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Author's Note: I write this from the perspective of time, not anger. These experiences shaped my understanding of work, and self-respect, and that informed me how I raised my children and move through the world. This is not a call to action or a compliant, it is simply a record of how I chose to stand, and how standing quietly can still be powerful.

I entered medical management in 1980, at a time when professionalism was expected of women and restraint was not always expected of men. 

I worked in 800 bed hospital, primarily alongside male physicians. Many were exceptional, skilled, respectful, and deeply committed to their work. Others were not. That contrast became clear early on. 

It was not unusual, if I found myself alone with the doctor in an elevator, for him to stop it and ask for sexual favor. I always declined, calmly, without embarrassment, without apology, and I started the elevator. I did not shame. I did not escalate. I did not comply. 

There was never force. But there was expectation. 

I understood something then that time has only confirmed: advancement earn through favors is temporary. Authority gained that way does not endure. I watched careers rise quickly and disappear just as fast. I chose another path. 

I never reported these encounters. I never carried them into the workplace. I worked in critical care, collaborated closely with Physicians I respected, and kept my focus on competence. When an "accidental" touch occurred, i responded with Excuse me, as if the fault were mine, because in that era, composure was often safer been confrontation. I love my work. I understood the cost of reaction. I paid it quietly. 

I did well in medicine.

Later, needing greater autonomy to raise six children on my own, I earned my real estate license and became a broker in 1995. The industry was different, that the posture was familiar. Men still believed they control the room. 

I heard language meant to diminish and reduce. One phase, " she carries her briefcase between her legs" was spoken casually, as if it were clever. I protected myself with composure, boundaries, And precision. 

When a builder once said, " if you sleep with me, i'll give you all my listings," I replied evenly, "You don't have enough listings for me to sleep with you." It was not said to insult him, but to end the conversation, clearly and finally.

Again, I did well.

I raised my children while building a career. I provided stability, opportunity, and standards. We were not perfect, but we were intentional. My children grew into capable, successful adults. They remain close to me. They still seek my counseling. 

Once, while renting equipment, I was told, "You need a man and a truck." i politely left. At the next rental company, the manager laughed and said, "We Don't care who you are,  just bring it back on time." He loaded it into my car. 

Progress often looks like that, quiet, practical, undeniable.

It is still a man's world, but it is no longer the same one. I did not challenge it with outrage or slogans. I navigated it with boundaries, intelligence, and resolve.

I did not trade myself to succeed.

And I succeeded anyway. 

This piece is preserved as a personal record of lived experience. It is written without bitterness and without apology. 

Much of my life's work has been rooted in offering second chances to people navigating difficult chapters, unstable ground, or the long work of rebuilding. I have seen what kindness paired with opportunity can do, and I carry many quiet success stories because of it.

I've also learned that compassion requires boundaries to remain whole. This reflection grew out of  that tension, the place where generosity meets responsibility, and where holding steady becomes its own form of care.

There are days when compassion feels heavy.  Days when doing the right thing still leaves a knot in my chest. Days when I wonder how kindness and boundaries can live in the same space without one canceling out the other. 

Today was one of those days.

I was reminded again that behavior is not identity. What I sometimes meet in others is not entitlement, but survival. Learned in places where stability was rare and consequences were inconsistent. When fear rises, it often wears the mask of anger. And when structure finally stands firm, it can feel threatening to those who have lived without it.

I have learned that anger directed at me is rarely about me. I represent a moment where things no longer bend. A place where arrangements matter. A line that is not move simply because emotions are loud.

That does not make me unkind.

Grace does not mean limitless permission. Offering second chances is compassion. Enforcing boundaries is responsibility. I have come to understand that both can exist together, even when it feels uncomfortable. 

There is a difference between emotional bargaining and true authority. Demands born from fear do  not change truth. They do not erase Arrangements. They do not undo the quiet work of showing up, paying the bills, keeping the lights on. And holding space responsibly.

I am learning that predictable behavior does not require emotional energy, it requires procedure. When I follow what is lawful and fair, I'm doing my work well, even when others are upset.

And perhaps the most important lesson: I do not need to justify boundaries in order to remain kind. 

I choose language that reflects dignity, mine and theirs. I no longer attach behavior to gender, income, or education. I speak to actions, agreements, and consequences, and I let that be enough.

Holding steady does that make me hard. It makes me sustainable.

I had to unlearn how quickly I judged. (  Assessed,  Formed my opinion )  Behavior becomes labels, and labels become limits. 

Gender, finances, education, do not define the whole person. Second chances begin when judgment ends. 

                      If this reflection met you in a tinder place, you're welcome to write.                                                                        I will read your words, and I will honor your story.

We talk often about acceptance, accepting ourselves, being accepted by the world around us.

It seems simple on the surface. But when you look closer, acceptance is something nearly everyone is searching for, what do they name it or not.

