Once upon a time, “left” and “right” were just directions. Now they’re battle cries. Social media has become a daily ritual of division, and I’m proposing a new ceremony.

Every day, I scroll through my feed and see the same voices – smart, passionate people I care about – good friends – posting their beliefs like gospel. Long posts. Frequent posts. Fierce posts. And I find myself wondering: what’s their goal?

Do they think today’s the day they’ll finally sway someone into their way of thinking? That this post, this argument, this perfectly crafted zinger will be the one that changes minds? Even when the post itself says, “You aren’t going to change my mind!”

If that’s the case, why keep posting?

I’m not here to change anyone’s political views. How people believe is sacred to them. Sometimes it’s not even about the issues – it’s about identity. Family pride. The stories we were raised with. To depart from that would feel like betrayal. Understood.

A teacher once told me her golden rule before a parent/teacher conference: always start with something nice. Even if the kid had turned the classroom into a circus, and declared war on the substitute teacher, she’d dig deep, real deep, to find a redeeming quality.

“If I were grading Jimmy on energy, he’d be right up there with a triple A+, earning the Energizer Bunny Award.” Apparently if you start with a compliment, parents are more receptive when you get to the stuff they were secretly hoping not to hear.

The same goes for all of us.

When you lead with kindness, it softens the landing. The person is still whirling from the nicety – still basking in the glow of “You’re so thoughtful” or “I admire your passion,” so when the harder truth arrives, it doesn’t hit like a slap. It lands like a nudge.

They’re less likely to retaliate, more likely to reflect. Because compliments disarm. They open the door. And once the door’s open, you can walk in with truth and still be invited to stay.

So, before you add your comment on someone’s post, consider starting with a better lead in:

“You have a valid point.”

“I’ve never thought of it that way.”

“You raise some important concerns.”

Instead of:

“What’s the Kool-Aid flavor of the day?”

“You need to climb out from under that rock.”

“Wake up, you dumb f—-“. Yes, I’ve seen that several times, as vile as it is.

And here’s one that, while insulting, you can’t help but laugh at. It’s just downright funny.

The anger we see online isn’t just digital noise. It’s energy. And energy spreads. It spills into our homes, our communities, and I truly believe, even our weather patterns. Nature feels it.

The vibration of this world is so low right now – erratic, unpredictable, often violent. Isn’t that exactly what our weather pattern is like? I believe Mother Nature isn’t just echoing it back, she’s absorbing it, collaborating with it, mirroring our collective unrest. The storms, the fires, the floods – they’re not random. They’re a response.

Something I find myself often saying – sometimes to friends, often to my husband, and occasionally just to the air around me:

You get much further in life by killing people with kindness.

It’s such a simple concept, yet so often forgotten. People are far more likely to help you, hear you, or even just soften toward you when you approach them with kindness. The opposite only puts people on the defensive. It shuts doors. It hardens hearts.

If your goal is to be heard, to be understood, to make a difference… kindness is your best strategy. Not because it’s weak, but because it’s magnetic. It opens space. It invites people in.

After the recent passing of Charlie Kirk, I read several posts that said, “Although I didn’t agree with his right-wing views…” followed by kind words for his family. And while the sentiment was compassionate, I couldn’t help but wonder – why the preface? Why the need to qualify empathy? When we add caveats to our condolences, we keep the division alive. A grieving family doesn’t need our political positioning. They need our humanity.

But here’s the thing: social media isn’t inherently bad. It’s a tool. A powerful one. It can connect. Uplift. Inspire. It can be medicine. It can also do great harm.

When I started My Happy Place, creating bedroom makeovers for individuals facing serious diagnoses, I saw firsthand how joy was contagious. You put a smile on a child’s face, and it ripples through the whole family.

One of my Directors told me her husband had said, “Forget antidepressants – this is the best medicine in the world for you.” She agreed. Helping someone. Creating beauty. Using your gifts to lift another soul. That’s the real stuff.

Several are stepping away from social media. They’ve reached their limit. I can’t blame them. But here’s another option: decide to use it differently. Use it for the good it can produce.

Let our elected officials handle the politics. That’s what they’re there for. Let’s put our energy into caring for our families, ourselves, and each other. Live your life! Throw a party. Raise the vibration in your own corner.

Now, I know some will say, “Oh sure, let’s just turn a blind eye. Let America crumble. If we don’t march and raise our voices, we’ll suffer.” And I’m not saying you don’t have a valid point. You do -it concerns me too.

But what I’m offering is this: Take a breath. Take a break. Just for a moment. See how it feels to pause the outrage and choose joy. Not forever. Just long enough to remember what we’re fighting for.

I challenge you:

Go two weeks, without posting a single word about politics, division, or outrage – leave current events at the door. I know…that one person who gets under your skin, will post something so wildly conspiratorial, it’ll make your chest heave, your eyebrows do gymnastics. But instead of diving right into the drama of a rebuttal, do the hard thing – ignore it.

And then, each day, post something joyful, kind, or downright silly. Your pet. A poem. A memory. A moment, a reel. See how sappy happy you can get. Just not as a comment to their post – as a standalone post.

I can see it now. Somebody posts: “I can’t believe people still support this madness. It’s terrifying what’s going on in Washington. And someone remembering this challenge, replies, “I baked cookies shaped like clouds today. One looked like a llama. Feeling hopeful.”

We’re all familiar with the “Butterfly Effect” – the idea that a tiny action, like a butterfly flapping its wings, can set off a chain of events that leads to massive, unpredictable consequences elsewhere. Social media carries that same power. Not because of algorithms alone, but because of sharing.

What we put out there doesn’t just stay put – it travels, it multiplies, it lands in places we’ll never see. And whether that ripple is joyful or divisive… is up to us. Every post is a choice. Every share is a wingbeat. Choose wisely.

Time for a toast.

Grab your favorite cocktail, your morning coffee, or even just a glass of water – and raise it high.

Here’s to the quiet power we’re told can’t change the world in sweeping headlines, but can change the tone of a room, the rhythm of a conversation

Here’s to choosing joy when outrage is easier. To listening before replying. To posting something that unites instead of divides. To remembering that kindness is not weakness – it’s leadership.

And if you feel tempted to post something snarky – just whisper it to your cat. They’ll nudge you silently. And the internet will thank you.  

Cheers!

If you’ve found any of this speaking to your heart, please share – create that ripple effect of something positive. Let’s raise the vibration!

Growing up Catholic meant structure. And by structure, I mean a whole lot of rules to defy, a whole lot of Mass to attend, and a whole lot of plaid.

