The sky cleared and I was able to set up a little ritual under the partially-eclipsed moon on Thursday. I thought about driving out of town to see it better, but I didn’t want to park in some random spot on the side of the road, nor did I want to drive to the farm at that time of night.

So, I made a little altar in my backyard. Collected some moon water. Blessed my tiny jars of crystals. A coffee cup rescued from my grandparents’ home set out to welcome my ancestors. Fabric hand-woven in Italy beneath it all:

Wolves in candlelight.

Pen and journal.

Home that feels like home.

Books collected in sacred space.

Feet on ground.

Rose in the garden.

Twinkling lights.

Quiet in my heart.

Space in my mind.

Comfort in my soul.

Whispers to the moon.

The card pulled says it all. Simple cards, selected by the energy that pulls me. Changes that began just a few short years ago coming to fruition:

Freedom.

Acceptance of true love.

Understanding what I want and deserve.

Abundance.

Choosing joy.

Stepping into my power.

Whispers to the moon.

The harvest begins. It is time to celebrate.

Until next Sunday, may you recognize the bounty coming to you.

Shawna

The Things You Couldn’t See

I love watching my oldest son play ball. It brings him joy, and seeing him happy makes me happier! <3 He’s in a tournament this weekend, so I’ve been able to see three games already. I’ve been able to see quite a few this season. I’m their #1 fan!

This photo is of the two of us. It’s a quiet evening, the babies are in bed, the counter is a mess and so is the living room that you can’t see where my ex-husband sits to take this photo. I am grateful for the many photos he took of every day moments like this one.

It’s a peaceful photo. We’re either working on homework or more likely, we’re playing a game. His legs are tucked up underneath him, so he’s more relaxed than if he was doing homework. And I look like I’m reading or focusing on something, so it is likely a game we are playing.

The chaos in the kitchen is not surprising either. And it would have been on my mind. There would have been a lot on my mind, even as I tried to be in that moment with my boy.

I’d just spent weeks going to the hospital every day, willing my NICU baby to finally come home. I’d missed my little girl taking her first steps at the baby-sitter’s. My big boy spent most of that Christmas with his grandparents and my sisters because I was at the hospital so much.

I felt like I was failing at everything.

I felt so alone.

I remember a moment where I was taking a much needed hot bath and I felt like it would be so nice to just slip beneath the water and all the weight of my world would stay above it and I could rest. The moment didn’t last long and I was ashamed of it.

There was nowhere and no one to turn to.

Of course, looking back now, I know my family would have been there in an instant. They always were. I didn’t want them to think less of me though. I wanted them to believe that I was the strong one. I tried so hard to be her.

My ex was oblivious. That was partly my fault because I didn’t ask for help from him either. But he knew. It was why he spent so much time driving that stupid car around until 4 a.m. - getting away from all of it. Why he spent so much time downstairs on the internet, thinking I didn’t know what he was looking at. Why he stayed so long after work, spending money we didn’t have at a men’s club. Yep, that kind of club.

And still I didn’t ask for help. Still, I blamed myself. Still, I tried.

I have always told my oldest that he was the best thing that ever happened to me. That he was an unanswered prayer. That is so very true and this photo proves it.

For it was moments like this one that saved me in those dark days. It was my children that kept me above the water that night.

His laughter and his imagination. His brilliant light that I just can’t miss. Gosh, the stories he used to tell me. That guy can repeat every line from every movie he’s ever seen.

He filled my heart on the days when the laundry overwhelmed me. The dishes didn’t matter when I could have 30 minutes of playing a game with him.

He made me believe that I mattered to someone.

I know he knew I was struggling. Kids know more than we give them credit for. He was so quick to help me with his little brother and sister. Such an amazing big brother. He has always, ALWAYS, been so kind and patient with them. I know I could count on him and I know he had to grow up too soon as he helped me parent the other two. I still feel guilty about that.

Now, in the easier days of living in the second half of life, I am able to see those times with fresh eyes. I am able to be grateful for the struggle because it helped me grow into the person I am. I pray that my children understand how important they are to me. They are my reason.

I capture every moment and every chance I get with each of them now. I am so grateful for the time I spend with them. For the ball games, the movie nights, the game nights and car rides. Every moment means more to me than they will ever know.

I hope they look back and remember the mom in those fun moments. But, I also hope they remember me in the harder times also. I hope they know that I got through those moments because of them. I hope they know that I am here for them when they struggle too. I hope they know that it is the joy and the heartache that makes us who we are.

Until next Sunday, I hope you see that you are not alone.

