My daughter is away on vacation this month. That means I’ve been handed the responsibility of watching her cat, Moose, whom I lovingly refer to as my grand cat.

Moose is a rescue. He’s a very large, fluffy boy whose Swiffer duster-sized tail has, on multiple occasions, almost swept my morning coffee off my side table. Moose moves through his days in predictable cycles. There are moments of pure madness, when he tears through the house at full speed, chasing something only he can see. Some invisible threat, or house ghost, that only cats have access to.

And then, just as suddenly as the whirlwind began, it’s over. He finds a patch of warm light near a window, settles in, and sits there with his tail gently swaying. Perfectly content with exactly where he is and what he’s doing.

For the past few days, I’ve been watching him perform his morning ritual and thinking, “I want that.” Not the sprinting through the house part. The other part. That complete and uncomplicated arrival into calm. When his stillness comes, Moose doesn’t resist it. He simply inhabits it.

I continued studying him, trying to figure out how he transforms from chaos to calm so effortlessly, and whether his ability to shift might rub off on me.

Maybe that’s why the word “stillness” has been on my mind lately.

When My House Went Quiet

Watching Moose, I found myself thinking about the first time I recognized feeling true stillness.

I remember my first few empty-nester mornings like they were yesterday. The house was quiet in a way it hadn’t been in years. There were no lunches to make or lists to check off. My daughter wasn’t there to need anything from me.

I didn’t know what to do with myself. I actually laughed out loud, wandering from room to room, vaguely aware that I was looking for something to organize or solve. Old habits are hard to break.

Eventually, I made a cup of coffee and went outside to the backyard. I sat on my wicker chair listening to the birds singing. Just me, the warm morning air, with nothing pressing to do. Experiencing this stillness was a little uncomfortable at first. I was fighting a restless feeling as I thought, "Shouldn't I be doing something?"

But I stayed seated. Happily taking in the quiet and stillness.

Somewhere in those minutes of settling in, I realized that I had stopped thinking about what I should do next. I was simply there, in my backyard, coffee in hand, listening to the birds. Just being still.

Looking back, I have to say the moment felt a little bit magical.

It may have been the first time I understood what stillness could look like for me. Not in a meditation or yoga way; I had been practicing both for years. This felt different. It wasn’t something I had practiced my way into. It effortlessly showed up.

Watching Moose settle into that patch of sunlight reminded me that I have access to that type of stillness. I just have to remember to make time to tap in and experience it more often.

Summer Stillness

Summer has always felt like the season most willing to offer stillness. The days stretch on a little longer. Dinners move outdoors as we enjoy lingering conversations. Even when our schedules don’t change all that much, something about the season invites us to slow down.

These days, I’m learning to find smaller moments of stillness. Making a second cup of coffee or tea in the morning and not doing anything else while I drink it. Stepping outside in the middle of the day for no reason other than to pause and enjoy the warmth of the sun. Or turning off all electronics and savoring the quiet of my house.

Moose, of course, doesn’t care what season it is. His commitment to morning, afternoon, or nighttime moments of stillness remains impressively consistent. But watching him, being active then suddenly still, has made me wonder. Does stillness come more naturally when we stop treating every quiet moment as a space that needs to be filled?

Moose seems to have always understood this. Unlike us humans, after the chaos passes, he doesn't wonder whether he's earned the right to rest. Or think about what comes next. He just settles into the warm light and stays there, satisfied.

Of course he does. He’s a cat.

I’m still working on remembering to settle into the stillness.

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I’ve been thinking about how connection lives inside the nouns of my life. The people, places, and things that still hold pieces of me. Sometimes they show up in fragments, and sometimes all at once. There are connections that are obvious. Others feel like they’ve been patiently waiting for me to notice them again.

The People Connection

There are friendships where gaps in time seem to disappear the moment you’re together again.

I was reminded of that recently while spending time with a group of friends I’ve known for over thirty years. People who knew me before so many versions of my life. Before careers and responsibilities and all the things that slowly shape us over time.

With certain people, the connection is always there. You effortlessly slip back into conversation, laughter, and shared memories as if no time has passed. In those moments, it seems impossible that thirty years have gone by.

