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Tools of My Own
A couple of weekends ago, we called an all-hands-on-deck family garage-cleaning day. We needed help—desperately. Over the last year, Craig and I had fallen into the habit of putting things “out in the garage,” which really meant anywhere: along the edges, on the floor, or somewhere in the vague vicinity of Craig’s workbench.We usually tackle a full garage overhaul every fall, but last year I only cleaned out my side. That was it. The rest never happened. So this year, we drafted everyone. Craig reorganized his tools, Kadon and Luka hauled things to the back shed, and I swept and blew out dust, leaves, and whatever unidentifiable debris had settled in since the last solar eclipse.
As we put everything back where it belonged, I noticed something I’ve always known: most of the tools in our house belong to Craig. The garage proves it. The basement confirms it. And honestly, I’m fine with that. I don’t need all the tools. I just need the ones that are mine.
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Organized by Frustration
I love things neat and organized.
Boxes, bins, baskets, bags—I don’t discriminate.
If it has sides and can contain chaos, I’m in love.But my ultimate frustration?
Other people do not treat things the way I do.
And nowhere was this more obvious than the toy room when the kids were little. -
Frustration in Three Acts
Some people collect stamps. I collect other people’s emotions. For most of my life, “managing the mood in the room” felt like a job I didn’t remember applying for…but somehow kept showing up to anyway.
I’ve always been a bit of a chameleon. My own feelings didn’t matter—I could “read the room” and instantly morph into whatever version of myself I thought someone needed.
Act 1: The first time someone called me out on this talent was in my late teens. A boyfriend and I were walking arm-in-arm through a school playground late one crisp fall evening. Out of nowhere, he started singing Air Supply’s “Every Woman in the World to Me.” I don’t remember the exact conversation that followed, but I do remember him gently telling me he didn’t need a cheerleader. He wanted me. My real thoughts. My real feelings. My real presence. Awwww… right?Act 2: Scene change: age 32. I was married to my ex-husband Tom. I’d come home late from teaching and listen—literally—to his mood before I walked through the door. If the TV blared, it was “walk on eggshells” time. If I heard guitar riffs floating out of his music room, all was well.
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Frustration in Full Color
Quite a few years ago, I was introduced to the idea that, if you want to look your best, you should “have your colors done.” The whole purpose is to identify the shades that flatter your natural coloring, helping you choose clothes and makeup that truly enhance your features.At the time, my sister Judy was living in California. When I went to visit her, she announced that she was taking me to have my colors done. I had always worn cream, tan, brown—safe colors I could hide behind. Never, in a million years, would I have put on bright colors like red or purple.
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The Tangles That Shaped Me
When I was in junior high school, I found myself standing at a quiet crossroads that no one else seemed to notice. On the outside, I was just another kid trying to survive algebra class and navigate the middle school schedule. But inside, I already felt the tug of two very different paths. I seemed to be the daring one of the family, you know, “The Black Sheep”. I always wanted to do the undesired activity to prove that I could and would do what I wanted. -
Tangled Memories
I’ve always had long, straight hair. You’d think that would make life easier—no curls to tame, no frizz to battle. But somehow, my straight hair has always managed to find its own special ways to get me tangled in trouble.And honestly? That theme started way back in childhood.
The Daily Ponytail Pain Olympics
When I was little, Mom took charge of styling my long, straight hair every morning—ponytails, braids, neat little parts. She had a vision, and my job was simply to sit still and survive it. What didn’t help was that even as a kid (and still now), I couldn’t stand “sticky-outies.” Every single hair needed to be smooth, tight, and perfectly in place. One little piece sticking out of a ponytail could send me into full hysterics, and Mom would have to stop everything and fix it before I could function again.
Mom would grab the brush and immediately begin working like she was on a mission. I’d wince, pout, or try to subtly shrink away from the next swipe. Naturally, the more I reacted, the firmer her brushing became.
Eventually came the line every child of the 70s and 80s heard at least once:
“If you think THAT hurts—I’ll show you something that really hurts…”
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The Avocado Test
How many times have I sat in a Mexican restaurant, ordered an entrée, and watched the server point to “Add avocado: 50¢”? For years I said no. Extra felt unnecessary. Eating out already felt like a splurge.
So…what is wealth?
Money isn’t wealth. Money buys options. For most of my adult life—as a married woman and a teacher with a master’s degree—I felt like we had just enough. Never extra, but enough.
I love my house, my kids, my husband, my life. We live in the country with a lake in our backyard and about 300 feet of shoreline. My family has a Door County cottage on Lake Michigan and a rental next door. The rental brings in income—and work. That’s real life.
Here’s the big difference between being rich and being wealthy: freedom. My definition of wealth is freedom. I’m building that now. I retired from teaching and quit my day job at Wally World. These days I “work” on TikTok. I learn, explore, create, and grow. The money isn’t rolling in yet, but the potential is real—and I wake up excited about the day.
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Fate Had Other Plans
I like to think I’m in charge of my own life. I’ve got color-coded calendars, synced reminders, and a to-do list that could scare a project manager. My inner control freak sleeps better when everything fits in a nice, neat box.But every so often, fate rolls her eyes, tosses my list in the air, and says, “Cute plan. Watch this.”
It’s never dramatic at first. Usually it starts with some tiny glitch—Wi-Fi dying during a meeting, a dog emergency, or the weather deciding to monsoon on my “productive” day. I huff, I mutter, I question all my life choices. And then, like clockwork, something unexpected falls into place. I’ll stumble across an old photo, get a call from someone I’ve been meaning to reach, or realize that fate just canceled my plans so I could actually notice my own life.
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Was It Fate, or Just a Yes?
When it comes to the idea of our lives being controlled by Fate, I have very mixed emotions. Some of my friends shrug and say, “Stuff happens,” as if life is completely out of their hands. Another one of those phrases is “It is what it is,” again implying that we’re ruled by fate. I’ve always had a hard time with that idea.I believe our consequences come at the end of a process that begins with our thoughts. What we think about shapes how we feel. Those feelings lead to actions, and our actions create results. In Catechism class and Sunday School, I was taught that we’ve been given the gift of free will, the ability to choose our own path. It’s those choices that determine how our lives unfold.
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When Fate Said “No”
There are moments in life when fate doesn’t announce itself with a sign or a sudden revelation. It arrives quietly, almost unnoticed, nudging us away from one path and toward another. I believe that’s what happened to me during one of the most difficult chapters of my life.When my father passed away, the world around me felt different, not just emotionally, but in how uncertain everything suddenly seemed to change. Grief has a strange way of rearranging your priorities. Things that once felt urgent or important no longer carried the same weight. Around that same time, a job transfer was presented to my husband. He had been in a manager training program, and this was the kind of offer where you periodically get transferred to other cities. On paper, it was the next logical step. It promised more pay, more responsibility, and the kind of advancement most people work years to achieve.
