Yesterday would have been my father’s 78th birthday.

It is a bittersweet milestone for me now. I miss him so deeply, an ache sharpened by the simple, stinging fact that we didn’t get enough time. My parents split when I was seven and my dad remarried and had 3 daughters. Decades of silence followed. Throughout those years, my mother gave me a profound gift: she didn’t speak bitterly about him to me. She always told me, “Your dad was a good father. He loved you, and his leaving had nothing to do with you.” And so, I never carried any anger or resentment toward my dad, just a feeling of loss. That is-until my mom got sick.

When my mom died of breast cancer when I was 25, I was consumed by a heavy anger. I couldn’t understand the “why” of it. Why her? She was the one who raised us, yet she was the one who suffered through the unimaginable. It was just tragic and bitterly unfair.

For a while, I let that anger sit in the way of everything. But as time went on, I started to realize that her death wasn’t my father’s fault. My Dad never wanted her to die. But sometimes it’s easier to be angry then face the real truth. I was angry she was gone and he was the easiest to blame. That’s what hurt does. It looks for blame. I had to get past that sense of injustice to see the man who was still here.

Getting Past the Anger

Some years later, about the time of the MySpace explosion, a note from my sister popped up in my inbox. I wasn’t angry anymore, just scared. Terrified actually. Scared of talking to her, of what my dad might say and of meeting three sisters who grew up with a bond together that I was never a part of.

I remember the day like it was yesterday. I was on a business trip in Syracuse, New York, with my old boss, Sue. It was a massive turning point in my life. We were at the hotel we were staying at and went for a walk.

I kept spiraling, asking her, “What should I do? What if they didn’t like me? What if my father didn’t want to talk to me? The thought of being rejected was something my heart could not handle. Should I talk to her? Sue looked at me and asked, “Do you want to talk to her?” When I said yes, she gave me the push I needed: “What do you have to lose?”

Missing Pieces of My Heart

I spoke to my sister for the first time that night, and the fear vanished instantly. It was like something out of a movie. I knew her immediately. She told me I wasn’t a secret; my dad had spoken about me and Misty their entire life. I hung up that night feeling a happiness I couldn’t explain.

When I finally reconnected with my dad, it was like we picked up exactly where we left off. He was the same dad, with the same love, the same silliness, and the same songs. In no time, I felt just like I was that little girl again. And Misty, it was like her whole world opened up. She lit up in a way that I will never forget. The way she said, “MY DAD”. I can cry right now when I think of how happy it made her to be with him. And how he loved her.

That day, it was like a piece of all our hearts was put back together. Through that one act of choosing peace over anger, I was given a gift I never could have bought: my three sisters.

That was over 20 years ago, and I cannot ever imagine my life before them now. It’s like we have known each other forever. We made so many memories together with my dad before he passed. It was the greatest when we were all together in his small two-bedroom house and all us girls sleeping on the floor and on the couch and laughing nonstop.

I cherish those memories and the new ones that my sisters and I continue to make now. I know we have so many more ahead of us, and I am so profoundly grateful for the day they walked into my life. I couldn’t love them any more than I do; they are a part of my soul.

They filled a gap and a space in my heart that I didn’t even know was missing.

It made me realize how much we lose when we hold onto old hurts. Forgiveness isn’t just about the person you are forgiving; it’s about making peace with yourself. It’s about opening your hands so you can actually receive the blessings meant for you. If you don’t find a way past the anger, you have no idea what and who you are missing out on.

To my dad my only wish is that we had more time. I would give anything to have back every single year that we lost, but I’m so thankful every day for the time we did get together. I’m so grateful for the moment we reconnected, and for every second we got to sing, laugh, and just be a family.

There was nothing you loved more than telling the world, “I have five daughters,” and there was nothing I loved more than finally being one of them again. Thank you for the songs, the silliness, and for the miracle of bringing us all together. It’s the greatest gift you gave us, and I promise to cherish it always. I love you, Dad.

I happened upon my high school journals this weekend. I’ve always known they were there, but lately, I’ve felt a desperate need to consult them. You see, menopause has decided to take my memory hostage.

It’s not that the memories are gone; it’s more like they’ve been borrowed without permission. I’ll be mid-sentence, and suddenly the word I am looking for vanishes. My brain is currently a messy junk drawer where the thing I need is always at the very bottom, hidden under a pile of 80s song lyrics.

I opened my journal, cleverly titled Theresa’s 1st Journal because it’s basically my external hard drive. I needed to see what else the hostage-takers in my head were keeping from me.

I started these journals in 9th grade, treating that notebook like a therapist who didn’t charge by the hour. I told it my deepest secrets and then (because I was apparently a teenage genius) I’d write back to myself with the solutions.

Reading those thoughts now, through the lens of a woman who currently forgets where she put her phone while she’s holding it, was a trip. I was so “tortured.” I was hopelessly in love with a boy named Joe. I spent pages, literally begging God to make us a couple again.

The funny thing is, we only actually dated for a month and a half, but I had crushed on him for years prior. What was the draw? The fashion. Joe was straight out of a Benetton catalogue. He was always perfectly put together: the layered turtleneck under a Champion sweatshirt, the cardigans, the baggy jeans. I wasn’t just pining for a boy; I was pining for a walking mannequin. In reality, the “greatest love story of the 80s” was mostly just me being obsessed with a very stylish wardrobe.

History Repeating

It felt ironic to be reading about my first love because my son is currently navigating his own first heartbreak. He dated a girl who seemed sweet, only to find out she was, as we used to say—a total playa. (Is that word still legal? I’m at an age where I use slang two decades late and with zero shame.)

My son fell hard. They did that “Gen Z” thing where they stay on a facetime call all night just to sleep “together” on the other end. I kid you not, this is a thing. He took her for sushi and crab legs for Valentines Day; bought her a huge bouquet; and would buy her favorite Starbucks drink after school every day. And then came the dreaded words: “I think I need a break.”

