A few weeks ago, I enjoyed an incredibly romantic vacation in San Juan del Cabo with my husband. We were on a kid-free trip, celebrating our ten-year anniversary and had set the intention of planning a new chapter in our marriage.

Each morning, we would wake up at 5am and take our coffee down to the beach. There, we would sit in the sand until the sun rose and the sky turned from inky black to shades of cotton candy pink and creamsicle orange. As my husband practiced yoga, I would meditate and watch the world slowly come alive—crabs emerging with curiosity from their labyrinth beneath the sand and birds swooping mere inches above the waves, searching for their breakfast.

Each night after walking the vibrant streets and devouring decadent food, we would end up at the pool in our resort. With the epic combination of waves crashing on the beach in the background and lively music playing in the foreground, we would spend hours talking and sipping expensive tequila. At some point, I would inevitably end up in the water, floating on my back and gazing up at the indigo blanket of stars. It was magical.

After three or four days, my husband turned to me and said, “I really like Vacation Kel.”

“I like her too,” I responded.

This vacation version of me was relaxed. She laughed a lot. She danced in the kitchen and did handstands in the pool. She was playful and present. I began to wonder how I could bring her home with me.

Granted, Vacation Kel did not have any responsibility. She simply ate when she was hungry, drank when she wanted to, napped in the middle of the day, took long walks, and indulged in reading, lovemaking, and sunbathing.

Vacation Kel was free of commuting, chauffeuring teenagers, answering emails, washing mountains of laundry, and the never-ending to-do list which ran constantly through the forefront of her mind.

Still, I loved her energy and didn’t want to let her go. There must be a way to bring small elements of her into my daily life…

On the plane ride home, I continued to ponder and realized that the first thing to disappear as the wheels touched down upon the runway of reality was my ability to play. I very rarely engaged in an activity simply for the sake of joy.

Could I be so bold as to implement joy and playfulness into my daily routine?

The following weekend found me sitting not poolside but field-side, watching my boys play soccer. I love watching my kids express their athleticism, their comradery, and their leadership on the soccer pitch. And, as an added bonus, I absolutely adore the group of women who mother these young men. The “soccer girls” are hilarious, authentic, bad-ass females who talk about life and parenting, and who are always out for a good time. All of us are on the precipice of watching our teens grow into young adults and are experiencing the bittersweet realization that they will soon leave us. Thus, we are all at various stages of rediscovering who we are without our children.

One of the women announced that she had recently joined a soccer team and was loving the workout and the hilarity of chasing a ball down the field at her age.

“You should join!” she dared me.

“Yes! I’m in!” Impulse replied before logic caught up.

Have I ever played soccer before? No. Is that important when joining a soccer team? Likely.

Nonetheless, I went out the next day and bought myself a pair of bright pink soccer cleats. They brought me joy.

When I told my boys that I had joined a team, they were so proud of me! They immediately took me to the field for a training session so that “I wouldn’t embarrass myself.” Fair. In between sprints, burpees, drills, and positioning instructions, we laughed and laughed at my lack of talent.

That Sunday night, my forty-four year old self showed up to my very first soccer practice ever. Pushing aside doubt and nerves, I stepped out of my car into the pouring rain and ran to meet my team. Lacing up my bright pink cleats, I reminded myself of the reason I was there. No pressure. No ego. Just joy.

Over the next week, every time I felt my quads burn and my body ache, I smiled. The pain reminded me that I had chosen to do something silly, something playful. There was no responsibility involved, no intention other than to experience a new adventure and have fun.

Now, every Sunday night Vacation Kel comes out to play with her friends. The more she shows her joyful face, the more she seeks to integrate into daily life.

These days, on my morning runs, I sprint towards the invisible finish line, not only to strengthen my muscles, but to feel the sensation of going fast. When we were kids, we ran just to run. Not to exercise, to lose weight, to burn calories. Only for pure joy. In fact, I recently read a statistic that said, “95% of adults over the age of thirty will never sprint again in their lives.” * WHAT?! Will we also stop splashing in the pool, letting ice cream drip through our fingers, and rolling in the grass?

I don’t want to live that kind of life.

Now, I choose to crank up the volume when a nostalgic song comes on the radio. I make a point of taking a mid-workday dance break and I am teaching myself to play the guitar. Why? Because it’s freaking fun! Full stop.