Here for you,

Shawna

Original post: Little Hands

MARCH 10, 2011

He is older now and doesn’t let me hug him or kiss him much; and definitely NOT in public. I was thrilled in Disney World when both of my children held my hand pretty much wherever we went. In particular, he seemed to cling to my side a little – maybe a little overwhelmed by the crowds and my worrier-child was likely worried he would get lost. He doesn’t talk about it, no matter how much I urge him too. He’s a quiet one, my youngest…

I have always been fascinated with those hands. So very soft and always warm. I remember saying, “Can I just keep your hand in mine, forever?” and he would say, “Moooomm….”, drawn out in that exasperated voice that 10 year olds have when dealing with their hovering mothers.

When did he become 10? Big enough to be allowed on all those rides in Disney World and Universal. When did he become sure enough of himself to venture off into those waves at Typhoon Lagoon – alone. Begging me for goggles so that he could watch the waves underwater! Where did that little guy go that clung so tightly to my neck every time we went swimming? The one that I would assure over and over, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you”. And he would hug my neck tighter still, just in case I didn’t.

The third child, and my last. That hurts to think about even 10 years later. There are things I won’t miss; like no more potty-training (though he was the easiest by far) and unending childhood vomiting and colds that so many of my friends are going through with their younger ones. But so many things that I do miss; like holding those little hands and that baby smell. The funny little things they would say because they don’t quite have all the letters right in their words yet.

My youngest is a worrier, and I try to reassure him and tell him that he doesn’t have to worry so much. On our recent trip, he was worried about going on a plane (it didn’t help that he loves to watch Mayday on Discovery Channel! Kid! Couldn’t you watch something else!?) He was worried about me constantly in the Disney parks: if I stumbled or bumped into someone (farm girl trying to go through crowds = clumsy!), he’d say, “Are you OK Mom?” If he’d wandered a few steps away from us, he’d be looking around making sure we were there: afraid we’d ditch him no doubt (that’s a story for another day…)

It was such an unexpected gift to be able to hold those 10 year old hands so much. I soaked in their softness. The smooth hands of a young boy who plays for hours with Lego. He trims his own nails often now (and is more diligent than I ever was; third child, remember?). He still admires the wrinkles he gets when he’s been in the pool for a really long time (which he did as often as we’d let him). He examines each crevice and bump with the precision of a surgeon; fascinated by his own hands.

And when he is upset (not very often) he lifts those hands to pull his hat down low over his eyes, leaving them there to cover his face as much as possible so that no one can see him cry. Quietly becoming a turtle until the moment of anguish passes. He won’t let anyone in during those times. But afterward, he always comes to one of us, usually me, for a hug and sometimes to apologize if he’s been angry. Those hands will reach around then and let me in and I am grateful.

For now, I will cherish the precious moments where I can hold those little hands in mine, even when they are not so little anymore.

I forgot some of it. Fragments of a time when his hands weren't far from mine. And then I found this snippet and so many moments came back.

Letting my children go is one of the hardest things I've ever done.

Keeping my mouth closed instead of offering up wisdom is the worst. I want to hold his hand and take his worries away,

My youngest is going through some things and he is handling all of it with courage and positivity. I know that is not easy for him as he's always been my worrier and he doesn't say it, none of the three do, but I know they worry about me as much as I worry about them. 

They are so capable and amazing, my three and I am so proud. My youngest will find his way just at his own pace. Not mine. Not his sister's nor his brothers. Just HIS way.

These days, he and I have been together more, driving to appointments and such. He talks more than he used to and I try so hard to just listen. I am grateful for this time we have together and it is a good reminder to be in the moment. 

I am so glad I have the moments I captured back in 2011 and the moments I captured now in 2026. Just as my 10-year-old little boy somehow became a 25-year-old man out on his own, another 15 years will pass in a blink. I will remember these quiet car rides at 25 and I will write about them too.

Writing doesn't stop time, but it can be a little jar where we can capture the little lights of it.

Until next week, what little moment will you put in your jar?

Passing you a jar,

Shawna

I’ve been spending time with my novel; under the lens of “Story Genius” by Lisa Cron. This little exercise is trying to dig into Lyse and her view. Her Aunt Sophie is one of those characters who arrived in my story for this prompt and immediately seemed to have a mind of her own.

I love that about writing, you think about a character and then you discover who they actually are. So today, I’d like you to meet her.