Those of us who have walked through grief or deep loss often recognize this longing quickly. Loss strips away certainty. It leaves us exposed tender and aware of how deeply we want to be seen without explanation of defense. 

Yet I come to believe that even those who have not suffered great loss are searching too. Perhaps just as desperately.

We see it in the way the laws are written, rules are enforced, and positions are defended. Somewhere along the way, acceptance has become something we try to force rather than offer. Power replaces kindness. Control replaces understanding. ,And strangely Those who have fought hardest to be accepted sometimes struggle most to accept others. 

It becomes a quiet War, not built on compassion, but winning.

I am not a perfect "live and Let live" person. But I am a believer and withholding judgment. In choosing not to criticize. In staying out of another's life unless someone is truly being harmed. 

I'm not speaking of criminals are those who repeatedly cause damage without accountability. I'm speaking of good people, living as they believe, doing their best, sometimes imperfectly, often quietly.

What I've learned is this: acceptance goes best we're listening lives. Were curiosity replaces assumptions. We're kindness comes before conclusions. 

If we begin to listen more and judge less, we may find ourselves receiving the very acceptance we've been longing for. 

I learned long ago that I cannot save the world. But I can keep trying, one person, what animal, what emotion at a time. 

And sometimes, this is more than enough.

                                     Acceptance cannot be forced into existence, 

                                     it grows only we're kindness is willing to stay.

I've been thinking lately about the days of the week, now each one seems to arrive caring its own emotion.

I don't know if it comes from scripture, from years of punching a time clock, from learning to be self-employed and answering to my own, or from the invisible calendar of grief that keeps ticking inside us.

Maybe it's all of it.

Each day feels different to me now. Not better or worse, just different. Each one carries responsibility, even when I try not to assign it one.

Monday arrives strong. It feels like a get up and do it day. A day that pushes me forward whether I feel ready or not. There's purpose in Monday, but also pressure, a quiet expectation to show up, to  function, to move.

As the week unfolds, i find my footing. Some days I cooperate with the rhythm. Some days I direct it. And some days, if I'm honest, I resisted it all  together.

I've learned I can often guide my response now. Not always, but more than before. That feels like growth. 

And then there's Sunday.

I've said out loud, more than once, " Sundays are tough for me."

That wasn't always true. In younger years, Sunday was my favorite day. A day of rest. A day of faith, family, comfort, and predictability.

Now, Sunday moves slower, and sometimes heavier. There's a Stillness that feels different than the rest. A quiet that leaves room for memories to speak. Occasionally, a sadness I can't fully explain.

Maybe it's the pause. Maybe it's what no longer feels the space the way it once did. Maybe it's grief reminding me that time keeps moving, even when parts of my heart are still catching up. 

I don't fight it the way I used to. I notice it. I honor it. I let Sunday be what it is. 

Because I'm learning this: Everyday carries something. Expectation. Memory. Responsibility. Grace.

And maybe the goal isn't to feel the same about every day, but to meet each one honestly, with the heart we have today.

              Some days ask for strength, others ask for rest, and both are necessary.

I lost my Daughter in 2022.

Her name is Nikki.

She was my second child, born into a family of six, and she was also my friend. One of my closest.

Nikki was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes at 15 months old. From that moment on, her life required vigilance, strength, courage most people never see. She carried that weight quietly and lived fully anyway.

She was 37, just 2 weeks shy of her 38th birthday, when my world split open.

The devastation of losing a child is Indescribable. There are no words that can carry it's full weight. There's no comparison that fits. There is no "strong enough" or "faithful enough" to make it hurt less.

You don't just lose a child, you lose the future you imagined, the phone calls that should have happened, the shared laughter, the quiet understanding only a mother and a daughter know.

You lose your footing in the world.

I'm a woman of faith. That faith did not spare me this loss. It did not shield my heart. But it did hold me when I could not hold myself.

I also had to keep going, for my other children. They did not just lose a sister. They lost their Nikki. And I carried the weight of their grief alongside my own.

In my pain, i made some poor escape choices. I was trying to survive something unbearable. I'm not proud of those choices, but I understand them now.

Grief is not neat. It is not linear. It does not ask permission before it breaks you.

I am back on track now, not healed, not whole, but facing the grief instead of running from it. Learning how to live with it instead of against it.

I meet people, placed in my path by what I feel is the Lord, who have lost two children. I can't imagine that pain. And yet, I recognize the look in their eyes. The strength that comes only from surviving what no one should have to survive.

Each day is a struggle to face a world without your child in it. Somebody are quieter than others. Some days are louder. But the ache never leaves.

And this is one of the reasons I write.

I'm right because love does not disappear when someone dies. I write because grief needs a place to land. I write because there are others walking this road who need to know they are not weak, broken, or faithless for hurting this much.

I write because Nikki mattered. Because she still does. Because love deserves words, even when words are not enough. 

We often step into a new year with battle language. 

Let's fight this year.

Let's Beat It.