There’s something thrilling about that kind of connection.

The Places Connection

A few years ago, I drove back to the Bay Area for a reunion of a theater show I did in my twenties. The same group of friends I just wrote about.

I arrived a few days early and did something unplanned. I drove to every home I’d lived in and every school I’d attended in the area. Each place brought something back. Memories. Feelings. Small details I hadn’t thought about in years. Until I arrived at my junior high school. A school I had only attended for one year.

The main building looked familiar, but as I walked around, I felt strangely disconnected from it all. For a moment, I actually questioned whether I had been a student there at all. The day had been filled with a flood of memories from every other place I visited. Some good and some difficult. But standing there, staring at the oak tree in the quad, I drew a blank.

I kept walking, waiting for a memory to pop up. Ten minutes later, finally, two things surfaced when I turned down a yellow corridor. The classroom doors of a mythology class I loved, and the home economics room where I learned to make a crepe.

That was it.

As I walked back to my car, I suddenly remembered that I had been sick and out of school for nearly two months. It was a jarring moment realizing a chunk of my memories from that time had disappeared. I sat in my car for a moment, waiting for another memory to surface. Nothing emerged, but one clear thought did.

I wish my grandmother were here to tell me what happened during that time.

She took care of me then, and would be the only connection to stories and memories I could no longer access on my own. Maybe I never will.

That experience made me realize that places don’t just connect us to memory. Sometimes they connect us to absence, too.

I’ve lived in Los Angeles for over thirty-five years. Long enough that driving through the city has become its own form of time travel. I think of it as visiting the ghosts of Lisa’s past.

There's a restaurant in West LA that's been shuttered for years. But every time I drive past it, I remember sitting out on the chic outdoor patio with candlelight flickering on a warm summer evening. I was there, breaking up with a boyfriend, when a rat suddenly skittered across the ground next to a group of women celebrating a birthday. For a moment, the rat and I made eye contact. I took that moment of connection with the rat as a sign that I was making the right decision.

I was.

There are so many other places. The hospital where my daughter was born. Driving past the street where her dad and I carefully placed her into her car seat and drove home at a snail’s pace. Off to start our family trio.

Nondescript buildings where I auditioned for acting roles. And the giant white church on Franklin, where so many dance auditions happened. I drive past all of them now and remember the peculiar combination of nerves and ambition that lived in my body then. Youthful, fearless, and completely convinced that everything was possible.

It was and still is. Just differently now.

That’s what Los Angeles holds for me. Not nostalgia exactly. More like a living archive of connections. Years of life memories coexist with the present as I drive toward whatever comes next.

The Things Connection

I have three objects from my childhood that I’ve kept for as long as I can remember.

A small white purse with a silver clasp that I carried to church on Sundays. My first pair of tap shoes. And a small plastic toy that looks like a space alien, sitting on my desk right now as I write this.

All three take me back to around age four or five. Long before life became more layered and complicated. Through years of moving and letting go of things I collected along the way, these always stayed with me.

It never occurred to me to let them go. They still make me happy when I see them.

Maybe because they connect me to something larger than the objects themselves. A feeling or a moment in time. I instinctively chose to hold on to them long before I understood why.

Connection can live in the small things we continue carrying through life.

All of the nouns.

Connection isn’t always something we build. Sometimes it’s something we return to.

I’m heading back to the Bay Area this summer for another reunion of the same show. I haven’t decided whether I’ll do the memories tour again. Writing this has made me curious. It’s been over fifteen years. I’ll see.

A few things to think about:

What’s a place that still feels connected to a version of yourself you haven’t thought about in a long time?

Is there someone in your life you can reconnect with effortlessly, no matter how much time has passed?

What’s an object you’ve carried through multiple chapters of your life? Why do you think it stayed?

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Connection has a way of resurfacing when we least expect it.

Sometimes it shows up in the pieces of ourselves we find in the people, places, and things that stay with us over time.

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One Word is a bi-weekly series exploring words that keep showing up and shaping how we think about living with more intention.

Last weekend, I was reorganizing a kitchen drawer for twenty minutes when I realized I wasn’t actually thinking about creating a pristine, orderly drawer.