It is the hardest thing in the world to watch your kid with a broken heart. You want to shield them, but you can’t. You just have to sit there, fan yourself with a magazine, and wait for the fog to lift so you can find the right words of comfort.

The Standard of Love

As I watched him navigate the sadness, something warmed my heart. Even through the fog, I recognized the man he was becoming:

• He opened her car door every single time.

• He spoke to her with unwavering respect.

• He’d bring her favorite candy to school just to see her smile.

• He’d walk her to her door and counsel her when she was sad.

I checked my journal entries and realized something: No one ever treated me like that. Into my 20s, it was the same. I don’t remember one guy who held the door open or offered to give me a massage. I didn’t experience that level of chivalry until I met a certain “tennis guy” from the Hamptons.

In the 16 years we’ve been together, that man has never stopped opening my car door. He has never once raised his voice or cussed at me. And, he still gives me a massage most nights, even when I’m radiating enough body heat from a hot flash to set off the smoke detector.

That is where my son learned it. He didn’t learn how to love from a movie; he learned it by watching his dad treat me like someone worth cherishing, even when I can’t remember why I walked into the room. LOL.

The Legacy

If I could reach back through the pages of Theresa’s 1st Journal, I’d whisper to that dramatic girl: “Stop running. Stop worrying. A turtleneck and a sweatshirt do not a soulmate make.”

I told my son that this heartbreak is likely the first of many, but I also told him to never lower his standard. One day, there will be someone who doesn’t just “take” the kindness he offers, but treasures it. It took me 37 years to find the man who showed me what I was worth, but watching my son carry that same light into the world makes every year of waiting worth it.

My journals were the record of a long, sometimes lonely search. Pages filled with the hope that someone would eventually see my worth. Today, I don’t have to look for the answers anymore because I’m living them. I might forget where I put my keys, and I might lose the words for common household objects, but I will never forget the feeling of finally being home.

Seeing my son reflect his father’s respect and kindness is the greatest proof that the wait was worth it. I finally found the love I was looking for in those pages, and better yet, I got to make sure my son never has to wonder what it looks like.

In the grand, beige theater of the modern office in Corporate America, they say it’s not what you know but who you know. We’ve all heard it, but witnessing it in its purest, most viral form is like watching a bad reality show unfold in the C-Suite.

It’s the incestuous Lifecycle of the Corporate Bro; a closed-loop social experiment where a “Good Old Boys” network hires only for loyalty to the tribe. It’s like a recurring production that honestly deserves its own Tony Award for Best Repetitive Performance.

It usually starts with a “Savior.” A young, arrogant VP arrives, who hits the ground running with the typical “bully” energy that Corporate America often mistakes for leadership.

He didn’t get the job through a recruiter; he was hired because a C-Suite Exec brought him in from a previous life. He is then placed over a team that has been the quiet, reliable engine of the company and replaces a “good soldier” (very often a woman) who kept the lights on and burning bright for years.

You can always spot them early on if you watch their “off duty” behavior. They treat corporate functions like a Spring Break redo. They lose their professional “mask” by the second round of drinks, making you wonder how they ever made it this far.

It’s a masterclass in irony: watching someone like this suddenly be tasked with navigating the careers of hundreds. It’s one of those corporate mysteries that defies logic, like how the printer always jams when you’re in a rush. But, in the world of Corporate Incest, “Character” is a secondary metric; “Compliance” is the primary one.

Soon, the Infection Phase begins. It’s truly impressive. The leader doesn’t just hire a few people; they import a whole zip code from their previous company. Before you can blink, ten “buddies” arrive. Directors become VPs overnight. It’s not a team; it’s a frat house with a budget. And they work together and all ride the wave until it crests.

But the “juiciest” part? The exit. When the Alpha Bro leaves, the buddies follow like a trail of ants right behind him to the new company. It’s the same Boys’ Club, just a different zip code on the LinkedIn announcement. It’s a masterclass in audacity.

Can a leader truly be called a leader when they continue to lead people that have been on their payroll since three companies ago? It’s not a strategy; it’s a security blanket. They lease the same group of friends to different companies over and over.

Watching this traveling circus pack up their tents and move to their next home provides a rare moment of clarity. For a long time, I wondered how those of us who gave our integrity to the foundation were supposed to compete with a group that plays by a rigged deck.

But I realized I was looking at it wrong. I wasn’t “losing” their game; I was just the only one in the room who wasn’t playing it.

The “Incestuous” cycle is a trap of constant running and the frantic need to stay one step ahead of the truth and never stopping to enjoy the view. While they are busy poaching each other and building a house of cards at a new address, I’m building my own house. And on my guest list? Only people with character and integrity.

And honestly? There is a strange, quiet peace in finally just being a spectator. I’m leaning back, taking a deep breath, and watching the show with a smile. I know how gravity works, and I know that a house of cards, no matter how high they stack it; eventually meets the floor. I’m trading the “Good Old Boys” for my own good life and playing by a set of rules that actually let me sleep at night.

Mercury is Retrograde. Of course it is…

Mercury. It’s a planet. The smallest one in our solar system actually. Most of us learned that in fourth grade, forgot it by fifth, and didn’t think about it again until someone blamed it for their parking ticket.

That someone, in my world, is usually me.

Ask my friends. Ask my coworkers. The moment Mercury stations retrograde, I become completely insufferable about it. The group chat lights up. The office side-eyes begin. Someone inevitably says “oh here she goes” and I take that as a compliment.

I am, without apology, the Mercury Retrograde Queen.

But here’s what I’ve learned after years of being the person everyone rolls their eyes at.

Most people have heard of Mercury Retrograde. Very few actually know what it means. They just know it’s bad. They know their ex is going to text. They know not to sign anything important. They know their Wi-Fi is about to betray them at the worst possible moment.

What they don’t know, is that it’s not actually the villain everyone makes it out to be. It’s not really a storm. It’s a spotlight.

So, what is it, really?

Mercury is the planet that rules communication, technology, travel, and contracts. It governs how we think, how we speak, how we get from Point A to Point B, literally and figuratively.

