This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.

What Chapter Are You…

Leaving:

The chapter of “just us.”

In:

Experiencing pregnancy for the first time.

Entering:

The chapter of motherhood.

Somehow, I am roughly twelve weeks away from entering a chapter I once imagined I would skip entirely: motherhood.

Subscribe now

For years, I believed motherhood simply wasn’t in the cards for me. More than that, I had always been squarely in the camp of “motherhood is not required for a full life.” My story did not need to include pregnancy, labor, diapers, strollers, teething, or midnight feedings in order to feel meaningful. This wasn’t something I told myself to help me sleep better at night. I genuinely believed there were other ways to nurture, other ways to guide, and other ways to love.

When I met my husband, I didn’t expect that belief to change. I did not think some grand plot twist was waiting for me in the form of a nursery.

Mothering, outside the care I offered my students and the relationship I was building with my stepson, was simply not a role I pictured for myself. I met my stepson when he was already well into his teenage years, with college looming and a mother very much in his life. I was learning the ropes of parenthood, but I did not experience motherhood from the beginning.

Even as I write that, I can hear how strange it may sound. But he already had a mother, and he was already nearing the edge of adulthood. So I entered #stepmomlife hoping I could become a trusted adult, a steady presence, and maybe, with time, a valued mentor more than a bonus mother.

And I was content with that. Until I wasn’t.

Subscribe now

I can still hear my father telling my stubborn twenty-four-year-old self that I might believe I didn’t want a baby, but that all of it could change when I met the right person. I was adamant that he was wrong. I even remember feeling absurdly triumphant when marriage to my first husband changed exactly nothing about my feelings on having a child.

It turns out my father would be having the last laugh right now if he were still here, because my first husband was not the person who would change my mind.

As a writer, I know stories form in their own time. You can’t rush the transformation of a main character. The setting has to make sense. The emotional groundwork has to be established. The change has to feel organic, not forced. Standing on the other side of heartbreak, I believe this current plot twist was simply biding its time.

From the moment I met the man who became my husband, my perspective on motherhood began to shift, slowly at first, then unmistakably. It terrified me. It felt bizarre to have spent my entire life believing one thing about myself, only to discover that my father may have understood something I couldn’t yet see. With the right person beside me, my heart began to make room for a different future.

Subscribe now

Now, I find myself not merely considering a plot twist, but actively living one.

My entire life, I’ve been a planner. And yet, after Covid, divorce, and losing my father to Lewy Body Dementia, I should have known by now that there is only so much I can control. Maybe that is why this new chapter has surprised me so much. My husband had already offered me one thing I once believed was out of reach: a second chance at true love. Now, together, we are stepping into another.

Still, as I inch, or maybe waddle, closer to the chapter I’d label “Baby Kicks in ’26,” I find myself in a state of disbelief.

What if I screw it all up? What if I let myself and my husband down because nothing ends up coming naturally? How will it feel to become one of two people a tiny human relies on completely for survival? What if this was a chapter I was never meant to enter?

Subscribe now

But the reality is different. I have persevered through every previous chapter, including the ones I once thought would be impossible: divorce, grief, loneliness. And then there is the chapter I refuse to give up on. I may not have published a novel yet, but that has not stopped me from writing them.

So how does one measure success in motherhood? Maybe the third trimester is as good a time as any to realize that I cannot possibly know every answer in advance. I cannot plan my way into being perfect. But I can show up every day for my son in the same way I have been showing up for him throughout this pregnancy: with my whole heart.

Entering a new chapter is never easy, not even when the chapter is joyful. Newness is still uncertainty. It is still unfamiliar terrain. But maybe that is exactly what makes it so full of possibility.

I am not just entering a new chapter. I am beginning a brand-new novel.

Share

Leave a comment

Follow Sydney on Instagram.

This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.

What Chapter Are You…

Leaving:

Holding on tight.

In:

Breaking through.

Entering:

Deep breathing.

The concrete of the garage floor was cold, but it was the only place I could be alone. The only place I could be scared. The only place I could cry.

Thirty minutes earlier, my whole life had changed.

My mom had been having back spasms and went to the doctor. He ordered a CT scan. After her appointment, she walked into my house and told me the doctor had now ordered a PET scan.

I knew it was bad. I stayed strong for my mom and for my boys. Until my mom left. Then I made the mistake of telling my husband. Ever comforting, he told me to take a Tylenol PM and start dinner.

