Dear Kel, on the eve of your forty-fifth birthday…
 
I want you to know it’s okay if you pee a little when you run. That was surprising, I know, but your body is changing.

The grey in your hair looks sophisticated. You can rebrand those strands and call them your “big girl sparkles”. They’re fancy and add class.

The wrinkles on your face are the result of laughter and smiling. You’re very lucky to have joy etched around your eyes and mouth.

The ten extra pounds you’ve gained around your stomach is where you store your wisdom. You’re not getting fatter; you are becoming smarter, more grounded.

The insomnia you experience offers sacred time in the middle of the night to ponder life and reconsider your path forward. Sleep will come when life is in alignment and emotions settle.

The sudden moments of heat and sweat are a sign of how hot and sexy you are. You’ve still got it, girl!

The fact that your attention deficit has been turned up to full volume offers a reminder to seek peace and quiet. It’s important to sink into calm amidst the chaos of family life.

As you go to sleep tonight and wake up having orbited another trip around the sun, embrace everything the upcoming year has to offer—adventure, surprise, adversity, and triumph. While your body may feel foreign at times, it is a small price to pay for the chance to live and love vibrantly for another 365 days.
​
Love,
Kel
 

The leaves are tinted in crimson. Fog rolls in on the cool morning air. School began a month ago. And already there is drama.

As a boy-mom, my household has always been relatively drama-free. The occasional disruption of the calm usually stems from yours truly—the one with crippling anxiety and an overactive imagination. Yet sometimes, the drama takes root on a community level and seeps into our home through our cellphones. Last week, that was the case.

The high school where my fifteen year old son attends sent an email informing parents and caregivers that an “incident” had occurred. Online messages had been circulating through the student body of a planned attack at the school. Details of a shooting were being masterminded—Snapchat messages copied and shared amongst the teenagers, spreading like wildfire. The email explained that the threats were deemed benign and the school was handling the issue accordingly. Not to worry, they said.

I tried not to worry. I really did.

As Chase bounded through the front door after school, he jokingly exclaimed, “Well, I didn’t get shot today!”

A statement I never thought I’d hear.

“How do you feel about what’s happening, Kid?” I inquired.

“It’s fine, Mom. It’s just some kid being stupid.”

His flippancy was comforting. His tone was absent of fear and I felt gratitude that his sense of safety remained intact. However, as he revealed more about his day, I began to suspect that beneath the calm surface waters, turmoil bubbled within the deep.

Chase went on to share that several classmates left school that day, feeling unsafe to remain in the building. There was a police presence on the premises, which was reassuring (but perhaps jarring on a subconscious level). He and his friends made plans to run into the forest if shooting broke out.

Chase spoke so non-chalantly, it sounded as if he was describing his Subway sandwich order. In the disconnect between his demeanor and his words, I knew not a single one of his brain cells consciously registered this as a probable threat. What teenager could accept this reality?

Logically, I understood the chance of a Canadian child having access to a firearm is very, very slim. Having worked in schools for the past twenty-three years, I also know the process of investigation, due diligence, caution, and communication with families. Teenagers say stupid shit and that nonsense is circulated over social media at alarming speeds with regularity. I get it. I have also participated in more lockdown drills than I can count, trusting that this precaution will never become truly necessary in my (or my children’s) academic career.

Still, incidents like this hurt my heart.

When I can override my emotions and lean into logic, I feel immensely grateful to live in a country which feels safe. I can’t help but think of American parents who send their children to school each day with the very real possibility of tragedy occurring. While I can confidently say my child is secure at school, not everyone in North America has that privilege. The thought boggles my mind.

Perhaps my confidence is wildly naïve, but please let me hold onto it for every last second of my existence. It is a wild concept—letting our children walk in this world with freedom to explore and experience life without us following two steps behind forever protecting them. The vulnerability, when one pauses to acknowledge it, is paralyzing.
​
So, while we have the opportunity to exist in a bubble of bliss, let’s soak in every moment of safety and security, and remember to kiss our kids as often as we can. 

I’m here to deliver a public service announcement that is going to piss some of you off. Trust me when I say that I share this opinion without judgement because it is something I am working on too. It's not a complaint, but an encouragement shared with love.

Mommas, when people ask how you are, or wonder what’s new in your life, stop telling them about your children.

I know it sounds harsh. But girl, you are more than just a momma. Though your babies are pieces of your soul walking free within this world, you are an entirely separate being. You are a gorgeous, intelligent woman. When people ask, they want to know about you and you are worthy of having your own answer.