As soon as I had excused myself from the table, I ran down the back stairs of the castle, past the kitchen and out into the courtyard. My aunt’s rooms were just beyond the gardens. My question to my aunt today could not wait until after my lessons. I ran past a group of guards and noticed that HE was there; commanding them to polish something. He stared at me as I ran past, but I ignored him. My aunt’s apothecary was much more important.

My aunt Sophie was bent over a mortar and pestle, grinding something. I could smell a touch of mint. Of course, that was easy. There was an underlying earthy scent; almost barnyard, but something from the forest as well. My aunt smiled a hello when she looked up and noticed me trying to figure out what she was using.

“Any ideas Lizzy?” She didn’t stop grinding and the smell became stronger.

“Is it pine with some sort of mushroom?” I asked her.

“Yes and something else too.”

I stepped closer to try to see into the container, but Sophie pulled it away.

“Follow your nose, ma cherie!”

I sniffed the air again. Now that I was closer I was more sure of the scent. I’d smelled it often enough on my rides. My mind had ignored the scent, thinking it was just from my aunt’s cloak hanging at the door.

“Do you have horse dung in there?” I exclaimed. “What on earth are you making?”

Sophie laughed and nodded. “Oui! I am making a special growth potion for one of Mrs Potts’ rose bushes. It has a nasty rot from a bug. I learned this recipe in Scotland when I was there.”

She leaned toward me and let me see the mortar bowl. I could clearly see the grains and consistency of the horse manure amongst the green mint and pine needles.

“I hope you wash that out before you use that on any other recipe!” I covered my nose and turned from the smelly concoction. Sophie poured more oil into the mortar and continued her grinding. I pulled a stool out from under the table across from her.

“You learned a lot of recipes while you were in Scotland, didn’t you?” I flipped through the pages of her notebook that sat between us.

“Oui! The women welcomed me to their kitchens after I was able to heal the fever that had settled into the farmer’s leg. They taught me many of their traditions. It was a wonderful time of my life. Your uncle and I became part of the community. We didn’t get that privilege here in France. Court is so far away from the everyday people.”

“I hear their rumblings of discontent when they come to see me for treatments. Many are starving and the King doesn’t see it! He thinks they’re being lazy! His people would be stronger if he just helped them!” Sophie ground the pestle harder.

My aunt was always so passionate when it came to the people. That was one of the reasons she refused to live in the palace; she wanted to be able to allow the common people to come to her without worrying about guards and courtiers.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You and Uncle Francis stayed in Scotland for a long time. Do you think you can help me convince my family to allow me to go there? I want to learn like you did.” I tried not to get tearful as I spoke but I could feel my frustration rising in my throat.

“Everyone is always staring at me and whispering behind my back. I don’t belong here! Father doesn’t let me ride like a man anymore; IF he lets me ride at all! Even now, I’m supposed to be at my lessons, but I’m sick of them! I can already speak English and I’d much rather be riding than play the pianoforte with the others. Every time I start talking about a book I am reading, the others roll their eyes and ignore me. All they ever talk about is each other and whatever new fashion the King is wearing!” I picked at a splinter on the table, trying not to let my voice crack.

“My cherie, I understand how frustrated you are. Your father is one of the King’s closest advisors and it is important for him that you are raised properly. I understand what that is like. Your uncle and I were very fortunate to go to Scotland, even though he didn’t live to return home with me.”

Sophie poured the smelly brew into a jar and closed the lid tightly. I watched her scrub the bowl and pestle in the soapy water she always kept close by. She tossed the dirty water out into the yard and dried her hands on a clean towel hanging by the door. She smiled at me as she filled the basin with water from a bucket near the door. I watched her wipe down the table.

I sniffed and she looked up at me again. “I know my father will listen to you. Please talk to him and tell him that I need to go to Scotland! I have to get away from here!”

I flipped through her notebook, angry at myself for crying even though I knew my aunt didn’t mind.

“I will try to meet with him this…” Sophie was interrupted as the King’s soldiers burst into the room.

“Make way for His Majesty!” He pushed me to the side as Louis stepped into the room, followed by a bearded man I didn’t know and several other soldiers. The room quickly filled up with men as the King went around the table and stood next to my aunt.

“Fritz, this is Sophie. I know she does not look much like a lady in these clothes but don’t let that fool you. As I told you, she is fluent in English and German as well as Gaelic from her time in Scotland. She will make an excellent wife and mother to your four boys. Her brother Henri… Ah! There he is!” The King gestured to the door where I saw my father trying to squeeze into the room.

“As I was saying, Henri can tell you all about how they were raised. She is a fine woman. Her stay in Scotland made her a little wild, but I assure you that can be tamed out of her.”

