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St. Patrick’s Day is creeping up again, which means it’s time for me to lean all the way into my Irish heritage—the freckles, the pale skin, the whole McGee lineage on my dad’s side. If the name didn’t give it away, my melanin-deficient complexion certainly does. I haven’t made it to Ireland yet (bucket list item # 47 , right between “learn to make croissants” and “stop apologizing for things that aren’t my fault”), but you better believe I’m working on it. 🍀 The McGee Legacy (and the Freckles That Prove It) My dad’s mom was a McGee, and my great-grandmother was a McGee, which means I come from a long line of people who could sunburn under a fluorescent light. But what I really inherited was a deep, joyful love for St. Paddy’s Day—thanks entirely to my parents. My dad had a tradition: every March, he’d bring home those Hostess Sno Balls. You know the ones—normally pink, but dyed a radioactive shade of green for the holiday. I never liked the taste (marshmallow-coated sponge cake is a texture journey I did not sign up for), but I loved  the gesture. Years later, he even carried that tradition on for my daughter. That’s the thing about dads—they’ll buy you weird seasonal snack cakes just to make you smile. 🍀 The Shamrock Saga of My Youth Now, let’s talk about the shamrock situation. Back in my day—before Party City, before Amazon Prime, before every store had a “seasonal aisle” that looked like St. Patrick’s Day threw up glitter everywhere—we had to get creative. And by “we,” I mean my mom. Every March, she’d pull out the green construction paper, cut out shamrocks, and write in her best mom-handwriting: “Kiss me, I’m a McGee.” Then she’d safety-pin it to my shirt like a badge of honor and send me off to catch the bus, proud as could be. What she didn’t know was that there was an actual McGee girl at my school. And every year, without fail, she’d march right up to me and say, “You’re not a McGee. What does that even mean?” The other kids didn’t get it either. And being the rule-following, feelings-protecting child I was, it never even crossed my mind to take the shamrock off at school and re-pin it before I got home. And I would never  have told my mom—because that shamrock was made with love, and I wasn’t about to break her heart over a little playground identity crisis. Did it sting? Sure. Did it ruin St. Patrick’s Day for me? Absolutely not. If anything, it gave me fortitude—and a sense of humor, which every Irish-descended woman needs in her toolkit. 🍀 What I Carry Forward So, here’s to my mom and dad, who taught me to be proud of my Irish roots long before I understood what heritage even meant. Here’s to Great-Grandma Marie McGee and Grandma Margaret Isabel McGee Render, whose names I carry like a soft, steady drumbeat. Here’s to green Sno Balls, construction paper shamrocks, and the kind of childhood traditions that become emotional heirlooms. The Irish are known for many things—storytelling, stubbornness, and a wicked sense of humor. I like to think I inherited all three. So now, when life hands me a moment that could bum me out, I try to laugh it off… just like I did with that shamrock pinned proudly to my shirt. 🍀 From One East Tennessee Leprechaun to You Get your green on, friends. Wear it loud. Wear it proud. And if anyone questions your Irish credentials, just smile and keep walking. Happy St. Patrick’s Day from this little East Tennessee leprechaun. 🍀

January told us to keep moving  (even if it was just from the couch to the fridge). February whispered to keep loving  (ourselves included, thank you very much). And now March is here, tossing glitter in the air and declaring: Keep creating. Not “create perfectly." Not “create something Instagram-worthy.” Just… create. What You Can Create (Spoiler: Literally Anything) This is the fun part — creativity has zero rules and even fewer limits. You can: Create a better life  — one tiny, stubborn choice at a time. Create a journal  — messy, magical, or mildly chaotic. Create a dream come true  — the one you keep “meaning to get to.” Create a garden  — flowers, veggies, or a metaphorical one in your soul. Create a wish come true  — because grown women get to make wishes too. Creativity is basically the universe handing you a blank permission slip and saying, “Go wild.” Why This Matters (Especially Now) At this stage of life, it’s dangerously easy to slip into autopilot — same routines, same days, same “maybe someday” dreams gathering dust in the corner. But creativity? Creativity shakes the snow globe. It reminds you that you’re still becoming. Still capable. Still allowed to want more. I’ve taken this theme literally by diving back into the book I’ve been writing — the one that’s been tapping me on the shoulder for years like, “Ma’am… are you ever going to finish me?” And let me tell you: showing up to create again feels like oxygen. Your March Pep Talk Whether your creativity is theoretical, physical, emotional, or delightfully chaotic: Keep creating. Or get to creating. But don’t you dare stop. Your life is still a masterpiece in progress — and you’re the artist, the author, the architect, and the dreamer.