A few times a year, Mercury appears to move backward in the sky. It’s an optical illusion. The planet isn’t actually reversing. But in astrology, the effect is very real. Things get scrambled. Wires get crossed. The thing you thought was settled? Unsettles itself.

Mercury goes retrograde 3 times a year in different signs. This one is happening in Pisces. Pisces is the most emotional, intuitive, dreamy, go-with-the-flow sign in the zodiac. So, while Mercury is already making a mess of your inbox, Pisces is making everything feel slightly underwater. Unclear. A lot more confusing.

My advice to everyone now is this. Take nothing at face value right now. That enthusiastic “yes!” from someone? Ask a follow-up. That text you’re about to send in anger? Read it twice. Then put the phone down and read it again tomorrow.

Here’s the secret nobody talks about: retrograde isn’t just a villain. It’s a pause button. It wants you to review, revise, reconnect, reflect. All those RE words? That’s intentional. The universe is asking you to go back before you go forward.

Back up your phone. Reread the contract. In fact, don’t sign anything if you can help it. Revisit the conversation you’ve been avoiding. Let the old thing resurface so you can finally deal with it and set it down for good.

And yes, people from your past will show up. They always do. Mercury Retrograde is basically the universe scheduling a reunion nobody asked for. Whether you let them back in is entirely up to you.

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But what does it mean for your sign? Let’s have some fun!

Read for your Sun sign AND your rising sign for the full picture. If you don’t know what your rising sign is, comment with your year, date, time and place of birth and I will be happy to comment back and tell you. You’re welcome.

♈️ ARIES

Mar 20 – Apr 19

You’ve been forcing something. You can feel it. Mercury retrograde in your 12th house is tapping you on the shoulder and saying , stop pushing and start listening. This isn’t giving up. This is making room for something better to walk through the door you’ve been too busy holding shut.

The gift: Space you didn’t know you needed.

♉️ TAURUS

Apr 19 – May 20

Your inner circle is about to get smaller and more honest. Someone’s true colors are showing this month and just let them. A tighter circle is a stronger one. You don’t need a crowd. You need people who actually show up.

The gift: Clarity about who deserves your loyalty.

♊️ GEMINI

May 20 – Jun 21

Mercury is YOUR planet and it’s going backwards in your career house. Professional plans may stall temporarily. Use it to fortify your foundation instead of building on shaky ground. You’ll thank yourself in April.

The gift: A foundation that actually holds.

♋️ CANCER

Jun 21 – Jul 22

Triple check every travel plan, every appointment, every reservation. Then check it again. Your adventure energy is high but Mercury wants you to sweat the details before you leap. The leap is still coming. Just look down first.

The gift: An adventure that actually goes to plan.

♌️ LEO

Jul 22 – Aug 22

Money and secrets are swirling in your 8th house. A financial conversation you’ve been avoiding needs to happen. So does an honest look at what you’re truly owed, emotionally and otherwise. You have more power here than you think.

The gift: Knowing your worth down to the penny.

♍️ VIRGO

Aug 22 – Sep 22

Mercury retrograde in your relationship house means old dynamics are resurfacing with your closest people. Someone from your past may reappear. Before you let them back in or push them further out, ask yourself what actually changed. Take your time.

The gift: Relationships built on what’s actually true.

♎️ LIBRA

Sep 22 – Oct 23

Your routines are breaking down so better ones can be built. The body knows something the mind hasn’t caught up to yet so be sure to listen to it. Mercury retrograde is actually an invitation to finally rest. Not collapse. Rest. There’s a difference

The gift: A reset you actually needed.

♏️ SCORPIO

Oct 23 – Nov 21

Your creativity is on fire but your focus keeps slipping. That’s Mercury messing with your 5th house. Let the ideas come. Write them all down. Don’t try to execute all of them right now. The best one will still be there on March 21st and you’ll know exactly which one it is.

The gift: The idea you almost talked yourself out of.

♐️ SAGITTARIUS

Nov 21 – Dec 21

Home and family are where the retrograde lives for you right now. Old conversations under your own roof. Unfinished emotional business with the people closest to you. This is uncomfortable and also exactly what you need. The fire sign in you wants to run. Don’t.

The gift: Coming home to yourself.

♑️ CAPRICORN

Dec 21 – Jan 19

You said something you didn’t quite mean or didn’t say something you needed to. Mercury retrograde in your communication house wants you to go back and clarify. This is not weakness. This is precision. Your sign knows the difference better than anyone.

The gift: The conversation that actually clears the air.

♒️AQUARIUS

Jan 19 – Feb 18

Your values and your finances are being reviewed right now. Not just what’s in your bank account but what you actually believe is worth investing in. Your time. Your energy. Your trust. Some things no longer make the cut. Let them go without guilt.

The gift: Spending your energy on what actually matters.

♓️PISCES

Feb 18 – Mar 20

This retrograde is IN your sign, which means it’s deeply personal. You’re shedding an old version of how you’ve been seeing yourself. It feels disorienting because it is. You’re not lost. You’re updating. There is a massive, beautiful difference.

The gift: Finally seeing yourself clearly.

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So what is the bottom line?

Mercury Retrograde gets a bad reputation. But it’s really just a spotlight. It illuminates everything you’ve been moving too fast to notice. The unfinished conversation. The assumption you never questioned. The person you forgot to let go of. The version of yourself you’ve been holding onto out of habit.

In Pisces, these retrograde are subtle, a whisper. So, get quiet enough to hear it.The chaos is temporary. The clarity on the other side of it? That’s the whole point.

We’re M Word Diaries. Of course we had to cover this one.

Mercury starts with M. Did you really think we were going to let that go?

There is a kind of knowing that lives deeper than thought. Not hope. Not wishful thinking. Just knowing.

Mothers carry it in a place that has no name. A certainty about their child that exists long before the world gets its turn to weigh in. I have carried that knowing about my son Brighton his entire life.