I can’t tell you how many times I have called to connect with a girlfriend who proceeds to tell me about her children’s busy schedule, triumphs, and struggles. And I get it. I really do. As mommas, we bleed with our children, laugh with them, absorb their pain, and relish in their joy. I remember a time when I felt my life was not my own. From morning until bedtime, my schedule revolved around meals, naptimes, and playdates. It’s a difficult season.

Our children are of us, but they are not wholly us. We deserve to have our own feelings and experiences to share. 

Thank you for filling me in on your family happenings, but sweetheart, how are you? Does the constant chauffeuring stress you out? Are you exhausted and unshowered and overwhelmed? Are you joyfully cherishing each milestone? Are you unsure of how to fill newfound freedom? Are you dreaming of days when you can get back to being you?

Sometimes the demands of motherhood make us feel invisible. It’s thankless work--the millions of small tasks we perform daily to keep our families afloat. Much of our dedication goes unnoticed. When we arrive at family functions, the faces of grandparents, aunts and uncles light up upon seeing our kids, arms open and love flowing, while the mommas receive a quick peck on the cheek and perfunctory greeting. I am here too, you know.

So when someone takes a moment to check in, stop making yourself invisible! Stop hiding behind your children and step into your own individuality. Tell them how you are really feeling. Tell them about your day. Your struggles. Your successes.

And, while I am clearly on a roll with this ranting PSA, let’s revolutionize the way we greet people. “How are you?” is such a thoughtless question, one which really doesn’t invite an honest answer.

What percentage of humans who respond with “I’m fine” are actually fine? Fine is synonymous with “I don’t want to tell you the truth” or “I’m afraid you’d judge me if I told you how I was really feeling” or “You don’t truly want to know”.

This social interaction is so performative that it has lost its ability to foster meaningful human connection. There’s got to be a better way!

I challenge all women to remove the word “fine” from your vocabulary. Get creative. Get honest. Get brave in your answer.

And, can we go even further by asking a more well intentioned question?
“What brought you joy today?”
“How’s your stress level today?”
“Tell me about your morning.”
“What goals do you have right now?”
“What’s challenging you?”
 
Momma, I already know that you are dedicating your heart to raising amazing human beings. I already know that your days are selfless, that you doubt yourself, and that you lose sleep worrying about your family. I see you. I know you. I am you.
​
Instead, tell me what excites you and lights your inner fire.
I really, truly want to know. 

I think about death a lot.

I can picture myself as a little girl tucked in bed at night, speaking aloud to the Universe—not knowing exactly what was out there, but needing to believe in a higher power. “Please protect my mommy and my daddy and my sister and my brother.” I still make these nightly prayers, but the blanket of protection has grown larger. “Please protect my parents, my spouse, my children…”

Funnily enough, I am completely at peace with the idea of my own death. If I were to die tomorrow, I know for sure that people have felt my love and my loyalty. I have been fortunate enough to experience passionate love, traveled a bit, done my best to raise excellent humans, and made an impact professionally. I can go at any time and feel nothing but gratitude for the time I was given here on Earth.

What terrifies me is the thought of someone I love passing away and leaving me in the dark wake of loss and despair.

I’m sharing this with you to set the scene for the drama that played out in my home last night.

I was jarred awake by the sound of my doorbell and an aggressive pounding on the front door. As my eyeballs adjusted and read 11:49 on the clock, I noticed a white light flashing through my bedroom window. Jumping out of bed, I peeked through the blinds to see two police cars parked in front of my house.

What the fuck?

Immediately, my mind took inventory of my family. Husband? Still in bed, totally oblivious to the chaos. (Men could sleep through an apocalypse! The sky could be falling and the ground caving in around us and they would remain blissfully in Dreamland. My husband would wake up to the end of the world and be like, “Dude, what did I miss?) I digress.

My youngest son? Asleep in bed. Stepson? Asleep on the bottom bunk. Oldest son? Not home.

Fuck.

With my heart pounding in my chest, I threw a blanket around my shoulders (because nobody wants to have the door opened by a panicky middle-aged woman in her nighttime panties.) and sprinted down the stairs.

I paused for a moment before opening the door. Breathe, Kel. Brace yourself.

Two very large police men were standing on my porch. I turned to look at my husband as he lazily made his way down the stairs, hair askew and brain not fully turned on yet. Why didn’t he feel the weight of the moment, oppressed by the stillness of the air as our lives were about to change?