I was raised in the small town of Mt. Carmel, Tennessee — a place so woven into the fabric of who I am that I sometimes think my bones are made of its red clay and my heart still beats in rhythm with those Appalachian hills. My parents moved us there when I was five, and from the moment my feet hit that Tennessee soil, my childhood unfolded like something out of a wholesome 80s movie. We lived in a middle‑class neighborhood where the kids roamed in packs, organized by age and by street. Spruce Street kids stuck with Spruce Street kids, Poplar Street kids drifted in and out, and the whole neighborhood operated on one sacred rule: you went out in the morning and you didn’t come home until the streetlights flickered on. No phones. No schedules. Just bikes, scraped knees, Kool‑Aid mustaches, and the kind of freedom today’s kids will never fully understand. I swear, a movie could be made about that neighborhood — the friendships, the innocence, the way the world felt big and small all at once. As many of you know, I just wrote my first book, and the opening chapters are set right there in Mt. Carmel. That town shaped me, raised me, and gave me the foundation for everything I’ve become. So, on my recent visit home, I decided to do something that felt both surreal and full‑circle: I asked if I could hang a few flyers to promote my book. Naturally, my first stop was Dairy Cup  — the iconic little spot founded by my across‑the‑street neighbors, the Smiths. They don’t own it anymore, but the food is still just as delicious, and walking in felt like stepping back into my childhood. They graciously let me hang a flyer on their window, and I left with a full belly and a full heart. Then I scooted across the street to the Mt. Carmel Public Library to donate a copy of my book. What happened next is something I’ll carry with me forever. I met the librarian, Amy, introduced myself, and offered the book as a donation. She paused, looked something up on her computer, and then smiled at me with the kind of grin that makes your eyes sting. She told me she had already ordered my book  for the library — because someone in the community had recommended it. I just about melted into a puddle right there between the stacks. Someone from my hometown suggested my book. And the librarian ordered it. For the shelves of the very library that helped raise me. It tickled me to death. Truly. Mt. Carmel gave me the foundation upon which my whole life has been built — and even now, in this more “mature” season of life, it continues to cheer me on. To support me. To show up for me in ways big and small. So, here’s to Mt. Carmel. My people. My old neighbors. My roots. My foundation. Thank you for continuing to be there for me. Thank you for lifting me up. And thank you for reminding me that no matter how far I go, I will always belong to you.

There are chapters of motherhood you think you’ll remember forever—the big ones, the loud ones, the milestone ones. But it’s the quiet snapshots that sneak up on you years later and take your breath away. I’ve been a single parent since my daughter was two, and while some people may have tilted their heads with that poor Kaylin  look, I never once felt poor. I felt chosen. I felt entrusted. I felt like I’d been handed the greatest gift of my life and told, “This one’s yours—love her well.” And I did. I hope I did. The Life We Built, Just the Two of Us People may have felt sorry for me, imagining the weight of being both mother and father. But staying would have meant sacrificing our safety, and that was never an option. And anyone who worried about my daughter clearly hadn’t met her Poppa—my dad—who stepped in with a love so steady and fierce it erased any notion of lack. Our little world was imperfect and beautiful. I can still see her climbing a tree in her Belle gown and pink cowgirl boots, waving at me from the kindergarten window after I waited to make sure she got inside safely. I remember checking on her too many times at night just because I needed to know she was okay. I remember pop‑tarts in bed, books scattered everywhere, and the way she clung to my leg during soccer tryouts—only to later set school records in volleyball and run her heart out in Girls on the Run. I remember the fevers that scared me, the heartbreaks that broke me too, and the mama‑bear moments that reminded me I’d walk through