it would be a great idea to drag me onto the stage. It was definitely not my idea. It also made no sense to me. I’ve been to plays. The writer or producer wasn’t dragged onto the stage. At least, I don’t recall seeing that.
The audience had erupted in applause. At that point, I should have been thrilled. Instead I was terrified! I stood there smiling like a malfunctioning robot thinking, please let the stage floor open up and swallow me whole. I was profoundly uncomfortable.
Yet here I am, starting a podcast. Which is essentially talking into a microphone and releasing my voice into the world like an audio boomerang that may or may not come back and smack me in the head. (And you can ask my sister. Last thing I need is another head injury! She always threatens to get me a helmet!)
Now technically it’s not a stage. But my brain doesn’t know the difference.
Let me also point out that I can talk to strangers all day long. One-on-one? No problem. Two people? Fine. (Well, except when I used to hang out in NYC solo and couples would try to take me home. No judgement if you’re into that. I was NOT.) Three people? Now we’re entering suspicious territory.
But the real panic sets in when my brain jumps ahead.
What if the podcast is successful?
What if people actually listen?
What if someone wants to interview me?
Let me tell you a story. Years ago, when my play was being promoted, I had to do a radio interview at noon. OVER THE PHONE. Yes, the phone. Not even in person.
Just… talking.
Into a phone.
Apparently, the idea of this was enough to send me into a mild existential crisis. At 10:00 that morning I found myself sitting in a bar with a glass of wine, trying to calm my nerves. It was a Sunday and I had eggs, so I think that’s acceptable in society, but…
Ten o’clock.
In the morning.
For a phone interview.
At noon.
This is the level of courage we’re working with here.
And yet… here we are.
Because the strange thing about dissatisfaction is that it isn’t always a sign that something is wrong. Sometimes it’s a sign that your soul is trying to upgrade your life.
It’s like your internal operating system popping up a message that says:
“New version of you available. Install now?”
Most of us hit Remind Me Later for about twenty years. I know I did.
But eventually the reminders stop being polite. My soul is no longer whispering.
It’s shouting!
Tell the story.
Write the damn book. (Actually, publish. Because it’s been written for a year!)
Start the podcast.
Say the thing. Say all the damn things.
I recently realized something important. I started out, over a quarter a century ago, (damn, that makes me sound old as hell!) wanting to help people with food and nutrition. Teaching people how to eat better, live better, and feel better.
And I still love doing that. (At least attempting to since folks can be resistant!) But then something unexpected happened.
I fell in love with writing.
And storytelling.
Which is fine, since it turns out stories are also nourishment. They feed the mind. They comfort the heart. They remind people they’re not crazy for wanting something more. You may not even know what it is, but you for damn sure know what it ain’t!….More of the same.
And apparently someone else saw that coming long before I did. Ms. Lepel. My high school English teacher. She knew. She saw something in this teenager that I hadn’t figured out yet. I guess teachers are funny that way. They’re like psychic talent scouts.
So here I am. Standing at the edge of something new. Terrified. Excited. Suspicious of my own life choices. But also clear about one thing.
I cannot keep doing the same thing every day while slowly marching toward the end like I’m in some parade of mediocrity.
Nah. That’s not how this is going to go down. That is absolutely NOT how I’m going down.
If my soul is screaming, the least I can do is listen.
So, here’s what I’m learning about dissatisfaction which I googled because I kept spelling it wrong and the robots put together this summary:
Dissatisfaction is a state of discontent, displeasure, or unhappiness stemming from unmet expectations, poor experiences, or lack of fulfillment.
It isn’t always unhappiness. Sometimes it’s guidance. Sometimes it’s the early warning system that your life is ready for expansion. Sometimes it’s the moment before reinvention.
And sometimes it’s the uncomfortable realization that the thing you’re meant to do will scare the living s#*t out of you!
Truth is, your calling does not require your confidence. It only requires your willingness.
You can be scared and still start.
You can doubt yourself and still move forward.
You can drink a glass of wine at 10am before a radio interview… and still show up.
Fear may ride shotgun. But it doesn’t get to drive.
So, if you’re feeling that quiet dissatisfaction creeping into your life, pay attention.
