The Forty Files

I’m backlogged on blogs — and honestly, I’m learning to accept it. I don’t think I ever want to be ahead of my writing, because that would mean I’m not out there living. The whole point of this damn blog has always been about vulnerability in a world that loves to crop, filter, and like only the popular — where the weird, the raw, or the worrying still feel taboo.

To hell with conformity, I say.

I’ll eventually write about my trip to Ireland, which satisfied my soul in more ways than I can currently put into words. For now, I’ll simply issue this call: travel as much and as often as you can. And before we toss around the word “privilege,” let me clarify — I don’t care if that travel takes you five minutes from your front stoop. Just go somewhere your heart hasn’t yet claimed, but could. Step outside your comfort zone, even slightly. That’s the journey that matters.

Lately, I’ve been on a full-blown “get my ass in shape” conquest. Which means it’s time for the conversations that always leave me most exposed and self-conscious — the ones that start with: What have I been doing wrong?

Because let’s face it — you can’t change without truth, and sometimes the truth hurts. Funny how all the cliché phrases start showing up in middle age, right?

Still, I’m really doing it — allowing myself to take care, take inventory, and evaluate. And in doing so, I’m discovering something quiet but significant: the sense that I can finally get all the parts of me to align.

While getting routine bloodwork done today, an older patient next to me couldn’t handle the technical checking. Without thinking, I reached out — gently, instinctively — to help her. Her smile felt like she was saying, “You’ve got a calming way about you.” And maybe that’s it. Maybe all this living and learning and unlearning — the vulnerability, the reflection, the starting again — is shaping something steadier in me.

Not perfection. Not performance. Just presence.

And that, I’m realizing, is what real strength feels like.