As Thanksgiving draws near, many of us instinctively begin to reflect. Some hearts are full—overflowing with joy, milestones, and moments worth celebrating. But others may be quietly aching, wondering what there is to be thankful for after a year that felt more like survival than celebration. Here’s the truth: gratitude doesn’t always come wrapped in grand gestures or perfect outcomes. Sometimes, it’s tucked into the smallest, most ordinary moments—the ones we used to overlook. 🌟 What I'm Thankful For This Year: A clear mammogram—a quiet victory, and a reminder to be proactive about our health (more on being proactive about preventative health in a future post). The health of my loved ones—something I once took for granted, now cherished deeply. The beauty of nature—like yesterday, when golden leaves danced in the sunlight and I felt like I was in a movie. Sustaining relationships—the ones that hold me up, even when the world feels heavy. The unconditional love that comes from three excitable balls of fur. Another day on this earth—a gift denied to many, and one I no longer take lightly. 💬 If You’ve Had a Rough Year… You’re not alone. Gratitude doesn’t erase pain, but it can soften its edges. It can remind us that even in the midst of hardship, there are glimmers—moments of grace, connection, and quiet beauty. So, if you’re struggling to feel thankful, start small: A warm cup of coffee. A friend who checks in. A sunset that catches you off guard. A breath you didn’t think you’d take. Gratitude isn’t about pretending everything’s perfect. It’s about honoring what is—and finding light in the cracks.

There’s a TikTok trend that says women unwind by watching true crime shows like they’re scented candles and bubble baths. And honestly? It’s not wrong. For many of us, curling up with a documentary about a serial killer is the emotional equivalent of a weighted blanket. True crime isn’t just entertainment—it’s a ritual, a coping mechanism, and sometimes, a very intense form of self-care. From podcasts and courtroom livestreams to Reddit threads and memes, true crime has become a cultural phenomenon. And while shows like Law & Order and Criminal Minds gave us the drama, today’s true crime content gives us the details—the real cases, the real victims, the real consequences. So why are so many women obsessed? 🛡️ True Crime as a DIY Survival Guide We’ve been taught to carry our keys like brass knuckles, park under streetlights, and text our friends when we get home. True crime becomes another layer of preparation. It’s not morbid—it’s strategic. We watch to learn what went wrong, what to avoid, and how to spot danger before it spots us. It’s like a self-defense class, but with better lighting and popcorn. 🧠 Understanding the Predator There’s a deep curiosity about the psychology behind criminal behavior. What makes someone snap? How do they manipulate? What warning signs did others miss? For many women, understanding the predator is a way to reclaim power—and maybe yell “RED FLAG” at the screen like it’s a sport. 💔 Empathy and Identification Women are statistically more likely to be victims of violent crime. So, when we see a victim on screen, we don’t just sympathize—we identify. That could be us. Our sister. Our daughter. Our friend. Watching becomes a way to honor the victim’s story and to participate in the pursuit of justice. And yes, we cry. And rage. And sometimes Google the prosecutor’s closing argument because we need closure. 🗣️ Venting and Bonding Over Murder Let’s not forget the communal side. We love to talk about these cases. We dissect them in group chats, on forums, in book clubs. We vent, we theorize, we rage, we grieve. And in doing so, we build bonds. We create space for shared vulnerability and collective resilience. It’s like a murder mystery dinner party, but with less wine and more Reddit threads. 🧩 The Puzzle of It All And yes—some of us just love a good mystery. The intellectual stimulation of piecing together clues, spotting inconsistencies, and solving the case before the reveal scratches a very satisfying itch. It’s Sudoku for the emotionally prepared. 🕵️‍♀️ Let’s Make This a Segment Is there a case you’re following right now? A podcast you can’t stop listening to? A show that’s got you hooked? Drop us a line. We’re thinking of turning this into a recurring segment—Kicking the Chaos: True Crime Edition—and we’d love to follow along with the stories that matter to you. So go ahead—dim the lights, grab your blanket, and cue up that docuseries. You’re not alone in your fascination. You’re part of a vast, thoughtful, and fiercely protective community.