In grade school, each class was assigned a specific weekday to kick things off by attending morning Mass. Fridays? That was the big one – the entire school in attendance. Add in the usual Sunday mass and we were clocking in three holy visits a week. I thought that was overkill, but then I learned some people attend Mass every day. Every day. I often wonder how their knees are doing. Mine are still bitter about it and now they’re interfering with my pickleball game, which feels like a personal betrayal.

Most of our teachers were nuns. Also known as sisters, or women of the cloth. Some were absolute gems – kind and wise. Some were even funny. Others? Let’s just say they had a talent for instilling fear with a single glance.

I remember the rare year I had a lay teacher and how refreshing it felt. Not that the nuns were all bad but having someone who didn’t wear a habit felt…normal. Like breathing fresh air after exiting the confessional.

When a visitor entered our classroom, we had a whole ritual. The teacher would give us the cue, and we’d all rise like a well-trained army of plaid soldiers. Standing was a sign of respect. Then came the chant: “Good morning, Mr. Evangelista,” or whatever name it was. If we didn’t know the visitor’s name, we’d pause dramatically after “Good morning, Mr. or Mrs…” and wait for the sister to fill in the blank.

Then we’d wait again for permission to sit. It was a whole production. And heaven help us if another guest arrived later in the day – more standing, more chanting, more future knee debilitation.

Between classroom greetings and all the kneeling at mass, Catholicism can really do a number on one’s cartilage.

Now, let’s talk uniforms. We had no choice in the matter.

I envied my cousins. Somehow, they convinced their parents to send them to the public school. They got to wear whatever they darn well pleased. Meanwhile, we were stuck in matching plaid pleated skirts, vests and white shirts. The upside: You always knew what you were wearing the next day. The downside? You always knew what you were wearing the next day.

I apparently valued sleep more than fashion, so to speed things up come morning, I’d lay my uniform out on the bed each night, socks included. Occasionally, I’d just wear it to bed. That plan worked until Mom caught on. The wrinkles gave it away. After all, she was the one who ironed a newly washed uniform and so she was going to notice. Rookie mistake.

Our skirts had to be a “modest length,” which translated to “long enough to make you look like a pilgrim.” If your skirt was too short, you got a note to take home to your parents instructing them the hem had to be let down. We made sure that didn’t happen. We just rolled the waistband up. If a nun pulled you aside, you could do a quick tug at the hem and magically gain two to three inches of modesty. I bet that drove the nuns nuts. We outsmarted them. It still makes me chuckle thinking about it.

Cold weather gave us a little wiggle room. We could now wear pants, provided they were navy blue. Corduroys were all the rage, and you had your choice of wide or narrow ribbing. I had a pair of narrow-ribbed bellbottoms and let me tell you, I was in vogue. We were also allowed to wear sweaters during the winter months. I didn’t settle for just any old knit. I raided my dad’s closet and found a green, fuzzy angora-like V-neck. It was oversized, sloppy, and probably gave the nuns heart palpitations. But to me? It was perfect. Because when you wear the same thing every day, you must find ways to stand out.

That’s when frizzing our hair became a thing. A couple of friends would gather at one of our homes, dampen our hair and braid a gazillion tiny braids onto each other’s heads. We’d sleep like that and in the morning, we’d unravel the gazillion rubber bands to reveal the fluffiest, most glorious Afro-like hair imaginable. I had a lot of hair back then – long and thick so my result was quite dramatic. I looked and felt like a rock star – in uniform.

My Mom warned me as I walked out the door, and of course, she was right. I got pulled aside by a nun and told to go home and wash it out. But for that one glorious day, I was cool. All the work that went into achieving that look and then told to soak my head in a bucket of water. No appreciation – sheesh!

I get the whole point of uniforms. They didn’t want anyone to stand out. We were supposed to blend in, learn respect, and focus on our studies. But deep down, every kid wants to be unique. So, we rolled our skirts, frizzed our hair, and wore green, fuzzy oversized sweaters. It was our rebellious way of saying, “I’m here. I matter. And I look fabulous.”

Besides, if and when we crossed a line, we always had confession to save us.

Tonight, let’s raise a Holy Water Martini to the art of respectful rebellion:

To Catholic schools, where we learned to kneel, obey, and occasionally outsmart the system.

To the plaid that tried to tame us, and the creativity that refused to be hemmed in.

May we always find ways to stand out – even when we’re dressed to blend in.

Cheers!

“Aging gracefully.” We’ve all heard it. Soothing. Poetic. Inspirational. Like something you’d see embroidered on a throw pillow in a spa that smells like eucalyptus and denial.

But now I’m at the age where it echoes in my head like a mantra. I’m realizing that living up to it is a full-time job – and frankly, I’m underqualified.

Turns out that aging gracefully requires more than good intentions. It takes contouring, skills, emotional resilience and the ability to laugh when your knees make noises they didn’t use to.

But have you ever noticed that the women using that quote are the ones that look great, even without makeup? It’s easy for them to say. They’ll tell you the reason they look 45 when they’re actually 58, is because they swear by sunscreen, drink 8 plus glasses of water a day and eat organically.

They’re not fooling us. We know the truth – they were blessed with a good gene pool and probably a dermatologist who sends them birthday cards.

Many years ago, I remember watching an interview with Robert Redford. He made the comment “Every wrinkle has a story to tell. I’ve earned every one of mine.” I admired that. I pledged I would age with that same philosophy. My wrinkles would each have a story. Of course, that was easy to say back when I was 29.

There comes a time when your face isn’t just telling a story anymore -it’s deep into sequels. Maybe even a spin-off.

These days, aging means a magnifying mirror mounted beside my bathroom mirror. That’s one ruthless beauty tool. The first time I looked in it, I gasped. Now I toggle between the 10X magnified view and the wall mirror with no glasses. Hands down, the regular mirror wins. It’s blurry, forgiving and reassuring.

Plucking eyebrows? That’s something women grew up doing. Sure, it probably hurt at first, but eventually you could do it without even flinching.  But have you ever asked yourself, “Why does plucking a chin hair hurt like hell?” You swear it’s rooted in your soul! Why do they grow so long – so fast – like they’ve been secretly snacking on Miracle Gro? And why do I always discover one, the day after lunch with someone sitting close enough to notice.

Reminds me of an episode of Grace & Frankie where Frankie plucks a hair from Grace’s chin. After hearing a loud OUCH, Grace snaps, “I told you – if you see something, say something.”

Guess it’s time I spend a little more quality time with my magnifying mirror.

The moment that started this whole mental spiral, happened years ago. I bent over to pick up a large mirror I had resting on the bed. Reaching to take hold of the mirror, gravity showed me what it’s been up to. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and screamed internally. Surely that wasn’t me. OMG! I stood up, ran to the bathroom mirror, and sighed with relief. Upright, I was still recognizable.

