Here I Am.
There was a time when I didn’t recognize myself.
Not just emotionally…
but physically.
My body was changing in ways I didn’t understand.
My energy shifted.
My reflection felt unfamiliar.
And then came the part that quietly broke me…
My hair.
Losing it wasn’t just about appearance.
It was identity.
It was confidence.
It was the version of myself I thought I would always recognize.
So I adapted.
I learned how to wear wigs.
At first, out of necessity.
Then slowly… out of acceptance.
And eventually—
out of confidence.
But if I’m honest, the journey wasn’t just external.
It was sitting in doctor’s offices,
waiting on numbers,
holding my breath between appointments,
learning to live with the question of “what if.”
It was the fear of what could come next.
The possibility of surgery.
The unknown.
And if I’m even more honest…
There were moments I didn’t want to go back.
Didn’t want to hear another result.
Didn’t want to face it.
But here I am.
Not fully healed.
Not with every answer.
Not without fear.
But present.
Aware.
Still becoming.
I am learning that strength doesn’t always look like certainty.
Sometimes it looks like showing up anyway.
Like choosing yourself… even when your body feels unfamiliar.
Like finding peace in the middle of the unknown.
This is me.
Not perfect.
Not finished.
Not hiding.
Where Do The Strong Ones Go
Where Do the Strong Ones Go?
That’s the quiet question strong people carry.
Where do you go
when you are the one everyone leans on?
When your phone rings
because you always have the answer,
the comfort,
the strength they can borrow?
When you don’t get the luxury
of falling apart out loud—
because people see your strength
and assume it’s endless.
So when you feel tired…
heavy…
unsure…
it can feel like there’s nowhere
to set it all down.
They call you “strong”
like it’s a compliment—
but sometimes it feels like a cage.
Because strength doesn’t ask
if you’re okay.
It assumes you are.
It assumes you’ll carry it.
It assumes you won’t break.
So you become the rock.
Steady.
Reliable.
Unshaken on the outside…
while quietly eroding within.
But the truth is—
you were never meant to be only the rock.
Even rocks crack
under pressure
when there’s no release.
Being “the strong one”
doesn’t mean you don’t need softness.
It just means you’ve learned
how to hold it together—for others.
The part that often gets missed…
is learning how to let go—
for yourself.
So where do you go
to be weak?
You create that space—
even if it doesn’t exist yet.
You go to the quiet.
Not loneliness…
but intentional silence.
A place where you can feel everything
without editing it.
You go to expression—
pages that don’t judge you,
prayers that don’t rush you,
words spoken out loud
even if no one answers.
You go where your truth
doesn’t have to be polished.
And maybe—
if you’re brave enough—
you go to a person.
Someone safe enough
to see you without the armor.
Not someone who needs your strength…
but someone who can sit with your softness
without asking you to perform.
And sometimes…
you go to a simple sentence:
“I’m not okay today.”
No explanation.
No apology.
Just truth.
Because strength that never rests
turns into exhaustion.
And support that only flows outward
eventually runs dry.
Even the strong
need somewhere to set the weight down.
Even the rock
needs somewhere to rest.
You don’t stop being the rock
by having moments of weakness.
You become human.
So the real answer?
You go inward.
To the place where you are allowed
to be held too.
Even if, at first,
that place is just you—
learning how to hold yourself.
And over time…
you let someone else
into that space.
When I Look At 60
When I reflect on turning 60,
I find myself looking back over my life
a little longer than I used to.
When you’re young,
you carry dreams like they’re promises.
You have plans…
aspirations…
a picture in your mind of how life is supposed to unfold.
Some of those things came to pass.
Some of them didn’t.
And some…
quietly fell to the wayside
without you even realizing when you let them go.
I think about the life I imagined.
I was supposed to be married by now.
Settled.
Living in my dream home—
a farmhouse with a touch of Victorian charm,
somewhere near the water,
but not too far from the mountains.
A place that felt like peace.
Like arrival.
But life…
had other plans.
And somewhere along the way,
I had to make peace with the fact
that some dreams don’t come in the way
you thought they would.
Or at all.
That kind of acceptance
doesn’t happen overnight.
It comes in quiet moments.
In honest conversations with yourself.
In letting go of timelines
you once held onto so tightly.
And while some things didn’t happen…
other things did.
I’ve watched my parents grow older—
which brings a different kind of love,
and a different kind of worry.
I’ve watched my children grow up—
becoming their own people,
finding their own way.
And somehow,
you find yourself standing in the middle of both…
Caring for the ones who raised you,
while still loving the ones you raised.
It changes you.
Your priorities shift.
Your perspective softens.
You start to understand that life
isn’t just about what you dreamed—
it’s about what you’ve lived.
At 60,
I may not have everything
I once imagined.
But I have stories.
I have lessons.
I have love—
in forms I didn’t always expect.
And maybe that counts
in ways I’m only now beginning to understand.
This season of my life
isn’t about chasing everything I thought I wanted.
It’s about appreciating what is,
honoring what was,
and making peace with what isn’t.
And for the first time in a long time…
that feels like enough.
Seven Ways to Start Your Day Mindful
This is my 60
This Is My 60
This is my 60.
Not perfect—
but it’s who I am.
There’s a sense of freedom
and peace
as I travel this journey.
No longer trying to prove I matter.
No longer playing a part
or a piece in someone else’s story…
but my own.
It’s loving the skin I’m in.
Not begging for acceptance
or validation.
It’s walking into a room
and not feeling the need
to fit in.
It’s not worrying
whether I am liked or not.
I once heard a pastor say—
you can spend your whole life
trying to please others
and lose yourself in the process.
Forgetting your voice…
just to belong.
But there comes a time
when you have to say:
This is my story.
This is my journey.
And be okay
with standing in it alone.
Learning to love the moment
you are in.
So I celebrate 60—
my way.