I stared at my father, who I noticed couldn’t look at my aunt.

“Excuse me, Your Highness! What is happening here?” My aunt tried to get the King’s attention while grabbing a bottle on the table that started to tip over when the table was bumped by the men crowding into the room. I tried to shrink further into the space between the shelves when my father looked my way. A little bit of surprise crossed his face and then concern.

The King ignored my aunt. “Robert, have the men clear out this room and make sure that Sophie packs up her things. Fritz needs to leave for Prague in the morning so we need to have them wed tonight.” I noticed Robert coming into the room, nodding at the King and catching my eye when he turned to speak to his closest man.

The King finally turned back to my aunt who was standing there in shock. “It has all been arranged, Sophie. You and Fritz will wed tonight. It’s just a small ceremony. We don’t need any fanfare for a second marriage. It is time that you stop this foolishness and become a proper lady again. I’ve tolerated your behavior long enough.” He turned back to Fritz.

Fritz grinned beneath his mustache. “She is a fine looking woman indeed. Not even that old yet. Perhaps she will be able to bear me my fifth son! That will bring us even closer to an agreement between France and Germany, don’t you think?” The man laughed as he and the King moved past my father and out the door.

“Lyse, isn’t there somewhere you’re supposed to be?” I looked between my father and my aunt, who seemed to be frozen.

“Henri…” She whispered but the words didn’t seem to come.

Soldiers moved into the room with boxes and started to pull things off the shelf. My aunt came alive again at the first sound of breaking glass.

“Wait! Be careful! What are you doing?” She tried to step into the soldier’s path and stop him from tossing her precious ingredients into the box.

“Sophie! You must go and prepare for your wedding!” My father pulled my aunt away from the soldier. My aunt slapped him.

“Henri! What have you done?” She screamed at him and I saw anger move up from my father’s neck to his face, red and frustrated.

“You know you can’t live like this! It was only a matter of time for us to find you a new husband! You can’t expect to live without a husband and children! Your duty is to the King and to France!” He yanked a bottle out of her hands and pushed her further from the soldier.

“Father! You can’t send her away!” I rushed to my aunt’s side, clutching her notebook. “Please father! I need her here!” I stepped between them. He pulled my arm and jerked me out of the way.

“Lyse! Get to your lessons. Right now! You’re already late. I hope the King didn’t see you here. Robert, make sure she gets to her lessons. I’ll make sure Sophie gets out of here so you and your men can clear this out. Lyse! Go! Now!”

One of the reasons I’ve grown so attached to Sophie is that she doesn’t fit neatly into the life that’s been given to her. She’s curious. She’s capable. She’s useful. She’s a little unconventional. And everyone around her seems determined to turn those things into problems.

I suspect a lot of women know something about that.

Perhaps that’s why I keep writing about women who want more than the life they’ve been handed.

Maybe that’s what a second wind is, too.

Until next Sunday,

What are some of the ways that you don’t “fit the mold”? How can you celebrate the things that make you wonderfully, unapologetically you?

Curiously,

Shawna

I'm writing this in my best friend's backyard, where I'm dog-sitting for a week. 

I'm writing on my phone, since I was determined to leave most of my tech at home this week. I could have written by hand, but I was feeling lazy because I'd have to dictate to my phone which feels weird to me. I usually dictate to my computer which just feels like I'm in a meeting. 

It's been hot, but today, there's been a little bit of cloud cover, so the A/C in the house hasn't had my attention so much!

Often, we have some sort of motocross thing happening in our town on the weekend, so the squeaks of the baby birds are drowned out a lot by the buzzing of motorcycles and loud announcements. 

Staying here is always a treat for me. It's very comfortable and these two pups are sweet to hang around with. They are always on alert, protecting me from noisy crows and noisier neighbor kids who dare go by the yard. My fierce little paw patrol. 

It's been nice being lazy these past couple of days. Hours reading and watching The Good Doctor has filled my cup after a week that felt like two.

Being here helps free me from those feelings of guilt from doing absolutely nothing. I have one job: hang out with the pups. I'm doing my best. 

I won't go into why the week felt like two. It's really not important. I am grateful for my job and the freedom it enables me to have. 

All the things I filled my days with, especially my job, used to define me. I always felt like I was behind. I felt like I had to fill my kids’ days with activities. I had to clean everything. I had to make sure they had time on the farm. Make sure they had camps. Make sure they weren't out late at a party. On constant alert of what could happen to them. 