Snapchat? Not a fan. Why is the camera always facing me when I open it? There I am – slouched in a recliner, phone at waist level, looking like I just crawled out of a swamp. When I look into a regular mirror, I’m pleasantly surprised my neck hasn’t shown too much wear. No double chins for me! Snapchat proves me wrong. It calls me out on it every time.

Where did that neck come from? From now on, I’m holding my phone over my head like I’m trying to signal a rescue helicopter.

Let’s talk cosmetic surgery. The older I get, the more it appeals to me. I recently googled, “Can women in their 60’s get boob jobs? The answer? Of course! No age limit as long as you’re healthy. One surgeon even said he’s done breast augmentations on women in their 70’s. And not because cancer stripped them away. Why not? Their money is as good as anybody’s.

When my kids read this, I can just imagine the next visit. They’re going to be checking me out. Calm down kiddos, I don’t have a consultation scheduled… yet.

My husband, of course, is not a fan. He says, “Once you’ve had something done, you’ll just go on and find the next thing. It’ll be one thing after another.”

Naturally, I said, “No, not me. Just this one thing and I’ll be happy forevermore.”

Yeah, right. Who am I kidding? Of course there’ll be another thing. And maybe even another. It’s human nature. Humans get bored easily.

So, if I do it, I’m going to be smart about it. Have everything done at the same time. One round of anesthesia. I wonder if they have discounts. The more you buy, the more you save.

A girl can dream!

So grab your favorite cocktail, and let’s raise a toast:

To magnifying mirrors that keep us humble.

To bending over and meeting our reflection’s evil twin.

To boob jobs in our 60’s because dreams don’t sag.

To the kind of beauty that doesn’t come from a syringe or a scalpel – but surviving, laughing, and still showing up fabulous.

To the wrinkles we’ve earned and the joy we refuse to lose.

And to the even greater joy I’ll find… when my boobs are standing at attention!

Cheers!

What girl doesn’t dream of the day she slips into her wedding dress, secures a veil in her hair, and walks down the aisle to join with her “until death do us part” person?

I remember in my adolescent years, getting into bed at night and reciting my prayers. Always in the same order. First came the Catholic prayers: an Our Father, Hail Mary, and Act of Contrition. Next up was the widely popular “Now I lay me down to sleep” prayer, and finally, I got to the good stuff – the things that were important to a young girl: “Please God, let me get married someday and let me know what it’s like to be a mother. And well, if you could, let him be really good looking.” Sure, I felt sheepish and selfish adding that last part, but a girl’s gotta dream, and it doesn’t hurt to ask.

My prayers were answered sooner than expected when I met my future husband at the ripe old age of 15. We were high school sweethearts. He was two years older than me. I celebrated my Sweet 16 birthday with him, complete with a dozen red roses and a red Camaro model car he had already assembled for me. Camaros were considered the “cool car” back then, especially if you were lucky enough to have an 8-track player in it. It was a sweet gesture on his part.

By the time I was 19, we were engaged. I wasn’t old enough to legally toast to our future with champagne, but I was ready to walk down the aisle – a baby bride by today’s standards, but I knew what I wanted, and this was it.

My brother and his fiance become engaged before us, and I was invited to go wedding dress shopping with my future sister-in-law and her mother. Knowing my turn was coming soon, I excitedly browsed the racks of wedding gowns. Only one dress got me excited enough to pull down from the rack. It was the one. I asked the sales lady to write down the name on a card for me and waited patiently until it was my time to shine.

I’d forgotten my role was that of supporting cast that day. I was there with my future sister-in-law, not to hijack the bridal spotlight. My day would come.

Once I had a ring on my finger, Mom and I headed back to that store, crossing our fingers that the dress was still in stock. To my sheer delight, the dress was still there, waiting for me. I tried it on. No second guessing. No trying on any other dresses. Not one. I can still envision that dress hanging from a ceiling hook in the back bedroom of our house, its long train nearly touching the floor. The alterations had been made, and the big day was only days away. I couldn’t wait.

Typically, after a few weeks/months have elapsed since the big day, brides have their dresses dry-cleaned and professionally packed away, a relic to be admired by future generations, or at least preserved. Not me. It just wasn’t something I ever got around to doing.

As my daughter’s unique personality blossomed and her sense of style emerged, it became abundantly clear that my wedding dress would remain a relic only I would cherish, rather than a fashion statement for her. As for my granddaughter, I can imagine the scenario happening something like this: “Umm, yeah, that’s a no for me. But love you, Grandma,” as she starts scrolling through her phone, messaging her friends – “OMG guys, you’re not going to believe what my Grandma just showed me…”

Our marriage lasted 27 years (32 if you count the years we dated). He was, as I’d prayed for, a very good-looking man who loved children, and we were blessed to become the parents of three amazing kids who grew to become kind and successful adults. While none of us go into a marriage thinking divorce is a possibility, sometimes life throws a curve ball.

Moving on with my life, the dress came with me. It probably would have been the right time to toss it, but I just couldn’t depart with it. It no longer held a place of honor in my closet, though. Instead, it hung in our machine shed, unprotected for the next 17 years. There it was, out in the open, collecting dust, and the lace a perfect trap for cobwebs and dead bugs. Not wanting to give my new husband the idea I just couldn’t part with it, it seemed more acceptable to let it continue to hang there.

Fast forward to the great shed cleanout. By this time, my beloved dress was a sorry sight. Friends helping us with the cleanout, unceremoniously and in the blink of an eye, tossed my dress into a garbage bin. They didn’t even ask if I wanted to keep it. Luckily, I spotted it and rescued it from its grim fate.

Determined to give it new life and because I had nothing to lose at this point, I decided to throw it in the washing machine. I selected the gentle cycle, fearful the lace would crumble from all the years of exposure to the elements. The water turned brown as the drum tumbled, knowing a second cycle was definitely going to be in order. I didn’t know what I would find when the spin cycle was complete. I was amazed, as the dress emerged from the washer nearly as white and lovely as the day I wore it 45 years earlier.

I hung it to air dry, and as the wrinkles settled in, I couldn’t help but smile. They felt familiar, like the gentle creases time has etched into me too.

Now what? Naturally, I did what any woman in my shoes would do.  I tried it on!  Despite the ever so faint ripping sound as it made its way over my hips, I slid my arms into the long sleeves and stood staring in the mirror.  I had goosebumps as a flood of emotions welled up inside me.

This dress represented a chapter of my life and a piece of my identity. Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I was overwhelmed by a mixture of nostalgia, joy, and the bittersweet longing for the innocence and hope of that young bride. For a moment, the years seem to dissolve, and I was once again that young, feisty woman who knew what she wanted and went after it.