Brighton came into this world at 28 weeks. Too early. Too small. He was not supposed to be here yet. Neither was his twin sister Halle. They arrived together into a world that wasn’t ready for them. Halle stayed with us for a short ten days then was called back to the angels.

Brighton stayed. And from his very first breath in that NICU, I knew exactly who this boy was going to be.

The doctors were careful the way doctors are when they are preparing you for uncertainty. Born this early, he could have issues with cognitive development. I heard them. I just didn’t believe them.

Elementary school was hard. Brighton was what teachers politely call “a little extra.” The kid who needed a little more patience and flexibility and willingness to see past the surface.

He has always been a solid A and B student. Smart. Curious. Engaged.

But he was also that kid. The one that got blamed in a group whenever something went wrong. The one who carried the weight of being seen as a problem in a system that didn’t know what to do with him.

His last two weeks of elementary school, they pulled him from class over something that was so ridiculous, I still can’t believe it. To this day, it infuriates me how the principal handled it. I lost all respect for her as an educator and mother that day. Every time I see her, I still get angry.

Mamas never forget, and even worse, neither did Brighton. He still remembers it and talks of it. Kids always remember when the adults chose the institution over them. That single incident scarred his memory of elementary school forever. Sadly, that was never a thought or concern of theirs.

Mitch and I were nervous going into middle school. We braced ourselves for more of the same. We were so wrong. Middle school gave Brighton the one thing elementary school never did.

Room. Freedom.

He was finally allowed to be himself without the label. Without the box. Without being that kid before he even walked through the door. And Brighton, our 28-week miracle, he didn’t just survive middle school - he THRIVED.

This week we toured the middle school with our younger son Cameron, who starts there next year. We brought Brighton along. And something happened in those hallways that stopped me completely.

Teacher after teacher stopped us. Unprompted. From the heart. All saying the same thing. Your son is one of my absolute favorites. He is so smart. I love having him in class. He is such a great kid. This kid is going to be something someday. He is so courteous. He is so kind. He helps me in class with the difficult kids. Over and over. Down every hallway.

My mama heart was so full I could barely speak. But here is the thing. I was not surprised. The pride was enormous. The kind that makes your eyes sting in a school hallway in the most embarrassing and wonderful way.

But underneath the pride was something quieter. Not, “I can’t believe how far he has come.” But, “I always knew this was in him.” I knew it in the NICU. I knew it in every elementary school meeting when someone described my son like a problem to be solved. I knew it every single time I looked at this boy and saw exactly who he was. Not who the system said he was. Who he actually was.

Brighton has something that his mother spent decades trying to find. He simply does not care what people think of him. Not in an arrogant way. In the most grounded, certain, completely unbothered way I have ever witnessed.

Recently, a popular girl at school asked him why he doesn’t like popular girls. He looked at her and said, I don’t like the fakeness. They only care about material things, not people. That’s not attractive to me.

She gave him the finger. He smiled and said, have a nice day and walked away.

Later he told me, “Mom, it makes them so mad when I don’t react.”

I mean. I could never. Not at 14. Sometimes, not even now at 53. This boy came into the world 12 weeks early and has been ahead of schedule ever since.

Brighton, you came into this world alongside your sister who we loved and lost and carry with us every single day. You survived when the odds were uncertain. You thrived when the system couldn’t see you. You refused to let anyone define you. Not the doctors. Not the elementary school. Not the popular girl who gave you the finger. You just smiled and said have a nice day. And walked away.

I have spent a lifetime learning to do what you do naturally. I am so proud of who you are. And I am so grateful that you reminded me, without even knowing you were doing it, that the people who couldn’t see you clearly were never the authority on who you were.

Mama always knew.

She just needed a middle school hallway full of teachers to remind her that knowing was enough all along.

M Word Diaries - My Mother’s Daughter

If you asked me what my mother was like, I would tell you she was all fire. A true Aries through and through. Always shooting from the hip and never backing down. She had a strength I still can’t fully comprehend. When life knocked her down, she got back up like it was nothing. When things were bad, her famous saying was, “This too shall pass.” It was always her go-to.

Growing up, there were times she scared the heck out of me. There was a rage inside her that I never quite understood. An anger that didn’t surface often, but when it did, you ran for cover. It wasn’t abusive. Just, to a small child — terrifying.

What reason did she have to be so angry?

Every reason in the world.

She was 27 years old. Barely grown herself. Left alone without warning, with two daughters, one salary, and a child with special needs. She was still becoming who she was supposed to be. She was still figuring out her own life and she was doing all of it completely alone. Every single day. No partner. No backup. No one to tap in when she was exhausted or scared or running on empty.

She didn’t have the luxury of falling apart. So, she didn’t.

Looking back now, I see that is where it all began for me. The people pleasing. The placating. The careful reading of every room I walked into. I learned young how to read her. I knew when to keep talking and when to go quiet. It became second nature. A survival skill I didn’t even know I was developing.

I became masterful at keeping the peace. When everyone else panics, I stay calm. Calm on the outside anyway. I have this gift, if you can call it that, of appearing completely unrattled while my stomach is in knots. Instead of feeling, I go straight into solution mode. What’s the plan? How do we fix this? I don’t waste time on blame. I just go into caretaker mode and start moving.

Because of all of this, I spent most of my life believing my mother and I were polar opposites. Her explosive fire versus my quiet calm. Her snappy comeback versus my silence and bitten lip. Her presence that filled every room versus my carefully managed invisibility.

But we were never opposites.

We were just fighting the same battle in different ways.

She faced every obstacle life threw at her with her chin up and her fists ready. And then life threw her one final battle; breast cancer. She was only 46, still so young. Still so much left to do. Still so much left to become.

And even then, even in the middle of that fight, she never broke down. Not once. Not in front of me.

As a mother now, I understand what that cost her.

She had to have been absolutely terrified. Lying awake at night with thoughts no mother should ever have to think. Wondering who would hold her daughters when she was gone. Wondering if she had said enough, loved enough, given enough.