It’s not just you. Narcissistic traits are on the rise—and easier to spot. Here’s why: Social media rewards self-promotion and superficial charm, creating fertile ground for narcissistic behavior. (Bonus points if they caption their selfies with “just vibing” while plotting your emotional demise.) Cultural shifts toward individualism and “everyone gets a trophy” mentalities can inflate egos without building empathy. (Participation ribbons: great for kindergarten, less great for emotional maturity.) Psychological awareness has grown—terms like “gaslighting” and “narcissist” are now part of everyday language, helping us name what we once couldn’t. (And once you name it, you can’t unsee it. Like a bad haircut in a yearbook photo.) But naming it doesn’t make it easier to live through. 🛡️ How Narcissists Operate—and How to Protect Yourself Here’s the pattern I’ve seen, and maybe you have too: You challenge them → they escalate. You stand your ground → they gaslight and smear (but in reality they are really jealous of you or afraid of you) You hold your boundaries → they cut you off, give you the silent treatment and flaunt control. It’s a relentless headwind. Like arguing with a raccoon in a Mercedes Benz. But here’s what I’ve learned: Not every relationship is worth saving. If someone is committed to hurting you, they don’t deserve a seat at your table—or even a folding chair in the backyard. Boundaries are your lifeline. Think of them like Wi-Fi passwords—don’t share them with people who drain your signal. Documentation matters. Especially in professional or family settings, keep records. Nothing says “I see you” like a well-organized folder titled “Receipts.” Support systems are sacred. Stay close to people who affirm your reality. The ones who’d help you move a body—or at least block one on social media. Thriving is the best revenge. Live well. Shine brighter. Let your joy be the rebuttal. Bonus points if it’s loud enough to make them squint and need to put on sunglasses. 💡 What I Know Now It hurts. It takes time. But eventually, you realize: your worth isn’t up for negotiation. You don’t need their approval to be whole. And the light they tried to dim? It was never theirs to touch. Because narcissists aren’t powerful—they’re insecure. They try to shine by snuffing out others. But anyone worth their salt knows: there’s always room for more light in the world. And me? I’m solar-powered, baby. And it’s sunny. Now keep in mind, I'm a J.D., not an M.D., not a Ph.D.—this is just how I’ve learned to deal with the narcissists in my life. It took time. And sometimes it’s still an exercise in patience (and deep breathing… and group texts that start with “You will not believe what just happened”). So, do you have any tips on how you’ve dealt with the narcissist in your life? If so, share with us and help kick some chaos—with style.

The tension between structure and spontaneity is so real—especially for those of us who thrive on intentionality and emotional resonance. Routines give us rhythm. But it’s the spark of anticipation that keeps the music playing. So, here’s a little idea to play with: what if we built micro-rituals of anticipation into our week? Not big events. Just small, meaningful glimmers that break the monotony and whisper, “Something lovely is coming.” 🌟 Wunderbar Wednesday Midweek magic. Try a new coffee shop. Queue up a nostalgic playlist. Order carry-out from your favorite restaurant and eat it in your coziest socks. Let Wednesday surprise you. 🧗 Friday First Try something new every Friday. A recipe you’ve never dared. A hike on a trail you’ve never walked. Axe throwing? Why not. Let Friday be your playground of novelty. 📚 Sunday Savoring Slow it down. Wander a bookstore and find a new read. Watch that Lifetime movie you’ve been eyeing all week. Hit Bath & Body Works for a new bubble bath and soak like you mean it. But maybe weekly rituals feel like too much commitment. That’s okay. Anticipation doesn’t have to be scheduled—it can be scattered like confetti. Order yourself a happy surprise from Amazon. You know what’s coming, but somehow it still feels like magic when the box hits the doorstep. Let your car get trapped in the red glare of the Hot Now sign. A warm Krispy Kreme donut after a long day? Yes, please. Open your laptop and set a date for a vacation. The planning, the shopping, the researching, the pre-packing—it’s all part of the joy. Sometimes, the anticipation is even better than the event itself. Anticipation is a wonderful feeling. It breaks up the mundane. It gives us something to look forward to. It reminds us that joy doesn’t always have to be earned—it can be invited. So tell us: What do you do to pull yourself out of the rut of the daily grind? We here at Kicking the Chaos would love to know.