I didn’t want my boys to see me panic, so I told them I was going to the garage to get some juice from the extra fridge. I leaned against it, slid down, and collapsed on the floor, my chest caving in.

I knew it wasn’t good. My mom had pancreatic cancer.

Subscribe now

The next few months were a blur of doctor appointments, hospitals, surgeries, chemotherapy, and radiation. I was also taking care of my boys and everything they needed. My babies are on the autism spectrum. They thrive with structure and routine. I was teaching full time. I tried to juggle everything.

On a cold February afternoon, my mom was receiving hospice care in my guest room. My boys were playing downstairs, and I was frying chicken cutlets. There was a hard knock on my front door.

Who could it be?

I shut off the burner and rushed to the door. I didn’t want to disturb my mom’s rest. It was my neighbor, Gary. He had something behind his back. I said hello and invited him in. He asked if I knew where my husband was.

I didn’t.

My husband was an alcoholic, and I couldn’t have that around my children. I had pleaded with him to get help and be present with our family, but nothing had changed. I had my mom and my boys to take care of. I told myself I would deal with the relationship soon.

I didn’t realize soon meant that very moment. Gary was holding my husband’s flannel shirt and his marine T-shirt, all found in Gary’s bedroom the night before.

His wife, Megan, was my friend, my grade-level partner, a bridesmaid in my wedding. What the actual hell was happening?

Three weeks later, I was in a hospice facility, holding my mom’s hand and singing the theme song to The Golden Girls. I wanted to thank her for being my best friend. I held her hand tightly. I wanted to remember her fingers, her eyes, everything.

When you are in hospice, they don’t always say your name at the end. They say a room number. My sister insisted they use my mom’s name.

“She is way more than a number,” I said.

Then that time came. Labored breathing. The sound is the reason I don’t drink coffee anymore. It reminds me of a coffee machine. Even writing about it takes me back there.

A month after my mom’s funeral, I found myself in marital court. I had to read a forensic report because my ex had made everything an absolute nightmare. I had the report on a bench, and as I read it, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Megan had spoken poorly about me, as had others I thought were my friends.

A young attorney approached me and suggested I read the report in an office away from the courtroom.

I put my wrists together and said, “Cuff me, pal. I just held my mom’s hand as she took her last breath. You don’t scare me.”

Subscribe now

I remember lying with my mom and telling her about Gary’s visit. She said, “Don’t worry about Megan. She doesn’t have a mother. You have a mother, and I will always be with you.”

My mom was right, like always. She taught me so much: to do the right thing, to put my family first, and to always carve out a little time for myself.

Life was completely different now. I was grieving my mom, living two houses away from my husband’s affair, and teaching across the hall from the woman who helped destroy my marriage. Every morning, I walked into work. Every afternoon, I drove home. There was no escape.

I also wanted to slowly acclimate my boys to the idea of moving. Their dad didn’t like the idea. He asked them, “How will I watch you?”

I was living in a fishbowl.

That summer, we moved. For the first time in months, I slept through the night. There were no whispers outside my window. No reminders waiting two houses away.

Just quiet. It wasn’t that my grief had disappeared. It hadn’t. My mom was still gone, and I was still raising two little boys while rebuilding a life I never expected to lose.

But that house gave us something we hadn’t had in a very long time: peace.

Share

Leave a comment

Follow Laurie on Instagram.

This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.

What Chapter Are You…

Leaving:

Being the parent of a baby.

In:

Being the parent of a toddler, who likes to, even amongst the chaos, not take life too seriously.

Entering:

The world of making life endlessly fun and curious for my toddler.

To people who say

“Traveling with toddlers is hard,”

You’re right.

It’s hard to hear

Him screaming,

“I’m at the zoo!”

While watching elephants roam,

And know he will

Never

Be here for the first time again.

Subscribe now

It’s hard to hear

Him yelling,

“Home run!”

While jumping at a baseball game,

And know he will

Never

Be so carefree again.

It’s hard to hear

Him shouting,

“I see the ocean!”

While walking on a path,

And know he will

Never

Be so amazed by the world again.

It’s hard to hear

Him screeching,

“I’m awake!”

While happily skipping a nap

And know he will

Never

Be two again.

Share

Leave a comment

Follow Megan on Instagram.

This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.

What Chapter Are You…

Leaving:

Years of pouring myself into everyone else's next chapter.