“Sorry to bother you so late,” Policeman #1 apologized.

Policeman #2 explained, “An electric scooter has been stolen and the app is tracking it directly to your house.”

My constriction in my chest relaxed as I exhaled audibly. Thank all the Gods! And also, seriously??!!!

“Do you have children?” #1 inquired. “We’d like to talk to them.”

Knowing full well that the boys weren’t involved, but not wanting to be the mom who immediately went on the defense with, “Well, my child would never…” I asked the police to wait as I rousted my teenage children out of bed.

(If I’m being fully truthful, a wicked little part of me was entertained by the boys’ stunned faces as I announced, “The police are here. They want to talk to you.” Cruel, I know.)

Long story short, the scooter was not hidden in my garage, nor in my backyard. Thankfully my children did not turn out to be thieves. This time.

As I closed the door to my bedroom following this midnight drama, relief flooded my body like a tidal wave and I sobbed. The nocturnal knock on my door was not the news I was dreading—that my child had died in the night while I slept comfortably in my home. He was safe. We were all safe.

The stress-tears which leaked from my eyeballs were soon replaced by tears of deep sorrow. Death was not part of my story that night, but for many people, that midnight doorbell ushers in a heart stopping new reality. Their lives are forever divided by the moments before and after they open the door.

Earlier in the week, news of a car accident which occurred on the highway near my home spread within our community. A mother and child killed upon impact. The second child airlifted to hospital in critical condition. That father would have opened the door to utter despair. My heart ached for him as I cried.

Bless the police who have to share the news of death and tragedy. Bless them for sitting with families and witnessing the worse moment of their lives. Bless them for honouring the families with grace, and holding space for grief and shock.
​
It took me a long time to fall asleep last night. I added to my prayers. “Please protect my parents, my spouse, my children and care for those who did not get as lucky as I did tonight.”

Sometimes I cannot believe the words that fall out of my mouth. They are random, strange, and provide a telling glimpse into the changes I am experiencing as I age. I have to laugh and roll my eyes, finding humour in the brain fog, idiocrasy, and "old lady-ness". 

Things I've said recently:

I bought a pill box today.
Maybe I should consider a nightly skin care routine that actually involves washing my face.
I need to pick up more Metamucil.
I think this is hormonal.
How many supplements do I need to take?
I need to blow-dry my hair standing naked in front of an open window, otherwise I might die of a hot flash.
Are two naps in one day too many?
I can’t read that. Bring it closer.
Is it 9pm yet? I’d like to go to bed.
My B12 is low.
It’s too hot to wear a bra.
When did the part of my brain that could properly park the car stop functioning?
How are my iron levels?
I don’t want to snuggle in bed. I’m so sweaty.
Maybe we should ingest a teaspoon of coconut oil in the mornings. Or apple cider vinegar. Or both.
My brain is not communicating with my body today.
The nurse who was doing my ECG looked like she was trying to untangle Christmas lights.
When should I stop taking birth control?
My hips are tight. I need a massage.
It’s very people-y there…
How late does the concert start? That’s past my bedtime.
 
You know you are getting older when…
​How would you finish the sentence?

A farmer’s market makes me feel like a seagull with a French fry. A childish grin rooted in pure joy and excitement spreads across my face as I revel in my good fortune. It really doesn’t get much better than leisurely strolling through aisles of quirky artisans, organic vegetables, home baked pastries, and eccentric characters strumming the guitar. My ADHD is in its full glory taking in the sights, sounds, and smells which envelop my senses.

For the most part, a farmer’s market is fairly predictable. While the creativity vendors showcase is admirable and occasionally surprising, I generally know what to expect upon arrival—local wineries offering small samples, a granola-y woman showcasing crocheted potholders, wooden carvings that look as gnarly as the man who whittled them, luscious bouquets of jewel-coloured flowers, and a booth with handmade soaps and candles which rivals Bed, Bath and Beyond. As a veteran farmer’s market attendee, I thought I had seen it all. Until last weekend.

After enjoying a scrumptious farm to table breakfast, my girlfriends and I decided to wander over to the market, mere blocks from the restaurant. We sipped our iced coffees, sampled the offerings, and laughed as we reminisced about the previous night’s shenanigans. Then, we came upon a tent which seemed to display no goods at all. Instead, three elderly men sat in lawn chairs underneath a sign which read, “Old Coots Giving Advice: It’s probably bad advice, but it’s free.”