There are 46 days until Christmas, and already the great decorating debate has begun. My friends and fabulously festive co-workers, Alexis Raye and Heather, say it’s never too early. Their Christmas trees have been up for a week, and I must admit—they look lovely. Their sparkle has nudged me into a celebratory mood. But I’ve always subscribed to the idea that Thanksgiving deserves its moment. The turkey, the gratitude, the chaos of mismatched Tupperware lids. Only when the plates are cleared and the leftovers tucked away do I allow the Christmas decor to emerge. That said, my holiday shopping follows no such rule. I shop all year long, stashing gifts in secret spots and hoping I remember where I hid them. (Spoiler: I rarely do.) Then there are the “whenever the spirit hits” decorators—those who treat holiday cheer like a spontaneous burst of joy. And honestly, I get it. Decorating takes effort. If I’m going to climb into the attic, wrestle with tangled lights, and strategically place stockings where the dogs might not chew them, I want time to enjoy the glow. I love the sensory details: The warm flicker of spruce pine candles A tin of Christmas candies within reach Stockings strung across the banister Colorful packages under the tree (guarded from curious pups) And yes, the lights—inside and out. My dad always strung those big, colorful glass bulbs outside, and they still remind me of childhood. Others prefer dainty white twinkle lights, but for me, it’s about memory and magic. One tradition my daughter and I cherish? Driving through neighborhoods with eggnog (non-alcoholic) and Little Debbie Christmas tree cakes in hand, rating the lights and soaking in the joy. So, is it ever too early? Maybe not. Maybe the real question is: What are you decorating for? If it’s joy, nostalgia, connection—then the timing is yours to choose.

Some friendships don’t fade — they hibernate, waiting for the perfect moment to bloom again. Brandy Wimmer (@rise_upstudios) and I go way back: sorority sisters, bridesmaids, co-conspirators in laughter and late-night talks. Life took us to different coasts, different rhythms. But every so often, the phone rings. No warning. No agenda. Just Brandy’s voice, and suddenly I’m home. We talk about everything and nothing — creative projects, parenting wins and woes, the latest heartbreaks and breakthroughs. Her California life is vibrant and bold, mine is layered and evolving. But in those moments, we’re just us. No filters. No performance. Just two women who remember who they were and fiercely love who they’re becoming. Brandy and I are November babies--autumn souls born into the season of golden light and quiet turning. Every year, when the leaves are nearly gone in Tennessee and the grapes are being harvested in California, I know we will be wishing each other happy birthday. It's a rhythm as reliable as the seasons. We're both a little hypochondriac, so our birthday calls often begin with the latest "maybe-something" we've Googled too many times. But they always drift into the real stuff: the chaos and the beauty of life, the joy and the exhaustion of raising our daughters, the small triumphs and the quiet heartbreaks we've carried since the last call. Still, it's not just the birthdays that matter. It's the unexpected phone calls--the ones that come out of nowhere, when one of us just feels the other. Those are the ones that bring a smile to my heart. They remind me that friendship isn't always scheduled. Sometimes it's just a voice on the line saying, "I thought of you." That same kind of magic found me again on a quiet weekday, in the most unexpected way. I was raised just one county over from where I live now, and every few months I return for a dermatologist appointment. Afterward, I always treat myself to a little ritual: a stop at Dairy Cup — my childhood haunt — followed by a slow drive through the neighborhood that raised me. This was the kind of place where kids rode bikes in packs from sunup to streetlight. If my dad wanted me home early, he’d blast an air horn and I’d come running. Mom made Kool-Aid. Dogs and kids ran free. It was wonderful. On this particular drive — not long after my dad passed — nostalgia hit me like a wave. I passed our old house, where our first dog is still buried, where live Christmas trees were planted year after year, and where I broke my arm not once but twice in that infamous driveway. Each house I passed held echoes of slumber parties, Girl Scout meetings, pool parties, and playmates I hadn’t seen since middle school: Diane, Charity, Renee, and Cathy. By the time I got home, I was flooded with the need to reach out. So, I did. I Facebooked those childhood friends, unsure if they’d even remember me. But they did. And they were just as eager to reconnect. We all had daughters (some had sons too), and we all shared the same fond memories of a neighborhood that shaped us. Our reunion — decades in the making — was joyful, grounding, and surprisingly easy. We’ve met up again since and stay in touch more often now. These moments — the “out of the blue” calls, the Dairy Cup detours, the Facebook messages sent on a wave of memory — remind me that connection doesn’t always need consistency. Sometimes, it just needs intention. A spark. A voice saying, “I thought of you.” And that’s enough to reignite the whole flame. So here’s my reminder to you: whether it’s childhood playmates frozen in your memory as kids, or college friends who knew all your pre-social-media shenanigans — reach out. You never know what kind of magic might be waiting on the other side of a message.