As the reality of just how many years had come to pass since I walked down the aisle in that dress, a quiet ache formed, not for what was lost, but for all the living that had been done. The years had flown by. Every joy and every struggle had etched itself into the lines of my face and the contours of my heart. The tears welling up in my eyes carried the weight of both a love lost and the deep gratitude for a life well lived.

Clothes come and go. They get worn, outgrown, handed down and tossed away. But a girl’s wedding dress is so much more. It’s a symbol of hope, love and new beginnings. I still can’t bring myself to throw it out. Instead, I think I’ll torture my kids and leave that task to them after I’m gone. If they read this, maybe they’ll think twice before doing so, or at least send it off with some kind of ceremony. Who am I kidding? My eldest son will toss it without giving it a second thought, declaring, “Time to end that chapter, ma”.

Grab your favorite cocktail and raise your hand high: “To the wedding dress, a symbol of a young girl’s dreams, 80’s fashion and the miracle of a “gentle cycle”.  May it forever remind us that while love may take a few spins through life’s challenges, some things are just too special to throw away. Cheers”!

I sat down to write something thoughtful. Maybe even profound. But somehow Tan wandered into the text like he owned the place, and suddenly, here we are – he’s starring in a post he was never invited to. Typical Tan.

If you ask Tan what he wanted most from marriage, he’ll say unconditional love. At first, I thought, “Gag me. Doesn’t everybody?” It sounded Hallmark-level cliché. But now? I get it. He’s not an easy man to love.

Tan’s an Asian man born and raised in Malaysia. He’s also a physician, which, let’s be honest, is a double whammy when it comes to intensity. Cultural differences? Check. Workaholic tendencies? Double check. Affection levels? Somewhere near Antarctica.

I once told him that what I wanted out of marriage was to feel like the most important person when walking into a room full of people. He was successful at that. Attending a medical supper, he power-walked 20 steps ahead of me from the car to the building. By the time I stepped through the door, he was elbows deep in prime rib and bacon wrapped shrimp, socializing like he’d arrived solo. Apparently, when I said I didn’t want to feel like the “forgotten plus one,” he heard, “please set the tone for my evening as background furniture.”

If there’s one thing I need in a partner is someone who can make me laugh – someone with a good sense of humor. Most of the time, Tan accomplishes that unintentionally. He just speaks. I know it’s a cultural thing because I hear our Asian friends do it too, but he makes everything plural.

Furniture becomes “furnitures,” fruit turns into “fruits.” He puts an “s” on words just for fun. His pronunciation of “bullshit” comes out sounding like “boo-shit,” and a good friend nearly laughs her butt off every time she hears it.

He once told me to go sit in the “shed” to cool off. Took me a while to realize he meant “shade.” He came in from walking Gracie, saying she’d been in the “tissels.” What are those?” I asked. He replied in a slightly louder tone, “TISSELS!” “Ahh, thistles,” I said, trying to hide my obvious laughter. “I’ll get the dog comb.”

He can also laugh at himself. There was the time he returned from Clear Lake’s new pickleball courts swearing one of the courts was slanted. “Is it the court,” he asked, “or just my eyes?” That got a good laugh out of everyone.

Tan’s glass is generally half full. “Every day is a good day,” he used to say – although I don’t hear it as often lately. Retirement is creeping in. He’s 69 now. And while I can’t picture him not being in medicine, he deserves to slow down and enjoy life.

How he got here is a story of its own – a quite inspirational one.

Tan grew up in Malaysia, Jahor Bahru to be exact. His family had very little. He recounts getting spit on by other kids because his clothes were dirty. The leaky roof and daily sightings of cockroaches were part of the norm. 2 adults and 7 kids lived in the humble shack they called home.

Their diet was heavy on rice and bread. He became a whiz at climbing trees, swiping fruit from the neighbor like a tropical ninja. And he knew what time to go over to a friend’s house- dinner time. Because on occasion, he’d get lucky and be asked to stay and join them.

Today, inside Tan’s medical office, there’s a picture of a small abode with a thatched roof over part of it, and lots of green tropical foliage growing around it. When I asked him where that was, he said it was the house he grew up in. He looks at it every day to remind him of where he came from.

How did Tan come to America? That’s a story I’m proud to tell.

Tan’s “American brother”, Ken, a Peace Corps volunteer teaching in Johor Bahru, saw something in this street-smart kid that went beyond book smarts. He called his mother in Garden City, MN and asked, “If I put this boy on a plane, can he come live with you?” Her answer? “Send him.” No hesitation. If Ken believed in him, that was enough.

Tan’s biological family didn’t have much, but they scraped together what they did have to buy him a new suit. What their family did have was pride, and they didn’t want Thoo Huat arriving in America looking like he was poor.

Tan’s biological mother, whom he was very close to, had sadly passed away. He and his father never had much of a relationship. Tan felt regarded as “the black sheep in the family,” and in his own rebellious way, decided to live up to that title.

On the plane ride headed to a country where he didn’t know a single soul, Tan reminded himself that even though he was scared, he still felt like the luckiest kid in the world. He was going to America, the land of opportunity, where he could earn an education few back home could even imagine.

He finished high school in Mankato and went on to earn a degree at MSU as a Lab Technician. His fellow employees and professors asked why he wasn’t applying to med school since it was obviously his passion. His answer was heartbreaking in its honestly: “I can’t afford to.” Still, he refused to give up and he came up with a plan. He asked everyone he knew if they’d help sponsor him, promising to pay them back. A promise he later kept.

He recalls one nurse offering to give him $25 out of every paycheck. To Tan, that meant the world. While it wasn’t a lot, she was able to offer him what she could afford. He worked his way through medical school while juggling jobs, promising a professor he’d quit working if his grades suffered, but they never did. He pushed through every obstacle, determined to honor the faith others had placed in him.

I believe it was hearing him tell me this story, that I fell.

Tan’s American mom is now 101 and Tan still makes time to visit his American family regularly. He’s as close to them as he is to his biological siblings, maybe even more so. His hugs, once nonexistent, now come standard with hellos and goodbyes. I like to think I helped with that. Maybe you can teach an old dog new tricks.

Tan drives me crazy. And I return the favor with gusto. Somehow, we needed each other in ways we didn’t even realize in the beginning. We’re proof opposites attract…then irritate the hell out of each other to the point of personal growth. Our differences are our greatest teaching tools.

Pour yourself a glass of Merlot, Tan’s fav and raise your hand high: “To Dr. Tan, the boy who shimmied up coconut trees and ended up here in crocs sipping wine. I tell his story not just because it’s wild and wonderful, but because I want you to see the side of him that’s easy to miss: the heart behind the stethoscope.