I felt like I was alone carrying that burden. Those weren't Dog Days of Summer, that's for sure! 

Still, I find that I keep myself pretty busy most of the time. I worry about spending time with my kids, visiting my parents, making space for my friends. 

Sometimes, I forget that I need to do absolutely nothing. I shouldn't have to go on a vacation for some rest. It's completely ok to read for an entire morning, eat a salad kit for lunch, read and snooze all afternoon, have chips and dip for supper and then stay up until midnight binge watching a show.

I don't need permission to be like my furry friends and just slouch on the couch all day until something riles me up enough to get up. (Usually my stomach).

My phone is getting hot, the mama bird  is feeding those noisy babies, and Ollie wants me to throw his stuffy, so until next Sunday, I will leave you, my readers of The Sunday Post, with this question: 

When was the last time you enjoyed the Dog Days of Summer?

I’m kicking myself a little for saying that in front of my daughter. I did say I was joking and I’ve told her that of course we did love each other for a long time. We were married for almost 25 years; he just didn’t want to be married anymore. Now I see that I didn’t either. But - I did love him and I still do in some ways. Love changes sometimes and that’s okay.

One thing about me is that if I love you, I love you with all of me. That can be a little much sometimes. I’m a little much for people, I’m sure. I am working on my fear of abandonment. On my irrational fear and asking the question: “Will you still love me tomorrow?”

What guarantee is there? How can I be sure that the next person in my life won’t be done with me before I’m ready for them to leave? How can anyone be sure of that? It’s impossible to know and that terrifies me sometimes. It used to make me crazy and unsure and sad.

When I was younger, I’d need constant validation. Looking back at my marriage, I see that there were a lot of things I overlooked so that I could hold on a little while longer. Times that I should have loved myself as much as I loved him. But…there were lessons to be learned and a life to build and I do not regret any of it.

I see my younger self, so desperate for the reassurance that someone would love her. I’d do anything for my children - still do. I’m letting my death grip on them relax so that they can reach for me when they need to instead of forcing myself on them.

Younger me worried about my friends all the time. That unanswered text? It must mean she hates me, not that she’s busy. Out with other friends and I wasn’t invited? That must mean she’s had enough of me and doesn’t want to be around me anymore, not that it’s just a different thing to do and has nothing to do with me.

The constant need for validation is a struggle for me. Even as I write this, I critique what I’m writing thinking, “Geez, this is my second draft and I still think you wouldn’t want to read it.” I want to write for myself and I try to, but at the same time, I worry about what you think of it. I want you to accept me and love me the way I love you.

Even now, as I write this, I catch myself wondering if you’ll like it. I want this work to matter. I want to be accepted. Then I laugh a little because apparently my younger self still sneaks into the room sometimes. I still want everyone to love me. Rational me knows that it’s impossible and not necessary. I don’t love everyone. Why should everyone love me? It doesn’t make sense.

So, here I am thinking about love advice for my niece and my daughter and for myself, really because someday I might get the chance to have a love-of-my-life again. What would be different this time? What advice can I give?

“Will you still love me tomorrow?” Who do you ask this question to?

It isn’t guaranteed that he will love you tomorrow. She might have a new person in her life and still love you too - or not. Even moms or dads can leave and never come back.

It’s okay to be afraid of the answer to that question when you ask someone. We are all afraid of that answer. We all want, no NEED, to belong with others.

However, I am learning to ask that question to someone else. Someone who is with me every single day.

The advice to my niece, my daughter and to myself: The person you need to ask that question to is YOU.

The answer needs to be a resounding, “YES!”

Men leave, parents leave, friends move on. Love changes when it’s outside of you, but you must always end the day with: “Yes, I love you. You showed up. You loved. You tried and tomorrow you will try again. I love you today, tomorrow, and always.”

Thank you for spending part of your Sunday with me.

Until next Sunday, what promise will you make to yourself today that you will still keep tomorrow?

The weekend had already been a highlight of the year because it started with a Friday night at home where all three of my children and youngest grandson came over. We played a board game and then went out to talk around the campfire, reminiscing and telling stories, keeping my grandson up way too late! My eyes get teary even just now thinking about that kind of quality time with my three adult children.

Anyway, back to the river!

I grew up on that river. Hot summer days like this one, we’d spend the day being farm kids then after lunch (and the required 1 hour after eating before swimming because that was a thing! LOL); we’d almost pass out blowing up various air mattresses and tire tubes. Then we’d all pile into the back of Dad’s truck and drive down to the bridge. Sometimes dad would come with us but as we got older and better swimmers, we’d be on our own and my parents would get a couple of hours of peace from the four of us!