I saw on the news—and by “news” I mean TikTok—that venting is good for your health. So, I did what any responsible adult with a lab coat and a group chat would do: I dove deeper than my 7-second scroll and did some actual research. Turns out, venting isn’t just a guilty pleasure. It’s a legitimate wellness strategy. Studies show that expressing emotions in safe, supportive environments can reduce stress, improve mood, and even strengthen social bonds. Of course, me and my girlfriends could’ve told you this a long time ago—we’ve been running this medical trial in real time. Whether it’s: 🥗 A long lunch with extra fries and no judgment 📱 A cleverly named text thread that’s 90% memes and 10% life advice 🚪 Piling into someone’s office and closing the door like it’s a confessional 🍷 A monthly dinner date that doubles as emotional triage 👩‍👧 A bitch session with your adult daughter that ends in hugs and healing 🚶‍♀️Stopping in your neighbor’s driveway mid-walk to unload the day …these rituals aren’t just cathartic. They’re connective. They remind us we’re not alone, that our feelings are valid, and that someone out there gets it. And the science backs us up: Venting can reduce stress by releasing pent-up emotions, which helps lower anxiety. It can improve your mood—getting things off your chest makes you feel less overwhelmed. It builds bonds with friends and colleagues, strengthening your support system. It offers perspective, helping you evaluate situations more clearly before reacting. Of course, like any good thing, venting needs balance. You don’t want to live in a constant state of complaint. The goal isn’t to spiral—it’s to release, reflect, and reconnect. So next time you feel the urge to vent, don’t suppress it. Honor it. Text the thread. Call the friend. Walk into the driveway. Your health—and your heart—will thank you. And you know if you need someone to vent to, we here at Kicking the Chaos aren't "experts" but we do have experience, and you are welcome to vent here.