The men looked like aging hippies, throwbacks from an expressive and experimental time. Tie-died shirts, scruffy beards, and delicate blue flowers painted daintily on their cheeks and foreheads. They had a tip jar which was labelled Legal Defense Fund, and I was immediately drawn in by their laid-back nature and obvious good humour.

“Do you have a question for us?” they wondered.

One of my girlfriends stepped forward. “We’re all in a moment of transition because our children have graduated from high school. What should we do with all our free time now?”

After conferring for a minute, one of the Three Wise Men offered this advice:
“We suggest you go immediately to the bar and find the youngest boy you can. Take him home with you. He can either become your boyfriend or you can parent him.”

Hilarious!

Needless to say, we spent a long time chatting with these gentlemen, inquiring as to how and why they chose to spend their weekends giving bad advice to strangers. They were interesting, joyful, and had perspective which comes only from having lived a little.

As we walked away, my girlfriends and I marveled at the genius of their idea. How awesome would it be to spend a Saturday morning sitting at the market, laughing with old friends, and having conversations with random people? Maybe we should set up our own booth--Moms with Mimosas Giving Bad Advice!

The conversation then extended to ways we would like to enjoy our free time now that our children were on the preface of carving their own paths in the world. We could take dance lessons (only if we wear tongue-in-cheek hip hop attire), start a book club (raunchy romance porn only), schedule monthly get togethers (to paint canvases Bob Ross style)…

It seems, despite the silliness and humour of the answer given by The Old Coots, they had wisely laid breadcrumbs for us to solve our own question. The world is now our oyster and we have the glorious opportunity to create our own fun.

Boun-da-ries…  bound-aries…  boundaries…

I’m sounding it out as the word is highly unfamiliar to me.

My Type A personality, coupled with an innate desire to people please creates the perfect recipe for self-inducing stress that would rival Gordon Ramsay’s most fiery concoctions: The Fixer’s Flambe, Your Savior’s Savory Sauce.

While my own life is often a hot mess, giving advice is my jam. My brain is chalked full of mental health strategies, the perfect book or podcast recommendation which will solve your problems, and insightful anecdotes which both entertain and teach.

I also want all the people in my life to feel cared for. When we are together, I will ensure you feel seen, heard, and that you feel like the most interesting human in the room. Your happiness is my greatest concern; thus, I will manipulate the environment to ensure both your safety and your enjoyment.

Am I an empath? Maybe. A control freak? For sure.
Boundaries between your happiness and mine? None.

My husband and I recently planned a once-in-a-lifetime vacation for our kids and my parents. Weeks before departure, in a vicious anxiety spiral, I found myself lamenting first world problems with my therapist. Having put so much pressure on the success of this vacation, I was beginning to lose sleep.

What if we don’t get along?
Maybe they won’t love the itinerary.
I want them to remember this trip forever.

After listening with the chilled-out patience of a monk who is high on weed, my therapist asked three poignant questions:

Is anyone asking you to be responsible for their happiness, or are you assuming the responsibility yourself?
Are you truly responsible for that?
Do you want to be responsible for that?

I realized that my husband and I had done our best to plan an amazing vacation for our family. We were organized, had considered everyone’s interests, and used our knowledge of the country to offer a diverse variety of experiences. If someone in our family did not enjoy the trip, that was on them. I needed to trust their ability to find their own joy.

Boundaries.

These three questions have become game-changers for me. They are applicable in almost every situation.

If your teenager is failing school…
If your spouse is unhappy with their job…
If your friend is in an unhealthy relationship…

Is anyone in your family asking you to be responsible for their happiness, or are you assuming the responsibility yourself?
Are you truly responsible for that?
Do you want to be responsible for that?

Micromanaging and fixing are not a show of support. By stepping over my boundaries and attempting to take control, I am sending the message that I do not believe the person can care for themselves or solve the problem on their own. My act of “love” is actually a thinly disguised insult to their intelligence.

By upholding boundaries, I am protecting my relationships. While offering a sympathetic ear and some gentle guidance (only if asked for), I am no longer a manipulator, but a genuine source of emotional support. The space between us prevents me from becoming energetically depleted, as my happiness is no longer contingent on the vibrations of those around me. With my own mental health in tact, I can serve others more profoundly. 

Instead of solving, fixing, pleasing, and micromanaging, I am learning to ask:
Do you need anything from me in this moment?
Would you like me to listen or help you find a solution?