In:

Less noise on the outside, more noise on the inside, asking what sparks my curiosity?

Entering:

A chapter with my name on it.

Growing up, I wasn’t only Kristi. I was “one of the twins.”

My sister and I shared a birthday, a childhood, friends, classrooms, celebrations, and a kind of built-in identity. People knew us as a pair before they knew either of us alone. There was comfort in that, and also a kind of invisibility I didn’t yet know how to name. It never occurred to me to question it because it was simply the way my world worked.

The first birthday I celebrated without my sister beside me felt oddly incomplete. There was one cake, one set of candles, and one person being celebrated. No shared spotlight. No automatic comparison. No other half of the story standing next to me. I hadn’t expected something so ordinary to feel so disorienting.

Subscribe now

I loved my sister just as much as I always had. That never changed. But I also loved discovering who I was when I wasn’t automatically introduced as half of a pair. For the first time, I could hear my own name without it echoing beside hers.

Looking back, that wasn’t the only time life asked me to redefine myself. Over the years, I collected roles that connected me to other people: wife, mother, leader, founder, writer, podcast host. Each one expanded my world. Each one became another way people recognized me. I poured my energy into raising children, building organizations, creating communities, and helping other people find their footing. I don’t regret a minute of it.

But somewhere along the way, I stopped asking what I wanted when no one else’s needs were setting the terms. My children are adults now, building lives of their own. The organizations I helped build continue in other capable hands. For the first time in decades, my calendar has more open space than obligation. The quiet is unfamiliar, but not empty. It feels strangely like that first birthday on my own: a little disorienting, a little freeing, and full of questions I thought I had already answered.

Life has a way of returning us to ourselves. The circumstances change, but the invitation is familiar. If no one else is defining your role, what would you choose? What still sparks your curiosity? What kind of life do you build when you are no longer arranging it around everyone else’s needs?

I’m still figuring that out.

Subscribe now

These days, when someone asks what I do, I pause a little longer before answering. No single title feels big enough anymore. Maybe that’s what this chapter is teaching me. A life cannot be fully explained by the roles we have played, even the ones we have loved. I still have a twin. I’ll always be a mother. Those identities are woven into me. They are not disappearing. They are simply no longer the whole answer.

Every so often, life hands us another chance to become fully ourselves. The first time happened when people began to see me as an individual instead of a pair. This time, it is happening because life has made room for me to ask a different question.

Not “Who am I?” I’ve known her all along.

The question is: What parts of me have been waiting for enough space to step forward?

Share

Leave a comment

Follow on Substack and Instagram.

This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.

What Chapter Are You…

Leaving:

Grief never ends, but four years later, I’m learning to look forward more often than back.

In:

Empty nester grieving the loss of my youngest child.

Entering:

Still figuring it out, but I'm trying to cultivate fun and creativity.

I recently found myself a few steps beyond the crowd at a hotel ballroom reception, gingerly wading into conversation with a professional acquaintance I’d emailed countless times but barely knew in person. It was a business setting, an event designed to bring together people with common interests and backgrounds. As the evening went on, this acquaintance and I shared the basics: where we were from, how long we’d been with our companies, where we had attended college.

Then she asked the question. “You mentioned having daughters. Do you have any other children?”

Subscribe now

Not so long ago, this simple question would have brought me to my knees. But that night, I remained upright. “Yes, I have two daughters in their twenties, and my son Charlie died a few years ago.”

Her response was soft, but unflinching. “I’m very sorry to hear that. May I ask how he died?”

Mind you, this woman is the epitome of Southern grace and professional decorum. I had not skirted or glossed over the truth of my loss, so this follow-up question was completely within bounds. Plus, I respect the courage required to continue this particular kind of conversation, even for the most adept conversationalists.

Subscribe now

Since my son died, I’ve learned that talking about grief is a skill, and it’s one I have to continuously work on.

“The summer before his senior year of college, my son killed himself,” I said. There. Done. Out with it. Into the air and off my chest.

Then she shared that her brother had died of an overdose.

“Oh, kissing cousins, those two, suicide and overdose. You and I have this awful thing in common,” I said.

From there, the discussion bloomed. We shared worries and harsh realities about life and family, saying aloud what was truly on our minds. In other words, we stopped making polite conversation about trivial matters like traffic or the view from the hotel ballroom. We agreed to meet for lunch soon. And just like that, an acquaintance drifted into friend territory.