But she never let me see that fear. Not once. Because she knew I was terrified. And she only cared about being strong for me. She was the good soldier long before I ever was.

She taught me the only way she knew how, by example. By being brave when she was falling apart inside. By putting everyone else first even when she was fighting for her own life. She handed me the greatest gift she had. And without either of us realizing it, I have carried it forward for the rest of my life.

For everyone. In every crisis. Her battle cry has never left me.

“Never depend on anyone for anything, Theresa. Always — ALWAYS — be able to take care of yourself and never give up.”

I must have heard those words a thousand times from the time I was seven years old. The year my dad left. The year she became everything.

I thought we were different. I thought she had fire and I had composure. But I understand now that composure was just my version of her fire.

We were never opposites. We were always the same. Two women. Same blood. Same battle cry. Same refusal to break.

She just ran out of time. I don’t intend to.

She never got to finish her story. I intend to finish mine. For both of us.

At 50+ years into my life journey, I’ve reached a realization that has left me breathless: I have spent five decades building a version of myself that was never meant to be me.

I am no stranger to storms. I have weathered them marriage, motherhood, and throughout my whole life. I’ve navigated floods of loss and gale-force winds of change. Every time, my instinct was the same: batten down the hatches, protect everyone else, and be the anchor. I took a certain pride in being the one who didn’t break.

But this storm is different. It’s internal. And it’s forced me to realize that I’ve been living in a state of addiction, an addiction to the approval of others.

For more than half a century, I have been a master of the Mirage. I was the one who knew exactly how to shape-shift to make everyone else feel comfortable. I believed it was my job to be the shock absorber, to soften the blow, to smooth over the edges, and to protect the egos of everyone around me, even when it meant bruising my own soul in the process. I have spent thousands of hours rehearsing how to say “no” in a way that sounded like “maybe,” or how to say “I’m hurting” in a way that sounded like “I’m fine.”

I am Mourning the girl who thought her worth was a negotiation. I am looking back at 50 years of “cushioning” the world and realizing that all I did was allow others to stay comfortable while I stayed empty. I spent decades vibrating with anxiety, worrying about what “they” would think if I finally stopped. I was terrified that if I didn’t provide that cushion, I would be seen as weak, or difficult, or simply not enough.

I became an expert at the M-Word of Maintenance, maintaining everyone else’s peace while my own house was on fire.

And now, I am standing at the grave of that woman.

I realized that my worth does not lie in someone else’s approval or in the exhausting labor of convincing someone else of my value. I spent so much energy trying to win the battle out there, only to realize the real war was in here.

The victory wasn’t in changing anyone else’s minds. It was in changing mine.

I am done protecting egos that aren’t mine to manage. If the truth is uncomfortable for others to hear, that is no longer my burden to carry.

I have cleared out the performer to make room for the human. I am no longer available for a life where I have to disappear to be loved. I am choosing me. Without the cushion. Without the apology. Without the addiction to a “well done” from people who never truly saw me anyway.

Whose opinion are you still trying to change? Did you ever feel like the only person you needed to convince... was you?

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It’s been a while.

I wish I could say I’ve been too busy, or traveling, or just living life. But the truth is, I’ve been trying to survive a storm. One that I finally realized- might be impossible to survive while staying where I am.

A storm where the only way through… is to move on. Not because I want to. Because I have to.

I realized something recently that cut deep:

I spend hours, no—days, worrying about disappointing a system and people who continually disappoint me.

I worry about being kind. Being nice. Doing more. Proving I can handle it. Proving I’m worth it. And for what?

Because every time I get close, the bar moves. New standards. New expectations. New reasons why “not yet.”

I used to think it was about working harder, proving more, being better. But I finally realized: the bar wasn’t moving because I wasn’t reaching it. The bar was moving to keep me reaching.

Moving on. Two words that feel impossible and necessary at the same time. I don’t know what it looks like yet. I don’t have a plan.

I’m in the middle of this. Not at the beginning anymore. Not at the end yet. Just stuck in the uncomfortable, terrifying, messy middle where you know you can’t go back but you don’t know what’s ahead.

It’s hard. It’s heavy. And some days I don’t know if I’m strong enough to get through it. But I’m trying. Because staying is no longer an option. Not if I want to survive with any piece of myself left.

If you’re reading this and you’re in your own storm—your own impossible situation where you’re trying to hold on but you’re drowning…I see you.

Maybe you’re also spending hours worrying about disappointing people who’ve already disappointed you.

Maybe you’re also giving everything and the bar keeps moving.

Maybe you’re also realizing that moving on is the only way forward, even though it’s terrifying.

You’re not alone.

And moving on doesn’t mean you failed. It means you finally stopped chasing a finish line that was never meant for you to cross.

I don’t know where this goes. I’m figuring it out as I go. I’m moving on. From what? To where? I’ll tell you when I know.

For now, I’m just in the middle. Surviving the storm. Trying to choose me for once.

Moving On. Middle. Because sometimes you need two M Words to explain where you are.

Thanks for still being here. For reading. For staying. The best is yet to come. Of this I am certain.

Myself.

I used to think M was just for "Mom”
for managing life and making it work.
But now I see it's so much more:
for important moments and the memories, I store.

M is for "maybe" when the world feels unsure,
for "mute" when my mind is begging for a blur.
For minutes that mattered and mornings I cried.
and the mask that comes off when I stop trying to hide.

It’s for the mistakes, both theirs and mine,
and life’s little miracles tucked in between the lines.
It’s for the dreams I chased, and the ones I dropped,
for all the times that I broke; and still didn't stop.

It’s for more: more love, more grace, more try.
More quiet victories that helped me rise.
It’s for mothering myself on days I come last…
for the girl that I was, and the woman I’ve surpassed.

So, here’s to the M Words; messy and true.
They carry the weight of the old and the new.
And if your heart feels a little undone…
you’re not alone.
You’re just becoming someone.