fire for her. I remember teaching her to do the right thing even when it wasn’t popular, guiding her through bullies and crushes and the complicated terrain of growing up. I remember the laughter and music pouring from her bedroom, the resilience she showed every time life knocked her down, and the pride that swelled in me as she grew into a young woman ready to leave the nest. A Visit That Filled My Heart Last weekend, I drove to see her. She’s 24 now—taller than me, stunning inside and out—but when she opened the door, I still saw flashes of my little girl. I hugged her and didn’t want to let go, but her enormous dog, Phoebe, had other plans. We spent the day exactly how a mother and daughter should: Beneits first , because powdered sugar mustaches are a love language. A foot soak and head massage , where she bonded with the sweetest young woman named Essie—who is now meeting her for tea. Proof that friendships bloom in the most unexpected places. A little shopping , because no mother-daughter day is complete without it. Groceries and toiletries , because I will always want to send her back into the world stocked, supported, and cared for. Dinner and leftovers , because feeding your child—no matter their age—never stops feeling like love. We ended the night with a walk in the snow flurries, arm in arm, talking just a little longer before I had to head home. My heart was full in that way only a mother’s heart can be—overflowing with pride, nostalgia, gratitude, and that tiny ache that comes from missing someone who used to live under your roof. The Truth About Single Motherhood Not to toot my own horn, but… toot, toot. If Mary Poppins herself had raised my daughter, I’m not sure she would’ve turned out any better. So, if you’re a single parent, hear this: embrace it. It isn’t always easy, but it is always worth it. And if your children are still little, soak it all in—the sticky fingers, the bedtime stories, the window waves—because I blinked, and she was 24. Time moves fast. Love moves faster. And motherhood? It’s the most beautiful blur of all.

Some people collect shoes. Some collect mugs. I, apparently, collect journals  — seven of them at last count, each with its own personality, purpose, and color‑coded destiny. And honestly? I regret nothing. Journaling is having a major moment right now. TikTok girlies are annotating their feelings with pastel highlighters, influencers are flipping through aesthetic spreads like they’re auditioning for a stationery documentary, and suddenly everyone is “romanticizing their life” with a pen and a dream. Meanwhile, I’m over here like: Welcome to the party, friends. I’ve been training for this my whole life. Because let’s be clear — I have always been that girl. The one who can’t resist a cute notebook. The one who buys pens in every color “just in case.” The one who believes decorative Post‑its are a legitimate form of self‑expression. So, when journaling became trendy? Oh, I didn’t just hop on the bandwagon. I drove the bandwagon , decorated it with washi tape, and labeled the compartments. Seven Journals, Zero Shame Let’s take a moment to appreciate the lineup: A journal for blog ideas A journal for book topics A journal for vacation plans A journal for dreams and goals A journal for random thoughts A journal for lists A journal for… honestly, I don’t even remember, but it’s cute and that’s what matters Each one has a job. Each one has a vibe. Each one gets its own pen color scheme because I am a woman of systems. Color‑Coding My Chaos I don’t just write — I doodle, highlight, underline, swirl, and occasionally add a sticker for emotional emphasis. My thoughts deserve flair. My ideas deserve a little sparkle. My to‑do lists deserve to feel pretty even when they’re bossing me around. And because my girlie heart knows no limits, I even bought a whole TikTok‑famous bag to house all my journaling tools. It’s basically a mobile creativity station. A traveling art studio. A purse that says, “Yes, I am prepared to brainstorm at any moment.” Why It Matters Here’s the truth: journaling isn’t just trendy. It’s grounding. It’s joyful. It’s a way of catching the little sparks before they disappear. It’s how I organize the chaos, dream bigger, and make space for the magic in everyday life. And if it also gives me an excuse to buy more pens? Well. That’s just good self‑care.