Let's give it everything we've got.

But maybe this year doesn't need to fight. Maybe it needs wisdom. What if we change our words and in doing so, Change how the year meets us?

Instead of "Give everything you have," what if we said "Refresh, then give the right amount" because exhaustion is not a requirement for worth, and rest is not failure.

Instead of " kick this challenge," "Lets tame this" approach it slowly, thoughtfully, with patience and skill, allowing growth without bruising ourselves along the way.

Words matter. They set the tone for how we enter our days, how we treat ourselves when we stumble, and how we measure success.

This year, maybe choose words that welcome us in. Words that encourage progress without punishment. Words that leave room for Grace.

May this be the year of improvement shaped by kindness. Of strength paired with gentleness. Of winning, not by fighting harder, but by living wiser.

                                "Not every  New Year needs a fight.

                           Some simply ask for wiser words, gentler steps, 

                                and the courage to grow with kindness."

So often, we overlook the battles of others.

We hear someone say, " I'll come help you" or " I'll be there" and when plans change, or we're postponed, delayed, Or forgotten, It's easy to feel dismissed. It can feel like we don't matter enough to make the list.

But often, the real story lives quietly beneath the surface.

The truth is, the time someone hope to give may be tangled up in things they're fighting just to hold together. The energy they meant to offer maybe spent managing worries they haven't found words for yet. The delay may have nothing to do with willingness, And everything to do with capability.

Everyone carries troubles. And someone else's troubles are just as heavy as our own.

What feels small to one person may be overwhelming to another. And sometimes, the thing they're facing is simply too big, too tender, or too complicated to explain. Silence doesn't always mean indifference. Distance doesn't always mean a lack of care.

Often, the soft words offered are genuine, just not immediately available to live out. 

Most people mean well. Truly. But life has a way of crowding in, responsibilities piling up, unexpected turns stealing time and strength, quiet struggles demanding attention before anything else can be given. 

This doesn't erase this appointment. It doesn't make unmet needs disappear. But it can soften the edges. 

When we choose grace over assumption, patience over resentment, and understanding over judgment, we leave room for humanity, ours and theirs. We remember that everyone is doing the best they can with what they have in the moment.

Sometimes the kindest thing we can do is believe the care exists, even when help is delayed. And sometimes the bravest thing is to offer that same grace to ourselves when we fall short, too.

We are all learning how to show up, imperfectly, honestly, and as best we can.

           "what looks like absence is often someone else caring more than we can see"

I find myself smiling through this season, not because everything is easy, but because there's so much to be thankful for. Gratitude and grief often walk side by side. I see it not only in my own life, but in so many around me who are quietly struggling, Learning how to carry loss while still showing up. 

The holidays have a way of reminding us that traditions change. Sometimes because of loss. Sometimes because of growth. Sometimes simply because time moves us into a new chapter. Children grow up. They build lives of their own. They bring little ones into the world, and suddenly the Christmas morning we once held so tightly belong To Memory. 

I loved those mornings when my children were all still at home, from wide-eyed little ones to young adults finding their way. I didn't know then if I was doing it right. I only knew I was loving them with intention, raising them with goals, values, And hope. Looking back now, I see the fruit of those years. They are wonderful parents. Successful, Compassionate people. And they still love their Mom. That alone is a unmeasurable gift. 

We also carry the loss of their sister. That grief doesn't leave, it changes shape. We are still learning how to live with it, how to honor her, how to keep moving forward together. In this season, we're finding alternative ways to cope, to remember, to breathe, And to love through what is missing. 

So I smile, not because the pain is gone, but because love remains. Because gratitude still rises. Because even in seasons of change and loss, there is growth, connection, and quiet strength holding us together. 

This is the week of Christmas, and it looks different than it once did.

There was a time when Christmas morning was Loud and full, when little feet rush down the hall and the magic depended on me. I remember those years fondly. They were a gift.

Now, I stand back and watch my grown children create that same wonder for their own little ones. And somehow, it is even more beautiful. They carry our traditions forward, adding their own touches, their own laughter, their own magic, only in the way my children can. It feels familiar and brand new all at once.

" if I didn't raise my children to be better than I am, i have failed" 

by that measure, I am a success.

I'm so proud of the people my children have become. I am grateful Beyond words for the parents they are, the love they show, and the way they now understand on a deeper level what it mean to raise them. They tell me they see now. They appreciate it now. And that is a gift I never expected but cherish deeply.

One of my daughters has chosen a different path, no children of her own, but she is a wonderful aunt, a financial success, and a true advisor. Her life is full and meaningful. In its own beautiful way the family glue. I am proud of her journey.

This season reminds me that traditions don't end, they grow. They are carried, expanded, and make new by the Next Generation. And watching that happen is one of the greatest joys of my life.

This Christmas, my heart is full. 

Begins with One Small choice

 In grief, I didn't always choose well, But I chose enough - and enough carried me home.