My hands were moving through spatulas, as my fingers became tangled in a rubber band that had no business being in there. I found a takeout menu from a place I’m sure shut down two years ago, along with an appliance manual for an electric spiralizer I used twice, but no longer owned. I realized, in all this chaos, that my mind was quieter than it had been in weeks. Not because anything had been resolved. Just less noise.

When I was younger, I thought clarity was something you had to chase, like a mythical beast. I believed it was something that arrives with enough journaling or late-night conversations with yourself. The ones you play out in your head as you stare at the ceiling, running through every possible version of what should come next. In my mind, it required effort. You earned it somehow after you’d done enough of the work. Combining all of these would help you figure out what comes next.

There were times in my life when a lack of clarity felt like a personal failure. As if everyone else had gotten a memo I never received. My activities to gain clarity were performed with good intentions that would morph into a type of low-grade anxiety that I mistook for productivity.

Sometimes clarity showed up. Most of the time it didn’t. When it did arrive, it rarely appeared as I expected.

What I’ve come to understand, slowly over the years, is that clarity usually shows up in the spaces between. Not when I’m pushing for it or when I think I’ve figured something out. It arrives quietly, sometimes sideways, like when my hands are busy, and my mind forgets to hold on to my thoughts so tight.

The kitchen drawer. A long drive with music I’ve heard a hundred times. Folding laundry on a Sunday afternoon when there’s nowhere to be. Enjoying the same familiar rhythm of matching and folding, matching and folding, until my mind just settles somewhere quieter. I’ve started paying attention to those moments differently. Not analyzing them. Just letting them be what they are. A quiet sign that something is stirring, even when I can’t name exactly what it is or what it means.

What Changed

There's something about this chapter of life that's easier. I'm less interested in forcing resolution than I used to be. Less convinced that having it all mapped out means anything. The urgency that used to follow me around has mostly disappeared. The need to know, decide, and be clear before moving has softened in a way I didn't plan for, and didn't expect to feel so good.

I think I used to confuse clarity with certainty. I’ve learned they’re not the same thing.

Certainty wants guarantees. It wants to know how the story ends before agreeing to begin. Clarity is quieter than that. It doesn’t promise outcomes. It just removes a little of the fog. Enough to let you take things one step at a time. It allows you to stop pretending something fits when it doesn’t and to honestly admit, if only to yourself, what you really want. Even if you’re not ready to say it out loud yet.

This is the clarity I’m interested in having now. The honest kind that shows up in small decisions, and finally stops you from needing to explain to others or second-guess yourself. The kind that makes a decision feel less like a decision and more like a relief.

Lately, I’ve been keeping two small notebooks. One is in my newly organized kitchen drawer, another on my nightstand. I use them as a place to write down whatever’s cluttering my mind when I wake up or before I go to bed. The writing isn’t about solving anything; it’s about getting thoughts out of my head and onto a page, where they take up less space. Nothing is structured. No prompts, no categories, no systems I read about somewhere and decided to try. Some days, I’ll write an entire chapter. Other days, I’ll write one word and close the notebook. There are also those mornings or evenings when I open the notebooks and realize nothing needs to be written.

What consistently surprises me is how much lighter the day feels after I do write. Again, not because anything got resolved, but because I literally placed my thoughts somewhere outside of myself.

I don’t know what you’re trying to figure out or decide on right now. Something, probably. We usually are.

But I wonder what might change if you gave yourself one small space. A drawer to clean out, a notebook on a table, or a quiet drive with no podcast or music playing. A moment to allow your hands or body to do something while the rest of you catches up.

This isn't to find the answer but to remember that you don't always need one right now. Sometimes the clear answer or direction is already there, quiet and patiently waiting for you to stop looking so hard.

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A Few Things to Think About

• Is there a place or a moment where your mind goes quiet without you trying?

• What's one thing you've been holding onto tightly that might feel lighter if you just let it go for a while?

• What have you been waiting to feel clear about before you allow yourself to move forward?

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The holidays put gratitude in the spotlight, and I love that. There’s always the moment at the Thanksgiving table when everyone takes turns naming what they’re thankful for. Year-end posts that list accomplishments. Cards with cheerful updates about life changes, milestones, and trips.

