#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.
I find myself constantly thinking and writing about loss these days. I guess it comes with the over 60 territory.
I’ve mentioned a few times now that I’ve been exploring and writing a book about loss. And of course, there are different kinds of loss. (And grief.)
The kind of loss we talk about most is death.
But there is another kind of grief we don’t acknowledge nearly enough.
One is the grief of outgrowing people. (I touched on this in my post about shedding.)
Not because anyone did anything terrible. Not because of some dramatic falling out. Sometimes it’s simply because the person you used to be quietly disappeared… and the people who loved that version of you never really connected with the new one.
Sometimes the old you dies long before your body does. And not everyone attends that funeral.
I used to have people at my house all the time. Barbecues. Dinner parties. Holiday get-togethers. Last-minute “stop by for a glass of wine or a margarite” evenings that somehow turned into midnight conversations. (We killed many a blender!)
One of my favorite memories was what eventually became known as The Hat Box Crew.
I had flown home from Los Angeles because I desperately needed a dose of my girls. Out west, my crew was a group of guys. Fraternity brothers I met over the years while visiting before I made the move. I became one of them and had a blast. Men are hilarious! (As long as you’re not dating them! I learned so much about men hanging with the fellas.)
So, I planned a trip home, and I invited my crew over for brunch.
Brunch became dinner.
That’s usually what happens when you mix women, wine, and absolutely no reason to be anywhere else.
As the wine disappeared, so did our filters. The stories became funnier, more outrageous, and considerably less appropriate. At one point, one friend confessed that she kept all of her secrets—and a few other mysterious items—in a hat box.
Naturally, we laughed until we cried.
The next time I came home, we all gathered around another friend’s dining room table decorating our own hat boxes. They became our private vaults. A place to store letters, memories, dreams, disappointments… and maybe a few things that would require an attorney if discovered.
It wasn’t just about the boxes.
It was about having women who knew your stories before you had to explain them.
Women who finished your sentences.
Women who could make you laugh so hard your stomach hurt.
Inspired by all of this, I suggested we write a screenplay together.
Everyone loved the idea.
We met once or twice. Talked about characters. Shared more stories.
Then life happened. The meetings stopped. The script never did. Eventually I wrote the outline myself and finished a draft, creating fictional characters inspired by each of those amazing women.
Then I saved the file…..into the Hat Box folder on my laptop. Where, ironically, it still sits.
I thought about all of this over the weekend and it occurred to me that if I hosted another Hat Box Party today…
I’m honestly not sure anyone would come.
One friend died.
One relationship quietly faded after I lost my granddaughter. During the hardest season of my life, I noticed who wasn’t there. Once you notice an absence that profound, it’s difficult to unsee it.
Another friend simply drifted away. To be honest, I’m still not entirely sure why.
The others didn’t disappear because they stopped caring. Life claimed them.
One spends nearly every week traveling back to Chicago to care for her aging father and lost her own son.
Another is caring for her elderly mother and won’t even take her birthday off because caregiving doesn’t recognize birthdays. As someone who cared for my own mother, I completely understand.
You don’t stop loving your friends. (Well, some you might!) You just run out of hours.
I’ve made new friends over the years, but one is juggling work while caring for two aging parents. It became impossible to make and stick to a plan without an emergency derailing the plans.
Another is helping an aging mother, a brother in a nursing home, and a sister dealing with health problems. Every time we try to make plans, one of us experiences another loss, another obligation, another emergency.
Welcome to your sixties.
Where everyone’s calendar comes with a side of grief.
Outside of that original crew, I’ve watched other friendships quietly expire too.
Some naturally. Some intentionally. Some because we changed. Some because they changed.
Some because growth isn’t always mutual. Sometimes the new version of you simply doesn’t fit inside old relationships anymore.
That’s a strange kind of heartbreak. No arguments. No betrayal.
Just… silence.
I miss having a crew.
I miss laughing until someone snorted.
I miss having people who knew me before I had gray hair, glasses planted all over the house, and a collection of flat shoes and Nikes.
These days, I’m alone a lot.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I actually like being alone. (SOMETIME!)
I treasure quiet mornings, uninterrupted writing time, and the freedom to be silent.
But there is a difference between enjoying solitude…and living in isolation.
Lately, I’ve realized I’ve crossed that line more often than I’d like.
Most of my closest friends now live thousands of miles away. Ironically, one of the people I talk to most is a guy.
I do have a cousin in New York, and every month or two I go visit her. She has this incredible circle of women.
They’re funny. Diverse. Interesting. Supportive. (Mostly!)
The kind of group that reminds you what community feels like.
Every time I’m with them, I feel alive again. Every single visit, I find myself wishing I didn’t have to come home. Because when I’m with them, I remember what it feels like to belong to a circle.
Maybe that’s what this season of life is teaching me.