One of the things I love most about where I work is the age gap. When I first joined the office—20 years ago this past September—I didn’t even notice it. Back then, I was considered the baby of the group. And somehow, it felt like we were all the same age. We celebrated baby showers, wedding showers, and eventually, retirement parties. It wasn’t until later that I realized: in my 30s, I had friends in their early 20s and friends nearing retirement. Now, in my 50s, that beautiful mix still exists. I have colleagues just starting their careers and others who’ve already wrapped theirs with grace. We go out to dinner, hang out in and outside the office, and keep up with each other through text threads. Despite the decades between us, we laugh, we connect, and we genuinely enjoy each other’s company. Sure, a generational joke might fly over someone’s head now and then—but honestly, we have more in common than not. We all experience highs and lows. We all want to be included, supported, and loved. As one of the “seasoned” folks now, I get to soak up the energy and fresh ideas of the newest round of office babies—they keep me young. From my older friends, I still receive the kind of wisdom you can’t Google. And from both groups, I get laughter and tea (the gossip kind and the herbal kind). I hope they know they can count on me, too—for encouragement, perspective, or just a good story when they need one. Lately, I’ve noticed this same beautiful pattern in my daughter’s life. She has friends my age, and I have friends her age. It’s a full-circle kind of joy. A reminder that friendship doesn’t come with an expiration date—or a birth year.

When my dad was alive, Sundays had a soundtrack: his laughter echoing through the house as he chatted with his brothers. I'd stop by my parents' place and there he’d be—on the phone, cracking up at some joke or story. His laughter was so contagious, I’d find myself laughing too, even without knowing why. After he hung up, he’d always share the best joke of the call and any family updates. It was a ritual—simple, jo yful, grounding. I’ve missed that sound more than I can say. But I’ve found my own version of the Sunday call. Mine comes from Alyson. Alyson isn’t my sister by blood—she’s my sorority sister, my chosen sister. For years now, we’ve caught up every Sunday night. She’s usually walking her dog. I’m usually tidying up the house, mentally preparing for the week ahead. And without fail, at some point during the call, Alyson “accidentally” hangs up on me. Every. Single. Time. Maybe she’s switching to her earbuds. Maybe her dog spots a deer. Maybe her phone just knows it’s me and decides to cut us off. But we always call each other right back, laughing like clockwork. We met in college, back before social media and smartphones documented every moment (thankfully). She was one of my bridesmaids. And even though my marriage didn’t last, our friendship did. We’ve grown up together—through milestones, heartbreaks, career changes, and everything in between. We don’t live in the same town, but we make the effort. We show up. We stay connected. Every Sunday, we talk about kids, partners, work, memories, or nothing at all. I can count on Alyson—for laughter, for support, for showing up. And I hope she knows she can always count on me. Alyson is an incredible mom, a wonderful wife, a devoted daughter—and one of the best friends I’ve ever had. My life is better with her in it. I hope you have someone like Alyson in your life. Someone whose voice you look forward to hearing. And if you do—but haven’t talked in a while—maybe it’s time to start your own Sunday call. Maybe they’d love to hear from you as much as I love hearing from her. Don’t be too busy to stay in touch with the people who matter. Time is fleeting. Life moves fast. But connection—that’s what makes it all meaningful. Alyson helps me kick the chaos. Who helps you kick yours?

I was a single parent for decades. After a troubling divorce from a man who washed his hands of his family, I found myself raising my daughter alone. But we were not to be pitied. I embraced single motherhood with open arms and a full heart. Her childhood would be fleeting, and I knew it—so I chose to be present. Fully. Fiercely. I soaked up every moment I could, building a life that was rich in love, laughter, and resilience. Sure, I might have gone on a date here or there, but I didn’t put myself out there. I wasn’t searching for someone to complete me. I was already whole. My focus was on her—on being the best, most grounded parent I could be. And then, she grew up. She matured into a beautiful, wise young woman and eventually left for college. Before she did, she gently suggested I venture out into the dating world. I think she was afraid to leave me alone, worried that the quiet might echo too loudly. At first, I resisted. But then I thought—why not? I could stick my toes into the dating pool. Dating in your 50s is a different game. You know how to cut through the superficial crap that younger people often get tangled in. I was nervous, sure—but I also knew I’d be okay with or without someone. I wasn’t looking for a savior. I was looking for a companion. And what do you know—I met an incredible man. I had started to wonder if they still made them like this. We both had daughters. We both had stories. And we both had the courage to learn how to let someone in. To treat each other with the kind of care we’d always craved. I used to joke that I’d morphed into the man I was supposed to marry—strong, steady, emotionally available. Turns out, I didn’t have to settle. I just had to wait. We slowly introduced our daughters to each other, and now, a year and a half in, the four of us are building something intentional and real. We’re not rushing. We’re not performing. We’re defining our little pack on our own terms. And the joy we share—the laughter, the comfort, the ease—is something I never imagined just a few years ago. It’s amazing what a little gumption and a lot of grace can accomplish. Why don't you share with us your thoughts on dating in your 50s.