All of that is great, and I enjoy hearing about those things. But this year, I’m not feeling called to put together a highlight reel.

Instead, I want to focus on the small things I’m grateful for. The ones that were there consistently all year long.

What Gratitude Looks Like Now

In this chapter of my life, gratitude is about paying attention to what sustains me and trusting my own rhythms and decisions unapologetically.

I treasure spaciousness and what’s already here, rather than chasing what’s next.

My Simple Gratitude List

These are the things I’m grateful for, and the things carrying me into the new year:

I’m grateful for slow mornings, when nothing urgent is waiting for me and the day unfolds without being rushed.

I’m grateful for coffee that goes cold because I got distracted standing by a window, lost in thought.

I’m grateful for familiar routines. The same quiet morning start that makes the day flow smoothly.

I’m grateful for meals that tasted better because I wasn’t scrolling through my phone while eating them.

I’m grateful for walks taken without a destination, just for the sake of moving and breathing.

I’m grateful for moments of quiet in the middle of busy weeks, even if they were brief.

I’m grateful for choosing rest without having to explain myself or feel like I needed to earn it.

I’m grateful for saying no more often, and for not needing to explain why.

I’m grateful for evenings that ended early, when staying in felt better than pushing through.

I’m grateful for unfinished things I didn’t force to completion, trusting they’ll find their time or not.

I’m grateful for letting go of timelines that never really belonged to me.

I’m grateful for letting some plans dissolve without turning them into a story.

I’m grateful for conversations that didn’t fix anything but made me feel understood.

I’m grateful for laughter that showed up unexpectedly and changed the tone of an entire day.

I’m grateful for the ability to pause before reacting, even when I didn’t always get it right.

I’m grateful for paying attention to what my body was telling me instead of pushing through.

I’m grateful for the moment I realized it was okay to change my mind about something I’d believed for years.

I’m grateful for the Sunday afternoons when I sat in my favorite chair with a book and realized I had nowhere to be.

I’m grateful for the confidence that came from knowing myself a little better than I did last year.

I’m grateful for my daughter, my family, and the friends who make life feel lighter and remind me I’m not doing this alone.

And I’m grateful for the version of myself who didn’t demand constant progress, but allowed the year to be what it was.

That’s my list. The small things that made this year feel quieter, steadier, and grounded.

That’s what I want more of in 2026.

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A Few Things to Think About

As this year winds down, take a moment with these questions:

What small habit or routine supported you this year more than you realized?

What did you let go of this year that made space for something better?

What’s one thing you did for yourself this year that you want to keep doing?

What do you want to feel more of in the year ahead?

What are you grateful for as this year winds down? I’d love to hear what’s on your list.

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In my 20s and 30s, I thought balance meant doing everything and doing it well. Long to-do lists, multitasking, and the quiet exhaustion that followed me into bed were my norm. Balance meant keeping all the plates spinning, personal and professional, no matter how heavy they felt.

It took a lot of missteps, stress, and even health issues over the years for me to understand that balance is none of that. It is less about keeping it all together and more about knowing when and how to return to my center.

A few weeks ago, I caught myself rushing from one project to another, ignoring that familiar voice in my head telling me to slow down. So I did something I would have never done when I was younger. I stopped mid-task. Closed my laptop, stepped outside, and sat in my garden.

I had no agenda or productivity goal. I just allowed myself to be still.

Of course, my mind immediately went through the list of everything I should be doing: Returning client emails, editing videos, or calling a friend for their birthday. I felt restless, as if I were wasting time. It was a familiar feeling from my past, one I never enjoyed.

But I stayed seated in my garden. And somewhere between the restless feelings and the mental checklists, my body relaxed. The noise quieted just enough for me to recognize what I had created for myself. Unnecessary overwhelm. I sat still long enough to remind myself that balance is not about juggling everything. It is about finding your centered calm, especially when life feels uneven.

Finding Your Balance

Balance in your second act has a different rhythm. It stops being about control and becomes more about choice.

