It’s Nuts! My Career Change at This Stage

February 3, 2026 No Comments

Feeling Like You’re Starting Over

Switching careers at this stage feels a lot like trying to crack a nut with a spoon. Exciting? Sure. Overwhelming? Absolutely. Some days I feel like I’m moving forward; other days, it’s enough just to show up.

 

The Challenge Is Real

Making a career change later in life—or after a long break—comes with its own hurdles. Fear of the wrong move, learning new skills, and keeping pace with younger professionals can be exhausting. And yet, here I am, trying anyway.

 

Steps I’m Taking

I don’t have it all figured out, but these steps are helping me gain traction:

  • Researching roles and industries that fit my strengths. I’m mapping where my skills meet opportunities, even if it takes time to find the right fit.
  • Updating my resume and online presence. Tiny tweaks each week make a difference and help me feel more confident.
  • Reaching out to mentors and contacts. Honest conversations bring clarity, encouragement, and sometimes a new perspective.
  • Focusing on technical training. I’m building skills for remote roles—learning tools, software, and processes that will make me competitive.
  • Starting small while seeking the right remote job. Temporary work, contract gigs, or volunteer projects keep momentum going and help me test interests without the pressure of perfection.

 

Lessons I’m Learning

Progress isn’t a straight line. Some days feel like tiny victories; other days, survival itself counts. Balancing training, job searching, and life feels messy—but each step forward, no matter how small, is proof that change is possible. Success isn’t speed—it’s persistence, curiosity, and the courage to keep trying.

 

You’re Not Alone

If you’re navigating a career change at this stage, know you’re not alone. Every small action—taking a course, sending an email, exploring a new path—adds up. Even when progress feels slow or uncertain, each step moves you closer to a role that fits your skills, life, and future. Eventually, the nut does crack.

 

Dear Resilient Reader,

What’s one small step you’ve taken recently toward a new path, skill, or goal? I’d love to hear about it in the comments—or feel free to just reflect silently. Every effort matters.

One of Those Days

February 2, 2026 No Comments

Today felt off.

After a few genuinely productive days in a row, I woke up irritable, unsettled, and uncomfortable in my own skin. The weather can’t seem to decide what it’s doing—hot, then cold, then hot again—and my allergies are clearly taking that as a personal invitation to act up. My body noticed before my mind did.

Life has a way of doing that. Just when things feel like they’re smoothing out, it throws a few quiet twists and turns. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to remind you that control is mostly an illusion.

At some point today, I resigned myself to a simple truth: this just isn’t a good day.

I once heard Mel Robbins talk about the “rule of thirds.” A third of the day goes well. A third is neutral. And a third is… less desirable. Despite good intentions, decent habits, and real effort to “be well,” my physical and emotional state landed squarely in that last third today.

And that’s frustrating—especially when you’re doing all the “right” things.

Still, the day wasn’t a total loss. I got most of my basic chores done. I crossed one or two things off my to-do list. The world didn’t end. Nothing caught fire. Progress just showed up quietly instead of triumphantly.

The biggest win came late in the day, when I finally stopped arguing with myself.

I told myself it’s okay.

It’s okay to feel unpleasant feelings without fixing them. It’s okay to sit with discomfort instead of trying to out-think or out-work it. Whatever moment this is—it will pass. They always do.

So tonight, the plan is simple: refocus, reset, repeat.

And wipe itchy watering eyes and sneeze.
Because apparently that’s part of it too.

— Michelle

Still Driving

January 30, 2026 No Comments

Long-term stress doesn’t always look like panic.

Sometimes it looks like competence.

Like shutting off the extra feelings,

narrowing life down to what’s necessary,

doing the next right thing

because someone has to.

You learn how to function in crisis.

How to calculate, absorb, carry.

How to keep moving while your inner world goes quiet—

not dead, just muted—

while the weight stays heavy in the chest and hands.

The danger isn’t the fight.

It’s the slow temptation to shut down completely.

To mistake numbness for strength.

To confuse survival with living.

By the end of the day,

the tank is almost empty.

