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. 

 

This is Sixty

This is sixty. Yes, sixty.

Mentally, I’m still trying to process the fact that I’ve officially entered, technically, the 7th decade of my life.

Emotionally? I’ve embraced it.

Spiritually? I am both enlightened and anchored in something greater than myself.

Physically? Let’s just say my body celebrated early with the thoughtful gifts of sciatica, hip joint drama, and lower back betrayal. Curious gifts, all of which I’d happily return.

And the laugh lines? Apparently, I’ve lived in a near-permanent state of hilarity. Honestly, if each one told a joke, I’d have a full comedy special by now.

I remember throwing a 50th birthday party for both my parents, and now, here I am. Sixty. Navigating what feels like the senior citizen starter pack, trying to balance the wisdom I’ve earned with the ibuprofen I now carry like a purse essential.

But turning 60 also comes with a well-worn path of experiences, each one shaping the very core of who I am.

They’ve come in the form of milestones and moments; some extraordinarily joyful, others painfully life-altering.

I’ve known life’s most profound beauty and a love I never imagined possible in the birth and gift of my son. I’ve also felt the deep ache of grief in losing those I’ve loved. I’ve experienced the hope and joy of marriage, and the quiet sorrow of divorce. I’ve known love that consumed me completely, and love that was never returned, leaving behind only echoes and lessons.

I’ve been wrapped in the warmth of family and friendship, and I’ve sat with the cold quiet of loneliness. I’ve battled serious illness and found the calm and clarity that come with restored health and peace of mind.

There have been moments of tremendous success and moments of difficult setbacks. Seasons when life bloomed in full color, and times when it faded to grayscale. Days when everything made sense, and others when nothing did.

Each experience, welcome or not, has been part of the journey. Each one stitched into the fabric of my life; threads of joy, sorrow, love, and loss, woven into the tapestry of who I’ve become.

In the past few years, I’ve lost friends who never got the chance to see 50. That truth is never far from my heart. I know, deeply, what a gift it is to stand here at 60. And because of that, I strive to live each day with gratitude, for the time I’ve been given, the memories I’ve made, and the sacred privilege of being alive.

As I raise my glass to the 60 years behind me and all they’ve taught me and brought me, I look ahead to the years still to come. I know there are more life moments waiting, some that will bring immense bliss, and others that may painfully grip my soul. But each one is part of the experience I’ve been granted simply by having the chance to play this beautiful, unpredictable game we call life.

Knowing that none of us gets out of it alive, I will live what remains not just with presence, but with purpose, wonder, and a heart wide enough to hold it all.

Because if I’ve learned anything in 60 years—and as a writer—it’s that the best stories are the ones still being written.

I Will NOT Quit!

Last night, I received the heartbreaking news that a mentor and giant of my youth had passed, Dr. Wendell Calder.

I first encountered Dr. Calder during my very first semester at Bible college, where he served as one of my professors. On the first day of class, he shared four simple words that would become a foundational truth in my life: “I will NOT quit.”

I wrote those words on a piece of paper and taped them above my dorm room desk. Whenever I felt overwhelmed, defeated, or on the verge of giving up, I would look up and draw strength from them. Time and time again, they were the catalyst that kept me moving forward.

I was so inspired by Dr. Calder that I dedicated the following summer to serving as a senior camp counselor at his camp, Camp Living Waters. I have always cherished the camp experience and the opportunity to work with youth—but the chance to combine that with time under Dr. Calder’s mentorship truly stirred my soul.

That summer, on the Fourth of July, I received devastating, life-altering news that shattered my world. I turned to Dr. Calder and his wonderful wife, Joan, and shared what had happened. That evening, they covered me with their love and prayers. Their compassion was a healing balm for my wounded spirit, and I have never forgotten the comfort they offered me in my darkest hour. It was not just their words, it was their presence, their love, their authenticity.

When Dr. Calder gently asked if I’d like to return home instead of finishing out my summer mission, I looked him in the eye and said, “No, sir. Because I will not quit.” He gave me that famous Calder grin. The one that said more than words ever could, and in that moment, I knew he was proud to see one of his students living out the very charge he had so passionately instilled.

I’m currently finalizing my autobiography, and one of the stories in my book centers around the events of that evening. While I regret not having the chance to share it with Dr. Calder, my heart is comforted knowing he holds a meaningful place within the pages of my story.

Over the years, Dr. Calder’s mantra—“I will not quit”—has echoed through the corridors of my life. One moment that stands out was just last year, as I prepared for my SHRM-CP exam. Weeks before the test, my father suffered three heart attacks. He was gravely ill, and my first instinct was to postpone the exam. But those four words tugged at my spirit once more. “I will not quit.” I held onto them. I sat for the exam, and I passed. The joy I felt in that moment was indescribable, and I whispered a quiet thank you to Dr. Calder for still, after 40 years, guiding me with his unwavering spirit.

Thank you, Dr. Calder, for giving me those four powerful words. Thank you for the example you set, the lives you touched, and the love you gave so freely.

Because of you, I didn’t and don't quit. And because of that, I’ve known the joy of victory through perseverance.

You were a gift. And you will never be forgotten. 💝