You have lived through enough balanced life attempts to know that most of them are illusions. You’ve tried the color-coded calendars, the morning and evening routines, and the idea that if you optimized enough, everything would fall neatly into place.

You’ve also watched the women before you, mothers, mentors, and other women in your family, burn themselves out. All while trying to be everything for everyone all the time. And you have lived long enough to know that life will always be unpredictable, no matter how carefully you create plans.

Now, here we are at the close of another year. A season that naturally brings expectations, obligations, and emotional complexities. The holidays have a way of pulling us out of balance, stretching us in directions we don’t always have the energy for. But the gift of your second act is perspective. You get to ask yourself and decide:

How can I stay balanced in this phase of my life, knowing who I am today, and honoring my capacity, time limits, and energy level?

Your answer to that question will be fluid when you know that finding balance is not the finish line. It is a rhythm that shifts day to day, even year to year. Some weeks, that rhythm looks like a long list of commitments. Others, it looks like slow mornings and days that unfold gently.

Once I stopped chasing the mythical balanced life, I noticed how naturally my energy ebbs and flows. The key is not trying to force everything to stay even. It is noticing when you are leaning too far in one direction and knowing how to return to your middle ground. When I choose to live in alignment rather than obligation, my days take on a completely different quality. My body feels lighter and I have more energy. My creativity opens up in a way that feels natural instead of forced. Ideas flow more easily, and I find myself in a better mood. More present and more patient with myself and others.

It also inspires me to make time for the things that keep me joyful, like cooking, hiking, or spending time with the people closest to me. This reminds me of what my version of balance feels like.

Sometimes, prioritizing those moments has meant saying no to things that might have advanced another area of my life. At this stage, my peace and my health come first. I have learned that opportunities do not disappear when you choose yourself. They show up again at the right time.

Finding Your Balance

So how do we reclaim balance when everything feels like it is pulling us in many directions, especially during the holiday season?

Honor your natural rhythm.

If your creativity comes alive in the afternoon, work with it. If your mornings are slow, let them be slow.

I am a morning person, and once I accepted that and planned around it, everything became easier.

Put doing nothing on your calendar and protect it.

Yes, nothing. Not meditation. Not a purposeful walk. Not even an inspirational podcast.

Nothing, even if it is for 5 to 10 minutes.

Stillness is not laziness. It is an opportunity to pause and regroup. Sometimes, it can be the doorway to clarity.

Let your body guide you.

Your body knows when you are drifting off-center. Take a walk without your phone. Play music that slows your breath. Find moments that help you slow down and reset.

Not everything needs the same energy.

Not every day demands the same pace. Some days call for activity. Others ask for rest. Finding your rhythm is not about keeping everything balanced.

Be okay with saying no.

Saying no can be the most powerful way to stay centered. Not everything deserves your time or emotional energy. You’re not closing a door. You’re simply choosing what feels right for you in this moment.

Something to Think About

Here are a few simple questions to help you explore what balance means for you right now:

Where in my life do I feel off-balance, and what do I need to release to find my center again?

Not what you think you should release, but what truly needs to go.

What am I still doing out of habit rather than desire?

Sometimes we keep doing things long after they have stopped serving us.

If balance is a rhythm, what does mine sound or feel like right now?

And does that rhythm match the life I want to live now?

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I enjoy discovering my different rhythms each day. I know when to choose peace over pressure or intention over speed. Some days, it all works beautifully. Other days, I might find myself spinning plates again. But either way, I know how to find my way back to my middle ground.

That moment when I closed my laptop and stepped outside? I’ve had many more of those since. And each time, I return feeling a little less frantic and a lot more grounded.

Your rhythm is there too, underneath the noise, expectations, and swirl of this Holiday season.

You just have to get quiet enough to find it.

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I opened my laptop this morning to work on my book project. Twenty minutes later, I’d reorganized my desktop folders, answered three texts, and started researching a completely different project. I hadn’t written a single word.

If you’re in the process of building something new (whether it’s a business, a creative practice, or a clearer sense of who you are now), you already know that focus feels different after 50. It’s not about willpower or discipline. Those old productivity tricks don’t work like they used to. They might feel like they were designed for a former version of you that no longer exists.