To Tan’s cocky confidence, his infinite patience, his grammatically questionable nouns, and his culturally unique form of love. He may not always walk beside me, but he does stick with me. To Thoo Tan – the most tolerable intolerable man I know. Cheers!”

Let me say it plainly: I HATE THE HEAT.

I don’t say that in a prissy, fan myself as I stand on a veranda type of way. I hate it in the please-get-this-summer-off-my-skin kind of way. And when I say it out loud, people look at me like I’ve insulted the sunshine itself, or said I hated puppies. It’s as if liking heat is a virtue and loathing it, a character flaw.

Saying you love the heat is not a badge of honor. Seeing your back-soaked T-shirt, now resembling a Slip ‘N Slide is not exactly my idea of sexy. Nor is the ever-charming butt-crack moisture line crawling up the back of your shorts. It’s trying to escape the heat too!

Heat and I have been enemies for as long as I can remember. Maybe I had a heatstroke as a child. Apparently, that’ll do it. Once you’ve had one, you’re less tolerable and you no longer welcome it back with open arms. I don’t just get uncomfortable. I literally get ill. Lightheaded, weak, and then come the dreaded abdominal cramps, demanding a bathroom within sprinting distance.

I love playing pickleball. But I’m what you might call a “fair weather pickleball player”. Playing outdoors means sunglasses sliding down my nose, sun glare giving me an excuse for my poor playing and wearing a cap or visor, that while it may help with the sun in my eyes, feels like it’s a waffle iron on my forehead. My playing days are now dwindling down.

Playing indoors? Yes, please. No sunglasses, no glare, no fear of cramping episodes. But sadly, my fellow players are frolicking outside. For me, it’s not about pickiness, it’s more about survival.

It dawned on me there’s an unmistakable correlation between my hatred of damp, perspiration-filled clothes today and a wet bathing suit. Same sensory betrayal.

As a kid, I spent most of my summer vacation at the public pool. Hanging out with my friends and being in the water was magical. Until, I had to get out of the water. It didn’t take long until I became aware of the wet one-piece suit clutching me like it had abandonment issues. Get it off me! That same feeling still haunts me today.

I dreaded having to go to the bathroom while at the pool. Rolling down a soaked one-piece while tiptoeing across mystery puddles, gave me the creeps. I didn’t wear flipflops. No one did. We just tiptoed across that smooth germ-ridden cement, praying we wouldn’t slip.

And then the unthinkable… peeling off that suit to pee. Between the public nudity panic and the rolling down of that wet suit, there were many times I just held it until I got home. I’ll admit, on a rare occurrence, I couldn’t wait. And folks, that’s how you get pee in the pool: it’s the traumatized girls with a wet bathing suit phobia to blame.

On the ride home from the pool, I’d sit on a towel in the back seat, silently counting the seconds until freedom, when I could finally escape the polyester prison clinging to every inch of me. I never brought dry clothes. Because no child voluntarily bares it all in a public locker room. That wasn’t a thing. Still isn’t.

Memory flashback sitting in the car on that towel: Mom mentioning she had sweetcorn for supper. That was almost exciting enough to make me forget about the discomfort I was in. Three, maybe four ears of corn was all the menu needed. Dry clothes and sweetcorn…a perfect combination. Now, that’s a good summer memory. Back when sweetcorn wasn’t ready until August.

And so, it’s all connected. The same full body cringe hits me today when my sweaty clothes cling post pickleball. A damp sports bra spells out claustrophobia. It’s not just discomfort, it’s flashback-level torment. The heat makes every outfit feel like a wet swimsuit in disguise: sticky and clingy. It’s all connected. Heat + moisture + clothing = emotional turbulence.

So yeh, I’m not proud to say it, but I really dislike the summer heat. I’m not one of those who fantasize about summer when it’s snowing. I dream about Spring. When the world wakes up after a long slumber, and the world has color again. Windows are open and birds and other animals are doing their thing.

That’s heaven to me. Fall’s close behind, with its sweatshirt weather and cool-down evenings. But summer with its heat and humidity, no, thank you. You’ll find me inside where there’s A/C, laptop on my lap, pouring my life experiences onto the screen like a heat-weary blogger with a vendetta against July.

Grab a cool glass of something, preferably with lots of ice and let’s raise a toast: “To the ones who make no apologies for their butt-crack soaked shorts; to the souls who’ve tiptoed through questionable puddles in locker rooms; to the picklers waiting for cloud cover and a strong breeze (but not too strong); and to everyone who’s ever felt personally betrayed by their clothing and has the strength to say: “I hate the heat,” without apology. Cheers!

If you don’t have scars, have you really lived?

I’m not talking about metaphorical heartbreak scars. I mean the real deal. The kind that involves blood loss, a questionable idea, and a parent awkwardly explaining to the medical personnel how a bedsheet didn’t work out as a parachute.

Technically, it opened…just not before impact.

I do wonder what kids do for entertainment these days. From what I’ve seen, most of their adrenaline rush comes from shooting pixelated enemies and scrolling TikTok with such furious thumb agility, you’d think the fate of the free world depended on it. No wonder parents have fewer ER copays.

I wouldn’t trade raising my kids on a farm for anything. They were cornered by geography and a lack of a driver’s license, which forced them into ingenuity. If they wanted out, they had to barter their way into a ride from mom or dad.

These days, it’s a twist of fate I didn’t see coming: my oldest son Joey and his family are back on the same farm, raising their own little crew. My grandsons were born for this life and the mayhem that comes with it. They have chickens to chase, eggs to gather and kittens to love on. Always close siblings, now even more so, bonded by sibling necessity.

Parker and Paxton are learning fast that having livestock occasionally means discovering the not-so-thrilling concept of also having dead stock. It’s all part of the curriculum. One minute you’re naming a hen and the next you’re holding a chicken funeral. The farm doesn’t sugarcoat life – it serves it sunny side up with a lesson tucked into every feather.

Joey, like his father before him, absorbed shop wisdom by osmosis. He learned how to get a motor running, how to back up a trailer, which came in handy when he bought his first fishing boat, and how to fix just about anything with the right elbow grease. The nearby creek provided his early fishing education, until it decided to teach him the hard way.

His beloved tacklebox, passed down after his grandfather’s passing, became a creek casualty, left too close to the lower bank after a night of heavy rain. Watching Joey return home empty-handed, the weight of his panicked search etched across his face, pained his father and me just as much as it did him.

He’d always been responsible, never once forgetting the tackle box. But of all the times to slip, it had to be the one night a heavy rain rose the creek just enough to carry it away.