Numbers don’t add up.

Warning lights blink.

Dead-end signs appear more often than exits.

The flames feel closer now—

close enough to warm,

close enough to burn.

And still…

we keep driving.

Hope becomes stubborn at this stage.

Not loud or confident—

just persistent.

A refusal to accept the word terminal

even when it’s posted in bold letters.

Are we crazy for this?

Or just human—

wired to live on the edge

because stopping feels more dangerous

than continuing forward?

Maybe hope isn’t optimism at all.

Maybe it’s simply choosing not to turn the engine off

yet.

Learning to Live Daily: ADHD, Healing, and Gentle Discipline

January 30, 2026 No Comments

Lately, I’ve been working intentionally with my severe ADHD tendencies—not by forcing myself into rigid systems, but by building something sustainable: a daily baseline checklist, paired with goals that are specific to that particular day.

The shift matters.

Instead of addressing my life in frantic spurts of productivity followed by burnout or avoidance, I’m practicing something new: mindful consistency. Certain routines and priorities show up every day, not perfectly, but deliberately. They anchor me. Everything else becomes flexible rather than overwhelming.

Today, for example, was still very much a catch-up day—household tasks, loose ends, half-finished projects that had been lingering longer than I’d like to admit. And yet, what made today different wasn’t how much I completed.

It was the inner dialogue I carried with me while doing it.

Learning to Speak to Myself Like Someone I Love

As I moved through the day, I practiced pacing myself the way I would a close friend—someone I care about deeply. That means honesty without cruelty and kindness without enabling.

When frustration tried to creep in, I didn’t fight it or shame it away. Instead, in my mind’s eye, I noticed it… and gently redirected my thoughts. Not with toxic positivity, but with grounded reassurance:

You’re doing what you can today. Keep going. One thing at a time.

This kind of self-talk doesn’t come naturally to me. It has been learned slowly, through awareness, repetition, and a willingness to pause instead of panic.

The Gift—and Cost—of Space

I’m deeply aware that this healing has required space—space I might not have had if I were still caught in the hustle, expectations, and relentless pace of a full-time job that never aligned with how my brain works.

Not having my own income hasn’t been easy. It has stretched my pride, my patience, and my sense of identity. And yet, I’m grateful for the room it gave me to do the kind of internal work I couldn’t rush.

What’s interesting is that as I get healthier, I’m actually working more—just differently. I’m setting my own goals. I’m engaging with projects that excite me. I’m building toward something that feels aligned rather than constantly trying to contort myself to fit into systems that were never designed for minds like mine.

Gratitude Without Denial

None of this has been possible without my husband’s commitment and support. That partnership mattered. So did my own awakening—what I can only describe as a spiritual kind of healing. Not performative. Not dramatic. Just deeply calming. The kind that slowly settles a nervous system that has been on high alert for most of a lifetime.

I don’t have much in the way of material wealth. I don’t have children to carry on a visible legacy. But I do have perspective—earned through experience, struggle, and reflection.

And I’m learning to appreciate that.

Redefining Richness

I’ve come to believe that peace and happiness without wealth or status can be richer than a life filled with possessions, titles, or external validation. Especially when peace is rooted in things that endure beyond circumstances, roles, or productivity.

I’m still learning. Still practicing. Still catching up some days.

But I’m no longer abandoning myself in the process.

And that, for me, feels like real progress.

My prompt is this:

When that familiar voice shows up telling you who you should be by now, how can you pause long enough to interrupt the transmission and redirect yourself with the same love and care you would give a best friend or loved one?

Think on that, and if you’re able, leave a comment below.

When Creating is an Act of Prayer

January 18, 2026 No Comments

Lately, the world has felt loud. Heavy. More than a little “off”… I’ve found myself absorbing more than I meant to—headlines, tension, the low hum of collective worry—and needing to step back, not out of apathy, but out of care. When things feel like too much, I don’t disappear; I withdraw intentionally. I slow. I breathe. I make something with my hands.