Having just written my first book (in case I haven’t mentioned it… which I absolutely have, loudly and often, like a proud toddler showing off a macaroni necklace), I’ve been thinking a lot about book clubs. So, I started snooping around to see what local ones were out there. And honestly? I’m a little annoyed at myself for not doing this sooner. I mean, I’m the woman who keeps a book by the bed, one in the car, one on the table next to the couch, and one tucked in my purse like a literary emergency kit. If there’s a spare five minutes, I’m reading. If there’s a long line, I’m reading. If there’s a boring conversation… well, I’m polite , but I’m thinking about reading. And yes, I own a Kindle, but nothing beats a real book. The feel. The smell. The ability to dog‑ear a page without a device tattling on you. The joy of scribbling in the margins like you’re annotating the Dead Sea Scrolls. When I finish a book, I take it to the office, slap a sticky note on it that says “free to a good home,”  and leave it in the copy room like a benevolent book fairy. By lunchtime, it’s gone — adopted, loved, and hopefully not used as a doorstop. Lately, I’ve been embracing life more — saying yes to things that bring joy, curiosity, or at least a good story. So, when my friend Amber suggested joining a book club at The Dragonfly Book Bar https://www.dragonfly-bb.com/ , a cozy bookstore‑meets‑wine‑bar in downtown Bristol, Virginia, I didn’t hesitate. A bookstore AND a wine bar. That’s basically my version of Disneyland. Plus , if I want to see my  book in someone’s hands one day, why wouldn’t I want to support other authors living that dream right now? A new story, a good friend, a trendy bookstore, a glass of wine, and a room full of people who also love to talk about books… why would I not want to join in. This is peak “main character energy,” and I’m leaning in like I’ve been waiting for this plot twist. I think the reason I never did this before is simple: time. I was busy raising a child. When you’re used to carpooling, a house full of teenagers, and all the beautiful chaos that comes with it, and then they suddenly fly the coop, it’s hard to downshift. The silence is suspicious. The calendar is empty. And you start wandering around the house like, “What… what do people do for fun again?” But now that I’m easing out of supermom mode (let’s be honest, I’m still on call 24/7 and often insert myself even when I’m not needed… you can’t turn the mom thing off), I’ve started saying yes to things that might be fun, fulfilling, or simply new. So, book club — ready or not — here I come. And I’m bringing my highlighters, my opinions, and my wine glass. Consider yourselves warned.

(A Love Letter to the Quiet Feelings of Loud Women) Let’s talk about feelings — specifically, the ones we don’t talk about. Because for all my big energy, big voice, big opinions, and big “I will absolutely tell the waiter this is not medium‑rare,” there’s one thing I’m surprisingly quiet about: My own hurt feelings. Yep. The woman who can cross‑examine a brick wall suddenly turns into a Victorian ghost when someone she loves accidentally steps on her heart. I’ll get my feelings bruised, and instead of saying, “Hey, ouch,” I’ll: internalize it withdraw pretend I’m fine and then go reorganize a closet like I’m auditioning for a stress‑cleaning Olympics Why? Because I don’t want to hurt their  feelings. Because I don’t want to make things awkward. Because I don’t want to turn a tiny emotional paper cut into a full‑blown relationship triage. But here’s the thing I’ve been wrestling with: At what point do my feelings get a seat at the table too? The Emotional Acrobatics of a People‑Pleaser With a Law Degree You’d think that after twenty‑plus years as a professional mouthpiece — someone who literally gets paid to speak hard truths — I’d be a master of heart‑to‑heart conversations. But no. Put me in front of a jury? I’m fine. Put me in front of someone I love and ask me to say, “Hey, that hurt." Suddenly I’m sweating like I’m on stage at Amateur Night at the Apollo. It’s ridiculous. It’s human. It’s me. The Line Between Grace and Self‑Abandonment Here’s what I’ve learned the hard way: The line is crossed the moment silence starts costing you more than the conversation would. If I’m replaying the moment in my head like it’s the Zapruder film…If I’m pulling away from someone I adore…If I’m editing myself around them like I’m on a first date… That’s not kindness. That’s self‑betrayal with a side of emotional constipation. And nobody wants that. So How Do You Actually Bring It Up Without Burning Down the House? You don’t need to storm in like a linebacker. You also don’t need to