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

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Dear Reader,

There’s a woman I talk to before almost every big decision.
I call her Joy. She’s my inner mentor.

She first appeared years ago, when I was on my knees from chronic burnout—begging for life to be different but having no map for how to change it.
At first, she was only a whisper. Now, she’s a constant.

Everything Joy does is artful and soothing.

She wears dresses that feel like pajamas, goes barefoot, and sets fresh flowers by the bed every week—no matter what else is happening.
Sometimes I’ll see an older woman in the grocery store or scroll past her on Instagram and think—Oh. Joy, hi.

This month, like always, she’s shown up in ways both small and strange.

When we rented a last-minute beach place, Joy nudged me: Stay as close to the water as you possibly can.
​I found a tiny, vintage-feeling cottage with a sea turtle nest right outside the porch.
We sat with the local volunteers every night until they hatched.

When I cleaned out the gutters that hold our collection of shells and stones, I was ready to rush through the muck and spiders. Joy is so much more patient than I am, so I channeled her sense of purposeful beauty until the rock garden beneath our rain chain became a mosaic.

She was there in the hard moments, too. Holding my mother’s shrinking hand, coaxing her to take off the uncomfortable wig she wears to hide her baldness from ongoing chemo. Wanting to lend her some of Joy’s steadiness with my palm over hers.

And our newest rescue dog’s reactivity… I had a nudge about where to go for help (thank you, Joy), but didn’t follow it after my husband called it woo. The “practical” route was a disaster. I circled back to the place I knew could help, and so far (fingers crossed), it’s working.