Not every friendship is meant to last forever.
Some people are there for a chapter.
Some are there for a sentence.
Some are around for the entire story.
And some leave behind a hat box full of memories that still make you smile years later.
Maybe the answer isn’t trying to recreate the crew I had. Maybe it’s having the courage to build a new one.
Because somewhere out there are other women sitting at home on a Saturday night wondering what happened to their crew.
Maybe they’re missing laughter and like me, they’re missing connection.
Maybe they’re waiting for someone else to send the invitation.
At a certain age, every email, text message, and phone call becomes, “Congratulations! You’re due for another medical screening.”
My inbox and voicemail have become a damn digital stalking operation.
“Time to get those boobs smashed like pancakes.” a/k/a mammogram.
“You’re due for anal probing.” a/k/a colon screening.
“Bone density scan reminder.” (Have you been using your rebounder?)
“Eye exam.” (Because you need to see how you really look.)
“Hearing test.” (Because the commercials might need to be even louder!)
“Dental cleaning.” (Get ready to take out a 2nd mortgage!)
“Vaccinations due.” (Because you don’t want those shingles coming your way!)
The list is so long it resembles a CVS receipt with the coupon that expires before you get to the car.
Apparently once you hit a certain age, your body enters a loyalty rewards program where every month earns you another opportunity to get poked, prodded, scanned, smooshed, smashed, swabbed, inspected, or have cameras inserted into every orifice except the fun ones.
And the advice? OMG, the advice.
Fast.
No, don’t fast.
Take supplements.
No, supplements are expensive urine.
Walk every day.
No. Lift heavy.
Go vegan.
Eat more protein.
Actually, eat a side of grass fed beef drenched in grass fed butter.
Juice.
No! Don’t juice. Eat whole fruits and vegetables.
Drink red wine for heart health.
Drink in moderation.
Don’t drink at all.
AS IF.
Then just when you’ve barely wrapped your head around your body becoming a high-maintenance appliance, Social Security starts sending smoke signals.
Take it early.
Wait to take it.
Medicare options arrive looking like a 700-page encyclopedia written by people who hate happiness.
By this point, the internet has become less of a source of information and more of a giant room full of strangers yelling contradictory instructions at you.
“Coffee will save your life!”
“Coffee is killing you!”
“Eggs are healthy!”
“Eggs are tiny cholesterol bombs!”
“Sleep more!”
“Wake up at 5 a.m.!”
Meanwhile, I’m standing in my kitchen holding a protein shake, a vitamin, a glass of wine, wondering if I should eat kale or just lie down.
Who knew getting older would be so stressful and confusing?
Nobody warned us that one of the biggest side effects of aging would be trying to figure out the instructions.
Oh Damn. I published this out of order. This post was supposed to precede “I Feel Bad About My Hair & My Neck!. Ooops! But here it is!
I recently unpacked a box of books I hadn’t seen in nearly nine years. Finding them felt a little like running into old friends. One of my favs tucked away inside was Nora Ephron’s, I Feel Bad About My Neck: And Other Thoughts on Being a Woman. I loved me some Nora.
When I first started writing, I dreamed of being the brown version of Nancy Meyers and Nora Ephron. I wanted to write witty observations. I wanted to write about smart women, complicated friendships, and stories that reminded us that life doesn’t end after forty, fifty or even sixty. Their work made growing older look interesting, funny, and something not to be feared.
The timing of rediscovering that book couldn’t have been more perfect because recently, with my reading glasses perched on the tip of my seemingly ever growing nose, I caught an unfortunate glimpse of my own neck.
And I concur, Nora. I too, feel bad about my neck. (Among other body parts!)
One of my favorite actresses, Diane Keaton, famously covered hers with scarves. I would break out in a sweat just looking at her. Post-menopause, I can’t even tolerate a necklace. I could never understand how on earth she could wrap yards of fabric around her neck and survive? I would look at her and feel like I was standing on the sun’s surface!
Yet, out of pure vanity, I spent the last couple of winters suffering through turtlenecks. They became my seasonal torture go to.
I want to accept these changes, y’all. I really do.
But some days I look in the mirror and think, “Who authorized this remodeling project? Did I approve these plans? Can we fire the architect?”
Nora’s book is a collection of hilarious essays about the realities of aging as a woman and skimming through it again reminded me how much she and Nancy Meyers influenced me. They gave mature women center stage long before it was fashionable. They understood that wrinkles, regrets, reinvention, and laughter could all exist in the same story.
Anyone who has been reading my blog (all thirteen of ya’ll!) for a while knows it started out focused primarily on health, nutrition, and fitness. Somewhere along the way, it evolved into observations and occasional rants about aging and life in general. (Did I say occasional?)
I suppose loss has become a recurring theme. (Sorry.)