Mondays have a vibe. And it’s usually somewhere between mildly overwhelmed and full-blown mayhem. The to-do lists multiply. The emails won’t stop. And by 10am, the weekend feels like it never happened.

But in the middle of the madness, there were these tiny, beautiful moments today — the kind that made me pause, smile, and feel something softer underneath it all.

1. My new puppy finally has a name — Bandit.
He’s 4 lbs. of chaos and charm. Hearing the kids call him by name like he’s been ours forever and seeing the pure joy and belly laughs he’s brought into this house in just a few short days makes my heart feel a little lighter.

2. A “normal” crazy-busy day at work.
The usual flurry, an unexpected surprise or two (because, of course), but completely manageable. I stayed on track, and I even wrapped up before 7pm. Small miracle, huge win.

3. My girlfriend group chat that had me laughing so hard I’m still cracking up.
You know the kind — totally unhinged, a little saucy, one ridiculous note after another. I laughed so hard my stomach hurt and almost peed my pants. Honestly, still laughing.

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4. Watching Bandit, who is all of 4 lbs., try to play tug-of-war with our 65 lb. Goldendoodle Oliver.
He’s tiny. He’s fearless. He latched on, got dragged across the floor like a dust mop, then looked at me absolutely victorious and genuinely proud of himself.

5. A hot cup of coffee waiting for me when I woke up.
No words, no fanfare. Just a mug of love brewed by my husband and sitting there like a quiet little vote of confidence.

6. One week closer to school starting.
Which sounds like a win… until I remembered my children currently go to bed at 2am (shoutout to Roblox) and roll into breakfast around 11am. So yes, technically we’re closer, but emotionally? Not even close.

7. Seeing a woman turning 109 on the news.
She had her full mental faculties, was sharp, smiling, and full of life. She said the secret to a long life was giving back 😊 But the best part? When her 102-year-old baby sister showed up to surprise her and she squealed like a schoolgirl. I smiled and cried at the same time. It reminded me of my own sisters - that soul-deep bond that shows up with laughter, loyalty, and the kind of joy that only family brings.

Today wasn’t perfect. It was loud, unpredictable, and a little lopsided — like most Mondays. But it had heart. And sometimes, that’s more than enough.

💛 What MOM-ents made you smile today?

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This post started with a moment that made me uncomfortable… with myself.

I came across a viral clip for the umpteenth time this week. The one that’s been circulating for days. You’ve probably seen it. A public figure caught in a vulnerable moment at a concert. It became instant fuel for memes, commentary, and jokes.

I laughed. I shared it during the week. And then today, I paused…not because I was better than it but because I realized I was part of it. Part of the pile-on. And for a second, I imagined, what if that clip had been someone I loved?

The shame hit quickly. Because what I was laughing at was someone’s real pain. Someone’s career. Their wife, their children. Their life unraveling in real time.

And I couldn’t stop thinking: When did we stop offering grace? When did we get so comfortable finding humor in someone else’s hurt? That’s where this post began. Not in judgment. In accountability.

They say we’re living in the age of information. I think we’re living in the age of mean.

Mean has become trendy. Viral. A personality trait. A punchline. It’s the eye roll on a podcast. The snarky or passive aggressive comment. The “just joking” jab in a group text. Sarcasm is mistaken for humor, cruelty is passed off as honesty and somehow, it’s become… normal.

I wish I could say I’ve only ever been on the receiving end of it but that wouldn’t be honest. Sometimes I’ve laughed. Sometimes I’ve joined in. Sometimes I’ve said something that landed sharper than I meant, only to sit with the ick of it afterward.

Social media is often the culprit. It’s a highlight reel of hot takes, savage comebacks, and petty call-outs masked as “just being real.” Somewhere along the scroll, empathy got muted and entertainment took the mic. We don’t even realize how easily we turn people into punchlines.

And it’s not just online. It’s become part of our day-to-day. The moments we blurt before we think, all in the name of honesty, humor, or venting. Somewhere along the way, we started thinking that if we weren’t sharp, we’d be stepped on. That if we didn’t clap back, we’d look…weak. We began using meanness as a shield to prove we’re not a pushover, not a punching bag, not the one who gets walked all over.

But here’s the truth: You don’t have to be mean to be strong. You don’t have to tear someone down to stand your ground. Being firm doesn’t require being cruel. And being hurt doesn’t justify being hurtful.

Kindness isn’t weakness. It’s control. It’s character. It’s choosing to be bigger without making someone else feel small.

A few years ago, I lost someone I had known almost my whole life and whom I deeply cared about over a single social media post. It wasn’t meant for them. It wasn’t about them. Just one of those vague opinion posts we all scroll past a thousand times; until it hits the wrong heart.

They didn’t reach out. They didn’t ask. They snapped back hard. With words that cut so deep, I can still hear them echoing in my brain 4 years later. And then they unfriended me. And just like that… it was over.I truly believe that if one of us had said something sooner, it might have been saved. But the silence lingered too long. The pain for me has lingered even longer.

Maybe we were both hurt. Maybe we both thought we were right. But what I know for sure is this: It never had to be mean. We could’ve disagreed. We could’ve talked. We could’ve led with grace.

Politics. Parenting. Religion. Vaccines. Values. We don’t have to agree on everything. But we don’t have to destroy each other to make a point.

You can disagree without demeaning. You can hold your convictions without cutting someone else down. We’ve made meanness a knee-jerk reaction to discomfort and this has become the new normal.

So here’s what I’m trying to do differently. It’s a simple 3-step gut check before I speak, post, joke, or react (especially when I’m upset):

1. What’s my intent? Am I trying to solve something… or just trying to sting?

2. How might this land? Would it make someone feel seen or small?

3. Does it reflect who I want to be? Not just in this moment, but in the long run?

It’s okay to be upset It’s okay to feel hurt. It’s okay to tell someone how they made you feel; as long as the goal is to connect, not to cut. There’s nothing wrong with saying: “That didn’t sit right with me.” That kind of honesty isn’t weakness. It’s courage wrapped in calm.