avoid it like it’s a snake in your bathtub. There’s a middle lane — the grown‑up lane — and it sounds like this: “Hey, I want to talk about something because I care about us.” Not dramatic. Not accusatory. Not a TED Talk. Just honest. Then you follow it with: “When X happened, I felt Y.” Not: “You hurt me.” But: “This landed in a way that stung.” You’re not attacking. You’re inviting understanding. And here’s the wild part: Most people who love you will say, “Oh my gosh, I had no idea.” And if they don’t? Well… that’s data too. The Fear of Making It Worse Ah yes, the classic internal monologue: “What if I make it awkward?” “What if I make it worse?” “What if they think I’m too sensitive?” “What if this changes everything?” But here’s the truth bomb: Avoiding discomfort doesn’t prevent it. It just delays it — and usually amplifies it. Silence is not peacekeeping. Silence is slow‑motion resentment. If You Love Them, You Owe Them the Truth Not as punishment. Not as confrontation. But as care. Honesty says: “I trust you with my truth.” “I believe our relationship can hold this.” “I want us to be better, not bitter.” And honestly? If someone is in your inner circle — your real circle — they deserve the real you. Feelings included. The Bottom Line I’m learning — slowly, stubbornly, imperfectly — that my feelings matter too. That speaking up isn’t selfish. That honesty is a love language. And that the people who truly love me don’t want me swallowing my hurt like it’s a vitamin. So, here’s to the brave conversations. The awkward ones. The tender ones. The ones that make relationships stronger, not shakier. And here’s to all of us loud women learning to use our voices not just for others…but for ourselves. But Wait, There's More: Why Saying the Good Stuff Feels Just as Scary You’d think telling someone “I love you,” “I’m proud of you,” or “you matter to me” would be easy. It’s not. Because: You’re handing someone a piece of your heart You’re risking being the first one to leap You’re afraid of being “too much” You’re afraid of being met with silence You’re afraid of changing the dynamic But here’s the quiet truth: Love is only embarrassing when you’re not sure it’s safe. And you, my friend, have spent a lifetime being the strong one, the steady one, the protector. Vulnerability feels like stepping out of your armor. But armor is heavy. And sometimes the people who love you want to see your face, not the metal. “How will they know if you don’t tell them?” Exactly. We assume people can read our hearts. We assume our actions speak loudly enough. We assume they “must know.” But people are walking around starving for affirmation — even the confident ones, even the strong ones, even the ones who seem like they don’t need it. You know what happens when you tell someone: “I’m proud of you” “You matter to me” “I love you” “Your friendship is a gift in my life” You give them a moment they will replay on their hardest days. You give them a truth they didn’t have to guess at. You give them a soft place to land. And what about being the first one to say “I love you”? Let’s be honest: Being the first one to say it feels like standing on a cliff with your toes hanging over the edge. But here’s the thing you’re forgetting: You’re not reckless. You don’t love lightly. If you feel it, it’s because something real is happening. And the other person? They’re probably sitting there thinking the same thing, waiting for a sign, terrified of messing up something good. Someone has to go first. Someone has to open the door. Someone has to say the thing that changes everything. Why not you? “Don’t you owe it to yourself to take a chance?” Yes. Because you’ve spent so much of your life being the strong one, the caretaker, the protector. You deserve moments of joy, connection, and emotional honesty. You deserve to hear someone say, “I feel the same way.” You deserve to stop wondering and start knowing. And even if — even if  — the feelings aren’t mirrored perfectly, you will still have honored your truth. You will still have chosen courage over fear. You will still have shown up as the woman you are becoming in this beautiful second act of your life. And the part you’re not saying out loud… You already know the answer. You already know that love unspoken becomes regret. You already know that people can’t receive what you never offer. You already know that withholding affection doesn’t protect you — it just keeps you lonely. And you already know that the people who matter most to you would be overjoyed to hear what they mean to you. You’re not weak for wanting to say it. You’re human. You’re brave. You’re ready. So, tell them, because otherwise, how will they know.