It’s not like I’m obsessed with sadness. Unfortunately, as we age, loss simply becomes more frequent.
You lose people.
You lose dreams.
You lose the ability to read a menu.
You lose collagen.
You lose strands of hair.
And occasionally, you lose your patience because I’m convinced you only get a limited supply.
Watching friends and family disappear while simultaneously watching your cheeks head south and your neck start to look like it’s attached by strings, is a lot for one person to process.
Some days I feel like a misshapen piece of Play-Doh. (Old enough to remember Play-Doh?) Ah. If only reshaping myself were as easy as squishing everything back into place. Instead, I walk around hoping everyone else’s eyesight is as bad as mine.
Stress and grief take a tremendous toll on the body. I know because I’m living proof. I don’t think anything accelerates aging quite like chronic stress and heartbreak. I looked like a completely different person in 2020. There was very little change the prior ten years. I have the photos to prove it! (Which I also recently unpacked.)
And if I’m being honest, I haven’t been taking very good care of myself.
I’ve been postponing doctor appointments.
Rescheduling dental visits.
My workouts have become shorter.
My walks less frequent.
I rush out the door without taking my vitamins or doing many of the small things that once made me feel good.
I’ve been taking care of everything and everyone. Except me. And I know better.
Bottom line is that what is happening on the inside eventually shows up on the outside. And don’t get me started on how dental care somehow exists outside of the healthcare system when poor oral health has been linked to heart disease, diabetes, stroke, inflammation, dementia, and a whole host of other conditions. Your mouth isn’t separate from your body. Last time I checked, it’s attached.
Health isn’t just about creams and serums and chasing the latest miracle supplement. It is about the basics we often neglect.
Sleep.
Movement.
Stress management.
Relationships.
Nutrition.
JOY!
And your skin, our largest organ responds to what we feed ourselves, both internally and externally. It reflects stress. It reflects grief. It reflects joy.
Which brings me to something I am learning, over and over again:
Joy is not frivolous.
Joy is medicine.
Joy is stress management.
Joy is self-care.
Joy is resistance.
And perhaps joy is one of the few anti-aging strategies that doesn’t come with monthly payments or require a prescription.
We can’t stop aging. At least not yet. But we can influence how we travel through the process.
We can nourish ourselves.
Move our bodies.
Laugh more.
Protect our peace.
Take the walk.
Schedule the appointment.
Take the vitamins and eat better.
Read the book.
Shut the door for a day.
And maybe forgive ourselves for having necks. If Nora Ephron could laugh about it, perhaps there’s hope for the rest of us.
Though I’m still keeping a few turtlenecks around.
Just in case.
(And I am happy to report I scheduled some joy for the summer! Taking writing classes in Bryant Park in NYC. Sourdough and pizza classes. And if I can get up early enough, Tai Chi in the park at 7!)
Real Talk. I feel like somebody pulled my plug. I wrote this post last week, so you’re getting a two-fer today. I usually write a few at a time, but I’ve stockpiled a half-dozen ready to go. I did a great deal of writing in May/June. And a good thing because I am currently experiencing a personal energy crisis!
Not permanently. Just… enough to leave me sitting here staring at my laptop, asking “Why? What is the point?”
For the first time in a long time, I’ve momentarily lost my motivation. My goals suddenly feel ridiculous. My dreams feel like expensive ass hobbies. (WordPress ain’t cheap ya’ll!) And, considering I have a closet full of unfinished projects, maybe my brain has decided to stage an intervention.
Lately I’ve been researching all the things I’ve wanted to do—publishing, newsletters, podcasts, writing, and everywhere I turn I run into another cautionary tale.
“Don’t bother.”
“The market is saturated.”
“You’ll never make money.”
“You need to have 100,000 followers.”
“You need a funnel.” (Whatever that hell that is!)
“You need a course.”
“You need a community.”
“You need a masterclass teaching people how to do the s*%t you haven’t been able to make money doing your damn self.”
Wait…what?
Whatever happened to just being a writer?
Apparently, that’s no longer enough. I thought I was the damn product! But Nooooo! Seems like your writing has become the free sample you hand out while hoping someone buys your $497 course on how to write and NOT make a living.
I’ve written to publishers.
Crickets.
I’ve started a blog. (SIX YEARS OLD IN APRIL!) I still have the same 190 followers I had when I started. I’m convinced 180 of them don’t even read what I write anymore. They just haven’t gotten around to unsubscribing.
And before anyone says, “Keep posting!”…
I have. For months. Now years. So naturally my brain is asking, “What’s the damn point?”
And, it’s not just publishing.
The music business went through this mess years ago. (The internet and streaming! Now currently killing the film and TV industries! The BS flood gates are officially open! I can’t get through ten minutes of most of the films on Netflix. Did anyone bother to learn screenwriting? Storytelling? Plot structure? Of course not!) But back to music…..
