I have so much to tell you — which is exactly why I keep coming back to this page. Blogging is my little ritual of confession and connection: the place where messy mornings, small victories, and the private, brilliant absurdities of life find company. I love the share — the risky vulnerability of it — because it invites conversation, and because every honest line seems to stitch me a bit closer to someone else’s story.
But first: oh my goodness, as always, the news is doing its thing. There’s a headline for every mood and a tempest for every calm, and somehow that steady drumbeat of other people’s dramas always nudges me toward my own small, stubborn joys. So before I dive into the big, ridiculous list of what’s been happening here, let’s get the background noise out of the way and start with what matters: us, right now, talking honestly over coffee, even if it’s virtual.
“How are you?” It’s the question we toss around a dozen times a day, never stopping to think about the weight of it. But when I sit with it — really sit — the answer isn’t tidy. How am I? I’m a tangled ball of anxiety and excitement, a strange mix of Christmas-Eve anticipation and butterflies that don’t quit. Because the truth is: I’m going to Ireland. And with that comes a flood of emotions I can’t quite name, but all of them are loud.
To begin, I should say this: I’m not traveling with my family. And while I could call it a “girls’ trip,” that label doesn’t quite fit. This isn’t about matching outfits, bottomless brunches, or curated Instagram posts. Yes, we’re all firmly in our middle years now, but these are my OGs — my original girlfriends. The ones who knew me when I had a baby strapped to my chest and absolutely no idea what I was doing. This is a sisterhood built on playground benches and preschool drop-offs, the kind forged in whispered commiserations and coffee-fueled survival. We were there when our firstborns marched through those preschool doors, pretending to look braver than we felt.
One of my friends is from Ireland, and so, in the truest sense, she’s taking us home. Not just to her home, but to a place that already feels a little mythical in our imaginations — the sweeping cliffs that stop you in your tracks, the storybook villages tucked between rolling hills, the dark and delightful pubs where laughter seems to live in the woodwork, and the layered traditions of Dublin, where history and modern life walk hand in hand. I haven’t done much travel like this before, and I feel both awakened and a little undone by the idea of it — as if some part of me that’s been quiet for years is suddenly stretching awake.
And of course, a trip like this doesn’t just happen. There’s the prep — the lists, the laundry, the endless little details that somehow multiply when Mom is the one leaving. But through it all, my beloved husband has been nothing short of incredible. He’s picked up the slack with humor and patience, making sure I can step away without carrying a suitcase full of guilt. And this, I think, is the gentle reminder: your partner should never give you grief for claiming joy or stepping into something that fills you back up.
What surprises me most, though, is the joy I feel in showing my girls this side of me — the version that gets nervous and excited at the same time, the version that says yes even when her stomach flips. I keep telling them that this is one of the coolest feelings in the world: to be brave enough to do the thing, even when it makes you shaky. To watch their eyes light up when they see me packing, asking questions, cheering me on — it feels like its own kind of passport, proof that adventure isn’t just something we read about.
The older I get, the more I realize that adventures like this aren’t just about the destination — they’re about permission. Permission to step outside the daily loops of carpools and groceries and committee meetings. Permission to honor the parts of myself that existed before I became “Mom.” Permission to remember that friendship, real friendship, is not just a luxury but a lifeline.
Because here’s the truth: middle age can be sneaky. It lulls you into routines, convinces you that responsibility is the whole story. But then something like this comes along — a trip with the women who knew you at your most raw, when you were sleep-deprived and surviving on caffeine and sheer stubborn love — and suddenly you remember. You remember who you were, who you still are, and who you’re becoming.
And that, I think, is the gift of saying yes to moments that both terrify and thrill. They stretch you. They remind you that you’re still capable of wonder, still allowed to feel the Christmas-morning jitters, still worthy of carving out space for yourself in a life you’ve built mostly for others.
So here I am, on the edge of something both ordinary and extraordinary. Ordinary, because plenty of people book trips and pack their bags. Extraordinary, because for me, this feels like claiming a part of myself I’ve kept tucked away for far too long.
Maybe that’s the real point — that we don’t have to wait for the “right time” or the “perfect moment” to do the thing that makes our hearts race. We just have to say yes, even when it feels messy and inconvenient, even when nerves try to talk us out of it.
Ireland will be the backdrop, but the real story is about friendship, courage, and giving ourselves permission to keep becoming. And I can’t wait to tell you what I discover on the other side.
The Forty Files 