Every now and then, you stumble across a line that stops you mid‑scroll. Recently, I saw something that said sometimes you have to be absurdly optimistic  and watch life rearrange itself around that belief. And I swear, it hit me right in the ribcage. Because here’s the truth: I wasn’t always this way. When I was younger, I was a worrier. A glass‑half‑empty girlie. A “what if I mess up,” “what if it doesn’t work,” “what if I fail” kind of thinker. I wasn’t Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh , but let’s just say I understood his vibe. Optimism felt like something other people were born with — the carefree, the bold, the ones who didn’t rehearse disaster like it was their side hustle. But these days? Oh honey… these days I am wildly optimistic. Borderline unreasonable. Delightfully delusional in the best possible way. Like when I buy a lottery ticket, I always — always  — believe I might actually win. That’s the level of optimism we’re working with now. And I think it came with age — or maybe wisdom — or maybe just the sweet relief of shedding the weight of everyone else’s expectations. Somewhere along the way, I joined the I Do Not Care Club , and let me tell you, membership is liberating. I stopped worrying about what people might think. I stopped contorting myself into shapes that made other people comfortable. I stopped letting fear drive the car. And once I did, life opened up. I wrote a book — a whole book — something younger me would’ve talked herself out of. I started this blog. I started dating again. I go out with friends like a woman who finally remembered she’s allowed to have fun. I travel like I’m filming a special for Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous  (minus the budget, plus the enthusiasm). I still work hard — harder than necessary, if we’re being honest — but I don’t carry the office on my back anymore. My daughter has spread her wings, and yes, I still parent her more than she’d prefer, but that’s my job description and I take it seriously. I’m still a daughter myself, visiting my mother who is struggling cognitively, loving her fiercely through every moment. But here’s the shift: I do all of this from a place of optimism. A place of love. A place of hope. A place where I lead with heart instead of fear. And this isn’t to say I don’t still worry about things — of course I do. I’m human. But I try to have faith, to breathe through it, and to not let that worry rule my life anymore. Worry can visit, but it doesn’t get to unpack and move in. Sometimes I wish my daughter — and all young people — could learn this lesson earlier than I did. I wish they could skip the years of bracing for what might go wrong and instead thrive on the belief that things might actually go beautifully right. Imagine the lives they could build if they led with optimism instead of fear. So, here’s my invitation to you: Try shedding the expectations — the ones others put on you and the ones you’ve quietly placed on yourself. Try living an absurdly optimistic, blissfully hopeful life. Try asking “What if it does  work out?” instead of rehearsing the opposite. Because sometimes, when you believe good things are coming, life rises to meet that belief. And trust me — the view from this side is spectacular.

I’ve been single most of my life (although I am blessed to know how an incredible S.O. in my life) — and a single mom on top of that. Not complaining, not lamenting, not wishing it different. Just setting the stage. Because when you’re the only adult in the room, you learn very quickly that you  are the cavalry, the logistics department, and the emotional support animal all rolled into one. Take the night I shot awake with excruciating back pain. Not the “I slept weird” kind. The “oh no, this is how I die” kind. I didn’t know what was happening, but I knew it wasn’t good. So, I did what single moms do: grabbed my daughter, grabbed my purse, and hauled myself to the ER like a woman possessed. By some miracle, the son of one of my parents’ coworkers was working that night. He swooped in, took my little girl under his wing, and let me focus on the small matter of not collapsing . Turns out I was having a gallbladder attack — my first, and let me tell you, not an experience I recommend. I was shocked, unprepared, and very aware that I had nothing with me except my child and a handbag full of receipts and gum wrappers. Fast forward to today. I’m a woman of a more mature age — which is a polite way of saying I’ve lived enough life to know better. My mother, bless her, has had a few falls and now spends more time in hospitals and rehab facilities than either of us would like. And as her daughter, I’m there. Sitting by her bed. Keeping her company. Running home for chargers, sweaters, snacks, and anything else that makes a sterile room feel less like a spaceship. And let me tell you: whether you’re the patient or the visitor, you want creature comforts. You want the things that make you feel human. You want the stuff that keeps you from losing your mind at 2 a.m. under fluorescent lighting. So naturally, my brain — the same brain that once sprinted to the ER with nothing but a child and a purse — started prepping. Because that’s what I do. I overthink, and then I prepare. And that brings me to this public service announcement. Whether you’re single and living alone or partnered with someone who cannot be trusted to pick out the right underwear in a crisis (no judgment, but also… judgment), this post is for you. I’m talking about pre‑packing a hospital bag . But not just a hospital bag — a life  bag. A “go” bag. A “bug‑out” bag. A “my body likes to surprise me” bag. A “my mom fell again” bag. A “wildfires are a thing” bag. A “hurricanes don’t care about my schedule” bag. A “my significant other would absolutely bring me the wrong bra” bag. Some people live in disaster‑prone areas. Some people have chronic‑illness family members. Some people spend half their lives in waiting rooms. Some people just like to be ready. And some of us? We’ve lived enough plot twists to know better. Whatever your reason, I’ve