There used to be gatekeepers. Were they always right? Hell no. Great artists were overlooked. Terrible decisions were made. Sometimes success depended on one person’s questionable taste.
But there was another side to gatekeepers.
Someone was at least attempting to separate craft from chaos.
Now?
Everybody’s a producer. Never studied music. Can’t read a note. Never learned an instrument or spent years understanding melody, harmony, arrangement or composition. They downloaded software, chopped up somebody else’s work, added a beat and declared themselves a visionary.
The internet did the same thing to everything else. We are living in an era where everyone is shouting into the same microphone. And it is loud AF!
Everyone’s an expert. Everyone’s a coach. Everyone’s a guru. Everyone has “the secret.” Half the people contradict each other just because controversy gets clicks.
Research is optional. Confidence is mandatory.
Now if you’re someone genuinely trying to learn, create or improve, you have to dig through mountains of garbage to find one person who actually knows what they’re are talking about. It’s like mining for diamonds. The diamonds are still there. They’re just buried under an avalanche of bullshit.
And I’m getting to an age where I value my time too much to keep digging.
Maybe that’s what this feeling is. Not laziness or depression. Just plain old exhaustion. Exhaustion from trying to be heard in a world where everyone has a microphone and almost nobody has anything worth saying.
But here’s the problem.
I also know that every once in a while…
I find someone. A writer. A musician. A photographer. A filmmaker. An artist. Someone with genuine talent and something honest to say. When I find them, I’m grateful they didn’t quit.
Which leaves me with an uncomfortable question.
If they had listened to all the noise and given up…
…I never would have found them.
So maybe this isn’t the end of the rant. Maybe it’s just today.
Tomorrow I may get up, dust myself off, write something else anyway, and toss it into the overcrowded internet with the rest of humanity.
Because buried somewhere beneath all this noise, somebody might still be looking for a diamond.
And maybe they’ll dig deep enough and find mine. We shall see.
Have you ever reached the point where you wonder if the dream is still worth chasing?
I am currently in the process of attempting a transition. And no, I’m not changing sexes.
I’m trying to go all the way. And no, not that kind of all the way either. I have a daughter in her forties and I’m in my early sixties. Do the math.
I’m talking about going gray!
This gray hair has been trying to make an appearance for decades, and I’ve been fighting it like a damn invading army.
The funny thing is this isn’t my first attempt. I’ve tried to transition to gray more times than I care to admit. Every single time, I make it to what I call the “baby skunk phase.” That charming period when you have a stripe of gray roots, leftover hair color, and your natural color all competing for dominance.
Then I panic and off to the salon I go.
Part of the problem is my daughter. When I first started graying in my thirties and forties, she informed me I had to wait until I was fifty before I could go gray. Then she became my hair stylist and suddenly the age requirement changed.
Fifty became fifty-five.
Fifty-five became sixty.
At this rate, she’ll have me coloring my hair from the nursing home. (Which I better not be in!)
What puzzles me is why this feels so traumatic. I mean, it’s hair. WTH?
Yet for many women, gray hair seems to carry a weight that goes far beyond a change in pigment. What exactly are we afraid of?
Because when I see women embracing their silver hair on social media, they look stunning. Confident. Elegant. Powerful.
So maybe it isn’t the gray hair itself. Maybe it’s what we think it represents.
Aging. Visibility or maybe invisibility. The loss of youth. The reminder that time is moving FAST!
But wait. Can we please talk about the double standard for a minute?
A man gets gray hair and suddenly he’s “distinguished.”
A woman gets gray hair and people start looking around for her knitting needles and her cat!
How did that happen?
Maybe the hardest part isn’t even the being gray part. It’s the transition. It’s those months when your hair is somehow brown, blonde, gray, and possibly orange depending on the lighting. It’s looking like you have no edges from a distance or that your hair line is starting mid-head because your edges are silver and blending with your skin! Every photograph becomes a crap shoot. Every mirror feels like torture.
You have to get very creative to avoid looking like you’ve lost a bet.
Honestly, if I could do this like Samantha on Bewitched, I’d be fine. One wiggle of the nose and—POOF!—a gorgeous head of shiny silver hair appears.
No awkward grow-out period. No skunk stripe. No existential crisis in the beauty supply parking lot because they ran out of your color choice.
Just beautiful silver hair and inner peace.
Instead, I’m left wondering why this process feels so emotional. Why so many women struggle with it. Why something so natural can feel so complicated.
Maybe the journey to gray isn’t really about hair at all. Maybe it’s about learning to see ourselves differently. Maybe it’s about deciding that growing older is not something to hide.
Or maybe I’m overthinking the whole thing and should just buy another box of hair color.
We’ll see who wins.
Stay tuned.
There comes a point in life when you realize you’re attending more funerals than birthday parties. (Well, not me, but most.) For me, it’s scrolling through phone contacts and realizing how many of them are gone.