Because you can be strong and not mean. You can speak your truth without making someone else feel less than. You can lead without tearing people down. You can express hurt without being hurtful. You can set boundaries without humiliation.

Being nice doesn’t mean you’re a doormat. It doesn’t mean staying silent when someone mistreats you. It doesn’t mean keeping people in your life who continue to belittle, manipulate, or dismiss you; even after you’ve spoken up.

Kindness also includes self-kindness. Sometimes walking away is the most powerful (and peaceful) response there is.

Psychologists say that true emotional intelligence is the ability to pause, assess, and respond with intention and is actually one of the greatest indicators of maturity and leadership.

The strongest person in the room isn’t always the loudest. Sometimes it’s the one who knows when to pause. To walk away. To say nothing at all.

So, this post isn’t about pointing fingers. It’s a mirror. A reminder that we’re all a work-in-progress. Because I’ve been on both sides and I want to do better. I want to teach my kids better. And I want to live in a world where mean isn’t the default setting.

Moving forward, I’m going to choose to walk in kindness; even when it’s hard. Not because I’m perfect. But because I’m tired of mean being the mood. And I will not always get it right, but I can sure try to be better. Because being mean is easy, but being kind takes guts.

Mean may be the mood of the moment… But it doesn’t have to be mine.

If you know me, you probably know this story already. So please, indulge me. After all, it’s one that I hold close to my heart and one of my favorite stories to tell. :)

A Moment. That’s all it takes for life to change.

It crashes in like a wave you never saw coming and washes away everything you thought you were building. You’re at rock bottom, thinking it’s Game Over; but really, it’s just a plot twist in disguise.

It was the end of a dream. Of the plan. Of me. But, as it turned out, the universe wasn’t ending my story, it was just switching scenes.

And here’s the funny part: I kicked and screamed every step of the way. I fought the change with everything I had. Because let’s be honest, who actually likes change? It’s scary. Familiar feels like home. And home is supposed to be your happy place.

But the truth was… my home hadn’t been happy for a long time. My friends knew it. My family knew it. Hell, even the universe knew it and had grown tired of watching me stay stuck. Tired of seeing my fear of being alone keep me in something I had outgrown. Something that had been breaking me long before I had the courage to break free.

My marriage of over five years was over long before I discovered he was cheating. The signs were there; I just didn’t want to see them.

• Midnight phone calls “from the past”

• A mysteriously pre-populated Match.com login on my computer

• The whispers down at the dock where we kept our boat

I buried my head in the sand out of fear. Fear of being alone. Fear of starting over. And of course, fear of leaving what I thought was “love.” I did love him. I wouldn’t have married him if I didn’t. But the man I thought I married wasn’t who he really was.

That’s the thing with narcissists; they put you on a pedestal until you start asking questions. Until you find your voice. And then suddenly, they’re tired of you. There was also the drinking. Not the fall-down kind, just a steady, relentless kind that never took a day off. I saw it before we got married. I convinced myself it would change. And of course, it didn’t.

And then one day that he just never came home. Swore he wasn’t cheating. Swore I was imagining things and then disappeared to live full-time on our 37-foot Sea Ray with his new girlfriend, the one I was still paying off with a 401(k) loan.

It was one of the lowest points of my life.

And the craziest thing is… I never think about it or him anymore- ever. It feels like a lifetime ago. Like it happened to someone else.

But this story isn’t about him.

Today, I found one of the journals I kept during that time. I opened it out of curiosity, and I was shocked. If it wasn’t my handwriting, I wouldn’t have believed it was me. I couldn’t believe what I tolerated. How cruel he was. How small I let myself become. And I couldn’t believe how far I’d come since then.

This story is about how in a moment, everything changed… and I never looked back.

It started with a message from a tennis player in the Hamptons. An impromptu visit to Match.com for a laugh.

I wasn’t looking for love. I was still technically married. And I had sworn I’d never do that again. But the universe, that sneaky little fella, was playing chess. And I didn’t even know I was on the board. He was moving the queen closer to her king, and I had no idea.

“I wasted my best years waiting for you to grow up,” I cried to my ex the night he left. You destroyed all my dreams. I’ll never have children now.”

And I meant every word. I was 37 and a half. Practically ancient in my mind. Way past childbearing years (or so I thought). I resigned myself to being career focused. Because what else was there?

He moved out officially in August of 2010. I met my true soulmate a little over a month later. And thirteen months after that, in September 2011, I gave birth to twins. Halle and Brighton. My beautiful miracles.

In a moment, everything changed. The family I always dreamed of had been waiting for me… but I had to let go to find it. The universe knew that. And thank God it stepped in when I couldn’t.

I’m forever grateful for that day - the day I finally chose me. The day I walked away from a life I didn’t deserve. The day I made space for the one I always dreamed of.

And no, life isn’t perfect. Far from it. We lost our sweet daughter Halle just 10 days after she was born. We have had our share of curve balls.

But even through that heartbreak, I was still grateful. Grateful that I had someone beside me who didn’t run. A man who knew how to love through grief. Who has never, in nearly 13 years of marriage, raised his voice at me, used profanity, or made me feel small.

A man who still sends “thinking of you” texts during the day after almost 13 years. Who partners with me in every sense. Who made me believe in love again.

A miracle in the mess.

Three children. For the woman who once believed her story was over…Who thought love had passed her by. Who was sure motherhood was no longer in the cards.

Turns out, the universe wasn’t closing the book. It was just turning the page.

Halle. Brighton. And Cameron, my 2nd beautiful son I gave birth to in 2014, at almost 43 years old. Proof that even after the storm, life keeps blooming. Proof that sometimes, what feels like the end… is just the middle of a miracle.

The M Word of the Day?

Metamorphosis.

Because you’re not breaking. You’re becoming.

And if you’re standing in your mess right now, heart cracked, dreams crumbling, unsure how to move forward; this is your reminder:

Don’t count yourself out. Not yet. Your moment could be just around the corner too.

