Writer, divorcée, Denver native. This is where I write what I actually think — not the version that fits on a greeting card. The version you'd get if you were on my back porch in October, watching the aspens turn, and you asked me a real question.
The women in my family don't age quietly and we never have. I'm 52, I live in Denver with four cats and a hot tub that has seen things, and I spent the better part of two decades wearing blazers in a cubicle before I decided my retirement plan was "audacity."
This is where I write what I actually think. Not the version that fits on a greeting card. The version you'd get if you were sitting on my back porch in October, watching the aspens turn, and you asked me a real question.
Here's the thing nobody tells you about leaving a long marriage in your late forties: you get your face back. Not in a Botox way. In an "I haven't been slowly disappearing to keep the peace" way. The lighting in my house changed. My posture changed. My grocery cart stopped being 90% things other people liked...
Read the entryThirty-four matches. Not one of them makes me want to put on real pants. The twenty-two-year-old says "hey pretty." The fifty-eight-year-old sends me his boat. The thirty-nine-year-old sends me a photo of his dog and calls it a personality. Reader, I poured wine and closed the app...
Read the entryShe asked what I do when I feel sad. I told her. We are no longer working together. Here's the list, unabridged.
Read the entrySomewhere around my 49th birthday, something strange happened on the dating apps. The 55-year-old divorced guys with boats started swiping past me for the yoga instructors. And the 32-year-old finance bros started sliding into my DMs with a confidence I hadn't seen since 2004...
Read the entryThe internet told me direct sunlight on my perineum would rebalance my hormones. I'm menopause-adjacent; I'm not above trying things. What followed was a brief experiment on my back porch at 7am in April, a concerned neighbor, and a series of questions I will now answer for you...
Read the entryMy ex-husband said it wasn't practical. I kept it in the divorce. I've never been more practical in my life.
Read the entryI'm 52 and I didn't change my mind. I didn't wake up at 38 with a sudden biological scream. I didn't regret it at 45 when my friends' kids were in high school. I don't regret it now, sitting in my quiet house with my four cats and a calendar that is entirely mine...
Read the entryYou know it. I know it. That's why you keep scrolling. The blog is real, and the blog is the G-rated cut. If you want the rest — longer, quieter, with the door closed — it lives one click away.
Show me what I'm missingThe women in my family don't age quietly. We never have.
I kept the hot tub in the divorce. It was the most practical thing I've ever done.
My grocery cart stopped being 90% things other people liked. That's when I knew I was back.
Every morning is mine. Every evening is mine. The whole calendar, mine. I'm forty years late to this.
You didn't land on this page looking for a book club. You clicked because something about the thumbnail, the caption, the face made you want more. I'm not going to pretend I don't know. I'm going to respect your time and tell you where the rest is.
Take me thereYou didn't land here by accident. Something about the face, the caption, the line made you click. I'm not above knowing what you came for, and I'm not pretending this page is all I have to offer. Come through.
Come Through