It’s not something anyone warns you about when you’re young.
When you’re twenty-five, your social calendar is weddings, baby showers, and birthday celebrations. Every gathering feels like the beginning of something. Then one day, seemingly without notice, the invitations change. Funeral homes replace banquet halls. Sympathy cards replace birthday cards. The conversations become less about what people are planning and more about what they’ve survived.
Lately, it feels like loss is everywhere. I missed a dinner with a friend a while back because we both forgot. Why? Because we both suffered another loss.
Friends lose parents. Parents lose children. Neighbors disappear from their front porches. A familiar face from high school shows up in an online obituary. Someone you spoke to just last month is suddenly gone.
I certainly have no plans to leave this earthly carnival anytime soon. I have books to read, places to go, desserts to eat, and far too many unfinished projects sitting on my desktop. But aging has a way of forcing us to acknowledge a reality we spent decades avoiding. Someone is eventually going to be the last one standing and it’s a sobering thought.
Many Summer evenings I walk past this nursing home on the river and see residents sitting quietly on the porch. Some stare at the trees. Some watch cars go by. Some sit alone.
And I wonder.
Did they once have a huge circle of friends?
Did they spend Friday nights laughing around kitchen tables?
Did they have a spouse who sat beside them for fifty years?
Have all of those people passed on?
Or perhaps even harder to imagine, are they still alive and just don’t visit?
I don’t know their stories. But I know enough about life now to understand that loneliness is not reserved for people who never had love. Sometimes it belongs to people who had so much love that they eventually outlived it.
That realization carries its own kind of grief. Because frequent loss is stressful and common as we age. It’s not simply “part of getting older.”
Each loss asks your nervous system to adapt to a world that suddenly looks different than it did yesterday.
A friend who always answered the phone is gone. Your sibling who knew your childhood stories is gone. The spouse who witnessed your entire adult life is gone.
Piece by piece, parts of your history disappear.
Psychologists sometimes refer to this accumulation as cumulative grief. Unlike a single traumatic event, it’s a series of smaller heartbreaks that stack on top of one another over time. And while loss may be inevitable, suffering through it alone doesn’t have to be.
So how do we cope?
First, we stop pretending that grief has an expiration date. The culture loves a timeline.
Three bereavement days from work. A few weeks to “process.” A handful of ugly casseroles delivered to your door. Then everyone expects you to resume normal programming. But grief doesn’t work like that. Love leaves fingerprints. The bigger the love, the longer the fingerprints remain.
Second, Invest in relationships while we’re still here. The best defense against becoming isolated later is connection now. Today, call someone. Visit someone. Invite someone to lunch. Sit on the porch with someone. One day, that simple act of connection may become one of the most meaningful gifts either of you ever receives. Because one day you’ll either be grateful you made the effort or wish you had.
Third, we need to support our bodies, not just our emotions. Grief lives in the body. You can feel it in your chest, your stomach, your muscles, your sleep patterns, and your immune system. Grief recently snuck up on me in the produce aisle at Mom’s Organic and straight sucker-punched me in the gut! Four years and I’m holding a carrot reliving that phone call no one ever wants to receive!
This is one reason I’ve become interested in exploring complementary approaches that support the nervous system during stressful periods.
Two areas I’m currently investigating are acupuncture and essential oils.
Acupuncture has been studied for its ability to help regulate the body’s stress response, reduce anxiety, improve sleep, and encourage relaxation. While it can’t remove grief, some people find it helps create enough calm in the body to better navigate difficult emotions. I plan on getting some treatments over the summer. I witnessed first hand how it helped my daughter. My turn!
Essential oils are another tool many people use for emotional support. Scents such as lavender, frankincense, bergamot, and rose are often associated with relaxation, grounding, and emotional comfort. Again, they’re not a cure for grief. Nothing is. But creating small rituals of care can matter when life feels heavy.
Maybe that’s the lesson aging keeps trying to teach us. We cannot prevent loss. We cannot negotiate with time. We cannot keep everyone we love. But we can learn how to care for ourselves through the seasons of grief.
We can strengthen our communities. We can remain open to joy even while carrying sadness. And perhaps most importantly, we can continue showing up for one another. Because while one of us may eventually become the last one standing, none of us should have to feel alone while we’re still here.
Below are links to products I am currently using and if you are in the NYC area, an acupuncturist I highly recommend! (He’s worth the trip from South Jersey/Philly)
https://vibrantblueoils.com/why-essential-oils-are-the-best-for-grief/
Coupon Code: MBINC
Barry is one of the most calming souls I have ever encountered. Just speaking to him lowers your blood pressure!
https://findingbalanceclinic.com/working-with-nyc-acupuncturist-barry-danielian/about/
When Folks You Love Won’t Take Care of Themselves
I’m going to get right to the point. It’s a new year (yes, I wrote this a five months ago and forgot to post and yes, of late, I too am guilty but dedicated to get back on track!) and it’s time for some serious ALL YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS!