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Drinking the Kool-Aid
When I first heard someone use the phrase “drinking the Kool-Aid” in a staff memo, my jaw nearly hit the teacher’s lounge table. To me, Kool-Aid was the stuff of childhood—sticky red mustaches, paper cups, and endless summer refills. But the phrase? That carried a much darker flavor.
I was working under a brand-new principal—Rich—who was just twenty-nine years old. Of all the qualified candidates who must have applied, somehow he got the job. His résumé boasted a couple years of teaching kindergarten, a freshly minted master’s degree, and a short stint as an assistant principal. He had energy and enthusiasm, sure—but experience? Let’s just say his cup wasn’t exactly running over.
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Sunday, Time to Reflect and Reconnect
Sundays have a rhythm all their own. They mark both an ending and a beginning, a soft pause before the rush of another week. Depending on the season, they can be a doorway to something new or a gentle reminder to wrap up what’s unfinished.
When I was working full-time, I’ll admit, Sunday nights were my least favorite. No matter how productive I tried to be, the day always slipped away too quickly. By bedtime, I’d feel that familiar twinge of dread. Monday was waiting, and I wasn’t ready to meet it.
As a kid, Sundays had a very different flavor. The day began with church. I loved getting dressed up and sitting with my mom and sisters, listening to the sermon and wondering how it applied to me. Afterward, we’d change into comfy clothes, and Dad would settle into his red recliner for the “game of the day.” Football, baseball, golf, he loved them all. Before long, his interest would give way to a nap, and we’d hear the familiar sound of soft snores coming from his chair.
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Sunday, Not a Funday
Sunday has long been considered a special day, and its significance stems from several aspects of life: spiritual, physical, emotional, and social.In our family, I don’t think my dad got the memo that this was a day of rest, relaxation, and fun. You see, he was a salesman and was only home mostly on Sundays. What this meant to me was one of two things. First of all, we would usually have relatives over for the day. This meant a big meal around three p.m. After the meal, the grown-ups gathered in the living room to supposedly watch TV, but it usually meant they took an afternoon nap. Then, the most exciting event of the day started. My younger Sister, Judy, and I would have the privilege of cleaning up this mess. This took most of the day, as my mom, I swear, used every pot and pan in the cupboard, and, of course, the very best china. We would have a quiet discussion about who would wash and who would dry. For some reason, I washed. I don’t know why, as this entailed scrubbing all the dirty pots and pans, but drying seemed to take forever as that entailed putting everything away, and then there was cleanup.
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Sunday Faith, Fun, and Cleanup Duty
When I was little, Sundays had a rhythm all their own. The morning always started with Sunday School—Bible stories, crafts, and songs sung a little too loudly by kids who had way too much energy. But first came the ritual of getting dressed in our Sunday best. Dresses, shoes that felt a little more special than the everyday pair—it was all part of the package.After church came the real highlight: coffee and donuts with family friends. Most Sundays it was at their house, where the adults lingered over mugs and conversation while we kids played. But every once in a while, the gathering was at our house.
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Tools of the Trade
My profession throughout my life was that of a legal secretary. It has been both interesting and amazing to witness how office equipment has evolved over my 59 years in this occupation.Tools of the Trade, by Decade
1950s
- Manual Typewriters – The primary tool for all correspondence.
- Mimeograph & Spirit Duplicators – Produced bulk copies.
- Rotary Dial Telephones – Standard desk communication.
- Dictation Machines – Using wax cylinders or early magnetic tape.
- Adding Machines – Mechanical devices for accounting.
- Filing Cabinets – The paper empire of every office.
- Punch Clocks – Employee timekeeping.
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Y2K: History’s Most Boring Apocolypse
In 1999, my job description was basically “professional panic manager.” By day, I was a Senior Field Consultant for Consultis. By night, I moonlighted with my own company, Schneider Consulting. Translation: I got paid to keep computers from throwing a digital temper tantrum at midnight on December 31st.The “crisis”? Two-digit years. Computers thought “00” meant 1900, not 2000. Which, according to the news, meant banks would collapse, planes would fall from the sky, and your toaster might start a small nuclear war. Basically, we were all one spreadsheet away from the Stone Age.
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History: From Then to Now
I remember when I was little, I used to hide under my grandmother’s quilting frame and listen to her and the women in our family complain about how expensive everything was. I asked Mom why Grandma liked to make quilts. She said it was too expensive to buy them already made.
I loved our handmade quilts and thought Grandma was wise to know how to do things like make jam and jelly, can fruit, bake bread, and make pies. She learned practical things, and she knew how to save money.
Growing up in the 1950s, my world was filled with hopscotch, saddle shoes, and black-and-white TV. Elvis was everyone’s heartthrob. We were practicing “bomb drills” in our school basement. The fear of “the bomb” was real, even if we didn’t understand it. Moving forward to my grade school years, we used to buy movie tickets at school. They came on a card with perforations. Each ticket cost $.25. The whole card cost three dollars and would allow us to go to the movies every Saturday afternoon for 12 weeks.
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Polish, Parenthood, and Puppies
Fingernails were not an item I paid much attention to as a kid. Many of the other little girls would come to school with their nails painted. I was much more interested in being a tomboy and playing cowboys and indians. In about the fourth grade, we had a teacher who kept a chart on each of us and checked different areas every day. One of the areas she emphasized was hygiene, which included checking our fingernails to ensure they were clean and well-shaped. I always received a negative mark in this category. I also chewed my cuticles until they bled. This didn’t add to a nice-looking nail experience.
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Sparkles and Super Glue
Fingernails seem to have turned into a full-blown fashion statement these days. Everywhere I look, people are tapping away with tiny works of art on the ends of their fingers. When I was a little girl, nail polish only came out when we played dress-up. The bottles were tiny, the colors questionable, and the application? A complete disaster. We had more polish on our fingers than on our nails. Future nail technicians, we were not.I didn’t help matters by being a chronic nail-biter. My poor nails never had a chance. Any time one dared to grow to a respectable length, I nibbled it right back into oblivion.
Adulthood didn’t bring much improvement. I still bit them, picked them, fussed with them basically, I treated my hands like ready-to-use tools that were always half-demolished. Then came acrylic nails. My youngest daughter gifted me a manicure for her wedding, and from that moment on, I was hooked. Acrylic nails were the thing back then, and for the next twenty-three years, I faithfully showed up every three weeks.
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Fingernails: Chewed, Glued, and Screwed
As a kid, I chewed my nails down to the quick. There was never an ounce of white at the tips, and I had this strange habit of folding my pillowcase and shoving the crease under my nails, pushing that tender skin back. Gross, I know. The truth is, that habit never really went away. I still “crease” my nails to this day, and after years of it, my fingernails are barely attached to their nail beds—a long-lasting reminder of my own weird fidgeting.By the time I got to college, though, I traded one bad habit for another. With my $25 monthly allowance, I wasn’t buying ramen or stretching a dollar the way Lisa bragged she could with her $20. Nope—I was in the salon chair, blowing my budget on acrylic nails. Scrimping was never my style.
