The Last First Kiss: Dating, Disappointment, and Still Believing in Love.

I had coffee with one of my girlfriends this weekend, and somewhere between our first and second cups, we found ourselves laughing, lamenting, and shaking our heads over our dating experiences of the past year.

And let me tell you, between the two of us, we could probably write a book, and I plan to. Although I'm not entirely sure whether it would belong in the romance, comedy, or psychological thriller section.

Personally, this year alone, I've encountered men who were emotionally unavailable. Men who professed to be looking for a serious relationship but seemed far more interested in keeping their options open than exploring the possibilities of something meaningful.

I had one gentleman arrive for our first date visibly inebriated. I'm talking bleary-eyed, slurred speech, and reeking of alcohol. His explanation? He was extremely nervous about meeting me. While I appreciate a little nervous anticipation, apparently his came with a bar tab. Yes, I walked out.

Another gentleman, after several weeks of dating, revealed a serious struggle with alcoholism. That relationship ended as well.

Then there are the men who spend the better part of a first date eviscerating their ex-wives with such passion and conviction that, by the time the check arrives, I find myself silently rooting for the ex-wife.

And, of course, there's ghosting. The modern-day disappearing act in which someone you've invested time getting to know simply vanishes. No explanation. No conversation. No courtesy. Just silence. Disappearing so completely that you begin to wonder whether you should file a missing persons report.

It's absurd when you think about it. We're grown adults. Many of us have raised children, navigated careers, weathered divorces, buried loved ones, and survived some of life's most difficult chapters. Yet somehow, communicating a simple "I don't think we're the right fit" has become an insurmountable emotional challenge.

While some of these experiences make for entertaining stories over coffee, others have been genuinely hurtful. Because behind every disappointing dating experience is someone who showed up with genuine intentions, invested their time, and allowed themselves to be vulnerable to the possibility of something wonderful.

As women in our 50s and 60s, we're certainly not naive about what dating looks like at this stage of life. We understand that everyone comes with a history. There are wrinkles, ex-spouses, grown children, aging parents, health concerns, established routines, and personality quirks that have had decades to become firmly entrenched.

We're not looking for perfection. Good heavens, we've lived long enough to know it doesn't exist.

But here's what I believe we shouldn't have to accept: dishonesty, emotional irresponsibility, disrespect, inconsistency, and a lack of basic human decency.

There is a difference between accepting someone's imperfections and tolerating their poor behavior.

As my friend and I talked, we began exploring why building a meaningful relationship seems so much more difficult today.

Perhaps part of it is the culture we've created. We live in a world of instant gratification, where nearly everything we want is available with a few taps on our phones. Somewhere along the way, I wonder whether we've begun approaching relationships with that same mentality.

If something doesn't immediately captivate us, we move on. If someone doesn't check every box, we keep scrolling. If a conversation becomes uncomfortable or requires vulnerability, we retreat.

We've become so consumed with the abundance of options that we've forgotten the value of exploring possibilities.

Of course, by the time we reach our 50s and 60s, most of us have experienced heartbreak. Those experiences can make us wiser and more discerning, but they can also make us guarded. We've learned to protect our peace, sometimes so fiercely that we inadvertently build walls around the very hearts we hope someone will someday reach.

And I understand that. There's tremendous comfort in the lives we've built for ourselves. But I also believe there's a difference between being comfortable alone and convincing yourself that you no longer desire companionship.

Ironically, as my friend and I sat discussing all of this, I noticed several men sitting alone in the coffee shop, quietly scrolling through their phones. I wondered about their stories. Were they content? Lonely? Had they given up on finding love, or were they hoping, just as we were, that someone special might still come along?

Perhaps that's the saddest irony of modern dating. There are people longing to be loved, yet struggling to do the very things that allow love to flourish.

As for me, I suppose I'm still a romantic at heart. One whose heart has taken a few unexpected hits along the way, admittedly.

But I haven't stopped believing.

I still believe there's something extraordinarily beautiful about finding love later in life. A deeper understanding of how precious time is. A recognition that companionship isn't about completing one another, but about enriching the lives we've already built.

I want someone who shares my values, my intentions, and my desire to build something meaningful. Someone emotionally available, genuinely curious, and willing to invest the time it takes to discover what two people might become together.

Someone who understands that communication is a courtesy, consistency is attractive, and kindness should never be optional.