Your soul might just be clearing its throat.
And if it starts to call you, screaming……
Well…
Ya’ll might want to answer.
I’m in full closet clean-out mode.
You know the ritual.
The seasonal migration.
Winter clothes go into exile, stuffed into plastic bins like they did something wrong, and spring/summer gets resurrected.
I got rid of four Amazon bins of clothes in 2024.
FOUR!
That felt like growth. Healing. Personal evolution. I let go of a lot of my favorite size 2 items. That was a little easier, because I have absolutely no desire to be that tiny again!
Apparently… it was just a warm-up act.
Because as I sat there, opening these clear plastic bins, staring at the contents like artifacts from a past life, I realized:
This is not a closet. This is a museum. And every piece has a story.
There’s that dress! Oooh. That was a fun night. I remember fun. I think. It has been a while.
There is the one I wore when life felt lighter. When everyone I loved was still here. There’s the outfit I wore to my granddaughter’s graduation. And just like that, I’m not sorting clothes anymore, I’m standing in a moment I would give anything to step back into.
There’s a top my younger, bolder self, wore. Back when my confidence didn’t require a pep talk and a backup plan. I literally change clothes three or four times each day and not just because of the dress code of the new job (which I haven’t had in thirty years!) but because I’m typically unhappy with the way I look.
And then… there are the body memories.
Oh yeah! My favorite kind of disrespect. Because it’s not just the clothes. It’s the body that used to fill them.
The knees that didn’t look like they were wearing meat curtains.
The calves that had ambition.
The arms filled with muscle.
The armpits… listen… nobody prepared me for the plot twist that is the aging of armpits. I feel like they too should be wearing panties! I’m just going to leave that right there.
And somehow, every piece of clothing is holding onto that version of me like:
“She might come back.” And I’m standing knowing the truth…. “She ain’t coming back.”
But here’s the truth no one tells you about decluttering. You’re not just getting rid of clothes. You’re letting go of versions of yourself.
And that is hard.
Because even the versions that are gone… mattered. The body that changed… carried you here. The moments that are over… shaped who you are now.
So yeah, I stood there longer than necessary. Debating about things I haven’t worn in years.
Releasing the past, even when it’s stitched into outdated fabric, is not easy.
But here’s what I’m learning in this whole “Shedding 2.0” season. It’s a SEASON OF RENEWAL. (I stole that from Greg Osby’s 1989 recording title.)
Some things aren’t meant to fit you anymore.
Not the clothes.
Not the life.
Not the version of yourself that lived inside them.
And maybe the goal isn’t to squeeze back into who you were, but to make space for who you’re becoming.
Even if she needs new clothes.
One Life to Live – And it’s not a daytime drama! (or maybe it is!)
“Every ending is a beginning to something.” We don’t often know exactly what it is.
Ah Yes. So beautiful. So, poetic. Deep.
Also… hella unhelpful when your life feels like it is falling apart.
It is true. In this life, there will be a lot of beginnings and endings. I know. Sometimes an ending doesn’t feel like a beginning. It feels like someone turned off the lights, took the furniture, and left you sitting on the floor wondering how you got here… and how you’re going to get the hell up with those bad knees and non-existent upper body strength.
Get up.
YOU ARE NOT A CAT. And you do NOT have nine lives. (Quiet as it’s kept, they don’t either! They just have a reputation of having crazy survival skills and almost magical ability to land on their feet. hmmmmm I might have been a cat in another life!)
You’ve got one.
And this one life is not a soap opera where you can disappear for five years, come back with a new face, a new husband, and a suspicious accent. There is no dramatic organ music. No commercial break. No “previously, on your life…” (other than the re-runs on constant loop in your mind!)
This is it. Real time. The only time.
I was talking about this with my friend on my now-daily commute. When we hung up, she sent me a Facebook video of a 101-year-old woman who said she was “winding down and at the end of the road.” She said she was in a hospital bed with one window and one patch of sky. She was offering up some good advice as our elders who have lived, often do. She said, unlike most living folk, she could see the entire road behind her, complete with every wrong turn. I am sure if you live to be 101, you made plenty of wrong turns, but clearly if you lived to be 101, you did something right!