That tacklebox housed old lures, still in their original boxes, and it was saying goodbye to a legacy as much as it was to just some old fishing gear. That old metal tackle box was a part of Dad, and I was tickled pink when Joey asked if he could have it after dad’s passing.

My daughter, Jill, appreciated the farm for the solitude it provided. It gave her room to launch herself into gymnastic routines across the front yard, her mini tramp bouncing with Shannon Miller level enthusiasm. She thought nobody was watching. Sweet, naive little girl! The best part was when she’d freeze mid-pose, as if she’d just been caught in a heist. I knew exactly what was happening. A car was approaching.

Car passed. Routine resumed. She stuck that final pose with a proud salute to the imaginary judges.

Then there was Mark, the youngest. He soaked up the serenity, snuggled with the kittens, and still returns to his brothers farm, each visit marked by the planting of something – a tree, a bush, meant not to just grow, but to linger and add beauty to the landscape.

I didn’t grow up on a farm, but I didn’t grow up on a screen either. We had to invent excitement. And occasionally, invent reasons for stitches.

Take my forehead scar. It’s courtesy of a neighbor kid who thought tying a metal horseshoe to a string was the recipe for fun. What do you do with a horseshoe on a string? Swing it, obviously, like a cowboy with a lasso and questionable judgement.

I wasn’t even in the danger zone. Until the string broke mid-air and my forehead became a tragic trajectory interrupter. Cue blood. Cue stitches. Cue story for life.

I have a faint scar on my chin too – not from adventure but from ambition. As a toddler, I apparently scaled dad’s dresser in pursuit of his razor. Having watched him shave countless times, I must have wondered, “How hard can it be?” Mom didn’t think stitches were needed. Time disagrees. So does the scar. Luckily for me, scars fade over time. Unfortunately, so does beauty. But let’s not go there.

My older brother has a good scar too, courtesy of payback. One day while ice skating, he chased me around the rink until I’d had enough. I dove headfirst into a snowbank, unfortunately with my upward pointed skate positioned like a weapon.  He landed. There was contact. There were stitches.

I remember looking at the rip in his snowpants as he tried to see what damage was done. I swear I saw guts hanging out. I didn’t – but imagination is generous.

Honestly, kids today might never earn scars the way we did. Unless they trip over a charging cable or walk head-first into a brick wall while trying to nail that perfect selfie.

Their wounds are emotional: a frozen app, a shattered screen, 3% power left or a lost Wi-Fi signal. They spend so much time gazing at screens, their thumbs get more exercise than their legs. Their idea of adventure is switching Wi-Fi networks without permission. The odds of getting a good forehead gash? Pretty slim. Poor, disadvantaged babes.

Time for a toast. Grab your favorite cocktail and raise your hand high: “Here’s to the kids who had to build the fun they dreamed up – and earned their scars doing it. May the next generation discover that real ingenuity doesn’t come with a charger, and the most unforgettable moments happen after the screen goes dark. Cheers!

There’s a heaviness that’s been sitting with me lately. The kind that doesn’t ask permission, it just arrives and settles in. It came with the news of hearing that a dear friend’s 30-year-old son had passed away unexpectedly.

Kim’s son, Mitch, was to undergo a heart procedure in just a few short weeks. Apparently, his heart had other plans. And now Kim’s world has shifted in a way no mother would ever wish to experience.

I first met Kim when she walked into our floral shop back in 1998. I guess the word was out – two women with zero formal training had just opened a floral shop on Main Street.

Kim walked in, most likely laughing inside, and asked us if we needed a floral designer. No doubt we looked desperate, and she acted like she knew what she was doing. She whipped up a simple arrangement of red roses and deep purple iris. She was hired on the spot.

For the next 4 years, she taught me everything I didn’t know I needed to learn regarding floral design. It was also the beginning of a friendship.

The back room of our shop doubled as our design command center, but no question about it, the real magic happened in the cooler. Sure, it kept the flowers fresh, but it also chilled the homemade wine and a few favorite beers. By 4:30- 5pm on a Friday, it was cocktail hour at Petals N’ More.

Our husbands often wandered in, along with Doug and Jean from the parts store next door. And the laughter? It spilled out louder than any bouquet we ever arranged. That cooler didn’t just preserve our petals; it preserved our sanity.

These days, some 20 years later, I still see Kim at the vet clinic in Forest City. My little diva Gracie is now diabetic and requires regular glucose checks. Kim’s often behind the desk, and she’s gotten more than a few messages from me – my go-to for silly pet questions, saving me a call into the clinic.

Some friendships need constant tending, like houseplants that wilt without attention. And then there are the rare ones – the kind that pick up right where they left off, no matter how much time has passed. That’s the kind of friendship Kim and I have.

When my youngest, Mark, told me the news about Mitch, my heart sank. Maybe it hit me especially hard because Mark is the same age. They say no parent should ever have to bury a child, but isn’t that just a wish whispered into the wind? We’re not given a choice. We hold no veto button, no way to rewrite the ending.

Grief doesn’t ask permission. It just moves in and rewrites the rhythm of our days. It dares us to find joy in the rubble.

I’ve always known Kim to be strong, but never was that more evident than when she walked up to the podium at her son’s funeral and gave a heartfelt eulogy. While there may be many parents who’d wish to do the same – wanting to and actually doing it are two very different things.

Kim recently posted on Facebook how much she enjoyed hearing Mitch’s friends share stories of their shenanigans. The laughter felt good. One woman commented, “Laughter is the best medicine,” to which I replied, “It truly is.” That comment was the inspiration for this blog post.

Most of us can probably recall a time we were deeply seated in grief, and a humorous moment broke through the pain. I can recall just such a moment nearly 3 years ago.

I was sitting beside my ex-husband, Jay, along with our three children, as he lay in a hospital bed at St. Mary’s. His organs were failing, and my daughter-in-law and I were fixated on the strong pulse visible on the side of his neck. It was steady and strong. It didn’t appear as though death was coming anytime soon.

Why would he be in a hurry to leave? The people he loved most in life were all right there with him. Heaven could wait.

As the hours passed by, Mark, our youngest, picked up a piece of paper from the counter. It was filled with questions, left there intentionally for families like ours, spending final moments with their loved one. The questions were meant to spark memories, to offer a kind of diversion. Mark started reading them aloud, and the mood began to shift.

We all shared our version of a story and while I can’t recall the exact wording, one question had to do with character. Mark started laughing as he got the words out: “I can just hear Dad now – “They’ve given me enough morphine to kill a horse, but you can’t kill Koot.”