I don't need grand gestures, extravagant promises, or a whirlwind romance that burns brightly only to disappear without explanation.

I'd much rather have something steady. Something authentic. Someone whose actions are as reassuring as his words. Someone who recognizes that the most extraordinary relationships are often built through the simplest moments. A morning cup of coffee. Laughter over dinner. A hand reaching for yours without a second thought.

I'm not afraid of being alone. I've built a life I genuinely love. What I'm unwilling to do is compromise the peace and happiness I've worked so hard to create simply to say I have someone beside me.

But neither am I willing to let disappointing experiences convince me that meaningful love no longer exists.

Perhaps the right person won't arrive with fireworks or sweeping declarations. Perhaps he'll simply show up, be exactly who he says he is, and keep showing up.

And after everything I've experienced, I think that might be the most romantic gesture of all.

So, I'll continue living my life, embracing new adventures, and remaining open to the possibility that there's still a beautiful love story waiting to unfold.

Because while I may have become a little more discerning, a little more cautious, and certainly more experienced in recognizing red flags, I haven't become cynical.

I still believe in love. I still believe in the magic of two people choosing one another.

And somewhere out there, I hope there's a gentleman who, like me, has had enough first dates to last a lifetime.

Someone who isn't looking for his next option, but for his last first kiss.

And wouldn't it be lovely if, after all the wrong turns, disappointments, and disappearing acts, we finally found our way to one another?

Until then, I'm perfectly content sitting at my own table, enjoying the beautiful life I've created. But I'll always leave room for someone special to pull up a chair.

 

The HR Kaleidoscope

Thirty-five years ago today, I walked into the lobby of Accenture in West Hartford, Connecticut, to begin my first day as an HR Coordinator. I was naïve but curious. Wildly ambitious, but still very much in need of coaching and guidance. And I was completely seduced by all the shiny things a budding career could offer, especially at a company like Accenture: world-class leaders, tools, technology, processes, and opportunities.

I was firmly in the honeymoon phase of my HR career. And, in many ways, the joy and excitement I felt that first day have stayed with me all these years.

Don't get me wrong. There have been plenty of days that brought heartbreak and disappointment, days when I questioned my career choice and the path I had taken. After all, HR is centered on perhaps the most complex and unpredictable part of any organization: people.

But when you view your career as a calling, it hits differently.

I've long said that I felt called to HR and that you can't spell "heart" without HR. Beyond the policies, procedures, and protocols lies the deep humanity of this work. That is the part of HR I fell in love with, and the part that has kept me here for 35 years.

I've had the privilege of sitting with employees as they've shared incredible personal news, celebrated promotions and career milestones, or simply needed encouragement during a difficult season. I've had the opportunity to coach leaders through challenging circumstances and experience the satisfaction of watching something we taught or discussed come to life in the way someone leads, communicates, or shows up for their team.

And then there have been the harder moments. The conversations that hit hard but needed to happen. The unexpected life events. The devastating losses. The times when there wasn't a policy, process, or perfectly crafted sentence that could make things better, and the most important thing I could do was simply be present.

Whether those moments lifted my soul or broke my heart, it has been an extraordinary honor to walk alongside so many people through the intersection of work and life. I remain deeply grateful for every person who has trusted me enough to let me into those moments.

On September 9, 1991, I could never have known that walking through those doors would begin the career journey of a lifetime.

Thirty-five years later, I see it as a beautiful kaleidoscope of experiences. With every turn, something has shifted. The people have changed. The workplaces have changed. HR itself has changed tremendously. And so have I. Yet somehow, with every turn, the picture has become richer, more colorful and more meaningful.

If I could say one thing to that young HR Coordinator walking into Accenture all those years ago, it would be this: The shiny things will catch your eye, but the people will capture your heart.

Thirty-five years later, they still do.

What an incredible privilege it has been to make a career out of caring for people, helping organizations become better because of them, and being trusted with some of the most meaningful moments of their working lives.

I started this journey believing I had found a career.

What I discovered was a calling.

And 35 years later, I still feel incredibly blessed that it chose me.

Before We Count What We Missed

Life has a way of reminding us what matters.

This past week, I received news that a friend unexpectedly passed away. My first thought was, Here we go again.

Over the last year, I've had an intimate relationship with grief. Caring for those I love, saying goodbye to my father, and learning firsthand how precious and fragile this life truly is.