Then we’d float for miles. Well, it felt like it anyway! My dad’s family members own several quarters of land along that river, so we were able to float pretty far. Mom and dad would meet us at the end by my grandparents house. There was a perfect swimming hole, so we’d stay in the river for a while to do some actual swimming.

We were talking the other day about how we remember that Granny would come out of her house to jump in the river. She had a perfect path that took her to a rock at the edge of the deepest part of the swimming hole and she’d jump in and swim for a while to soothe the heat off her skin and ease the ache in her bones. (That’s an observation my 56-year-old self makes, not the 10-year-old me!) She rarely swam with us, just adjacent.

My one sister didn’t love swimming as much as I did and for some reason often ended up with a bloodsucker or two stuck on her skin, so that makes a little sense! I don’t recall that ever happening to me! We loved that river and passed that down to our children.

There is my oldest and then 9 years later, there are eight of them within a couple years of age, so summers we’d all go camping at the farm. Every afternoon we’d go for a float down the river. I have many pictures of my kids and nieces and nephews floating along, finding frogs, paddling canoes, and skipping stones. Now that I’m a grandparent, I understand the joy my parents must have felt sitting on their lawn chairs watching them.

My dad has stories too of growing up on that river. I don’t think that he got to float as much as we did because in those days, there was always so much work to do on the farm in the summer; but they definitely got to cool off when the work was done.

In my 56 years, even that river has changed. Floods have altered its path. My grandparents and their house aren’t there anymore. Roots and trees have carved out banks and made the river slower and wider in parts so that my bum drags on the bottom more often. (It has nothing to do with the fact that my bum is much bigger!) The swimming hole isn’t as deep and is much muddier than it used to be, so we don’t swim in it anymore.

Yesterday I sat in the river, easing the ache from my feet and ankles. My mom and her best friend did some long overdue catching up about a community that has changed a lot since they used to bring their kids down to the river on a hot July day. My daughter was able to turn off the noise of her city life and just be in the quiet. And it was the first time my grandson got to be in that river! That’s now five generations that have been in that same piece of happiness.

Yes. A river runs through it all.

It runs through our family. Time has passed and the river looks different, but it still feels the same. Just like our family. It looks very different from my father’s family but still the same in many ways. Brothers and sisters and cousins and uncles and aunties and grandparents and grandkids. All different kinds of people but still family. Still connecting. Still telling stories.

My dad grew up differently than I did. Hard work and tougher love. My mom too. Together, they raised four who understood what hard work is but also what laughter and lazy summer days look like. In turn, the four of us have raised nine very cool, very amazing adults that are all each very different from us four, but still similar: They are kind. They love going on adventures. They know how to be a friend. They know the stories and love to hear them again. Most of all, they know their grandparents love them.

My grandson listened to some of the stories yesterday and we marveled at his discovery of the river. We laughed at his pale white skin and encouraged him to let the sun see it a little more with more visits to the river this summer and the many summers to come.

Our adult children are starting to return to the river, to the family time that they used to have so much when they were younger. As they create their lives, they’re pretty busy. But as they are getting older, I’ve noticed that they are starting to find that the hectic world is too much sometimes. I think they miss the quiet.

The quiet of floating on the slow river. Watching an osprey swoop along the tree tops. Finding treasures in the little stones that have tumbled here from the mountains. The peace of stories from a slower time. The laughter of misadventures along the river.

I know that it’s not often that I get these hot summer days with my kids and grandkids but I treasure each one. Just as I know my parents do whenever they get the chance. I am so grateful that my kids still want to connect and be together whenever they can. These are blessings that I am sure to count.

Maybe that’s one of the gifts of getting older.

We stop rushing past the ordinary and begin to see it for what it has always been.

Home.

The river simply reminds us.

Until next Sunday, what place feels like home to you, no matter how much time has passed?

A soccer ball lies on its side; kicked one too many times so one side pushes into the other, turning it into a half moon.

From beneath the snow, a slip of paper emerges. Soaked through, school lined paper. Fading blue lines perpendicular to one red one.

It’s barely holding together. One touch would surely make it fall apart. Blue scribbles follow haphazardly along the straight ones. Handwriting.

I bend closer, trying to make out the words, but the paper is too wet. The ink too smeared. Here and there, I see “apple” and “visit”. Is that the word “flames” or “blame”?