Staying focused in your second act isn’t about doing more. It’s about getting clearer on what deserves your energy and letting go of what doesn’t. Some days it’s easy. Some days it’s not. And that’s okay. The key is returning to what deserves your attention.

Here are five ways to find and protect your focus.

Choose Your Three Top Priorities This Month

Not ten goals. Not a vision board with forty dreams. Three things.

When I asked myself this question last month, I realized I’d been carrying nine different priorities and not making progress on any of them. Once I named three, everything else became secondary. When you know what’s most important, your “yes” list defines your “not now” list.

Write down three things that would move your life forward this month. Everything else can wait.

Create One Small Ritual That Signals It’s Time to Start

You don’t need a complicated morning routine. You need a simple anchor that tells your brain: it’s time to focus now. ” For me, it’s making my favorite hot tea (blueberry hibiscus) and turning on the Focus@Will music app. That five-minute ritual tells my brain it’s time to work.

Try creating a tiny ritual to start your focused session. Commit to doing it for two weeks and see what happens.

Break Your Big Goal Into Small, Easy Steps

When you’re building something new at this stage of life, the big picture can feel overwhelming. You’re not just learning new skills. You might be pursuing something you’ve never done before.

The weight of it all could make you freeze up. So what should you do? Don’t focus on all of it at once. Break it into bite-sized pieces (remember the old question: how do you eat an elephant?). For example, if you want to start a consulting business, instead of trying to market your services to a large audience, just reach out to one person who might need your help.

Protect Your Attention Like It’s Your Most Valuable Asset

Because it is.

Every open browser tab is a distraction and can drain your focus. Every “quick check” of your phone breaks your train of thought.

Try this for one week:

• Limit the number of browser tabs you have open (I’ll be doing this)

• Silence your phone during focus time (or put it in another room)

• Check email twice a day instead of multiple times a day

You’ll start to notice how much space opens up in your mind and feel less distracted.

Track What You’re Avoiding (It’s Trying to Tell You Something)

Sometimes, loss of focus could be clarity in disguise.

If you keep procrastinating on something you said was important, maybe it’s not important to you anymore. The real question to ask: Am I avoiding this out of fear, or because it doesn’t fit anymore?

Sometimes the best thing you can do is let things go.

Finding focus or the ability to stay focused in your second act isn’t about trying to control everything or optimizing every hour. It’s about choosing and prioritizing what gets your time and attention.

Three Questions to Ask Yourself

• What are the three things that would move my life forward this month?

• What am I still doing that I should stop?

• What am I avoiding, and why?

The biggest question worth asking: What deserves your attention right now?

When you know the answer to that, staying focused becomes easier. Not perfect, but easier.

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We talk about energy like it’s a bank account. Something we deposit into and withdraw from. It’s either full or empty. I’ve started to realize that my energy is more like water. It flows, pools in unexpected places, then finds its own level. There are some mornings I wake up feeling I have nothing left in my energy tank. Other days, I’m buzzing with a hyped up energy that won’t settle down. Sometimes my energy feels thick and heavy, like I’m moving through honey. And other times it feels light and easy, like I could take on anything with a smile.

These aren’t good days or bad days. They’re just different kinds of energy asking for different things. What if the question we ask ourselves isn’t “Do I have enough energy?” but “What kind of energy do I have right now, and how do I move through my day with it?”

Five Ways Energy Shows Up

Energy shows up in different ways. Here are five of them, and how to work with each one.

Feeling Like You Have Enough

There are days when energy feels steady, not too high, not too low. Just enough to carry you through what life is asking of you. This is the quiet type of energy that hums along in the background and makes daily life flow easily.

How to move through your day with it: Trust it. This energy doesn’t need correcting or amplifying. Move through your day without overthinking whether you can handle the next thing. These are the days when everything gets done. Phone calls are returned, and projects get finished. It might not feel that exciting, but this steady energy is solid.

Feeling Like You Have Too Much

Welcome to the buzzing days. When you have energy, but it feels restless and scattered. You might be moving around the house, straightening things that don’t need straightening, or starting projects you don’t finish. On the surface, it seems like you have plenty of energy, but it doesn’t feel good to hold onto it.

