Support for women ripening into their second bite of life.

Hi Reader,

Picture this.

I rushed out the door to an early doctor's appointment (just routine).

Got sent over to the hospital for lab work, since the tech was out at the office.

Ran by the market to get staples for the winter storm approaching.

Threw together a quick lunch and switched the laundry.

Checked in with my dad and husband (who was filling in for me as a ski trip chaperone—more on that later).

And then I realized it was almost 2pm.

My chest tightened. That familiar sinking feeling. Where did the day go?

I had this vague sense of disappointment, like the day had slipped through my fingers without my permission. I hadn't done anything. Nothing that felt significant or intentional or worthy of the word "meaningful."

Sound familiar?

But then, my husband texted me back:

The ski gear was uncomfortable, and hard on my knees. Be glad you missed it.

Ding! Ding!

In the mention of his tricky knees, I could see what I hadn't only moments before.

The day hadn't disappeared. It had just refused to look like what I thought it should.

We all carry these invisible templates of what makes a day worthwhile. A day should feel productive. A day should move us forward. A day should have something to show for it, some small victory we can point to and say, See? I mattered today.

But what if a meaningful day doesn't always announce itself that way?

The truth is, I spent the day preparing for storms—the one forecast outside and the smaller, private ones we all tend to. Even a routine doctor's appointment hums with that subtle awareness of our fragility, the way we show up for our bodies even when it feels mundane. Maybe especially then.

I was holding opposites all day. The tedium of errands and the privilege of making sure people I love were warm and fed. The disappointment of missing the field trip and the relief of not having to reschedule appointments.

Most days ask us to hold more than one thing at once. Scared and excited. Grateful and exhausted. Present and distracted.

Winter teaches us this, if we let it. Not every day blooms. Some days are about gathering what you need, circling the people you love, and hunkering down. Different seasons ask for different kinds of tending.

So here's what I'm giving myself permission to remember: A day spent responding to what arises—rather than what I planned—isn't a day lost. It's a day lived.

That's the practice. That's enough.

I'll be back on Sunday with more about the ski trip—and why my daughter said it was the best and worst day of her life at the same time.

With such love,
Brooke

P.S. Here I am in the ski suit I ordered, but didn't get to wear. It's a head-to-toe fleece jumpsuit and it’s been getting me out for more frequent cold walks. Gotta take care of those knees after all. 😉