I don’t dare pick it up to look closer. Who’s the author of these words? Why was the paper here? Was it carried off in the wind when the bullies pushed the binder out of her hands? Maybe she crumpled it up in frustration. Angry at the stupid comparison of “apple” to describe the color red. Did the teacher wonder where her assignment had gone? Were there tears as she tried to explain that she couldn’t find the paper she’d so carefully written out the night before? Did the teacher smile and say “You can have an extra day.” Were the flames a sentence about dragon’s breath in a story that the world would never know, lost in a snow drift forever? What other bits of imagination filled that piece? Were there other pages that would help her replace this one?

I stare down at the disintegrating paper and I am sad, but I’m also glad because somewhere, and not in a galaxy far away, there is a person who still sees paper as the answer to the question.

Until next Sunday, what small thing will you notice this week?

Curiously,

Shawna

.

I’m reading a book called “When the World Fell Silent” by Donna Jones Alward. It’s about two different women in Halifax at the time of the explosion in 1917. I’m about halfway through. It’s hard to put down but I need to sleep more than I need to finish it right now LOL.

I love books. I buy more books regularly (I bought three more yesterday) even when I’ll never read all of them on my shelf. Books and talking about books bring me a lot of joy.

When I was young, I loved to read. In fact, I’d get in trouble for reading at night when I should have been asleep. I loved summer because it was light outside until very late and I could sneak reading time - squinting until there was no more natural light to read by and I’d eventually have to close my book

It was always a treat to go to the bookstore when the kids were small. Everyone found a treasure or two. Even when we really couldn’t afford it, we’d spend money on books.

It always broke my heart to declutter books from our home. I never wanted to part with them but my ex complained about the space they took up and asked me to get rid of them.

A few times he (jokingly??) would threaten to get rid of my Nancy Drew books. Those were lovingly given to me when I was very young and made me the reader I am today. Thankfully he never did, but even saying it was really ugly.

Slowly, I’m rebuilding my collection. I have several versions of my favorites. I have books that are just “pretty” and collectible that I’ve read before. No one will ever have permission to make me do anything with them again.

Books are just things. Reading is just a hobby. But for me, it is so much more than that. Looking back, I realize he understood exactly what mattered to me. Instead of protecting it, he sometimes used it against me. My friends would never do that to me. That is the difference between someone who truly cares about you and someone who doesn’t.

A person who loves you supports you but doesn’t enable you. A “true love” person would help you let go of books that don’t bring you joy anymore and help you display the others beautifully. They understand why you cry over all those books that you shared with your littles that are falling apart and you have to let them go. She takes you to a favorite book store and spots “Pride and Prejudice in Space” before you do and just puts it in your hand because she knows you will have to have it.

One thing I’ve learned is this: people who genuinely love you don’t make a habit of diminishing the things that bring you joy. Maybe accidentally, but then they’re quick to apologize and fix it. I don’t recall having any of my close friends having to say to me, “It was just a joke!” after they’ve hurt my feelings. I can’t say the same about my ex. I can’t even recall them hurting my feelings in the first place.

Curate and collect your people like you do your books. Fine-tune and catalog relationships and who you allow to take up space on your shelf. You deserve a library full of treasures.

I’ve spent quite a bit of time trying to figure out what the Second Wind Society wanted to become.

I thought maybe it would be courses, but about what?

Funnels? That word feels a little too much like a different season of my life.

Downloads? I’ve created plenty of those. How many unopened files does the world really need?

More content? Maybe. But what could I say that someone hasn’t already said?

Then I slowed down. I stopped chasing. And I kept finding myself back in the same place.

A notebook. Because I still love picking up a pretty pen.

An espresso. A new slow ritual borrowed from the Italians.

A quiet morning. Space away from raging screens and the endless scroll.

A letter. Between two people. Real and raw.

Maybe that’s what we’re all missing.

I remember one time walking to work at school and my son was walking ahead of me. (There was no way he would be caught walking to school with his mother!) It was fall. A breezy morning. Huge poplar trees lined the short path between our home and school. The air was crisp and smelled like snow.

Halfway there, my boy stopped. He looked up at the wide, yellow leaves falling down around him. I watched him gaze up at the greying sky and the tumbling leaves forming piles on the fading green grass. Without saying a word, I let him continue on ahead of me as I wiped a tear from my chilly cheek.

My quiet boy still reminds me to slow down. To listen. To just BE in the moment. Many people don’t understand him, but I do. I think he knows something that the rest of us are still learning. Life moves way too fast and if we don’t look up, we’ll miss it.