curated a list to help you build your own “just in case” bag — something you can keep by the door or in your car so you’re never caught off guard again. Because preparation isn’t paranoia. It’s love. It’s wisdom. It’s experience. And sometimes, it’s the difference between chaos and calm. The Ultimate “Just in Case” Go‑Bag Checklist Because when life decides to get dramatic, you deserve to be comfortable, hydrated, moisturized, and wearing underwear you actually approve of. Personal Essentials A list of your medications and prescriptions A list of your allergies Glasses Hearing aids Phone charger Pen and notepad  Hygiene & Comfort Toothbrush and toothpaste Kleenex Eyedrops Q‑tips Chapstick Wet wipes Dry shampoo Lotion Brush or comb Hair clip Clothing & Cozy Items Undies (the good ones, not the laundry‑day ones) Pajamas Grippy socks Sweat‑suit Leggings Blanket  Snacks & Hydration Mints or gum Snacks (the kind that won’t melt, crumble, or betray you) Water bottle  Entertainment & Sanity Savers Book, Kindle, or deck of cards Crossword or puzzle book One Final Note for the Uber‑Prepared And for those of you who like to operate at Level 10 Preparedness — the people who alphabetize their spices and know exactly where their passport is at all times — here’s a little bonus tip.  Grab a brightly colored envelope. Neon, glittery, impossible‑to‑miss — whatever speaks to your soul. Write EMERGENCY  on the front in big, bold letters. Then tuck inside all your essential medical information: medications, allergies, emergency contacts, anything first responders might need to know. Attach it to your refrigerator or your door frame so EMS can grab it as they grab you. It’s simple. It’s smart. And it means that even in the middle of chaos, the information that matters most is right where it needs to be. Hopefully we will all stay healthy, upright, hydrated, moisturized, and far away from hospital beds. And maybe this will all be for nothing. But just in case life decides to throw a plot twist — you’ll be ready. Because that’s what we do. We prepare. We love. We show up for ourselves and the people we care about. And honestly? That’s a kind of peace money can’t buy.

The Accidental Ambassador, There Are No Kangaroos In Austria: by Kaylin Render is running a giveaway on Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/433210?utm_medium=api&utm_source=giveaway_widgetfor the next 12 days, ending on March 2, 2026. Two copies are available to win. Please go to Goodreads and look up my new book and enter the giveaway and I'd love for you to also give me an author follow. For those of you that have already purchased the book, Thank You for your support. The giveaway rules are on the Goodreads page. Good luck to you all! Kaylin and Kicking The Chaos With Kaylin

Let’s be honest: a whole lot of women of a certain age are out there living alone — and thriving. And why wouldn’t we be? Living solo comes with perks so delicious they should be bottled and sold at Sephora. You control the thermostat like the benevolent queen you are. You watch whatever you want on TV without negotiating with someone who thinks Storage Wars  is “educational.” You adopt a dog… or two… or three… because no one is there to say, “Do we really need another one?” (Yes. Yes, we do.) And the best part? You can be social on your own terms. If you want to sip wine with friends, great. If you want to sit in silence with your dog and a bowl of popcorn, also great. But recently, I stumbled across something that made me pause mid‑scroll and say, “Well now… this is genius.” Welcome to Cumby, Texas — Home of the Bird’s Nest Picture this: a tiny‑home retirement community designed exclusively for women ages 60–80. No drama. No judgment. No men wandering around asking where the extra batteries are. This magical place is called The Bird’s Nest , and it was founded by a woman named Robyn Yerian , who clearly woke up one day and said, “You know what? I’m going to do something fabulous.” And then she did. She cashed out her $150,000 retirement fund, bought five acres of land, and created space for fourteen tiny homes — each one its own cozy nest. The goal? A supportive, affordable community where women can live independently and  have built‑in companionship when they want it. And let me tell you… the response was nothing short of a stampede. A graceful, well‑moisturized, silver‑haired stampede. Over 500 women  applied for a handful of spots. Single, divorced, widowed — they flocked (pun absolutely intended) to this idea. A Community Built on Connection, Not Chaos Each woman has her own tiny home — her sanctuary, her space, her thermostat set to whatever temperature her heart desires. But at the center of the community sits a pavilion where the ladies gather for morning coffee, evening meals, laughter, and the kind of conversation that only happens when women feel safe and seen. And when someone needs help? The community swoops in. Doctor’s appointment? Someone’s driving. Surgery recovery? Meals appear like magic. Feeling lonely? Step outside — someone’s probably already waving you over. It’s independence with a safety net. Solitude without isolation. A support system without the strings. The Win‑Win We’ve All Been Waiting For Yerian keeps the rent affordable, the vibe peaceful, and the drama nonexistent. In return, she earns passive income and gets to watch a community of women flourish on land she dreamed into existence. Honestly, it’s brilliant. It’s wholesome. It’s the kind of thing that makes you want to stand up and clap in your living room. Why We Need More Bird’s Nests Women of a certain age deserve options — real options — for living joyfully, safely, and in community. Not everyone wants to live with family. Not everyone wants to remarry. Not everyone wants to age alone. But everyone deserves a place where they can be themselves, feel supported, and laugh loudly without someone saying, “Can you keep it down?” So yes, I love this idea. Yes, I want more communities like this. And yes, if someone wants to build one in Tennessee, I’ll happily bring the first casserole to the pavilion.