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Just a girl, with a few tabs, that always seem to be open in my mind. My tabs. Like little full-time employees living rent-free.

1. Dinner. Always Dinner.

   What can I pull together in between Teams calls, dog walking and screaming at my sons to be quiet so I can finally be the one who has dinner ready before my husband walks in and casually starts cooking without a word — like he always does, and never complains, but still… I want to beat him just once.

2. The conference call I have to schedule.

   Who do I have to invite again? Why is this so hard and why is everyone booked all day like they’re negotiating peace talks? I’ve opened the calendar 4 times, drafted 3 versions of “Let’s find a time,” and still… nothing. Should I schedule a 5pm call and piss everyone off or just send a pigeon?

3. Unread texts.

   I read it. I meant to answer. I really did and- I actually started answering. Then a kid screamed, or I got pulled into work, or I forgot mid-type. Do they think I’m ignoring them? Are they mad? Should I text back “Sorry just seeing this” even though it’s been three days?

4. My son’s cough.

   Should I wait it out, call the pediatrician, or panic-Google and drive my husband crazy and ruin my own night?

5. Video game guilt.

   I swore I wouldn’t let them play this much. But it’s summer. And I’m tired. And they’re quiet. So… yeah. Oh and did I mention it’s summer?

6. Laundry.

   It’s either in the washer, in the dryer, or in a pile somewhere silently judging me. At this point, I’m not even sure what cycle it’s in — emotional or spin.

7. The walk that never happens.

   I need to walk. I must move more. I’ve sit like a gremlin behind my desk all day. But I live in Florida, and walking outside feels like stepping into Satins armpit. Maybe I should just join the gym again. Or do I just pace the kitchen in flip flops and call it cardio?

So yes… I am Mindful that my Mind is very often full.

But here’s an M word I’ve come to appreciate: Mute.

I may not be able to close all the tabs…

But I do Mute a few, so I can focus on the stuff that really Matters…

What are some tabs open in your Mind today?

It’s that quiet, exhausting merry-go-round we don’t talk about enough. The days—or entire weeks—when it’s a struggle to even face the day. When putting on a happy face feels like a full-time job. When muddling through becomes your only goal.

There’s a lot of “M” words in there.

Marathon. Merry-Go-Round. Muddle.

And of course… the Mask.

The Mask is the face we show the world. The one that says, “I’m fine.” It’s polished, put-together, capable. It hides the truth: that some days it takes every ounce of strength just to roll out of bed and—let’s be honest—even take a shower.

You slip into the first conference call of the day, slide on the Mask without even thinking, and push through. Until it’s 5… or 6… or, in my case, often after 7. Only then do you start to peel it off. Only then does your mind get a sliver of silence. A pause. A breath.

Working from home? It’s both a gift and a curse. The switch from “work you” to “mom you” happens in seconds—but the stress? It lingers. Like a bad perfume sample at the mall, it clings. You need to wash it off, mentally and literally. Ironically, the shower that once started my day has now become the thing that ends it—a personal ritual of release.

But then there are those other days.

The ones that turn into funk-filled marathons. When even the idea of showering feels Herculean. When you collapse after work, eyes barely open, and the Mask never really comes off—it just stays, stuck to your skin, wrapped around your exhaustion.

We don’t talk about that version of the Mask. The one that’s less makeup and more… armor. The one that keeps you from breaking down. The one you wear in silence, afraid someone might label you weak, dramatic, or worse—unstable.

Here’s the truth I didn’t know for a long time: I’m not alone. You’re not alone. The Funk doesn’t discriminate. It creeps in without warning. Some days you just wake up and everything feels heavier. Mundane tasks feel like mountains. The simple act of showering feels like swimming across the Atlantic. So you put it off. Then tomorrow becomes Wednesday… and suddenly, you’re trying to remember the last time you washed your hair. (Spoiler: you can’t.)

Lucky for me, my husband has no sense of smell. (Truly. Too many sinus meds in the ‘90s. Long story.) I could smell like a five-day-old banana and he’d never know. But even better—he knows me. After more than a decade of marriage, he sees the Funk before I do. He doesn’t fix it. He doesn’t force it. He just accepts me. He listens—sometimes without a word—and somehow, that’s all it takes.

And then one day, the sun comes out.

You wake up, hop in the shower without dread, and suddenly there’s a bounce in your step. The weight is gone. The air feels different. You feel different. The Funk fades. And the Mask? It’s not your shield anymore. It’s just a little foundation, some blush, maybe a swipe of mascara. A reflection in the mirror that makes you smile.

And it whispers, “You’ve got this.”

And you know what? You do.

We all do. Even when we feel like we don’t.

So let the Funk come when it must. Let the storm roll through. Just remember: storms always pass. And if you surround yourself with the right people, the ones who hold space for your silence, who see you even behind the Mask… you’ll weather it.

Because the forecast always changes.

And that’s okay.

Life is loud.

The “M” words make it even louder.

Marriage, motherhood, meetings, mental breakdowns and mood swings that sometimes show up before 9am.

I’ve had this idea in my head for years. A place where I can be real about everything.

Motherhood. Marriage. Mental health. Menopause. Meetings. Midlife. ME.

And after too many anxiety filled night rants, and moments of “am I the only one?”, I decided to finally do what I dream and not worry about who won’t read this or worse - who will?

Because you know what? At the end of the day, we are all in the middle of something and life never ever goes as planned.

And - it’s okay to be both:

• Grateful and overwhelmed

• Driven and completely over it

• Healing and hilarious

• Exhausted and bored out of your mind

• Medicated and magnificent

What to expect:

✔️ Honest reflections

✔️ Humor, heart and zero judgment

✔️ Raw truths and real moments

If something I write makes you feel seen, laugh out loud, or text a friend “OMG you have to read this” — then that’s exactly what I hoped for.

Welcome to The M Word Diaries

Thanks for being here. Let’s get into it.

~ Tree 💕