This is going to be short and sweet. (Or maybe a tad bittersweet.) Watching the people you love slowly neglect themselves SUCKS.
AND not because they don’t know better, but because they refuse to do better.
- They eat poorly.
- They won’t move their bodies.
- They cling to habits they know are harming them like consuming ultra processed foods daily. (Too late in the day to claim ignorance!)
- They dismiss every warning sign and every loving suggestion. Somehow, you’re the bad guy because you care.
And the hardest part? You’re the one who will eventually be affected by those choices.
Loving someone doesn’t mean you’re immune to the consequences of their decisions. When close family members or even friends neglect their health, it doesn’t just hurt them, it places an unspoken burden on the people who love them most. The ones who will worry. The ones who will rearrange their lives. The ones who will become caregivers, advocates, chauffeurs, and emotional anchors.
Although I feel bad saying this, it is not selfish to acknowledge that reality.
What is unfair is choosing not to care for yourself while expecting the people who love you to carry the weight later. Neglecting your health doesn’t happen in isolation; it transfers the cost to someone else. Time. Energy. Finances. Emotional bandwidth. Freedom.
And yet, when you speak up and you encourage better choices, healthier habits, or small changes, you’re often painted as the bad guy. The nag. The overreactor. The one who “doesn’t understand.” Oh, I understand. I understand that your neglect will eventually cost me.
But encouraging someone to take care of themselves is not criticism. It’s love in action.
It’s saying, I want you here longer.
It’s saying, I don’t want to watch you suffer.
It’s saying, I don’t want resentment to replace the love I feel for you.
Self-care isn’t just about you. It’s about the people who will be impacted if you don’t show up for yourself. It’s about respecting the love others have for you enough not to leave them holding the pieces later.
Taking care of yourself is one of the most unselfish things you can do.
Because it says to the people who love you:
I value my life! I value you!
And that may be the most powerful act of love there is.
Just some unprocessed food for thought!
IF YOU ENJOY MY RANTS, PLEASE SHARE!
When Folks You Love Won’t Take Care of Themselves
I’m going to get right to the point. It’s a new year (yes, I wrote this a five months ago and forgot to post and yes, of late, I too am guilty but dedicated to get back on track!) and it’s time for some serious ALL YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS!
This is going to be short and sweet. (Or maybe a tad bittersweet.) Watching the people you love slowly neglect themselves SUCKS.
AND not because they don’t know better, but because they refuse to do better.
- They eat poorly.
- They won’t move their bodies.
- They cling to habits they know are harming them like consuming ultra processed foods daily. (Too late in the day to claim ignorance!)
- They dismiss every warning sign and every loving suggestion. Somehow, you’re the bad guy because you care.
And the hardest part? You’re the one who will eventually be affected by those choices.
Loving someone doesn’t mean you’re immune to the consequences of their decisions. When close family members or even friends neglect their health, it doesn’t just hurt them, it places an unspoken burden on the people who love them most. The ones who will worry. The ones who will rearrange their lives. The ones who will become caregivers, advocates, chauffeurs, and emotional anchors.
Although I feel bad saying this, it is not selfish to acknowledge that reality.
What is unfair is choosing not to care for yourself while expecting the people who love you to carry the weight later. Neglecting your health doesn’t happen in isolation; it transfers the cost to someone else. Time. Energy. Finances. Emotional bandwidth. Freedom.
And yet, when you speak up and you encourage better choices, healthier habits, or small changes, you’re often painted as the bad guy. The nag. The overreactor. The one who “doesn’t understand.” Oh, I understand. I understand that your neglect will eventually cost me.
But encouraging someone to take care of themselves is not criticism. It’s love in action.
It’s saying, I want you here longer.
It’s saying, I don’t want to watch you suffer.
It’s saying, I don’t want resentment to replace the love I feel for you.
Self-care isn’t just about you. It’s about the people who will be impacted if you don’t show up for yourself. It’s about respecting the love others have for you enough not to leave them holding the pieces later.
Taking care of yourself is one of the most unselfish things you can do.
Because it says to the people who love you:
I value my life! I value you!
And that may be the most powerful act of love there is.
Just some unprocessed food for thought!
IF YOU ENJOY MY RANTS, PLEASE SHARE!
I’ve always been someone who juggles a lot of balls.
Always.
There were a few brief periods where I lived what most people would probably consider a normal life. I only worked one job. I was only managing two residences. Which, looking back, still sounds ridiculous, but compared to now, it felt downright relaxing. Back then, I had time.