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Sickness & Sanity
Sickness has a way of leaving its mark. Not just the aches or the fevers, but the memories—how people react, who shows up, and the chaos that comes with it. Some of my sick days were miserable, some were funny in hindsight, and all of them taught me something about the people around me.When I was a kid, missing a day of school was not an option. Anytime we said we were sick, Mom’s response was, “Take an aspirin and a Geritol and you’ll feel fine.” Sympathy wasn’t really on the table. One time that I did manage to stay home from school, I remember making it far enough to be standing in the bathroom doorway, dry-heaving and trying to get my bearings. Dad took one look, grabbed my shoulders, and shoved me toward the toilet. No gentle words, no comforting back rub—just “protect the rug.”
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We Survived Covid
I’ve never been one to keep a perfect diary. My memories are more like sticky notes—half finished, scattered, and crumpled at the bottom of a purse. But I do remember this season of life vividly, probably because Covid practically steamrolled through our house.
When the world shut down, our little corner of life didn’t stop entirely. Craig kept going to work. The kids and I played family games, and we still shopped and lived somewhat normally—though with restrictions and precautions.By the end of summer, Luka started football practice. I planned to homeschool him and Aubrey, while Kadon would attend in person. One evening, after I picked Luka up from practice, he mentioned that his body hurt. That seemed odd, but I chalked it up to tough conditioning drills. The next morning, he spiked a fever. When we all got tested, he came back positive.
For the next two weeks, Luka quarantined in the library. I sat with him and worked through his school assignments. As soon as he recovered, Kadon tested positive and took his turn in the library, enjoying the same two-week sentence of schoolwork, television, and being waited on hand and foot. Both boys had only a brief fever, followed by endless hours of lounging with a remote in hand.
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Cat Scratch Fever
Back in the early 1980s, I was invited to participate in a fashion show. The show was being held at a Champagne Winery in the Napa Valley. I lived in the valley and worked for the local bank. The owner of the shop supplying the clothes asked people in different occupations to be guest models. I was excited and pleased to be asked.We met with the store owner and selected several fashionable looks to showcase for the show. I remember I was to wear a cream-colored knit jumpsuit belted with a wide belt featuring a stone buckle. With it, I wore a necklace with a stone matching the buckle. Another item chosen for me was a mohair coat in shades of gold and cream. I would wear it over the jumpsuit.
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A Private Room, Please
When I reflect on the word sickness, I feel that I’ve hardly ever been truly sick. But as I think back, I can see that over the last ten years, I seem to have made up for that. I’ve had a couple of serious illnesses, but I just never chose to consider them life-altering. As a child, I had the usual lineup: chicken pox, measles, mumps, colds, the flu, all those “lovely” little sicknesses that keep life interesting. I especially remember one day in kindergarten, coming home to find a big red sign posted on our front door. It announced that someone inside had a contagious illness and warned others to stay away. At the time, this was a common practice, though not long afterward, that way of announcing illness disappeared.
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The New Face of Truthfulness
The practice of being truthful has changed. Years ago, being truthful was more about personal character and reputation. Handshakes often sealed a deal. Neighbors, coworkers, and family knew if your words matched your actions. Truth was simple, face-to-face, and rooted in trust.Today, truthfulness feels more complicated. With social media, we are tempted to share a version of ourselves. Information overload makes it harder to separate fact from opinion, and sometimes even the most well-meaning people struggle to know what’s really true. The face-to-face element of being truthful no longer exists.
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Truth and Trust
“Hey Sandy, you had better talk to your daughter… she has hickies on her neck,” my dad said.
“You’d better talk to your daughter. I don’t like her lying on the floor with her boyfriend under a blanket,” my mom later told me my dad had said.
Growing up, I was probably as truthful with my parents as many people of my generation—more than some, less than others. I tried to live my life and be in relationships to the best of my ability, but I was a teenager after all. Teenagers are works in progress, not fully formed moral philosophers.
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Kayaks and Other Missed Opportunities
I have two kayaks at home and two more up at our cottage in Door County. Want to guess how many times I’ve used them in the past two years? Exactly once. And no, not the shiny new ones up at the cottage—those have never touched water.I knew I’d enjoy kayaking because a few years back I borrowed a friend’s boat on Rock Lake in Lake Mills, WI. We shoved off around 11 a.m. and paddled along the shoreline for three hours. We drifted past gorgeous lake homes and kids doing TikTok dances on their piers. We laughed, swapped stories, and soaked up each other’s company. At one sandy little bay, we pulled our kayaks up, ate fruit and granola, then dropped everything and dove into the water. It was a perfect day. The real surprise? I wasn’t even sore the next morning.
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Lessons from a Kayak
Life doesn’t hand you a motorboat. Most days, it’s a kayak—one paddle, one person, and a lot of figuring it out as you go.Motorboats are for people who like speed, money, and confidence. Kayaks? Those are for people with balance. Which is exactly why I’ve never set foot in one. I can trip over a flat floor, so climbing into a kayak is basically begging the fish to get a free laugh. Honestly, I’d rather be the one on shore with a chair, a snack, and a towel ready for whoever tips first.
But even from land, I get it. Some days in life feel like gliding across smooth water—work goes well, the house is (mostly) in order, and the current carries me along. Other days? I’m spinning in circles, paddling hard but not making any progress—kind of like trying to juggle work, family, and a house that seems to breed laundry and dust.
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Adding Kayaks to the List
When I was a teenager, I loved to go canoeing. We would head out on Beaver Dam Lake as soon as the spring sun warmed the air and work on our tans. It became a ritual for the eight of us each year.At Girl Scout Camp Blackhawk, canoeing was a major activity, and I loved every moment. We spent hours learning how to paddle correctly and steer accurately. Time passed, and after I moved away from home, I never had the chance to continue canoeing or to try kayaking.
When I returned to Wisconsin in 2014, kayaking had become a popular sport in town. There was a rental spot at Waterworks Park and a launching area that made getting in and out of a kayak simple. My sister and I would pass it often on our daily walks and always said, “One day we’ll try it.” But we never did.
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Canoe Chaos to Kayak Dreams
I am the proud owner of two kayaks. My family heard me talking about wanting to try kayaking, and they thought I’d love it. At first, they bought me two small ones—only later did I notice there was a weight restriction. So those went back, and we replaced them with two larger ones.I wanted two because I imagined my husband and I paddling together, sharing this new adventure. But I waited too long. My husband has since passed, and now the kayaks sit at our cottage on Lake Michigan. Honestly, they’d be better suited for our calm local lake—but no, we apparently thought braving five-foot waves would be more thrilling. And to top it off, they aren’t even in the water yet. They’re gathering dust, stored away in a shed, waiting for their big debut.