She spoke about her ending. One of the things that really hit me was when she shared her thoughts on time. (Hopefully, I won’t get myself in trouble quoting her like this, but I wanted to share.)
“Right now, you believe somewhere deep and unspoken that you have time. It is in everything you do. The trip you will take some day. The apology you will give when the moment feels right. The real life you will start once the next thing falls into place. The person you will become when you finally lose the weight, get the promotion, pay off the debt, fix the relationship. You believe time is yours. A resource you can spend later when it is more convenient. It is not. Time was never yours. It was only lent to you, and the loan is shorter than anyone tells you. When you are young nobody sits a 25-year-old down and says you have roughly 4000 weeks. Not one of them is guaranteed. Use them now. They let you believe the road stretches out forever. It does not. I know this because I am at the end of it and it arrived faster than any dream I ever had. One moment I was young and certain. I had plans. I had time. I had my whole life ahead of me, then I blinked and now I am here in this bed with machines beeping around me and a window that shows me the same patch of sky every single day. The road ends for everyone. The only question is what you did while you were walking it.”
One of the hardest things might turn out to be grieving the life you didn’t live. There is no funeral. No closure. Just a quiet, lingering awareness that time has passed… and it’s not coming back.
The roads you didn’t take. The chances you didn’t grab. The version of you that existed only in your imagination, living her best life somewhere in an alternate universe where everything went according to plan.
There’s a particular sting to realizing that some doors didn’t just close… they locked, bolted, and the building has been demolished.
Find a window or perhaps you’re just outside of the wrong door.
So yes, “every ending is a beginning.” Probably less “fresh start” and more “well… now what?” (hmmmm. Where have I heard those words recently? Oh yeah….
Sometimes that beginning looks like confusion. Or starting over when you’re tired.
Or reinventing yourself when you were finally getting comfortable.
COMFORT?
Maybe curiosity didn’t kill the cat. Comfort did!
You hear comfort spoken about as a goal. But is it? “I just want to be comfortable.” You want to make someone dying comfortable. But do we really just want to be, “comfortable, when we’re trying to live fully?” I should be comfortable. I live in a nice home. I’m pretty healthy and capable. I have about 18 jobs and manage to make ends meet. By all accounts, many would think I should be comfortable. (As comfortable as anyone with 18 jobs could be. I’m kidding about the 18 jobs, but have more than one, at the moment and most days it feels like 18.)
I’m grateful, but I’m far from comfortable because I know there are things I am here to do. Because I still have goals, dreams and I believe, talents to share. Instead, I find myself in my favorite, comfortable club chair most nights trying desperately to distract myself from grieving the time I’ve wasted! (If it seems counterproductive, it most certainly is!)
The following words from Beatrice, felt as if she was speaking directly to me:
“Now let me tell you about the thing that quietly steals a life without announcing itself. Not failure. Failure is loud and honest. Failure teaches you things comfort never will. The real thief is comfort. Comfort walks through your front door, sits in your favorite chair, and whispers, “Stay! It is warm here. You have enough. Why risk anything? And you believe it, because you do have enough. But enough is not what you came here for. I watch brilliant capable people, full of something real, slowly let that something go quiet. Not because life defeated them, but because comfort convinced them the fight was no longer necessary. They stopped trying then they started waiting and nothing came because nothing comes to people who are waiting inside comfort. Discomfort is not punishment. It is proof you are still moving. The easy path leads somewhere, just not anywhere worth going.”
I see the road ahead. I just need to get to stepping. I’ve done the research. Organized. Planned. Visualized. Written. Time to stop talking and start doing. But instead, I never feel like “it is ready to present.”
Beatrice continued, yet again, speaking to me directly:
“Stop waiting to feel ready. Ready is a story fear tells to keep you exactly where you are. Nobody who ever did something meaningful felt ready. First, they moved, and the readiness came after. I spent my whole life waiting to feel ready. Ready to travel. Ready to write the book I always wanted to write. Ready to have the hard conversations. Ready to live the life I actually wanted, instead of the one I thought I was supposed to want. I never felt ready, so I never did most of it, and now I am out of time. You are not.”