How to move through your day with it: Give it a place to ground itself and redirect it by completing simple tasks or activities. Organize one drawer, water the plants, or go for a walk. The busy buzz you’re feeling needs direction, not suppression.

Feeling Drained

There are times when your energy is depleted. You feel empty after giving too much away, or you feel slow leaks that chip away at you without giving anything back.

How to move through your day with it: Notice the leaks and what caused them. People, habits, and obligations that don’t replenish you may drain more than they restore. Find ways to plug one leak at a time and protect what’s left.

The Tone of Energy

Energy isn’t only about quantity, it’s about quality. Some days your energy feels light and expansive. Other days, it feels heavy and contracted, even when you have the same amount.

How to move through your day with it: Pay attention to the feeling. When your energy feels light and expansive, notice what’s creating that. Remember it. When it feels heavy, ask yourself: Is this excitement or obligation? Curiosity or dread? The shift isn’t always about doing more or less. Sometimes it’s choosing one thing that lightens the feeling.

Energy in Motion

Energy isn’t static. It shifts throughout the day and throughout the seasons of our lives. What energized you at 30 might drain you at 55. Tasks that feel impossible in the morning might feel manageable after lunch.

How to move through your day with it: Work with the rhythm instead of against it. Notice what time of day your energy rises and when it falls. Try to plan demanding tasks or conversations for when your energy is higher. Save the gentler tasks for when it dips. The key is to work with your rhythm, not against it.

Something to Think About

Take a few minutes to check in with where your energy is right now.

Which of these five feels most like your energy today?

What’s been giving you energy lately, even in small ways?

Where might energy be quietly leaking away without you realizing it?

At this stage of life, we know ourselves well enough to work with our energy instead of against it. We can notice the patterns, honor the rhythms, and make choices that support rather than deplete us. It’s not always about having more energy; sometimes it’s about redirecting what’s already there.

This week, pay attention to your energy. See what shifts when you notice the level and what you need to move through your day.

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This post is part of my bi-weekly One Word series, where I explore words that keep appearing, demanding attention, and shaping how we think about living with more intention and less noise.

Last week, I ran into my neighbor Sarah while we were both checking our mail. As we were catching up on life events, she mentioned she had been watching a guitar instructor on YouTube. Then she laughed and said, "I've always wanted to learn, but at 58, I'm probably too old to start now."

What caught my attention wasn't her saying she was too old. It was her brief pause. It was as if she could picture herself playing a guitar, but ran away from the idea of it. It reminded me of how possibilities show up in these in-between moments. Right where our interests and self-doubt collide.

What Possibility Feels Like

Possibility starts with asking yourself honest questions: What do I actually want to try? What could happen if I tried or started something new?

Thoughts of possibilities carry the chance for change and the promise of evolution. You might explore a new hobby or try something that has nothing to do with your past experiences. It becomes about uncovering a new layer of yourself.

Possibility is a gift that can widen our view of what life could be. It reminds us that even now, at this stage of life, we are still capable of growing and surprising ourselves.

My What-If Moment

My own what-if moment came ten years ago when I decided to enroll in a six-month culinary program in Los Angeles. I was already a confident home cook. Friends often turned to me for recipes and happily accepted dinner invitations. But there I was, considering stepping into a professional kitchen to start a new cooking journey.

My ego kept questioning the decision: "I already know how to cook; why am I doing this?" But underneath that doubt was something more. Going through a culinary program was something I'd always wanted to do. And the desire to pursue surfaced during a particularly challenging time in my life. My mother was diagnosed with dementia and entered a memory care facility. With all of the heaviness of that, I felt the need to do something for myself that brought me joy, and cooking has always been that thing. It was my way of creating balance in my life.

While I was in school, I had to let go of the cooking habits my grandma had taught me. Those little cooking shortcuts I could do with ease. And while they worked, I had to learn to do things in a new, more professional way. At first, it was frustrating. My ego kept getting in the way. But the more I leaned into being a beginner, the freer I felt.

What surprised me wasn't whether I could keep up. It was how good it felt to let myself learn and create with fresh eyes. It taught me to be flexible and allowed me to find something that felt good during a difficult time in my life.