Creativity has become my way of re-entering life without force. Painting, sewing, writing—these quiet acts help me stay present without being overwhelmed. They’re how I pray when words or actions feel insufficient. How I offer steadiness when the world itself seems to be searching for its center and often a bit lost trying to make it there. In choosing mindful creation, I’m not turning away from what’s happening—I’m choosing how I show up to it.

Have you noticed where you instinctively retreat when the world feels unsteady—and what helps you come back with a little more softness or clarity? I’d love to hear what’s been grounding you lately. Scroll to the far bottom and leave a comment, if you would like to, below.

Bent Stitches and Songs That Linger

January 18, 2026 No Comments

Yesterday was one of those days where nothing felt polished, but everything felt like it was calling me to keep pressing forward.

I worked my way through setting up my Brother LS2020 sewing machine—a Facebook Marketplace find that turned out to be a good deal and a lesson in patience and listening to my body and mind. I flipped through the manual, tried a step, flipped back, ripped out threads, and tried again. Between the cold weather, older hands, and the occasional muscle spasm, my fingers started cramping mid-threading. It became clear that pacing, gentleness, perseverance—and possibly some future adaptive tools—were going to be just as important as knowing which lever does what.

Then I tried mending and taking in a dress that was torn, too big, and full of loose seams.

It was… rough. Uneven stitches. Awkward tension. A little “should I be doing this level of sewing on the first day?” energy stitched right in. But when I finished and really looked at it, I felt proud. Not because it looked perfect—it didn’t—but because it could function as a wearable garment again. The repairs, fabric, and seams were far from excellent, but somehow it felt important that it was okay.

Before I even began sewing that evening, I found myself drawn into music—music that stayed with me as I worked.

I watched and listened to Sofia Isella and once again felt that familiar mix of being drawn in, unsettled, slightly repelled… and then pulled closer. Her work isn’t meant to soothe. It pokes. It exposes. There’s a theatrical darkness to it, but also an intelligence and discipline underneath that makes it hit harder.

Part of that comes from her background. Sofia is classically trained, a violinist since childhood, and it shows—not just in the occasional presence of strings, but in how she structures tension. Her father, Adam Isella, is a composer and violinist, and you can feel that lineage in her command of mood and dynamics. This isn’t chaos for chaos’ sake. It’s deliberate. Controlled. Almost surgical.

Songs like “Everybody Supports Women” don’t resolve neatly. They sit in contradiction. They make you uncomfortable and then dare you to ask why. I notice myself wanting to turn it off—and then wanting to rewind.

That same push-pull showed up again when I discovered Ren.

You don’t casually discover Ren. You encounter him.

His song “Hi Ren” feels like an internal argument you’re not supposed to overhear. It’s raw, theatrical, self-aware, and deeply human. And once you know his story, it lands differently. Years of severe illness—later understood to be connected to Lyme disease and neurological complications—misdiagnoses, chronic pain, cognitive struggles, and long stretches where his life and career stalled completely.

Instead of cleaning that up, he built from it.

Songs like “Chalk Outlines” and “Sick Boi” don’t pretend healing is linear or pretty. They don’t tie a bow on suffering. They leave the stitches visible. They let the listener sit in the unresolved places—the ones we usually rush past.

And that’s when it clicked for me.

The reason this music pulls me in and pushes me away is the same reason I felt something while mending that dress. Both require you to stay with something not quite right. To sit with it. Not pretend everything is okay—or that you are okay. Just work with it carefully, imperfectly, honestly.

Mending isn’t about making something completely brand new again.
It’s about making something functional—or maybe even visually striking in a new way—without rushing the process.

That unsettled feeling—the one that lingers after the song ends or when you notice a crooked seam—that’s where the thinking happens. That’s where attention sharpens. That’s where something real shifts.

I didn’t master sewing today.
I didn’t fully understand the music.
But I stayed present with both.

And somehow, that felt like the point.

Is there something in your life right now that’s asking for patience instead of fixing?
What’s one thing you’re learning not to rush? Scroll down to the far end of the page if you would like to leave a comment below.

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