​These questions feel like freedom for both of us. 

While it is often easier said than done, I am finding that upholding boundaries has not only improved my sleep, but has cleared mental space for me to contemplate other first world problems, like...

Why am I the only one in this house who knows what’s for dinner?

Mothers spend many years as the center of their children’s universe. Just as the planets orbit the sun, our kids literally and figuratively run circles around us. During this season, our children look to us for love, entertainment, guidance, security, and sustenance. It is glorious and exhausting.

As seasons change, so does motherhood. Inevitably, there comes a time when our children’s orbit stretches a little bit farther and a little bit farther until it becomes an oblong shape. There are moments when they seem incredibly far away, and we wait for them to circle back, closer to our warmth.

It’s a natural process.

As a professional who has dedicated the last decade to studying human development, I can quote countless articles and books which explain that teenagers must put distance between themselves and their parents. It is how they learn to navigate the world independently. It is how they make meaning of experiences. It is how they gain confidence and create their own boundaries. As a mother, I can only tell you that it sucks and it’s lonely at times.

One of my core beliefs is that we are always presented with a choice in how we react to life. My children’s orbits are extending beyond my outstretched arms and lately, I find myself with a lot of free time.  I can either question my purpose and become a dying star, or I can discover new ways to ignite the light within me.

This year has been a journey, as I explore new hobbies, new friendships, and ways to meaningfully fill my time. One of the revelations I’ve had during this season is that I don’t know how to enjoy my own company. After years of being busy and distracted, rarely having a moment to myself, I now have countless hours to spend with me, myself, and I. Surprisingly, I don’t really know her.

So, I decided to set a goal of dating myself this summer.

At this point, you may be asking “WTF does that even mean?”
Great question, you curious little thing!

The idea stems from a book about creativity that I read years ago--The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. The premise is along the lines of the famed saying, “Writers write” and I was looking for ideas to get my pen moving again after months of having nothing to say. Cameron explained that creativity is near impossible to access when we are locked into dreary routine, white knuckling life day after day. Creativity is born out of the unexpected, the joyful, the curious, and the playful. Thus, she advocates for “Artist Dates” as a way to reignite the simmering embers.

“Artist Dates are assigned play… They fire up imagination. They spark whimsy. They encourage play… When choosing an Artist Date, it is good to ask yourself, ‘what sounds fun?’—and then allow yourself to try it.”[kc1] 

I decided use the concept of the Artist’s Date as inspiration for learning to enjoy my own company.

Because I thrive within structure (and am a super big nerd), I decided to set some ground rules for my solo dates.

1. I will schedule one date per week to spend time alone, doing something I enjoy.
2. Dates must be at least one hour long.
3. During the date, I will not use my phone as a source of distraction or entertainment. Instead, I will lean into the discomfort of being alone and work to be present and engaged with the world around me.
4. I will initiate conversation with at least one stranger during my solo dates.

Okay, that last one is likely not going to happen, but I am setting the intention to be more social. It might surprise you to know that I’m very shy and consider myself to be socially awkward. You’ll often hear me declining an invitation because “It’s too people-y there.” Solo dates feel like an opportunity to develop this atrophied muscle.

If the concept of dating yourself appeals to you, here are some affordable ideas I have penciled onto my own calendar:

• Go to the nursery and buy flowers for the garden
• Walk in nature
• Take a book to the beach
• Browse the bookstore
• Take myself out for lunch
• Do a yoga class
• Go to the farmer’s market

When our children no longer need us as fiercely as in their earliest years, it becomes time to need ourselves. What a beautiful time it can be—walking towards our own independence and rediscovering the world at the same time our children are exploring their own lives. The parallelism of this season is close to perfection.
​
And, in moments when our orbits pull us close, the boys and I will have so much to talk about! I can’t wait.

 [kc1]https://juliacameronlive.com/basic-tools/artists-dates/

Last night I indulged in my favourite meal: ravioli with pesto sauce.

While my forties have blessed me with the wisdom to love my body exactly as it is and have gratitude for how it serves me, this decade has also ushered in a plethora of dietary restrictions. With each passing month, a new item pops up on my body’s list of forbidden food. Five minutes of culinary delight now equates to hours of bloating, gas, and stabbing pain. As I write this blog, I am on Day 5 of a caffeine cleanse—a fresh hell I had resisted for years.