I could sit on my deck with a cup of coffee and listen to the birds and the stream running alongside of my house. I actually had time to read my Food & Wine, which for me was the equivalent of a good book! I wrote. I painted. Sometimes I’d wake up and ask myself a question that feels almost foreign now…..
“Hmmmm. What do I feel like doing today?” I have rarely asked myself that question in at least ten years.
The moment I put my dream home on the market in 2016, everything changed.
The plan seemed simple enough. Sell the house. Move into a temporary rental. Find a new place where my kids could settle in. Then eventually make my way back to the beach. (The real one on the other side of the country!)
Simple.
Instead, that one temporary move turned into three.
Then two jobs.
Then six more moves.
Then chaos.
I was recently reunited with photo albums I hadn’t seen since 2017 when they were packed. When I opened them, I cried. Not because of the photos. Because I realized how much life I missed while I was busy managing life. During those years, I worked no less than 65 to 70 hours a week. For several years I flew across the country every Wednesday.
Every.
Single.
Week.
Complete insanity.
The crazy? It was supposed to be temporary. Yet somehow temporary has lasted six more years.
Then came the money pit house.
Now don’t get me wrong, I knew the house needed work. I knew I would need a new roof. I just didn’t expect the roof to leak on the first night.
The first night.
Really, Universe?
The heater malfunctioned.
The AC malfunctioned.
And yes, I had an inspection. I was told I had a few years. Apparently “a few years” translates to “a few days” in home inspector language.
The repairs never stopped. Hmmmm. The previous owners forgot to mention that in heavy rains, the property becomes Gilligan’s Island. And where is Thurston Howell when you need financing?
Owning a house that constantly needs attention is basically a part-time job.
Then add rental properties.
Add tenants who disappear without paying rent.
Add tenants who somehow manage to avoid cleaning an oven for two full years and let the weeds grow into the screens on the 2nd floor!
Add property damage. (How do we poke holes in ceilings?) Not a TV mount, or a light fixture. Just a random hole. Why are we kicking brand new stoves?
Add paperwork.
Add phone calls.
Add surprise expenses.
Add all the other adulting nonsense that shows up daily whether you invited it or not.
By 2021, I was convinced things would settle down. (Silly f’n me! A whole new set of fresh hell broke loose!)
I bought art supplies. Good art supplies! I was going to paint again. Those paints are probably dried into colorful little hockey pucks by now.
Every morning, I steal about 45 minutes to an hour to write.
Steal.
That’s how it feels. Like I’m committing some sort of crime against productivity.
The rest of my days are spent working, grocery shopping, in my 2nd home away from home, (HOME DEPOT!) cooking, cleaning, sorting papers, opening junk mail, answering emails, never ending bookkeeping and tax prep, dealing with some fresh new form of unexpected BS, and trying not to lose my mind.
I squeeze in walks. I’m convinced it is the only reason I am still alive and not in prison!
I squeeze in gym time. Yesterday I got dressed for the gym at 4:00. At 6:00, I was still sitting at my desk answering emails while simultaneously sorting mail and running back and forth to the kitchen trying to get dinner ready. When I finally got to the gym, the parking lot looked like Taylor Swift was performing inside.
Packed.
And once you get in there, every workout takes twice as long because someone is sitting on the leg press using it as their personal phone booth.
I gave up. Came home. Did squats at the stove.
This is where I am in my life.
So naturally, what did I decide to do?
Launch a newsletter. And a podcast.
Because apparently, I have completely lost my mind.
Never mind the two books sitting unfinished on my hard drive.
The twenty T-shirt designs I created five years ago.
The two stage shows that have been ready for production for eight years.
The eight screenplays and other writing projects.
The painting supplies.
The dreams.
The things I actually want to do. (Like launch a newsletter and a podcast! Build a brand.) The truth is, in my attempt to do everything, I’m accomplishing very little. My plate stays full. But instead of removing things from the plate, I keep looking for a bigger plate.
Maybe that’s the real problem.
I was told a while ago, that it is possible I am afraid of success. Maybe I am, although I have no idea why. Another friend recently told me, “Juggling a thousand things is just who you are.”
No. The F it is not. It’s what I’ve been doing. It’s not who I am. I’ve been juggling for so long that people think it’s my personality. I’m more of a beach bum with a book and a notepad type of girl. I used to be a collector of shoes and now I live to be in a place I don’t need to wear any!
So, I’m juggling. But guess what! My arms are tired. And if I’m honest, it may not be much longer before the balls start hitting the ground.
Maybe some of them should.
Maybe every ball isn’t mine to catch.
Maybe every problem doesn’t require my immediate attention.
Maybe the dust can wait.
Maybe the floor doesn’t need mopping because I spotted one thing on it.
Maybe every email doesn’t deserve an immediate response. (Or any!)
Maybe every opportunity isn’t actually an opportunity.
Maybe every project or idea isn’t meant to become a business.