The truth is, we don’t get multiple lives. We get one.
But we do get multiple versions of ourselves within this one life. Versions often shaped not only by what we’ve lost, but what we’ve gained. Versions that had to let go of one story to step into another.
So, if you find yourself mourning the life you didn’t live, the time you can’t get back, the person you used to be… you’re not alone. You’re standing in the space between an ending and a beginning.
And from here, whether you like it or not, another chapter of your story begins.
LEAP AND THE NET SHALL APPEAR.
This is some special kind of exhaustion that is coming from trying to stay positive when life is doing the absolute most. I mean, let’s be honest, sometimes life lately isn’t just hard. It often feels impossible to stay positive when everything around you feels like it’s falling apart. Not just in my world, but the entire world! Meanwhile in my world….
In a span of two days, the car was hit while parked causing $5k in damage. I was already dropped for putting in a claim with my former carrier because an uninsured motorist Doordash driver tried to kill me by broadsiding and totaling the last car. (for which the insurance company gave half of the replacement value!) Please keep in mind NJ has the highest car insurance and that my coverage included UNINSURED MOTORISTS. Also, keep in mind that I have a perfect driving record. Forty-seven years of driving and NOT ONE moving violation. Also keep in mind, I had six other policies with this carrier. They dropped one after I was burglarized! So, sure penalize the victim who has been paying you premiums for years! Don’t get me started on the criminal enterprise that is insurance or why I brought a car from Los Angeles to the suburbs of NJ, and the insurance went up $1000 a year. Riddle me that s#*t! Anyway, the day before it was confirmed that a sewer pipe collapsed at my property. $12k!
It has been a rough going of late. Not a gentle “learning experience.” And it ain’t some cute little “growth season.” This is a full-blown, no-warning, shit storm of bad news, disappointment, and uncertainty.
And right on cue, someone floats in with, “Just stay positive!”
Oh. Of course. Silly f*#@king me! Why didn’t my ass think of that? Let me just flip the positivity switch. It’s right next to the toaster oven. Apparently, positivity is as simple as deciding to be a Disney character while your life is on fire.
The truth is, staying positive in dark times isn’t about pretending everything is okay. It’s about choosing, moment by moment, not to let the darkness swallow you whole. It’s looking for light when it’s barely visible. Just a damn sliver. How about a tiny flicker? A glimmer?
It’s the small things:
A quiet cup of coffee.
A text from someone who thought of you.
A deep breath that reminds you that you’re still here. (Even if there are moments when you question why!)
Real talk. Sometimes positivity isn’t joy. Sometimes it’s survival.
It’s more like, “Okay… everything is terrible… but let me not completely lose my mind before noon.” It’s negotiating with yourself like, “If we can just get through today without screaming into a pillow, that’s a win.” But, by all means, please feel free to scream into that pillow if you need to! Blow off that steam.
Then try finding microscopic pieces of light, like your coffee didn’t spill. Your knees still work (mostly). You remembered why you walked into the room… eventually.
Sometimes positivity is just lowering the bar to “I didn’t make things worse.” I try not to say, “it could be worse,” because magically it seems to go there!
Real positivity isn’t pretending everything is fine. It’s side-eyeing the chaos and saying, “Alright… you’re not taking me all the way down with you. NOT TODAY.”
Because the light doesn’t always show up as a grand breakthrough. Sometimes it shows up as resilience. Sometimes just getting out of bed represents a victory. Choosing not to quit.
And maybe that’s enough.
Maybe in seasons like this, positivity is less about shining and more about not going dark. It’s feeling overwhelmed, irritated, exhausted, and still choosing not to unpack and live that state permanently. And if all you manage to do today is hold on, that counts. Pat yourself on the back! (Just don’t pull a muscle doing it!)
I’m going to focus on my yard full of beautiful tulips that I thought surely the squirrels had relocated to someone else’s yard! (based on all the holes I found shortly after planting them in the fall! Cute creature my A*#!
If today all you can do is hold it together with caffeine, sarcasm, and a thin thread of hope…
Congratulations.
You didn’t listen to the short lady in Poltergeist, you’ve gone into the light Carol Ann.