I’ve said good-bye to my daughter as she stepped into her college journey, her eyes bright with promise while mine brimmed with tears and quiet ache. I’ve held my father’s hand as he took his final breath, whispering love into the silence. I’ve waved to friends and colleagues as they retired, relocated, or simply drifted into new chapters. Each farewell has left its own distinct imprint—some etched in sorrow, others in deep gratitude. And yet, I’ve begun to wonder: is there a bright lining woven into these good-byes? Perhaps they’re not just endings, but mirrors—reflecting the depth of connection we’ve built. We grieve because we loved. We ache because we shared laughter, memories, and meaning. And in that ache, there is beauty. Still, reaching that beauty isn’t always easy. The sting of a good-bye doesn’t vanish overnight. Depending on its nature, it may never fully disappear—but it can soften with time. Good-byes can bring disruption, even chaos, to the rhythm of our lives. They can leave us feeling unmoored, uncertain. I’ve been fortunate to have a circle of family and friends to lean on during those difficult transitions. But I know not everyone has that kind of support. So maybe, just maybe, we can be that support for someone else. We can be the steady hand, the listening ear, the warm presence for those navigating their own good-byes alone. Because in the end, good-bye isn’t only about letting go. It’s about honoring what was—and choosing, in the face of loss, to keep showing up for one another. If you know someone who’s facing a farewell—whether it’s a move, a loss, or a life transition—reach out. Send a note. Make a call. Sit beside them in silence if that’s what they need. And if you’re the one standing in the ache of a good-bye, know this: you’re not alone. There’s grace in grieving, and strength in sharing the journey. Let’s be the kind of community that holds space for both.

I hadn’t seen my dear old friend Speedy (a nickname that’s stuck since college) in quite some time. We don’t live in the same town, and—like so many friendships—we let life get in the way. Kids, work, the usual “too busy” yada yada yada. But we reconnected at a college event, and there we were: two women in our 50s, each showing up with a boyfriend. Yes, boyfriend. That word feels almost juvenile at our age, doesn’t it? But that’s what we’ve got. And honestly, it’s kind of perfect. If you’ve read my other post, The Man I Became, you know I was single for a long time. Speedy, on the other hand, lost her husband many years ago—a heartbreak that reshaped her world. So here we are, both navigating the dating scene again, decades after we first learned how. We introduced our partners to each other, and it was surprisingly delightful. So delightful, in fact, that we planned a double date. Picture it: four fifty-something adults, all learning how to date again. And for some reason, it struck me as comical. It felt like college all over again—giggling, flirting, and soaking up the fun. Except this time, we skipped the drama and the superfluous nonsense that tends to bog down the younger crowd. We’ve met up a few times since, and each gathering gets better and better. There’s something magical about reconnecting with a lifelong friend and watching your new love get to know someone who knew you back when you were still figuring it all out. Dating in your 50s is a curious mix of challenge and excitement. You’re set in your ways, sure—but you’re also at a stage where you can truly appreciate someone for who they are. No games. No masks. Just real connection. So, here’s to me and Speedy—for putting ourselves out there, for embracing the silliness, and for finding a couple of great guys who are willing to laugh along with us. Because let’s be honest: we can be a handful. Now it’s your turn. If you’ve dated in your 50s—after a breakup, a loss, or maybe for the first time ever—I’d love to hear your story. What surprised you? What made you laugh? What reminded you that love, at any age, is worth the risk?