We had all heard Jay comment at one time or another, that he was the toughest son of a gun that ever lived. I can recall him saying several times to me, that because of his high pain threshold, he wished he could have been the one to go through childbirth. If only I could’ve handed him a contraction or two – just to test his theory.

We burst into laughter and those brief moments felt euphoric. We were tired of tears, and we knew there’d be more of those to come. That moment of laughter was a gift.

Consulting Dr. Google, I wanted to see what physiological effects laughter has on us. Turns out, it’s basically a miracle drug. Laughter releases endorphins (natural painkillers). It boosts serotonin and dopamine, making us feel happy and motivated. It floods us with oxytocin, the bonding hormone that makes us feel connected. It improves cognitive function and helps us cope with hard stuff.

And let’s just say it – it feels really, really good.

 At the end of Mitch’s funeral, they played a song/video with lyrics that struck a chord with me. “We’re both headed for the same place anyway. I just beat you there.” Beautiful and comforting. I’m going to remember those words when I have my moments. (The song is entitled “Beat You There,” by Will Dempsey.)

The song ended with a line about raising a glass of beer, and I couldn’t help but smile because that’s how I choose to end every blog post, as I will now.

Grab a beer or your favorite cocktail and wipe away your tears. It’s time for a toast:

“To the pulse that beats steady in our hearts long after theirs have stopped. To the laughter that heals, connects, and reminds us – we’re still here.

Laughing through tears and clinging to memories are important. Following a death, they’re what will carry us through in the days ahead. And in those tender moments before goodbye; a shared smile or a whispered joke can help to loosen our grip.

Heaven can wait -just a few more laughs.

Cheers!”

Holy forewarning: This post got a little long. A little deep. A little bit hellish. It’s totally worth it!

My mother, Marlene, was raised in Carroll, IA in a devout Catholic household – the kind of home where Sunday mass wasn’t a suggestion, but a non-negotiable appointment. Rain, flu or teenage rebellion – you went. She attended St. Angelas Academy, an all-girl’s school, staffed exclusively by women of the religious order. In other words, nuns.

One ritual that stuck with Mom, because she told it on more than one occasion, was her spiritual dress rehearsal before going to confession.

Picture a classroom of girls standing beside their desks, hands folded, while Sister Spiritual Auditor guided them through the Ten Commandments. I take that back – they breezed through #7 and #10. Heaven forbid the word “adultery” even escape their lips, nor did they think these prepubescent girls could possibly be lusting after Mr. Henderson, who lived down the street.

Mom said this examination of conscience genuinely terrified her. The class was instructed to stand. While everyone was standing, the nun would have them imagine standing on the edge of a cliff with the raging fires of hell, below. Eyes closed. No desk to grip. Just you, your sins, and the fear of eternal combustion.

The image stuck with her – not as holy inspiration, but as vertigo-induced nightmare fuel. Try standing without holding onto anything with your eyes closed for 5-10 minutes and see if you don’t start to sway.

That was Marlene’s chapter. She grew up fearing God. I wonder why.

Fast forward, to the next generation – mine. It was our turn for our own holy rollercoaster ride with the Sacrament of Penance. Even though the examination of consciousness and the fiery vision wasn’t a part of my confessional routine, the whole concept surrounding confession scared the bejabbers out of me.

I always wondered how other denominations earned their ticket to heaven. They had no spiritual car wash. They didn’t have to walk into a little dimly lit room, kneel, speak through a meshed window, and tell a priest how bad their week was. And we didn’t just have to confess, we reported. We had to list our sins, tally how many times we committed each one, and specify to whom. Really? Does it matter? Is God waiting for my spreadsheet?

Thinking about going to confession again, I can feel the anxiety billowing up as I write this. I’m right there in the pew again.

We’d walk into the church single file, a whole class of freshly scrubbed sinners. The goal was to end up as far down the pew as possible, furthest from the confessional door. The logic? More time to sweat it out and rehearse my lines. Of course, it would have made more sense to just rip off the spiritual Band-aid and get it over with, but we were kids. Logic wasn’t part of our vocabulary.

I was literally sick to my stomach as I stared at the 2 lights above the confessional door. One red and one green. The red light aglow was my temporary salvation. It meant that the room was occupied. Apparently, the weight of a body on the kneeler would trigger the red light to come on, glowing like a “do not disturb” sign from heaven. When the light turned green, it meant the person was done. Time to rotate in. I sat in that pew praying for that red light to remain on…for an eternity and then some.

Green light… damn. It was my turn. It just never felt right that something that caused this much fear was a prerequisite to enter the Pearly Gates.

The first thing we were taught to say inside the confessional was, “Bless me father for I have sinned. My last confession was…” followed by the length of time since we last spilled our spiritual guts.

This was already a problem for me. I’d say, “3 months ago,” like clockwork. So technically, my first sin was lying. In the confessional. During confession. I’d tell myself it was merely a warm-up sin, just preparing myself.

After I had whispered off my list of offenses, the last words to come out of my mouth were, “For these and all my sins, I am sorry.” I could finally breathe again. The priest would take it from there. He would absolve me of my sins, give me a penance, which usually consisted of saying a few Hail Marys, an Our Father, and always, an Act of Contrition. He would then give a little farewell speech that consisted of “Try to do better next time. Now go, and sin no more.” It sounded like an order.

I walked out of church thinking: if I get hit by a Mack truck walking through the parking lot, I’m heaven-bound, baby! But one slip-up? Back to the box I go. A spiritual rinse and repeat.

In the Catholic church there isn’t just sin. There are different classifications of sin. Venial – the baby sins, such things as lying about who stole their fathers pack of cigarettes out of the carton, and the mortal sins – the headline makers…the absolute worst thing you could ever do.

There was just something about hearing the priest say missing mass on Sundays was considered a mortal sin, that had me shaking my head and saying to myself, “Well, that’s one way to boost attendance.” Apparently, failing to haul our sorry behinds out of bed Sunday morning was just as bad as robbing a nun’s purse, setting fire to the hymnal, and giving St. Peter the finger on our way out.

As an adult, I couldn’t help but question some of the teachings we were told not to question. Topics such as purgatory, the empty space your soul would go if you weren’t bad enough to go south, but not good enough to go north. I guess you just hovered about until God felt you’d done enough time.

Limbo? That one messed me up – the idea that babies went there if they died before being baptized? I don’t care how holy your catechism is, there’s no universe where an all-loving God sends an infant to spiritual purgatory because Mom and Dad missed the deadline. Who’s making this stuff up?

And let’s talk free-will. It’s supposedly God’s greatest gift to mankind, your own blank canvas to paint your messy, glorious life. But the rules feel rigged. Use your free will, but choose wrong? Boom! To hell you go. No eraser. It’s like giving a toddler a crayon and punishing them for coloring outside the lines. That’s not love. That’s certainly not free-will. And, in my opinion, it makes a mockery out of God.

