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.