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Enthusiasm Makes the Sale
Yesterday, my orthopedic surgeon sold me on something I swore I’d never buy: two new shoulders. And he did it with nothing more than pure, unfiltered enthusiasm.Years ago, when I was trained as a sales trainer, I learned that 85% of any sale comes down to enthusiasm. The same words spoken in a monotone simply won’t get the same results. Yesterday, in that exam room, I got a masterclass in just how true that is.
Several years ago, I began having severe pain in both shoulders. An MRI revealed that my rotator cuffs were irreparably torn. My doctor suggested injections to help manage the pain. The first two rounds, spaced 90 days apart, worked well. But when I went for the third injection, nothing. No relief at all.
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Enthusiasm Gets Me In Trouble
You go on with life one day at a time. You find that perfect person to spend the rest of your life with, get engaged, married, have children—and for a while, things are well, even peaceful. In the back of your mind, though, you know another chapter is waiting. Grandchildren. Of course, that’s one thing you have no control over. All you can do is dream, hope, and pray that someday this blessing will be yours to enjoy.One evening, Art and I went out to dinner with our daughter, Michelle, and her husband. Now, since this was not the usual weekday outing, I suspected something was up. Sure enough, when the conversation turned to a “special announcement,” my big mouth got ahead of me. I blurted out the surprise—Michelle was pregnant! Art and I were about to become first-time grandparents.
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Enthusiastic Then, Content Now
As I’ve gotten older, my passions have shifted, mellowed, and occasionally disappeared altogether. But summer? Summer has always sparked my enthusiasm in ways no other season could.I can still feel that first barefoot dash of the year—shoes and socks flung aside, cold gray cement under my feet. Inevitably, I’d land on a sharp little pebble. Pain would shoot through my toes, a quick reminder that my winter-soft feet weren’t quite ready for the wild sprints across fields or the trip to the mailbox.
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Enthusiasm Without the Fireworks
Some people seem to have a bottomless supply of enthusiasm. They throw themselves into everything — from book clubs to bake sales — with the same wide-eyed excitement a kid has for an ice cream truck. I’ve never been one of those people. My enthusiasm runs on the quieter side. I can enjoy something, appreciate it, even love it, without feeling the need to clap until my hands sting or yell “Wooo!” loud enough for the neighbors to hear.Take the Origami Owl conventions I used to attend. Every year, they’d introduce a few new $5 charms, like a red high heel, a little purse, or a pumpkin, and the room would explode in applause. Women would leap to their feet, squeal, and “ooh” like they’d just been handed the keys to a beach house. The enthusiasm in the room was contagious — at least for some people. I’d sit there smiling politely, thinking, We’re cheering over that? Don’t get me wrong — the charm was cute. But it wasn’t life-changing. I guess my enthusiasm scale for “worth freaking out over” just sits a few notches higher.
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Sleep is a Good Thing
I can only remember a couple of times when I can say I have been truly exhausted.One of those times was during the Christmas Season. This usually causes me a great deal of stress and total exhaustion. I was decorating at the last minute, which is normal for this master procrastinator. My husband was having a social at our house with his meeting buddies. In order for me to create what I thought was “Better Homes and Gardens Holiday Magazine,” I actually stayed up three nights in a row without going to bed or allowing myself to rest in any shape or form. I would not recommend this, as strange things happen to you when you try to go without shuteye. Since I also had to go to work during the day, I decorated all night and continued on my necessary schedule. I can say that I actually started seeing objects in my peripheral vision. To say I was exhausted was an understatement. To start this holiday event, the club that came to my house had a speaker before we were to party. I have never been so tired. I had to use every ounce in my being to stay awake for his speech. What he spoke about, I have no idea. So, don’t try this at any time, as it is very dangerous to your health, taken from experience.
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No Escape From Exhaustion
There are different kinds of exhaustion.There’s the kind that makes your legs ache, your eyes droop, and your body scream for a bed. But for me, the exhaustion that hits the hardest is the kind that settles in my mind.
When I’m truly tired, I lose the thread of my own thoughts. I walk into a room and have no idea why I’m there. I stare at my calendar like it’s written in code. I’ll be mid-sentence and suddenly—poof—gone. I’ve got no idea what I was saying or why I started saying it in the first place.
It’s not just forgetfulness. It’s like someone unplugged my brain and forgot to turn it back on.
This kind of tired showed up early. I remember falling asleep in school during film strips—the moment the lights went out, so did I. I was still involved in everything—after-school activities and dance—but during the day? If I slowed down for even a minute, my body would try to shut off.
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Fighting Exhaustion
Exhaustion has been a constant in my life. Some people know stress. Others know heartbreak. I know exhaustion. For as long as I can remember, I have needed 8–10 hours of sleep to feel refreshed. When I was a toddler, I would often sleep until noon. Mom would wake me up so I could have lunch with my two sisters when they came home from school each day.Going to grade school required a battle to get me out of bed in the morning. I remember my Dad shouting, “I want to hear two feet on the floor,” multiple times before I complied. I recall falling asleep at my desk during my first hour class in both junior and senior high school. I could fall asleep anywhere.
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Driving Inhibitions
Picture this, I was sixteen, just after graduating from high school. Now, when you reach the ripe old age of sixteen, what is the first thing most teenagers are hell bent on doing? Getting their driver’s license, of course. To say I was terrified to attempt this next feat would be an understatement. First of all, I needed a car. The family car was a gift passed down from my dad’s father to my father. This vehicle was also taken out of the garage and used exclusively for personal purposes, as he drove a company car for work. This created a problem as he wouldn’t let anyone drive his beloved garage car, and consequently left me without a vehicle to practice driving on. Thankfully, I had a boyfriend who had a car, a very nice vehicle, I might say, a big black Plymouth (with wings). Since I know very little about cars, I don’t remember what year it was, but it became my wheels during the driver’s license training period.
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Shedding My Inhibitions
In the early years, I was a people pleaser. I didn’t want to create waves. I was the teacher’s pet—the one who followed directions, finished assignments early, and made sure my name stayed in good standing. I didn’t argue. I didn’t question. I did what I was told, because somewhere deep down, I assumed other people knew better.I didn’t trust my own opinions or ideas. It wasn’t that I lacked them—just that I didn’t think they held much weight. My inhibitions were rooted in the belief that someone else’s voice mattered more than mine. So I made choices by looking around and following the lead of others. When my sister Lisa chose a college, I chose the same one. I didn’t tour campuses. I didn’t compare programs. I just figured, she made a good choice. That’ll work for me too.
