Before I ever became “Nana,” I was shaped by two extraordinary grandparents who raised me with love, steadiness, and grace. Now, I get to carry their lessons forward — becoming the kind of grandparent who offers safety, presence, and unconditional love.

My grandparents’ kitchen wasn’t fancy or spotless, but it was alive — filled with food, stories, and love that spilled into every corner. It’s where I learned life skills, family traditions, and the kind of generosity that money can’t buy.

Healing isn’t a tidy ending or a perfectly wrapped story. It’s messy, slow, and deeply personal. In midlife, I’ve learned that healing means honoring my past, reclaiming my truth, and letting go of the shame I no longer need to carry.

Self-care in midlife isn’t about spa days or perfect morning routines. It’s about showing up for yourself in real, unfiltered ways—saying no without guilt, moving your body with kindness, and letting go of the pressure to “do it all.”

A trip to the DMV is never high on anyone’s list of fun ways to spend the day, but I didn’t expect mine to turn into a full-blown identity crisis. All it took was one unexpected question: “Black or grey?”

For years, Brandy thought being strong meant never breaking. But midlife has taught her something softer, deeper, and far more powerful: real strength lives in feeling, resting, and letting go of the armor.

We were just 19 when we got married — full of stubborn dreams and wild hope. Thirty-one years later, love looks different. Softer. Sacred. This is a reflection on how marriage evolves through the hardest and holiest seasons, and why I’d still choose him all over again.

Today, I’m officially submitting my application to the East Texas Branch of the WDNC Club — founded by the one and only @justbeingmelani. Because we’re not done growing, glowing, or giving a damn — we’ve just refined what we give a damn about.

Midlife isn’t just hot flashes and hormone shifts — it’s invisible chin hairs, 3 a.m. wakeups, sacred friendships, and rediscovering your own damn voice. These are the things no one talks about… but we should. Let’s say them out loud — together.

No one warned me about the quiet that follows motherhood — the hush that settles over your home and your heart once the kids are gone. It's not just silence; it’s space. Space to ask, “Who am I now?” This isn’t emptiness. It’s the beginning of rediscovery.

Midlife isn’t the end—it’s a new beginning. Read how I earned my MPH in my 50s and why it’s never too late to grow, learn, and dream again.

A raw and honest letter to my younger self — not a list of regrets, but a love note to the girl who made this version of me possible.

Some folks are out here claiming menopause isn’t real—that it’s made up, exaggerated, or caused by seed oils and society. Bless their hearts. Because my hot flashes aren’t a conspiracy. The brain fog didn’t come with a hashtag. And my sister’s male OB-GYN told her perimenopause “wasn’t a thing.”

This post is for every woman who’s been dismissed, gaslit, or told her experience isn’t valid. Menopause is real. What’s new is the way we’re finally speaking up about it—and we’re not shutting up anytime soon.

Menopause isn’t a breakdown — it’s a recalibration. Here’s what crying over a rotisserie chicken taught me about hormones, midlife, and letting go.

Turning 50 wasn’t what I expected — it was better. Here’s what surprised me, what I let go of, and why I’m more at peace than ever.

I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing my teeth, when I saw it.

A glint of silver, right near my temple. Not shiny like a sequin — no, more like an intruder sneaking out from underneath years of my box dyed raven locks.