Vacation Kel is changing my quality of life. I’m really glad I brought her home with me.
 

*https://www.artofmanliness.com/health-fitness/fitness/the-grown-ups-guide-to-sprinting/#:~:text=I've%20seen%20a%20statistic,many%20adults%20out%20there%20sprinting.

 
 
 

​They say write what you know.

What if the only thing I know right now is how much I don’t know?

If we had to play the game of labelling seasons of life, my forties would be titled, “What the Fuck?”

My family, my lifestyle, my ambitions, my roles, my desires are changing in ways which keep me up at night wondering, “What's next?" Everything I thought to be steadfast and true in my thirties is unravelling like a spool of yarn as I enter my mid-forties.

I’ve spent the last two decades of my life hustling, working my ass off to build a beautiful life and epic professional reputation. I wanted the best and I wanted to be the best. I knew that my thirties were going to be a decade of being in the weeds—parenting small humans, scraping by financially, and failing at work/life balance. I was okay with all the sacrifice and sleepless nights because of my unwavering faith that it would all be worth it in the end.

I knew exactly where I was going and how I was going to get there.

From the time I was a wee babe in my twenties, I have always known the trajectory of my life—personally and professionally. First you land a boyfriend. Then you lock shit down with a ring. Marriage. House. Babies. Puppies. Happily, ever after.

Turns out, The Plan didn’t go as planned. I checked all those boxes but when it got to the “happily ever after” part, the house of cards I had built crumbled to the ground. I found myself broke, devastated, lonely, and starting over.

The saving grace was that I had a plan for my career. I even weathered some unexpected but exciting pivots and like a good ‘lil soldier, marched my way to the top of my profession. But after twenty years of hardcore hustle, I found myself freaking exhausted. Tired of the life I had worked so diligently to construct, one that left me too depleted to find any joy in what I had earned.

The Plan had let me down again.

Then, I did something stupid.
Scratch that. I did something brave.
Scratch that. I did something stupid and brave. “Strave”? (Note to self: Trademark new word.)

I quit it all and gave myself permission to throw away The Plan.

Once again, I am broke, devastated, lonely, and starting over. Life is funny like that.

I find myself in a season of life where I am without a plan, without direction, without an intention. In professional transition and with children who are almost grown and need me less.

I am a writer who isn’t writing.
A speaker who isn’t speaking.
A teacher who isn’t teaching.
A mother who isn’t actively mothering.
A wife who isn’t… Well, if the definition of “wife-ing” is feeding and fucking your husband, at least I am killing it in that department.

Aside from the resounding endorsement from my well-satisfied husband, I find myself pondering my purpose.

Who am I?
Who do I want to be?
What could my future look like?
How big can I dream?

Sitting in this purgatory is wildly uncomfortable but I am trying to do just that. Sit. As someone who has been obsessively inclined towards action my whole life, I am doing my best to be still and not rush blindly forward. I don’t know what comes next and instead of letting that admission crush me like a cockroach on the sidewalk, I am learning to embrace the unknown. It’s really fucking hard. Having faith in the seeds I’ve sown is not easy.

While there is so much that I don’t know, there are a few things I audaciously hold true:

I know that the professional trajectory I envisioned no longer suits me. I am done trading my time and mental health for money.

I know that even though my path isn’t well-lit (yet), I have spent decades cultivating skills and relationships which have the potential to serve my career, whatever that may be.

I know that I have diligently labored to raise self-assured, good human beings who will go forth to make their own mark on the world.

I know my boys will always love their mama.

I know that I want to see the world and embrace the discomfort of being immersed in various cultures, languages, and religions.

I know that in the past, taking risks has paid off exponentially.

I guess I do know a few things after all.

While some self-prophesizing asshole once said, “Hope is not a plan” I disagree. Right now, I only have hope. I hope for a future which is deeply fulfilling and this hope will inspire action when I am ready. I hope that one day (soon, please), I will wake up with clarity and assuredness. I hope that my “Hustling Thirties” and “WTF Forties” will pave the road for my “Fabulous Fifties.”

Come to think of it, “No-Fucks Fifties” is more on-brand for me. I hope for an era when I can live the life I want without fear of judgment or failure, where I’ve put in my time and deserve to live unapologetically.

​In fact, I don’t hope that decade is coming. I know it.