Maybe some things can simply be enjoyed.
Imagine that.
Reading Food & Wine on the porch. (I miss my deck!)
Writing without guilt.
Painting because I feel like it. Because I’m inspired. Actually using the collage media I’ve been collecting for a few years.
Taking a walk because it’s a beautiful day.
Sitting still long enough to hear birds again.
I think a lot of women struggle with this. We’re taught to carry everything. Fix everything. Manage everything. Remember everything. Do everything.
And then we’re surprised when we’re exhausted. There are only so many hours in a day, and rumor has it they’re not making more.
So, if I want more peace, more creativity, more joy, more of the life I keep postponing until “things settle down,” something has to go.
That’s the hard part.
Not adding.
Eliminating.
Not finding a bigger plate. Taking things off the plate.
Because the life I want isn’t waiting somewhere in the future after I finish everything.
There is no damn finish line. You never finish everything!
The demands will keep growing if I let them. So maybe the question isn’t how I get everything done.
Maybe the question is, what am I willing to leave undone so I can finally live?
I’ve spent so many years reacting to life that I forgot I’m allowed to choose.
There should be a national holiday for women. WOMEN’S DAY! (Who needs Hallmark? Wait. I need to speak to whomever is in charge of holidays!)
Not Mother’s Day. That’s just brunch, flowers, and a handmade card with macaroni glued to construction paper while we’re still expected to coordinate dinner reservations.
I’m talking about an actual holiday where we receive a medal, and someone announces:
“Congratulations. You have successfully completed decades of putting yourself dead last.”
Because sacrifice starts early for a lot of women.
First, some of us grow an entire human being inside our bodies. We gain weight, lose sleep, sacrifice our bladder control and spend nine months sharing our internal organs with a tenant who kicks us in the ribs and uses our kidneys as furniture.
Then comes motherhood itself, where your needs quietly slide down the priority list. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just inch by inch.
You skip the hot meal because someone else is hungry.
You postpone the doctor’s appointment because someone else needs braces.
You put off the vacation because college tuition exists.
You put your dreams in the “later” file.
You don’t sleep when you’re tired. You sleep in random forty-three-minute intervals like you’re being interrogated by the CIA.
You don’t buy yourself the nice shoes because someone needs soccer cleats.
You don’t go back to school because someone needs daycare.
You don’t take the trip because braces cost approximately the same amount as a small SUV.
And some women put careers on hold. Some put dreams on hold. Some become the support staff for everyone else’s lives. Some supporting their husband’s or partner’s ambitions. Some work full-time while carrying nearly all the invisible labor anyway, like remembering birthdays, buying gifts, forgotten homework, permission slips, shopping, dinner, laundry, making appointments, keeping track of everyone’s emotional weather forecast.
You become CEO of Things Nobody Notices Until You Stop Doing Them.
No salary.
No bonus.
No pension.
Performance reviews conducted exclusively by people asking:
“What’s for dinner?”
And if you think there is a finish line, that’s adorable.
The kids grow up and move out. Except increasingly, they don’t. They’re back in the house with student loans, rising rents, emotional baggage, actual baggage, and enough laundry to clothe a small nation.
Just when you think, Maybe now I can focus on me… (You silly girl!)
Your parents need help.
A relative gets sick.
Friends need support.
Someone needs rides.
Someone needs caregiving.
Someone needs money.
Someone needs advice.
And women, many of us trained from birth to be emotional support humans, immediately put the cape back on.
Again.
And again.
And again.
So, I wonder…
When exactly is it our turn? Is life for many women just one long relay race of sacrifice where we keep passing the baton but never get to cross the finish line ourselves?
When are we allowed to say, “You know what? I would like to pursue a dream, take a trip, sit down and drink a hot cup of coffee before it becomes iced coffee against my will.”
At what point are we allowed to become a little selfish without feeling guilty?
And where exactly is the line between selfish and self-preservation? Where is the line between sacrifice and slowly disappearing? Because there must be one.
There just has to be a difference between being selfish and simply refusing to abandon yourself.
Maybe sacrifice was never supposed to mean disappearance.
Maybe tending to our own needs isn’t selfish.
Maybe buying the concert tickets, taking the trip, changing careers, saying no, resting, dreaming, creating, sleeping in, or simply wanting more isn’t selfish.
Maybe it’s maintenance.
Because the truth is, I don’t think women are asking to stop loving people.
I think we’re just wondering if somewhere in this lifetime we’re also allowed to love ourselves with the same devotion we’ve handed out to everyone else. Maybe after spending a lifetime tending everyone else’s garden, we’re allowed to water our own damn plants.
I don’t know when sacrifice ends.
I just know I don’t want my first uninterrupted period of rest to happen after someone says:
“She was always there for everyone.”
Then closes the casket.
Because seriously… that feels like a terrible rewards program.