And tomorrow, try to do it again!
Somewhere inside all of us lives our wounded inner child. She’s (or HE’s!) small. (Well not anymore, especially in that midsection.) Emotional. Possibly wearing pajamas at noon. Whispering, “You know what would fix this? Some toll house cookies! Or brownies!”
Not one brownie. A whole ass pan of brownies! Warm. Fresh out of the oven. Walnuts. They’re good for you. I mean, this is all for healing purposes, of course.
But here’s the thing, that inner child doesn’t actually want brownies. Or cookies. Or Cheez-its. She (or HE!) wants comfort. Safety. Validation. And maybe needs a hug or a nap. The problem is, if we let our inner child run the show, we’d all be living on sugar, avoidance, and impulsive decisions. (Mostly bad ones.)
Your past may explain your cravings, but it doesn’t get to control your calendar, your choices, or your waistline. Unlike most, my wounded inner child ain’t hungry. My adult wounds are a whole other story and typically it involves potatoes and frying.
Healing starts with recognizing there is a problem that needs to be addressed and the realization that we are not only hurting ourselves, we’re also likely hurting others. Say, maybe you’re taking your anger out on the last person that your anger should be directed at……It is said, anger most hurts the person carrying it around and that may be true, but there are usually other victims. Don’t mess around and have your angry inner child get your ass whupped!
So maybe stop packing those issues into the already cluttered closet in your mind and dealing with them.
Go ahead and pat your inner child on the head and whisper, “I see you. I hear you. But no, we are not self-soothing with (insert your go-to here) today. AND, we are not subjecting others to our tantrums.”
Your past had limited tools. Your present has options. (Like therapy, which can be done online and it’s pretty inexpensive.) My friend Barb and past guest contributor is a therapist and if I’m not mistaken, works with folks on the site Betterhelp.com. Your future deserves someone at the wheel who knows the difference between hunger and hurt.
One thing I loved about living in LA was that EVERYONE had a therapist and there was absolutely no shame in their game. I was referred to this older woman with spooky eyes that I swear could see through my soul. I saw her a few times. Let’s just say it didn’t take her long to get to the root of my perfectionist and controlling behavior and my inability to allow myself to be taken care of. I know I have written about this in another post, (it’s an excerpt from a book I’ve been working on for a few years about loss.) but my mother was dying for most of my life. I always did what she told me to do. (Ok almost always.) I think I believed if I was perfect, she would get better. If I was perfect, she wouldn’t die. I was wrong. She died, but sadly my battle with perfection lived on. The inner child that survived became a rescuer. And some times she rescues others at the cost of her own safety and security. Sometimes she rescues undeserving individuals. It’s like the standard airline safety phrase, “Put on your own oxygen mask first before assisting others.” This instruction ensures you remain conscious to help those around you. You cannot help anyone else if your ass is passed out!
“The desire to be perfect and expect others to be perfect is just disappointment waiting to happen at every turn. What I learned and continue to learn is to expect others to be human. Be the best human I can be. Perfect girls don’t get peace.” (quoting myself!)
Parenting is not easy. That is why I’m a firm believer that not everyone should be a parent. There is no manual. No road map. Most of us screw it up at one point or another. Some far worse than others. My biggest regret as a parent was missing out time with my daughter when she probably needed me the most. And no, I wasn’t out partying. I had multiple jobs and often worked seven days a week or at night on weekends. It haunts me to this day, and she is good and grown. Sure, it is a life lesson for me, but it is one that not only affected my life, but it affected hers as well. No amount of weight training can prepare you for the weight of guilt! Many of us didn’t get what we needed or maybe got a little too much and too much of anything can present problems.
And not all our wounded inner children crave baked goods. For some, the self-soothing options are even more unhealthy and downright dangerous.
The bottom line is don’t let yesterday sabotage today or tomorrow with a brownie tray and a guilt spiral.
Your past can visit, but it does not get a key. Don’t let it hang around too long, or you’ll end up with a squatter.
So yes, love your inner child.
Reparent her. (or him) Your mom likely did the best she could with the tools and experiences she had available to her.
Protect her. (or him)
Just don’t let them grocery shop unsupervised.