Please be patient with me — I’m from the 1900s. Not 1900, but the 1900s. And not to brag, but I was alive when you could slam a phone down to make a point. A real receiver. A real cord. A real “thunk” when I slammed it down.  It was glorious. As women in our 50s, 60s and on, we’ve lived through a lot. We’ve earned every laugh line, every story, and yes… every moment of “now what was I saying?” So, here are a few things our generation would love to share with the next. 1. Memory Changes Are Normal — Not a Crisis I’m not talking about dementia or Alzheimer’s. I’m talking about the natural, everyday memory shifts that come with aging. Our bodies change, and our brains do too. They even shrink a bit over time, which can lead to occasional forgetfulness — totally normal. There are ways to support our memory: - follow routines - get enough sleep (you know I believe sleep is the cure‑all) - stay active with friends, family, church, or hobbies - keep tickler lists (I’m queen of post-its) - consider fish oil - and put your keys, purse, and glasses in the same spot every time But if our recall is a little slower and it doesn’t interfere with our independence, show us ladies from the 1900s a little grace. 2. Technology Moves Fast — Faster Than Our Reading Glasses I’ve slammed a phone down. I’ve paid bills with checks. I’ve relied on a dog and a baseball bat for home security. Now, it’s Ring cameras, online banking, and passwords that require a symbol, a number, a haiku, and a blood sample. Just when I figure out the latest phone update, a new one drops. But here’s the thing: we’re strong, independent women. We survived blue eyeshadow, big hair, and shoulder pads that could double as flotation devices. According to an AARP survey,” two‑thirds of adults 50+ say technology enriches their lives and makes aging easier.” With a little patience from the Verizon guy, our kids, a tech‑savvy friend, or even a blogger, we can embrace it too. We just may need to triple the font size. 3. We Have Stories — And Sometimes You’ll Hear Them Twice We’ve lived. We’ve loved. We’ve collected memories like seashells, and we enjoy sharing them. Sometimes we share them more than once. My dad used to raise his hand when I repeated a story — a gentle “heard it already.” We’d laugh. But as he got older and he began repeating his stories, I didn’t’ raise my hand. I listened. I listened because I loved him, because I enjoyed our time together, and because I knew that one day I would miss hearing his voice. So, when we repeat a story or two, I hope the people around us will listen with the same patience and love. 4. We Move a Little Slower — But We’re Still Moving We made it through math class without calculators, but these days it might take us a minute to warm up after sitting. A good nap is a gift. And sometimes the stiffness needs a moment to shake out. But staying mobile matters. Moderate exercise helps maintain strength, flexibility, and balance — all key to avoiding falls. Whether it’s water aerobics at the Y, a stroll through the neighborhood, or joining a hiking club, the trick is to keep moving. 5. We’ve Survived a Lot — And We’re Aging With Style We may be a little forgetful and a little slower these days, but that doesn’t make us stupid. We are smart, capable women who have raised families, built careers, run businesses—or juggled all of the above while still remembering where everyone’s socks were. So, when the younger generation talks to us like we’re clueless, it’s downright insulting. Older, wiser, and moving at our own pace does not equal ‘dummy.’ It just means we’ve earned the right to take our time… and maybe reread the instructions once or twice.” We made mixed tapes. We wore leg warmers (not just to dance class). We crimped and permed our hair. We slathered ourselves in baby oil and iodine. We strutted around in shoulder pads like linebackers. If we survived that, we can make aging look graceful. We just need a little patience from ourselves — and from those around us.