But this time, something was different.

While I grieve the loss of my friend, I also found myself grateful.

Grateful that I've been more intentional about spending time with the people I love. Grateful that I immediately said "yes" to an upcoming girls' trip to the beach without worrying about whether it was practical. Grateful that my son and I finally booked our long-awaited trip to Italy. Grateful that I've returned to editing the book that has been waiting patiently for me. Grateful for lingering dinners, good food, good wine, and the kind of conversations with loved ones and dear friends that make you lose track of time and wish the evening could last just a little longer.

For years, I've gladly spent my life pouring into others—my work, my family, and the people I love. But this past year deepened that calling in ways I never expected. It became a season of caregiving, loss, and learning that love often asks the most of us when time feels the shortest. Those experiences changed me.

They taught me that when our time comes, no one will measure our lives by how many emails we answered, meetings we attended, or tasks we completed. The people who gather around us will remember how we loved, how we showed up, the memories we created together, and the lives we touched.

So this is your reminder, as much as it is mine:

Call the friend.
Take the trip.
Write the book.
Order the dessert.
Fall in love, even if it scares you.
Make the memories.
Tell people you love them.

Don't wait for life to remind you that life is short.

Choose to live fully before you're forced to count what you've missed.

Women Who Inspire

When I was asked by two social media platforms who I would recognize for International Women’s Day, my first thought was to name the iconic women we often celebrate, the trailblazers who have influenced not only my life but society as a whole.

But the truth is, the women who inspire me most are much closer to home.

These are not distant figures or stories I’ve read about. They are real women I know. Women I work beside, women I love, women I have watched navigate incredible challenges this past year with a level of courage and grace that continues to inspire me.

I work in an agency that is 70% women. I’m also fortunate to have an extraordinary circle of female friends who have been my lifeline through some very painful seasons over the past few years. When I think about the women who inspire me, I think about them.

The mother who tragically lost her child and somehow finds the strength to rise each day for her family, while still showing up at work determined to contribute and carry on.

The mother confronting painful adolescent challenges with one child while still trying to be present for her other children and her career.

The woman who lost her husband of 60 years and is courageously learning how to navigate a world without him. Sixty years of shared mornings, quiet routines, inside jokes, and a life built side by side. Now she is finding her footing again, one day at a time, carrying both the weight of grief and the strength of the love they built together.

The woman who endured profound childhood trauma and transformed that pain into purpose, writing a book to guide others that went on to win awards and be recognized by esteemed panels.

The new hire, fresh out of college, who moved across the country for her first job, leaving behind everything familiar to boldly chase the life and career she has been dreaming about.

The woman diagnosed with breast cancer who looked it squarely in the eye, told it exactly where to go, and beat it.

The female leaders who work tirelessly to guide their teams, make difficult decisions, while also carrying the responsibilities and demands of life at home.

The woman who spent years battling through the courts and finally secured a divorce settlement that allows her to move forward with her life.

The daughter who lost her mother and is caring for her rapidly declining father, all while never missing a beat at work.

The woman who slays all day at work and then spends her weekends and PTO helping manage her father’s health, finances, and daily life.

The many women, young and seasoned alike, who made the courageous decision to walk away from toxic and/or unfulfilling romantic relationships.

The entrepreneur who closed a successful business because the commute was too taxing on her and her young children, and bravely started over closer to home.

The women who are quietly carrying the responsibilities of both mom and dad.

These are the warriors and queens among me that I have the privilege of witnessing every day and every week. They inspire me more than they know. They fill my cup when my reserves run low. And if I’m being honest, this past year tested those reserves deeply as my family walked through my father’s illness and eventual passing.

What I’ve learned is that the women we most need to admire are often the ones right beside us — the beautiful souls we encounter in ordinary places, navigating messy, complicated, and sometimes heartbreaking life circumstances while still showing up with strength, grace, and determination.

These women may never make headlines. But they are fierce. They are resilient. They are extraordinary. They champion me as well as challenge me.

They are my tribe.

They are the women I aspire to be.

And I hope, in some small way, I can be that kind of woman for them too.

Happy International Women’s Day to the quiet warriors, the resilient hearts, and the everyday queens who lift one another up and keep moving forward.