Deciding to pursue a culinary program didn't just make me a better home chef. It reminded me how exciting it feels to be creatively curious again and opened doors I never expected. It led me to share recipes and lifestyle tips online, start a YouTube channel, and eventually create An Appetizing Life. One small choice grew into a whole new chapter I never would have imagined.

The Ripple Effect of Possibility

Looking back, I realize that saying yes to that program wasn’t just about improving my cooking skills. It was about allowing myself to let go of the familiar and evolve, even when life felt uncertain. That lesson has carried into other areas of my life. Considering new possibilities has made me more flexible and curious. It changed my self-perceptions and reminded me that there’s still more to discover.

What's Knocking at Your Door?

Your own moment of possibility might be waiting for you. It could be a class you've thought about taking, or even the idea of starting something new in your life.

This week, pay attention to the possibilities you've been considering. Explore them before your mind rushes in with all the reasons why you can't or shouldn't.

Ask yourself:

What might happen if I gave this a little more room to grow?

What idea do I keep returning to, even when I try to dismiss it?

One Small Step: Write down one possibility you've been considering. Do one thing to move it forward. It could be doing a bit of research or reaching out to someone who's already pursuing it.

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Possibility is about opening ourselves to new opportunities and experiences. Sometimes the most powerful thing we can do is let a small yes guide us somewhere unexpected.

Have you ever had a specific word that keeps showing up in your life? You begin noticing it everywhere. It's similar to being fixated on one particular car, like a light blue Volkswagen van. Suddenly, you're seeing them everywhere on the road.

A few weeks ago, I was sitting in a coffee shop, and I overheard a woman say, almost under her breath, "I just need to feel renewed." Normally, I can tune out other people talking in noisy environments, but it was the way she said it that caught my attention. It was in this tired but hopeful tone that stayed with me for the rest of the day.

Later, I wrote down the word. Renew. I played around with it. Renewal. After that, the word started showing up everywhere. I saw it in a book, in conversations with friends, and in other random places. It was as if the word was following me around, telling me to pay attention.

The Word That Chose Me

Days later, I was scrolling through Instagram and one of those "10 steps to reinvent your life" posts popped up in my feed. Usually, I'd keep scrolling, but something made me pause. I thought about the woman in the cafe and remembered that she didn't say she felt like she needed to reinvent her life. She said she needed to feel renewed.

I've written about reinvention many times before. It's powerful when you're ready for major shifts. But for someone who isn't looking to overhaul everything, all that transforming language might feel more off-putting than inspiring.

When I think of the word renewal, it's not about reinventing or redesigning your life. In a gentler context, it could mean restoring something you've temporarily set aside, or going back to something you want to experience again that used to light you up. Something that will refresh your spirit and make you feel renewed.

My Lesson in Renewal

We've been told that growth and reinvention mean adding more. Additions that require more skills and versions of ourselves to maintain. But renewal or feeling renewed can be about subtraction. Quieting the noise and removing distractions so we can return to the parts of ourselves we set aside.

That may be why this word feels so essential right now, especially for those of us navigating life after 50. What if renewal actually looks like restoration? What if it's about returning to our essential self instead of building a shinier version?

You can feel renewed by doing simple things. I felt it when I took a tap class after being away from dance for years. The first time I heard my feet hit the floor and create rhythms, it felt like home. It was like reconnecting with an old friend I hadn't realized I'd missed. I wasn't reinventing anything in my life. I was returning to something that made me feel joyful and good.

The word renewal inspires me to welcome back parts of myself I may have set aside and to do joyful things.

Something to Think About:

What activity, ritual, or practice did you let go of that could help you feel renewed? Are you ready to pick it up again?

The wonderful thing about renewal is that it doesn't require dramatic gestures or life-altering decisions. Sometimes it's as simple as returning to something you once enjoyed, or restoring a rhythm that got buried under years of distractions and obligations.

This week, take a few minutes to identify one small thing you used to do that made you feel like yourself. It's time to welcome back what you've been missing.

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This post kicks off my bi-weekly word series, where I explore words that keep appearing, demanding attention, and shaping how we can think about living with more intention and less noise.