Don’t get me wrong, small talk is important. It’s an essential social lubricant for establishing connections and building rapport. And sometimes, I lack the stamina or steadiness to speak openly about my loss. Or I sense that the person I’m speaking with may not be able to handle my reality. In those moments, it’s a blessing to stick to the weather and the latest sports news.

Subscribe now

Still, grief is a mute participant in every conversation I have, and it’s taken practice to learn how to bring it into the room. I trained myself to speak about it, standing in the mirror and saying, “My son died.” “I lost my son.” “I have three children, but one died.” Charlie’s death is the most defining fact of my life, yet getting those words out of my mouth is not easy.

I’ve found that when I say the hard words, other people do too.

I took the first step toward practicing this approach several months after Charlie died. Unsuspecting repairmen and contractors became my practice dummies. Little did they know that when they accepted a service call to the Stephenson residence, they were walking into my personal scrimmage as I tried to build the strength to reenter the world.

First up was a gentleman who’d come to repair our fence. After the typical greeting and confirmation of the job scope, I took a practice swing. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but I cry a lot. I lost my son. That’s why I break into tears in the middle of discussing gate hinges. It’s not you.”

Subscribe now

Predictable pauses and weight shifting ensued. He then pulled out a handkerchief, dabbed the corner of his eye, and said, “I know how you feel. I lost my son too. It was a long time ago. But I know how you feel.”

A few weeks later, I tried again with the HVAC engineer. He acknowledged my statement with a quiet nod before turning to a problematic thermostat. I retreated to the living room to read. Several minutes later, I looked up to see him in the doorway. “Thank you for saying something. I lost my wife. I don’t know why people don’t talk about this stuff more. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Then there was the time I found myself making light conversation with a handful of women I met at a luncheon. As is often the case with women, the chatter turned to children. One mentioned her child had graduated from the same high school Charlie had attended. In that moment, I was feeling sturdy, but I had a decision to make: do I step into the flow of the discussion and risk generating an uncomfortable splash by raising the topic of my dead child, or do I let the conversation flow without me?

I jumped in. “My son graduated from the same school, years later.” That was it. I didn’t tack on “but he’s dead now,” or “he loved that school, but he killed himself,” or “that school has been tremendously supportive since he died.” After a friendly acknowledgement of a superficial shared experience, the chatter bubbled along.

Shared experiences take countless forms, including shared grief. Communicating about grief—in whatever form or format feels comfortable—can help build the connections that power the resilience to continue moving forward after loss. Talking about grief doesn’t just ease isolation for the person carrying it, it gives others permission to share their own losses, too. And all of that takes practice.

Share

Leave a comment

Follow Betsy () on Substack and Instagram.

We were all sobbing. I won’t give away the ending of the utterly fabulous, moving, heartwarming and pitch perfect film “Don’t Say Good Luck,” but it was a gut punch. I wanted to watch the movie for several reasons.

Laura Hankin, a three-time guest on my podcast for The Daydreams, One-Star Romance, and Happy and You Know It, wrote the screenplay! Another podcast guest, Max Greenfield, I Don’t Want to Read This Book, starred in it. (Fun fact: Max’s wife Tess Sanchez was also on my podcast for her book of essays We’ve Decided to Go in a Different Direction and will be a featured author at our Santa Monica Book Lovers Retreat!)

The movie starred the immensely talented Sunny Sandler (our family thinks it’s “kinda chic” to imagine we’re family friends with the Sandlers, haha). Also, the clips on Instagram looked great. I thought it would be a fun, family movie. It was. But it was deeper than that. It made me think about my own mortality which, on the cusp of turning fifty, I’ve been doing non-stop.

Yesterday, my brother and our families got together and played a fun game. One of the rules was that the oldest player could go first. All eyes turned to me. As we all laughed, I actually held back tears. To make light of the moment, I sang a line from the “Cups” song: “You’re going to miss me when I’m gone…”

“Zib!”

“Mom, don’t even joke.”

But as I looked around at this group of people I love more than almost anyone in the entire world (aside from my parents) and realized that if chronology holds, I would be the first one to go, I got unspeakably sad. I imagined the same set-up minus me. I tried to make out everyone’s expressions on the eve of losing me. The pain my children and family would feel — as any family of a lost loved one would. And I felt helpless. Resigned. Accepting. It all became quite clear.