I am now vegetarian, sugar free, dairy restricted, alcohol restricted, and caffeine free. It's as much fun as it sounds. Believe me when I say there is no moral high ground upon which I stand. I am not a grass eating, nature loving, hipster-health nut. My strict diet has grown out of concern for the longevity of my marriage as squeaking silent farts all day every day is not conducive to a spicy love life.

However, I am not a saint and do love a cheat day every now and then. Hence, the ravioli…which was followed by a delicious slice of white cake with white icing. Can I get an amen?

My punishment for enjoying such a rich and delectable meal? The last time I saw my belly that bloated, I was six months pregnant.

As I moaned and cradled my food-baby, Miguel giggled and asked how I felt.

“I feel awful, but that’s okay. It was a downfall of my own making.”

“Mi amor. Even though you chose this fate, you are definitely not okay,” he replied.

He then went on to point out that every time I feel compelled to acknowledge something in life, which is less than bright and shiny, I couch my feelings with forced positivity.

These phrases pepper my vernacular on the daily:
But that’s okay.
I’m sure it’s meant to happen this way.
It could be worse.
I’m looking for the lesson here.
At least it wasn’t…

“It would be more authentic if you simply said that you feel awful. Full stop,” Miguel challenged. “Sometimes things just suck.”

The conversation got me thinking about other areas of inauthenticity in my life. Could I be bold enough to honour my likes and dislikes? To share when I am having a bad day? To let go of friendships which no longer serve me? To stop saying yes when I really want to say no? 

In order to stand in my own authenticity, I need to let go of The Pleaser and The Good Girl and trust that people will love me even when I disagree, politely decline, or express discontent. Maybe they will embrace this new honest and transparent version of Kel.

Let’s try it on for size…

I haven’t had coffee for five days. I am currently cranky, exhausted, and have very little bandwidth for bullshit. Yes, my stomach feels better. I am less bloated and my aura is no longer a sickly, green, toxic IBS stench. But I am totally bummed at the thought of permanently giving up my daily cup of java, as I love it so. While I am in this state of mourning, I refuse to apologize for my bad attitude.
​
This is me, this week. Take it or leave it. 
 
 
 

My oldest child is graduating high school in a few weeks.

As we entered this momentous school year, I was surprised by the deep sense of mourning I felt. His graduation felt like a loss, a milestone marking the end of my active, daily role in his life. I found myself counting off our “lasts” like one pulls petals off a daisy. Last Christmas break, last semester, last soccer season…

Though I never overtly shared my emotions with him, my energy shone loud and clear. My words said, “This is amazing” but my vibe said, “I’m not happy for you.”

It took me weeks to realize how important it was to re-frame this time in our lives. My mindset was dulling the brilliance of this occasion. And mindset is always a choice, something we have total control over. I was choosing to be blue in a season which should be exhilarating for my son.

Sadness or celebration.

Tears or champagne.

I had all the power to decide.

Shopping for his tuxedo offered the opportunity to marvel at the beautiful man he is becoming, inside and out. His broad shoulders stretched the midnight black jacket as pride stretched across my heart. How lucky I am to have a front row seat to his future! While I don’t know what next year will hold for him, I am certain that he will go forth and experience life to its fullest. Then, he’ll come home or call to tell me all about it.

As the date grows ever near, my excitement is bubbling. I am riding a swelling wave of joy as we enter a season steeped in celebration. The next few weeks hold events, ceremonies, and parties—a right of passage for both him and me. As he steps boldly into this next phase of life, I can pause to acknowledge how far we have both come.

As I made the conscious decision to be present and open to enjoying one of life’s bittersweet moments, I began to ponder what other areas of my life are coloured by my mindset and the language I use.

Two phrases which slip out of my mouth on a regular basis are, “I’m tired” and “I’m busy.” While these statements are often so very true, they are also self-fulfilling prophecies, somewhat laced with negativity.

Language is a powerful tool. It influences our mental health, our energy, and our general state of wellbeing. Yet we throw words around like confetti, letting them land haphazardly where they fall. What I have learned in walking towards my son’s graduation is that the words I use become the thought patterns which play over and over in my mind. Therefore, I need to become intentional with how I speak about life’s circumstances.

I’m not saying we need to become happiness robots, because there is nothing more inauthentic or obnoxious. What suggesting is that energy flows where attention goes. If there is even the slightest glimmer of positivity in a situation, that’s where I am going to focus. That will become my reality.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am off to pour myself a glass of champagne and toast my son’s massive accomplishments, bright and shiny future, and my epic fucking emotional transformation.
​
Cheers!