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La Bamba vs. Inhibitions
As a child, I was socially shy, especially around boys and men. I was the youngest of three girls and had only one male cousin, who made me feel awkward most of the time. In school, I was academically strong but painfully quiet among peers. I thrived on giving book reports and presentations, but often withdrew in everyday social situations.Despite my shyness, I could present myself as confident when a situation called for it. I could mentally disconnect from my discomfort and focus solely on the task at hand. Once the moment passed, I would quietly retreat into myself again.
But there’s a strange contradiction in being shy and still craving connection. I always wanted to connect more, express more, and participate more fully; those internal walls held me back.
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Anchored Between the Chimes
When we moved into this house, there was a spot—right in the center of the main floor—that needed a grandfather clock. Not wanted. Needed. I had seen the perfect one in a shop downtown and told my mom, “If there’s any way this could be my birthday/Christmas/New Year’s/Easter present—I need that clock.”
A few days later, it was delivered.And honestly? That clock became more than furniture. It became a symbol. My anchor. It ticks and chimes with quiet consistency, no matter what kind of chaos swirls around it. I love winding it. I love hearing its sounds. It’s not flashy or demanding—it just…keeps going.
Some days, I feel like that clock. Calm. Solid. Reliable. Other times, not so much. But it reminds me that even in uncertain times, some part of me keeps time. Keeps moving. Trusts the process.
Over the years, people have asked how I knew when I was ready for big changes. How did I know I wanted kids? That it was time to leave my marriage? That I was done with a career in teaching? And the truth is: I just decided.
But not always right away.
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Inherited Anchors
I am a creature of habit—always have been. And it’s not just how we decorate cookies or the way I fold towels (the way Mom taught me, of course). It goes deeper than that. My habits are stitched into the way I live, the things I hold onto, and the way I move through the world. Ninety percent of my home is filled with hand-me-downs: my Great Uncle’s clock, Grandma’s dining room set, Mom and Dad’s bedroom set. To most people, they’re just old things. To me, they’re anchors. They tether me to the people who shaped me, to a way of life that feels solid and familiar. I don’t keep them because they’re trendy or valuable. I keep them because they remind me who I am—and whose I am. -
Unexpected Guidance
An Operations Manual for LifeI was having an unusually crazy day at the furniture store. Nothing was going as planned, and every decision I made proved to be the wrong decision. It was lunchtime, and I told Michael that I was going to the bookstore. I loved browsing the books and thought I might find something to take my mind off my day. I told him that I needed an “Operations Manual for My Life”. We laughed, and I left.
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Sandy’s Dream
Serendipity – A very broad definition of serendipity is “fate,” “destiny,” or “predestination”. It’s the idea that certain things are meant to happen to you.It was a lifelong dream, that of owning a cottage. I was dreaming of a cottage, or in other words, a shack in the woods on Lake Michigan.
Our family usually went tent camping in the Northern part of Wisconsin. We eventually frequented the area known as Door County. There we started camping at the Jellystone Park. This was a family campground geared to the kids, which was a good fit for us at that time. Then, when the children got older, we started camping at the Penninsula State Park. We owned a furniture store at this time and found it more convenient to rent a cabin on the Labor Day Weekends. There was one area that called to me. This was the South Michigan Drive area. It was rather rugged, right on the water, in the woods, and everything I always thought of as a dream area for a cottage that we could afford.
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Serendipity at Panera
Panera isn’t known for life lessons.
It’s known for coffee refills, baguettes, soup in bread bowls, and a reliable place to sit and talk for a while.And yet, that’s exactly where serendipity found me.
Many years ago, I sat at Panera with my teaching colleagues after a Target run on Madison’s east side, spending our yearly classroom budget money. The best kind of shopping—the kind that delivers a dopamine rush without touching your own wallet.
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When Serendipity Called
There was a time in my life when I felt stuck. Not falling-apart stuck—just that quiet, restless kind of stuck. The kind where the days blur together and you wonder if this is all there is. I wanted more. I wasn’t even sure what “more” meant—just that I was craving connection, joy, maybe even a little magic.That’s when I read The Secret.
Say what you want about manifesting, but I was in the mood to believe. I pulled together pictures of everything I wanted more of: smiling faces, friendship, money, laughter, purpose. I made a dream board and set it as the background on my computer so I’d see it every single day. No plan. Just intention. Just trust.
And then—one day—my phone rang.
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Confessions of Serial Side Hussler
At some point in my life, I got it into my head that the next big thing was always just one starter kit away.It started, as these things often do, with admiration. Some women I respected—smart, capable, magnetic women—invited me to join Origami Owl and TEAM. I didn’t join because I was easily swayed. I joined because I believed in them. If they saw something in it—and maybe in me—then surely it was worth a shot.
Origami Owl was all about lockets filled with tiny charms that told your life story. Mine told the story of high hopes, a shrinking savings account, and way too many charms shaped like flip-flops and coffee cups.
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A Journey from Following to Visioning
I recently had the opportunity to write a vision statement, a personal declaration of what I want from life, built around what I would truly love. I’m exploring my passions, trying to discover what would help me create a life of purpose and joy. -
Motivated. . . Against My Will
I had a vision. It was called Amway. Who doesn’t want to get rich? Well, friends started to get involved in this new idea to sell the Amway opportunity. They had products that you sold. The key is becoming a member or distributor and recruiting others to do the same. This allows you to build a downline and potentially become extremely wealthy. Once you reach the diamond level, you’ve arrived at your desired destination: wealth without the effort. Your team members, who have signed up under you, are doing the work, and you reap the benefits of their hard work.It’s never framed that way, of course, because who wants to admit that your big dreams might just land you working hard so someone else can get rich?
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Anniversary Lessons
Several years ago, I read a magazine article titled “Why Do I Keep Making the Same Dumb Mistakes?” It hit a nerve. I had two failed marriages and one long-term relationship that didn’t work out. That question, Why do I keep doing this?, felt like it was written just for me.So I sat with it.
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Sidetracked Anniversary
Thirty years ago, we weren’t writers -we were women with glue guns, glitter, and a dream. The Sidetracked Sisters started as a mom (Sandy), her two daughters (Lisa and me), and her sister (Judy), selling hand-painted crafts in someone’s living room. -
Not Really an Ocean Girl
I was born and raised in Wisconsin, where the closest thing to an ocean is a small mud-bottom lake ringed with scrub brush and the neat lawns of lakeside cottages. Although the buffalo carp put up a fun fight, it’s the bullheads that make it all worthwhile—you skin and fillet them, and they’re downright delicious.Over the years, I’ve wandered a bit. I’ve lived in Tennessee and Illinois. I’ve visited the Pacific, waded in the waters of California and Washington, and strolled the sandy stretches of the East Coast. I even dipped my toes in the Mediterranean while in Barcelona, and once took in the fjords of Norway. But every time, no matter how stunning those ocean views, I feel most at home back on my humble Wisconsin lakes.