Although I haven’t been a practicing Catholic in over twenty years, I maintain a respect for the church. My history runs deep. After all, I was an organist, taught CCD for many years while my kids attended, and was a communion distributor. I wasn’t just in the pew; I was part of the pageantry.

Then came the divorce. Already guilt-laden, I decided to return to Mass, dragging my middle-school aged son with me.

When communion time rolled around, I hesitated. It dawned on me I couldn’t receive. My marriage hadn’t been annulled. I was, by Church standards, unworthy. I whispered to Mark, “You go up when it’s time.” His eyes widened. Great, now I’d added spiritual abandonment to my parenting resume.

Part of me wanted to go up. God knew my heart, right? I told myself He wouldn’t hold it against me. Still, there was this irrational fear that the priest, who didn’t even know me, would somehow snatch the host back before I had a chance to put it in my mouth.

In the car the inevitable question came: “Why didn’t you go up to Communion, Mom?” How do you explain to your child that because you got divorced, your church decided you weren’t welcome at the Table?” All I could picture was his little brain doing the math: “Wow, Mom must’ve done something really, really bad.

I was speechless and I was angry. I couldn’t help but feel when I needed my church the most, it wasn’t there for me. Unless I checked all their boxes and declared my 27-year marriage null and void, communion wasn’t an option. My marriage, though imperfect, was very real and I wasn’t about to say otherwise just to play by their rulebook. That’s not healing, it’s humiliation in a shiny goblet.

So, I made peace with it. Communion wouldn’t be a part of my spiritual journey, And I’m okay with that. Because the God I believe in, doesn’t stamp forms or tally pew attendance.

My God doesn’t sit behind stained glass waiting for us to arrive. He moves in the gentle breeze that sneaks through our window, in the belly laughs shared over completely forgetting why we walked into a room in the first place, and in the quiet ache of love that refuses to quit.

PHEW…that calls for a toast. You stuck with me until the end. Raise your glass high: “May the only confessions we whisper be to girlfriends over margaritas, with no tallies, no mesh screen and no guilt rendered.

If I ever do find myself in purgatory, may it at least have charcuteries decent Wi-Fi, zero nuns with cliffside metaphors and a few of my favorite humans there to keep me company as we wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Cheers!

I spent the weekend at the cabin playing dual roles: grandma and babysitter to Reagan and Grayson.

While I was glued to my laptop, Reagan, an ever-curious teenager, asked why I was devoting so much time to my computer. I laughed. “Because I started a blog,” I told her. “And you, my dear, should be reading it.”

“What’s a blog?” she asked.

“It’s sort of like a digital diary,” I explained. I write about life, family, my quirks, my hangups, and why I talk to squirrels. You might find out something about your mom you didn’t know. Heaven forbid, you might even crack a smile.”

That’s when she hit me with the universal teen eye roll. Translation: Grandma, you could have stopped with the explanation a few paragraphs ago.

Moments later, with a sweet smirk and all the charm she could muster, Reagan asked, “Why don’t you write about me, your favorite granddaughter?”

Oh boy!

I paused, aware that five other pairs of precious eyeballs were out there, including two who could read, and every one of them holds a special place in my heart. So how do I write about Reagan and make her feel like the sparkly center of Grandma’s universe without accidentally lighting a fire in the family group chat?

Here’s the thing: Reagan was our first grandchild. Her appearance crowned me with a new title: GRANDMA.

We have a special bond. I’m her soft landing. Her emotional exits from the cabin, sobbing in her car seat, arms outstretched like I was the last helicopter out of Saigon, wrecked me in the most beautiful way.

Honestly, if she could have clawed her way through the car window onto my hip, she would have. My daughter once said to me, “Mom, if you ever feel unloved, just remember that little girl ADORES her grandmother.” I do. Often.

These days Reagan’s world is all about Cheer and I can vividly recall how it all began. I was asked to take her to her first tryout because her parents had other commitments. The coaches were tossing out words like cartwheel, aerial roundoff, and back handspring like they were calling out bingo numbers.

Meanwhile, I was clutching my nerves, watching Reagan do her very own thing. And by that, I really do mean her very own thing. It was as if she had rehearsed what she was going to do ahead of time play by play: 1. lean back, looking upward while arms in the air. 2. Arch back, as if really going to accomplish something. 3. Quickly drop to the floor, catching self with arms. It was a movement that repeated itself over and over like a glitch in a dance routine.

I have to admit, I felt a tiny pang of embarrassment for her. But she wasn’t embarrassed at all. Nope, she was vibing. She had found her rhythm and I needed to chill.

Let’s just say Reagan wasn’t flipping like Gabby Butler, the standout in the world of competitive cheerleading, but she had spirit. And as it turns out, spirit matters. The coaches saw what she needed and placed her on a team where she belonged. She was elated. She was part of a team.

Fast forward a few years, twirls and flips later, some wildly expensive Cheer uniforms, glitter bows and team trips, this same girl who once did the “catch-myself” move on repeat, qualified with her Cheer squad for the All-Star World Champion in Orlando this past April.

She’s getting so tall now, nearly eye to eye with me, rocking her turquoise sunglasses and six-pack abs that I didn’t know girls could even get. She’s now the one giving pep talks and fixing bows on the littles, who look up to her like she’s queen of the mat.

Recently, the three generations – me, Jill, and Reagan, took a trip to Utah to visit my son, (Jill’s younger brother) Mark. Reagan was your classic teenager: phone in hand, politely bored, and surprisingly tolerant of our scenic narration cruising through the Salt Lake City Flats.

Her one and only goal while in Utah? Finding a SWIG. This naïve grandma asked her what kind of swag she was looking for. She laughed. I was educated. Apparently, caffeinated beverages mixed with candy syrups and coconut cream are all the rage.

Reagan is a natural hugger. Walks towards me with arms open, like she’s been waiting her whole life for that moment. And in a world full of eye rolls and TikTok reels I may never understand, that hug energy is sacred.

So, is she my favorite granddaughter? Only when my other two granddaughters aren’t within earshot. And even if they were, they’re too young to understand. I’ll say this: she’s my original. The prototype. My proof that being a grandma was going to be something special.

I almost did a cartwheel in celebration of your birthday, Regs, but then I reconsidered. I’m kind of partial to where my body parts are now, and I saw no spotters standing by ready to scrape me off the floor.

So here’s where I land, Regs. I dedicated an entire blog just for you in honor of your special day. Happy 14^th birthday. I love you to the moon and back.