That’s what I want this space to be. A little corner of the world where we remember to look up. A place for our Second Wind: a second chance to notice, to grow and to enjoy the second half of our lives.

This space isn’t about perfection. It isn’t about keeping up. It isn’t about becoming someone else.

It’s for people who are tired of the noise. People who want something quieter and more meaningful. Something that feels real.

I chose Substack as our gathering space because it feels like a slower corner of the internet. Cleaner. More human.

I want this to feel less like social media and more like finding a handwritten letter waiting in your mailbox.

Every Sunday evening, you’ll find a new Letter waiting here.

Sometimes it will be a story or a memory.

Sometimes it will be the encouragement that you and I both need.

Sometimes it will be a difficult truth that we will both probably cry a little about.

Sometimes it will be a question to carry quietly into the week.

I can’t promise that every Letter will change your life. But I do hope that each one reminds you that your second wind is still waiting.

Come in.

You’re home.

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“Please, just look at these numbers. I can’t believe we are in this position—again.”

He hangs his head in shame.
I shake in frustration.

Am I just projecting? Certainly, I’m not perfect, but…
$827 on booze and cigarettes last month? How is that quitting?

We’re treading water. I can see the tsunami coming.

The house line of credit interest rate keeps climbing. My salary isn’t covering it anymore.
And he’s not working - again.

He says nothing.

Eventually, he gets up and tries to ease the tension in my shoulders with his hands.
Always reverting to the physical.

“I’ll do better, I promise.”

I sigh.
“Ok. We got this, right? It will be better.”

But I don’t really believe it.

I want to trust him. I want him to say, “It will be ok.”
But I realize something, sitting there at my computer…

He has never actually said those words.

I have.

But he hasn’t.

So I sit there quietly asking myself something I didn’t yet have the courage to say out loud:

Where is my safe place?

I close the file.

He’s gone upstairs.

I pick up my game and play for a while—numbing the feeling of being alone in a life that, according to the outside world, should have felt full.

My kids were grown.
I loved my house.
I loved my friends.
And I loved my husband.

But something wasn’t right.

We kept circling back to the same place. Over and over again.

Nothing changed.

Except me.

Ten years ago, I was still in that marriage.

At the time, I would have told you:

• He cared

• We were trying

• Things would get better

I believed those things.

I needed to believe those things.

Because the alternative meant admitting something much harder:

That I was holding together something that wasn’t actually holding me.

Here’s what I didn’t understand then:

You can stay in the same life for years…
and slowly become a completely different person inside it.

Not all at once.

Quietly.

Piece by piece.

• The things you tolerate change

• The things you notice change

• The things you can no longer ignore… change

And one day, without any big dramatic moment, you realize:

You are not who you were when this started.

And that matters.

More than most women allow it to.

Because we’ve been taught to:

• stay

• try harder

• be patient

• be understanding

• keep things together

Especially after 20+ years.

Especially when everything looks “fine” from the outside.

Especially when leaving - or even questioning - feels like blowing up your entire life.

So instead, we adjust.

We shrink.

We tell ourselves:

“It’s not that bad.”
“We’ve been through worse.”
“This is just how relationships are.”

But underneath all of that… something keeps whispering:

This isn’t it anymore.

If you’re reading this and something feels familiar…
not necessarily the details, but the feeling…

I want you to hear this clearly:

You are not behind.
You are not broken.
You are evolving.

And the life you built 10, 20, 30 years ago?

It may not fit the woman you are now.

Not because you failed.

But because you grew.

That realization is uncomfortable.

It can feel like:

• grief

• confusion

• guilt

• even a little bit of panic

But it’s also something else.

It’s the beginning of a second wind.

Not a complete life overhaul overnight.

Not a dramatic reinvention.

But a quiet, steady process of:

• resetting

• reorganizing

• and moving forward in a way that actually fits you now

That’s what I’m building here.

A place for women who are somewhere in that in-between space.

Not who they used to be…
but not quite sure what comes next.

If that’s you, you can start here:

A quiet place to begin again.

Subscribe to receive thoughtful letters about rebuilding our lives, slowing down, having fun, gaining confidence and finding a sense of purpose.

If you’re creating your own Second Wind, I’d love to have you here.

Subscribe now

No pressure. No big promises. Just one small step forward. Remembering who you were before and who you always wanted to be. Be her, here, now.

This is the first piece in what I’m building here. I am so grateful to each of you who are sharing this journey with me. At times, I have felt alone, but my people are always there for me - defining what love really means.

I believe my purpose in life is to be that person for you. To show you that even in darkness, we can find the light.