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Sadness Without Explanation
I want to speak about a kind of sadness that doesn’t have a clear source. It’s not tied to one event or moment. It’s just there, a low hum beneath everything else. Some days, it feels manageable, and others, it feels like it wraps around me like a heavy coat I never asked to wear. -
Animal Movies Are My Kryptonite
I have a love/hate relationship with sad entertainment. And by that, I mean I actively avoid it… while also judging all media by whether or not it makes me cry. It’s a deeply flawed system, I admit—but here we are.
It all started with Where the Red Fern Grows. I was just a kid when I first saw the movie, and it wrecked me. I couldn’t stop thinking about that boy, those dogs, and the ending—when the family moves away and sees the mythical red fern growing between the graves. I mean, come on. That fern wasn’t just a plant; it was a divine mic drop. A sign that love, loyalty, and canine sacrifice still mattered in this cold, cruel world.Ever since that formative trauma, I’ve judged all books and movies by what I call the Crying Yardstick. The highest honor? Tears. Real, salty, rolling-down-my-cheeks tears. A good story doesn’t need to be a sob-fest, but if I don’t at least well up… it’s a hard pass. Think The Notebook, or pretty much anything by Nicholas Sparks. Bonus points if there’s rain or a goodbye scene.
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My Sadness Superpower
Have you ever had one of those days where all you can do is cry?I don’t mean the kind of cry that follows heartbreak or tragedy—although those certainly have their place. I mean the quieter kind. The kind that sneaks up on you after a string of long, exhausting days. The kind that comes from carrying too much for too long. No single reason. Just a slow build-up of sadness that finally needs somewhere to go.
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Learning Not to Ghost My Husband
They say life is the best teacher.
I say life is a slightly unhinged professor who forgets her syllabus and gives pop quizzes when you least expect them. Case in point: my first marriage.
Tom and I tied the knot while we were still in college—young, hopeful, and utterly clueless. Within months, he started showing signs of mental health struggles I couldn’t have predicted. And I… I cried in the car a lot. Usually after visiting my family for holidays. I’d sit in the passenger seat, tears quietly leaking out, wondering why my marriage felt more like an emotional boot camp than a partnership.
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Banking on Karma
I spent most of my working life in banking, not because it was a deep passion or childhood dream, but because it was what I could do without needing more education. It was practical, stable, and something I could count on. I also loved interacting with people and helping them solve their problems. -
Testing Karma
Karma refers to the principle of cause and effect, where actions have consequences, and positive actions lead to positive outcomes, while negative actions lead to negative outcomes. Examples include a person who helps others often experiencing more luck and good fortune in their life, or someone who consistently yells at others may find themselves in situations where others are unkind to them. -
Highway Karma
I’ve never been a big believer in karma. The idea that the universe somehow keeps score, handing out little cosmic rewards or punishments based on our behavior, feels more like wishful thinking than truth. If karma were real, I wouldn’t be the one getting pulled over on the highway while cars fly past me doing ten or fifteen miles faster. -
Simply Simple
vent plates or silverware from being placed. I have never understood the desire to say cut a cutting off a plant and hope to see it in ten years become a beautiful big plant. Seriously, remember, I need immediate gratification. This also shows in my garden. It is hard for me to buy little flowers, waiting for the moment when they fill in and make a beautiful basket. I need to see color NOW.
The word simplicity implies to me being in control, a downsized situation, and a time saver.
Now, this does not seem to be in my brain, vocabulary, or whatever. You see, I never seem to do things simply.
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Simplicity Meets Overthinking
I have been told frequently that I overthink everything. Keeping things simple is a real stretch for me. When I see a piece of writing with simple bullet points, I want to write it that way. I often end up with paragraphs instead. I always think I need to say more. I have heard the “less is more” quote, and I understand it. Then I tend to clutter it up. My editing style has trouble leaving anything out. -
The Power of Simplicity
Simplicity wasn’t always something I thought about. In my younger years, I didn’t chase after things—I simply moved through life without questioning the pace or the noise. I filled my time, my home, and my mind without really noticing the weight of it all. Life just was, and I kept up.But over time, I began to feel the quiet pull of something different.
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Simplicity Isn’t All It’s Cracked Up to Be
We’re constantly told to simplify our lives. Cut the clutter. Reduce the noise. Choose joy—but only if it fits in a color-coded drawer.
And while I love the idea of peace and order as much as the next woman scrolling Pinterest in her bathrobe, I have to say…it’s not all that fulfilling.
I can divide my life into many “seasons,” and let me tell you—very few have been simple. And the ones that were? Looking back, they were often the least satisfying. In fact, I wanted them to end as fast as possible.Take college, for example. I had a roommate. No car. My days revolved around school, church, and overly enthusiastic discussions about Jesus and the finer points of Paul’s letters in the dorm lounge. Summer held fun plans. Life was good… and simple. And I couldn’t wait for it to end. I craved the next step: a career, marriage, a family—the real-life stuff!
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Eavesdropping on My Own Thoughts
I try to keep an ear on the words my brain whispers to me.
Sometimes, it feels like a whole other person—an uninvited roommate who critiques my choices while hogging the mental communication links. But it’s not a classic angel vs. devil showdown. No, my inner dialogue is more like a gloomy, worst-case scenario me constantly bickering with an upbeat, “you’ve got this” version of me. And neither one is great at using their inside voice.
The best way I can describe it? It’s like an old-fashioned party line.
If you’ve never had the pleasure, a party line was a shared telephone connection where multiple households used the same line. When I was about seven, I’d pick up the phone to call my grandma or best friend, only to hear two old ladies already deep in conversation. They weren’t spilling juicy secrets—just chatting about neighbors, grandkids, and who brought the best potato salad to church last Sunday. But the thrill? Oh, the power of eavesdropping! I felt like a pint-sized spy, privy to private adult conversations.
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Gossip Girls
Every Thursday night, the Sidetracked Sisters gather around the table to write. Our stories center on family memories, life lessons, and reflections about where we’ve come from and where we’re going. But before the pens hit the paper, there’s always a bit of catch-up time—a chance to share what’s been going on in our week.Naturally, those conversations often drift to the people closest to us—our kids. And, well, not all of them are thrilled about that.
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Toxic Gossip
Gossip is the silent saboteur of workplace culture. Like a slow-growing cancer, it spreads quietly—creating paranoia, breeding mistrust, and damaging self-esteem in ways that can take years to undo. -
The Gossip Web
When we hear the word gossip, we often associate it with something negative—talking behind someone’s back or spreading harmful information. But I believe there’s another side to it: what I like to call good gossip. -
Midlife Sunrise
Sunrise is more than the start of a new day—it’s a promise. A clean slate. A soft glow after the dark. And this morning, on the first day of spring, it feels like that promise is meant just for me.