(Meanwhile, as I typed that last sentence from my couch in the Palisades, the day after the Palisades Village reopened after almost two years of renovations after the fire, the sun literally peeked out from behind the nearby mountains as if God were sending me a personal message. My computer and I became bathed in light.)

Fifty is hitting me hard. Even though I have so much exciting stuff happening professionally — my book is coming out! my tour is about to start! — my personal life is in a new, unknown chapter. My twins both leave for college over the next two weeks. One of them will be a plane-ride away. (I’m starting to cry again thinking about it.)

We’ve had the best summer with all four kids mostly home. So much downtime. So many laughs. So many hugs. And now it’s all about to end. How many days will I even see the “big kids” after drop-off, especially because I have to share their time back at home with their dad? Will I ever be as lucky as I am being with them right this moment? It all feels so final and emotional, even though I’m thrilled for them. My younger kids will soon be in the craziness of middle school with homework, activities, events, and distractions. I’ll be back in the office, racing around the city, overwhelmed.

The sweetness of summer is over. And I just wanted to take a moment to honor the small grief of lost moments while appreciating that I get to be here at all. That’s all we can do, right?

Leave a comment

Bookish Film News

Books and movies are lifesavers, especially during challenging chapters. Here are adaptations or films with ties to our community!

• “Don’t Say Good Luck:” Written by podcast guest Laura Hankin, starring podcast guest Max Greenfield (see above!).

• “Late Fame:” Adapted from a novella by Arthur Schnitzler. (Produced by my husband Kyle! If you’d like to join a special screening I’m hosting on August 21st in Sag Harbor, email me for up to two tickets.) Written up in the New Yorker among other outlets.

• “Verity:” Based on the book by past podcast guest for Reminders of Him, Colleen Hoover: Trailer is here. Coming out October 2.

  

• “Spa Weekend:” Starring past podcast guest Michelle Buteau, Survival of the Thickest. (Produced by my brother Teddy!) Coming out August 21.

• “The Rivals of Amziah King:” Starring podcast guest Matthew McConaghey, Just Because. (Produced by my brother Teddy). Out now!

• “Rolling Loud:” Written and directed by On Being Jewish Now contributor Jeremy Garelick. Info here. Coming out October 2.

Plus there’s an upcoming adaptation of Virginia Woolf’s Night & Day (coming out September 4), John Steinbeck’s East of Eden, and a new season coming of “Nobody Wants This” starring past podcast guest Tovah Feldshuh, Lilyville.

Let’s Hang

• Tickets for our next Totally Booked: Live! event are now available. Join us on October 25th for an intimate literary talk show at the gorgeous Whitby Hotel in New York with literary powerhouses Amber Rae, Griffin Dunne, Beatriz Williams , Tarajia Morrell (a Zibby Publishing author!)

• Thanks to everyone who came to Zibby’s Bookshop to celebrate Romance Bookstore Day! We had a surprise guest: past podcast guest Ana Huang! Signed copies of her books are available at the bookstore while supplies last.

  • FYI, Libro.fm is running a sale on romance audiobooks through August 19, with tons available for $5 USD or less! Every purchase supports our bookshop.

• We have so many Zibby’s Bookshop events coming up. Be sure to follow our Eventbrite listings for upcoming in-person and Substack Live events with notables like Stephanie Wittel Wachs of Lemonada Media, Sarah Wright Olsen, Maria Shriver, Annabeth Gish, Kristy Woodson Harvey, Fran Hauser, Jackie Friedland, David K. Israel, and more!

• Speaking of the bookstore, here are our bestsellers!

  

For Your Enjoyment…

• Be sure to listen to our five new episodes of Totally Booked every week.

• Read our new daily essay from the Between Chapters project and join our WhatsApp community.

• Pop into the bookstore: 1113 Montana Ave, Santa Monica.

• Read the books we publish like:

  • John Kenney's I See You’ve Called in Dead, now in paperback.

  • Annabelle Gurwitch’s The End of My Life is Killing Me which was recently featured on NPR (listen here).

  • Alexandra Potter’s So, I Met This Guy which has now spent three weeks on the Sunday Times bestseller list in the UK.

• Follow me on Instagram for daily musings — and follow Zibby Publishing, Zibby’s Bookshop, and Totally Booked with Zibby.

Have a great week, everyone!

Leave a comment

Share

This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here. Join our WhatsApp community to keep the conversation going.

A few weeks ago, a journalist asked me a question I didn’t know how to answer.

