A strange kind of sanctuary


Midlife isn’t a crisis—it’s a wild, holy becoming.

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Dear Reader,

Last year, I had two unexpected surgeries just three months apart.

I healed quickly—except for the anemia.

When food and supplements didn’t help, my doctor prescribed a series of iron infusions at the local hospital.

Every Monday at 3 p.m.—their final slot of the day, just ten minutes after I wrapped up teaching—I’d walk briskly across campus, pulse still rushing, and slip into my car. I’d drive straight there.

Waiting Room C.
Fox News ticker. Vending machine hum.
And Teresa, always the one to call my name.

She’d lead me down the quiet hallway to the infusion center, where the pharmacy’s delay was part of the ritual. The meds would take 45 minutes to arrive.

And in that space—between arrival and needle—they fussed over me.

They settled me into an oversized recliner.
Wrapped me in warmed blankets.
Opened my drink. Tilted the straw just so.

They brought meal trays.
Listened to stories about my daughter’s school struggles.
Showed me photos of their grandbabies.

Eventually, I’d be hooked up.
The iron would drip, slow and steady.
They dimmed the lights, hushed the fluorescent glare.
And I would rest.

Here’s what feels tender to admit:

I loved it.

What kind of woman looks forward to a weekly hospital visit?!

A woman who is rarely—if ever—fussed over.

A woman who holds a thousand things with grace and strength but also needs holding.

I am so weary of the online noise that insists midlife is only about hormones and protein and sleep hygiene.

Sure, maybe the wine is messing with your rest.

But it’s also:

Being invisible in meetings.
Carrying your father’s decline.
Fielding your teenager’s fury.
Buffering your partner’s mood.
Worrying about your sex life.
Watching the news spiral again.
Editing your email five times.
Sniffing the mug to guess if the dishwasher is clean.

It’s all of that. And more.

So let me say this softly and clearly: There is nothing wrong with you if you long to be taken care of.

One of the quiet joys of my work is helping women remember this:

You are effortless to love.
Effortless.

If I could leave a whisper at the door of your becoming this month, it would be:

May you seek support in the messy middle—
when everything is wonderful and falling apart.
May you stop waiting for the perfect moment to deserve your own care.
That moment doesn’t exist.
May you remember, again and again,
that it is a radical act to tend to yourself.
No one else can garden your inner world.
That is your sacred labor.

Reader, how will you live when you no longer need to earn your own care?

To your second bite,

Brooke

P.S. I'll be back on Sunday with Part 2 of this weekly letter.

P.P.S. There’s still space in my 2026 Tuscany retreat. Think: beauty, magic, deep rest, and a gentle return to your creativity.

We have 4 private rooms available—and if you're coming with a friend, we can place you together in a shared apartment.

🇮🇹🌻Book a no-pressure chat with me, if your heart is curious: https://brookehofsess.as.me/tuscany.


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680 W. King Street P.O. Box 585, Boone, NC 28607

The Second Bite

Midlife isn’t a crisis—it’s a wild, holy becoming. This is your invitation to experience midlife as it was meant to be: sweet, curious, delicious.

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