For years, I greeted my days in a classroom. I was a teacher for 30 years—a career I genuinely loved—but one that never fully fed my soul. It fit my personality beautifully: creative, nurturing, always busy. But it also drained me. The schedules were rigid, the paperwork endless, and the energy output… well, let’s just say first graders don’t run on decaf.During those years, I tried other creative ventures, little sparks that either fizzled or never quite caught fire. I told myself I was “just exploring.” Truthfully, I was scared—scared to let go of what was safe and familiar, even if it left me feeling half-asleep.
Now, though, something inside me is waking up. A new dawn is breaking.
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Sunrise Snooze, Moonlit Views
I dislike getting up in the morning just as much as I dislike calling it a day and going to bed.Today, let’s talk about sunrises. It’s not a topic I’m very familiar with because, truth be told, I’m rarely awake early enough to witness one. If I ever did make the supreme effort to rise before dawn, I can already imagine what would happen—I’d step outside, ready to be awed by a breathtaking display of colors, only to find a sky filled with thick clouds and drizzle. The sun, like me, would have decided to sleep in.
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Sunrise in my Mind
When I was a young girl, my bike was my passport to freedom. On summer mornings, I’d ride down to the lake, settling onto a cement wall at the end of Burnett Street. I’d sit in the quiet, watching the sunrise over Beaver Dam Lake, or so I thought. Turns out that memory isn’t quite right. My favorite spot faces west. And last I checked, the sun rises in the east. So, what was I really watching? The soft glow of dawn? The lingering twilight? Funny how memories reshape themselves over time.
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Snoozing Thru Sunrise
I hear people talk about sunrises like they’re some kind of magic spell—whispers of pink and gold painting the sky, a quiet moment of reflection before the world wakes up. It sounds beautiful. Really, it does. But I wouldn’t know. -
Hot Mess Survival Guide
We’ve all been a hot mess—running late, hair barely brushed, coffee spilling, and somehow still expected to function like a responsible adult. But here’s the secret: no one really has it all together. Some people are just better at faking it. -
Chaos Coordinator
There was a time in my life when “hot mess” wasn’t just a mood—it was my entire lifestyle. The years when my kids were little? Oh yeah. Peak chaos. I look back and wonder how I functioned on so little sleep, so much coffee, and absolutely no clue what day it was most of the time.
Technically, my job title was Teacher. But unofficially? I was the Chaos Coordinator. I wore the badge proudly… and constantly misplaced it under piles of laundry, permission slips, and mismatched shoes.Even though I was married, the kids were pretty much my responsibility. I was the default parent. You know, the one who knew where everyone’s shoes, lunchboxes, and favorite stuffed animals were at any given moment (except, of course, when I didn’t). I taught at an Early Learning Center, and my kids went to school with me from 4K through second grade. Looking back, I have no idea how I’d have kept all the balls in the air if they hadn’t been in the same building as me. Honestly? I barely managed as it was.
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Holiday Hot Mess
The holidays are supposed to be a time of joy, warmth, and togetherness, but let’s be real—sometimes they turn into full-blown hot messes. Between the endless to-do lists, family drama, and the pressure to make everything magical, it’s easy to feel like you’re just one burnt batch of cookies away from a breakdown. Unfortunately, this seems to be a regular occurrence for me. -
Patience Tested Daily
Patience has never been my strong suit. I thrive on immediate gratification, often wanting results without the wait or the effort. This trait has followed me for as long as I can remember—and it extends beyond just personal goals or projects. It also affects the way I interact with people, especially when it comes to technology. -
Lessons in Listening
When we moved back to Wisconsin in 1991, we asked my Mom to move in with us. She was 74 years old at the time and had been widowed since she was 55. We could tell immediately that she liked being back with some of her family. Mom never was one to enjoy living alone. We loved having her, especially because our son Matt was only 2 ½. Having her with us gave my Mom and Matt time to be together and to get to know each other. -
Love Through the Fog
I find that I have little patience. There are a lot of examples that I can think of that cause me distress or a lack of patience. They are:- I am a soft talker, and I get impatient when people start talking and continue talking over me.
- When expressing an idea, for some reason, my idea seems to be overlooked consistently.
- Being impatient with myself when I find I am again procrastinating when planning for a big holiday, such as Christmas. I find that I don’t prioritize tasks properly in order to carry out a timely and successful event.
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Patience–My Quiet Superpower
I like to think of myself as a patience expert—mostly because life has given me an absurd amount of practice. As a kid, I spent a ridiculous amount of time waiting. Waiting for birthdays, waiting for holidays, waiting for the school year to end so I could bask in the glory of summer vacation. (Did we even have Spring Break back then, or was that just a myth created for later generations?) -
Talk is Cheap
I am a curious person. I don’t deny this trait. I love to know about people and how they tick, and I just plain get to know them. I have found that if you don’t ask questions of someone, you will not be able to find out who they are and what makes them tick. -
Peeking and Entering
I’ve always been a curious person. The kind of kid who asks, “Why?” and actually wants an answer. As a First Grade teacher, I relished any excuse to dive into new topics and books. Back then, “best practice” was all about integrating subjects—reading, writing, math, science, and social studies—all stirred together like some delicious educational soup. If you were studying frogs, you didn’t just read about them. You became them. You wrote stories starring them, compared them to toads, and probably hopped around the playground for “research.” Curiosity was the air I breathed.
But I didn’t stumble into curiosity on my own. Nope. I had a live-in guide: my mom. She raised me to be curious… invasively curious. The kind of curious that makes you peek behind closed doors, both literally and metaphorically.
I grew up in a brand-new neighborhood—the first house on our side of the block. Beyond our backyard, there were fields, jeep trails, and a lake just a half-mile away. For a while, we had nature to explore. Then came the construction crews. One by one, houses sprang up around us. But they didn’t appear overnight. It took weeks (sometimes months) to go from a hole in the ground to a family with a golden retriever and a Weber grill on the back patio. And that’s where curious kids like me came in.
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The Curiosity Factor
Curiosity isn’t just about exploring the unknown—it’s about anticipating the future, wondering about possibilities, and hoping for the best. As I move through different stages of life, I find myself constantly questioning what’s next. Some answers will come with time, while others may always remain a mystery. -
Tell Me Why
I’m often surprised when people get defensive when I ask them questions that begin with “why.” I find that if I am learning to do something new, I learn more quickly and retain more effectively if I know why I am doing it. If I am told to do something just because, I will not remember the steps after the one time is completed. -
Unrecognized Growth
I’ve been out working since I was sixteen years old. The training process has always come easily to me. With each new employer, I enjoyed the beginner phase. There is always new learning and processes to add to my knowledge base. There was one situation that came to mind and it was one where I experienced tremendous growth. -
My Grandiose Growth Plan
Even at this old age, there is still room for personal growth. A lot of room! As a retired legal secretary who is now retired, I find that I have gotten sloppy and lazy, not worrying about personal growth. Unfortunately, not have a pattern for personal growth that I feel needs work on my part: -
Growth in Progress (Kind of)
I’m 15 years old and I’m begrudgingly awake for the day trying to get ready for school. “Mommmmmmm…. What should I wear today?” I could never make this decision easily. She enters my room while I’m dozing against the doorframe of my closet. “How about this?” as she pulls out a sweater. “Nah – I don’t want to wear that!” I sneer. “Ok – fine. What about this one?” as she picks out a different shirt. “Nah – not that one either.” I again reply. “If you don’t like my suggestions, why did you ask me?” she queries. “Well – now I know what I DON’T want to wear!” I bantered. Mom then left my room, shaking her head. -
Counting Losses, Not Weeks
There are so many different kinds of death that we go through in our lives. One type of death that happened to me was having four different miscarriages. I think a miscarriage for anyone is interpreted and felt in so many different ways, and the severity happens differently as well.