Where Resilience Takes Root

My backyard is my meditation sanctuary. Over the last few days, while getting my Zen on, I noticed a beautiful Impatiens plant that had pushed its way up through the concrete slab. I was struck by its boldness, its quiet defiance. As if to say, despite the hard and unyielding ground, I found a way to bloom.

These past few months have felt much like that plant’s journey, pushing through spaces not meant to nurture growth. I watched my father’s health steadily fade and made the decision to bring both him and my mom from Rhode Island to South Carolina, hoping the change might restore his strength. It was a lot to carry—logistically, emotionally, and physically—only to lose him not long after.

I’ve faced the ache of his absence, the hollow rhythm of life rearranged. I’ve learned the delicate dance of sharing my home with my mother as she grieves and searches for her footing in a world forever changed. I’ve also said goodbye to a beloved team member who moved on to a new company, and in her absence, I’ve stretched, adjusted, and felt the gentle void that comes when someone you’ve mentored and relied on steps into a new chapter.

I’ve missed my family, scattered hundreds of miles away. I’ve battled Covid, a severe kidney infection, pneumonia, bronchitus, the flu, and the kind of bone-deep sciatica pain that tests your resolve. I’ve walked beside others in their heartbreak while tending to my own. My heart has missed and ached for my son, three thousand miles away. The kind of missing that tugs at you in quiet moments, when you wish you could still hear his footsteps, share a simple meal, or curl up on the couch together to watch a movie. And I’ve turned sixty, carrying with me reflection, vulnerability, and the awareness that time moves faster than it once did.

And yet, like that Impatiens breaking through the concrete, I am reminded that beauty and strength often emerge in the least expected places. Beauty is not born only from what is soft or easy. Sometimes it is shaped in the struggle, refined in the weight of what we must carry.

Because maybe that’s the delicate miracle of resilience: that even when life feels unyielding, something within us still reaches for the light. And even when the ground beneath us feels too hard to break through, somehow, we do. We rise, not untouched, but transformed, rooted deeper, blooming still.

Two Careers, One Legacy

 

On September 9, 1991, I walked into the lobby of Accenture to begin my very first day in HR, not realizing I was about to embark on the career journey of a lifetime.

Over the years, I’ve had the privilege of guiding and coaching hundreds of people as they’ve built their careers. However, none has been as meaningful or as rewarding as walking alongside my son on his journey.

At just 10 years old, he declared he wanted to pursue a career in film. I was both excited and cautious, after all, the film industry is brutal and one of the toughest to break into. But not for him. His talent, tenacity, drive, and deep passion for his craft have opened doors and created opportunities many only dream of. Along the way, he’s also faced his share of challenges: exhausting schedules, tough disappointments, and projects that, despite months of sweat and heart, never made it to the screen.

And yet, here he is. This photo captures him addressing an audience last night at the screening of one of his latest films, a moment that fills me with indescribable pride. Watching from 3,000 miles away, on the eve of my 34th anniversary in HR, I was reminded that while my career has been a gift in so many ways, my greatest and most cherished legacy has been watching him find his joy and carve his own path toward an extraordinary career.

Here’s to 34 years in a profession I love, and to the even greater joy of seeing my son thrive in his. 

Tribute to My Father

How do you say goodbye to the first man you ever loved? The one who defined what it meant to be a father. The giant of your youth. The strength behind your confidence. The steady hand that guided your family forward, anchoring us, loving our mother deeply, and loving us with all he had. He was our rock, the one who kept our world steady, even when everything else felt uncertain. He became the source of my greatest joys… and, at times, my deepest pain. Because when you love someone that deeply, they hold the power to shape you in ways no one else can.

As memories of my father continue to wash over me, I find myself reflecting on the pivotal moments, his quiet wisdom, the countless meaningful conversations, and the spoken and unspoken lessons that shaped the way I think, lead, love, and live.

My father was a man of humble means and an even humbler spirit. At any social gathering, he never sought to be the center of attention. Yet somehow, he left each room with everyone feeling as though they had been truly seen and heard. While others gravitated toward the power players or the most prominent voices, you’d often find him deep in conversation with the coat check attendant, the valet, or the wait staff. He had a rare and remarkable gift, the ability to make every single person feel like the most important one in the room.