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What Comes Next?
The question of what happens after we die has been on our minds since forever, hasn’t it? Everyone seems to have their own theory or belief—some rooted in religion, others in philosophy, and some in pure speculation. While none of us can say for sure what’s waiting on the other side, it’s fun (and maybe a little comforting) to imagine the possibilities. So, let’s play with the idea of five possible endings after death. Picture this: what if there were five different roads we could take when our time here ends? -
Advice From Beyond
As you read this post, imagine a pristine park. A winding path winds through the trees, and at each curve in the path, a park bench is placed. Just behind the bench, an old-fashioned street light gives off an inviting warm light, shining on a person sitting on the bench. This scene feels welcoming, and since I have had a difficult day, I decide to stroll through the park. -
Dawn of a New Dream
Sunrise.
It’s the beginning of a new day—a fresh start after a time of rest. Today is the first day of spring, March 20, 2025, and it feels like the dawn of a new chapter in my life.
After a long season of darkness and sleep.
(Okay… that sounds a little grim. But it’s true.)
You see, I was a teacher for 30 years. I loved that career. It was fun, it fit my personality, and I was good at it. But deep down, I knew it only fed part of my soul. The rigid schedules, the endless administrative tasks, and the daily energy it demanded often left me feeling depleted.Limited.
I dabbled in creative ventures—some fizzled, some never quite blossomed into something that could replace the income I needed to leave education behind.
But now… now it feels different.
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Middle School Nightmare
I don’t often remember my dreams. Occasionally, I will take a notebook and set it on my nightstand with a pen to write down snippets of the dream to ponder on later. There is one dream that I have repeatedly. It is the first day of school. I’m in the middle school age group. I’m excited about going back to school after summer break. I enter the school and realize that I haven’t signed up for classes, and I have no idea where to go first. I know I’m supposed to have a locker, but I have no idea where it is. I know that if I can find it, I’ll find the books I need to attend my classes.
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Buyers Remorse
I seem to dream a lot. Mostly my dreams are crazy happenings and events. But most often my dreams are about houses, their layouts, decorating, and purchasing cottages that I then renovate. I have this reoccurring dream that I purchase a cottage. Now, this isn’t just any cottage, but a structure that it seemed no one wanted. I always wanted to be located very close to the water and I always said, “I want a shack in the woods on a lake”.
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Crash Course in Control
It always starts the same way. I’m driving my car alone, music playing, and the world outside the windows rushing by. There’s something peaceful about this moment—just me, my car, and the open road. But then, something strange happens. I begin to float out of my body, detached from the physical world. Suddenly, I’m not driving with my hands on the wheel, but controlling the car with nothing more than my mind. It’s a feeling of power, of control—until it’s not. -
Perfectly Imperfect Discipline
I consider myself a disciplined person. When I have a dream, a goal, or a vision, I follow through on the actions needed to see the end goal.
But I know that a lot of people get stuck in the “discipline is perfection” trap.
On the contrary, I believe that discipline is about consistency. Thinking that you have to be perfect discourages progress and can lead you to giving up when mistakes happen.
This was the case when Craig and I decided to start our family. We started out with infertility work. Lots of doctors visits, expensive drugs, and nasty shots. I committed to driving to Milwaukee several times a week (before work) to make my appointments. And then when that didn’t work, we took a 90 degree turn and decided to adopt. Our journey to Russia was filled with too many ups and downs to recount. The process took 4 years to bring our boys home. But the goal was a family. Not pregnancy. The journey was messy but we succeeded in starting our family.
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Starting Out Smart
Discipline – this is a hard act for a lot of us to accomplish. I am now retired, having worked in a law office for fifty-six years. There was a lot of discipline in that job and I now find myself being anything but disciplined at this stage of my life. -
Resilience, Relatives and Rolling with the Punches
Ah, the holidays. A time for twinkling lights, delicious feasts, and… navigating the emotional minefield of family gatherings. Add in the inevitable challenges—burnt turkey, last-minute gift shopping, and Uncle Bob’s annual political rant—and you’ve got the perfect storm for testing your resilience.But resilience isn’t just about surviving the holidays with your sanity (mostly) intact. It’s about showing up when it matters most—especially during the hardest moments, like the loss of a loved one. When grief collides with the season of joy, resilience is what carries us through.
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Managing Expectations
I’ve heard many opinions about the habit of having expectations—some directed inward, others projected onto those around us. I find it more productive to focus on what I expect of myself. After all, I’m the only one I can truly control.Expecting others to behave a certain way often leads to disappointment, unless we’re clear about what we need and willing to accept the outcome, whether or not it aligns with our hopes. Managing those external expectations means making conscious choices about how much we let others’ actions affect us.
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The Perks and Pitfalls of Expectations
We all have expectations, whether we realize it or not. Expectations about ourselves, our relationships, and the world around us. The question is: how do we handle them? Do we set high standards and run the risk of disappointment if things don’t go as planned, or do we eliminate expectations and leave room for surprise and contentment if things go well? I find myself torn between these two perspectives, constantly weighing the pros and cons of each approach. -
Expect Less, Communicate More
I have found that if you don’t have expectations of others, you won’t be disappointed. When in a friendship with a friend, it is easy to expect them, especially when you have been with them for a reasonable amount of time, to know your feelings and some of the things that are important to you. Such expectations without you verbally stating your wishes can often lead to great disappointment. I have found that when you are in a relationship and don’t have many expectations of that person, you are less likely to be hurt when your expectations are not met.
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The Secret to Managing Expectations (Without Losing Your Mind)
Many years after I graduated from college, I discovered that my dad had never expected me to finish. Mom told me that he had known several women—strong, smart, and talented women—who talked about going to school but either didn’t finish or traveled down another path entirely after high school. -
A Year of Change, Challenge, and Grace
I’m honestly in awe of how fast time flies these days. Back in the 1980s, when I was living in California, I remember a DJ on the radio once said:
“Life is like a roll of toilet paper—the closer you get to the end, the faster it goes.”
At the time, I laughed. Now? It hits a little deeper. It feels very true.