One memory, in particular, stands out not only as a cherished moment but as a defining lesson that shaped my work ethic. I was about nine years old, and my father had decided to replace the kitchen floor with spanking hot linoleum. It was the '70s… what more can I say? Curious about the process and eager to learn, I asked if I could help. He welcomed me in without hesitation. He patiently showed me how to wedge a spade under the edge of each tile and gently tap it with a hammer. If you were lucky, the tile would come up whole. But most of the time? It came up in tiny, stubborn pieces, one after the other.

The work was slow and tedious, but I loved every minute of it. I was learning something new. I was doing something big. And most importantly, I was doing it with my dad. When we finally stepped back to look at the fully cleared floor, there was a shared pride between us. Exhausted and covered in dust, I took a well-earned bath. As I was getting ready for bed, I looked down at my hands, red, blistered, beat up. Calluses had already begun to form. The sting was setting in. I rushed to my father and held out my hands, eyes brimming with tears. “Look at my hands,” I said. “They’re ugly.”

He smiled gently, took my hands in his, and in that moment, he delivered a lesson I’ve carried with me ever since. “Sweetheart,” he said, “when I look at these hands, the last thing I see is ugly. What I see is a little girl who took on a job way bigger than she was and didn’t give up. That, kid, is work ethic. Don’t ever be afraid of hard work.” In that moment, I saw my hands—and myself—through my father’s eyes. He taught me that hard work is never something to be ashamed of. That with grit, heart, and a steady approach, you can take on something far bigger than yourself and see it through. It wasn’t just about removing old tiles. It was about showing up, staying the course, and sharing time with my father in a way that etched itself into my character. The job may have ended that day, but the lesson stayed with me: Hard work, even when it’s messy, uncomfortable, and unglamorous, is always worth it.

Another special memory was the night I won my title in the Miss Rhode Island, Miss America pageant. When the judge called my name, I stepped forward, was crowned, and began the traditional winner’s walk, smiling through the lights, the applause, and the surreal joy of the moment. Then, out of nowhere, my father, overcome with pride, pushed past security, rushed the stage, and wrapped me in the biggest, most heartfelt hug. It was completely out of character for him, a man usually respectful of rules and decorum. But in that moment, none of it mattered. His pride took over. He was just a dad, proud of his daughter for reaching such a huge achievement. It meant the world to me. That hug said everything: how proud he was, how much he loved me, and how deeply he shared in that milestone. He broke every rule of etiquette just to make sure I knew it, and I’ve never forgotten that.

In the final weeks of his life, it was impossible not to reflect on the lifetime of moments we had shared, each memory more meaningful as I began to understand that our time together was drawing to a close. My father had become quite ill, and in those tender days, the greatest gift I could offer him was comfort, security, unconditional love, and presence. For all he had given me over the years, I was more than willing to do whatever I could to make those moments count, to show him just how deeply I appreciated every time he had shown up for me.

And there were so many times. Through chicken pox and school plays, bullies and broken hearts, graduations, singing engagements, job promotions, the birth of my son, and every milestone since. But it wasn't just the high points. He stood by me in the shadows, too, during seasons when life felt impossibly heavy and the weight of the world pressed down on me. His presence was steady, and his love unwavering. Whether I was celebrating or struggling, he showed up with quiet strength, deep compassion, and the kind of unconditional support that asked for nothing in return. 

I spent the last night of his life curled up beside him, holding his hand, running my fingers gently through his soft white hair. I rested my hand over his heart, feeling the rhythm of a lifetime of love and memories still beating beneath my palm. I told him how deeply I loved him. That he had been the father I never knew I needed. I promised him I would take care of Mom. That I would keep doing things to make him proud. And then, through tears and an ache I can’t quite describe, I gave him permission to go. Not that he needed my permission, but because I needed to reconcile my heart and finally say the words I had hoped I would never have to say. 

As much as it pained me to imagine life without him, I wanted him to know it was okay to rest. His body and his spirit were ready. And in one of the most selfless acts of my life, I surrendered him and my heart to the peace he so deserved. But the truth is, I’m not sure you ever truly say goodbye to someone who shaped you so deeply. His love, his lessons, his presence, they will live on in the stories I tell, the values I carry, and the way I move through the world. He will always be a guiding whisper in my conscience.

I am better because he was mine. I will be forever grateful for the gift of calling him my dad, and I will miss him more than words can ever express. 

So while I let him go that night, I carry him with me still. And always will. 

In saying goodbye, I didn’t lose him. I found him in everything he left behind.

Love you, Dad.