“Did you always want to be a writer?”

It seemed like a simple yes or no. But it wasn’t.

Subscribe now

Technically, my writing career began in 1997, when I was “Author of the Week” at age six for a story about a camping trip. In third grade, I placed second in a state multicultural book competition for a story I wrote in Hebrew about a cow named Rina. In middle school, I got a letter published in the newspaper, only for the paper to retract it once they found out I was a minor. I had been, on paper, writing things down for most of my childhood.

But to declare that I wanted to be a writer? That was daunting. Perhaps because so few people “make it” as writers, and it felt like a lofty statement from which I would most likely fall, or fail.

So the dream fell into a black hole.

I moved to Israel in my early twenties and stopped writing almost entirely. Not because Israel doesn’t value it. It does, deeply. I stopped because I had my blinkers on, solely focused on building myself from scratch in a new country, a new language, and a new professional identity.

Subscribe now

It took five years before I joined a community of other young immigrants working in Israeli tech. Those new friendships with people who’d made the same jump helped me realize that some parts of myself were still in Australia.

By then, my grandma had already passed away, and I had started writing to help me process the grief. I never referred to it as a book. It was “that Google Doc on my computer.”

That Google Doc became The Spoon and the Sea. The manuscript was a finalist in the Vogel Literary Award, and I signed with a global literary agency.

And still, even then, I didn’t have a clear answer to “Did you always want to be a writer?” I defined myself as someone with lots of titles who wrote a book on the side.

Subscribe now

I only entered this chapter, the one where I know the answer to the journalist’s question, when the publishing industry tried to tell me I couldn’t. I had an agent and a fancy literary award. But what started at the Frankfurt Book Fair in the days right after October 7 made clear that this door was closed to me because of where I live and who I am.

It took someone telling me I couldn’t be a writer to stop dancing around the question. Fueled by that rejection, I treated my book like a product and turned it into a bestseller.

Here’s the funny part. The moment I actually let myself say it aloud, as scary as it was, storytelling became the thing every company wants and needs from its marketing leaders. AI is changing everything, and the market will be led by companies that can rise above the noise and tell their story in a way that stands out and moves people. Turns out, writing a bestselling historical fiction novel is a great true-or-false icebreaker in this line of work.

Subscribe now

So now I am firmly in this chapter and halfway through my second novel. Writing is part of who I am, the way I am Jewish, Israeli, a mother, an immigrant, a tech exec, a historical fiction geek, and a houseplant killer.

So when the journalist asked me, “Did you always want to be a writer?” I told her,“Everyone in Israel who has known me for years said, when I put out a book, ‘Wow, you can write. You wrote a book! And everyone I grew up with in Australia said, ‘Finally, you wrote a book!’”

In other words, yes.

Share

Leave a comment

Follow on Substack.

This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.

What Chapter Are You…

Leaving:

I'm finally done raising kids and caring for aging parents.

In:

I'm standing on the edge of the empty nest.

Entering:

I'm staring down the barrel of a long and increasingly challenging caregiving journey.

On the morning I no longer had any children in my care, at least according to the law, I got up early and walked down to the beach at the resort where we were spending the holidays. I breathed in the warm air and felt the ocean breeze in my hair. I looked out at the expanse of blue-green water and soft white clouds. I wiggled my toes in the cool, white sand. It was our first full day of vacation, and in a few hours, when everyone was awake, we would celebrate our youngest child turning 18.

Subscribe now

Walking back to our room, I came upon a young father pushing a stroller. We greeted each other warmly, and I bent to peer under the stroller canopy at the toddler within. She was maybe 18 months old, with wispy blonde hair and big blue eyes. She was wearing pink pajamas and grey miniature Crocs. I asked if she was taking a little nap on her walk, and her father told me no, he was just walking her to buy time while his older children slept. He had pulled the short straw and was charged with taking the baby out so everyone else could wake at a more civilized hour.

I told him that my “baby” turned 18 that very day and was asleep inside her hotel room, along with her older brother and sister. He responded simply: “Jealous.”

He was jealous of me.

My kids are grown and don’t need to be carried or walked in a stroller in the early morning hours. They sleep, typically quite late if given the opportunity. They brush their own teeth and use forks and knives to feed themselves. They drive, work, and mostly handle their own problems. That level of parenting freedom seemed painfully far off to this young father. And his life stage, filled as it is with Goldfish crackers and board books, chicken nuggets and tantrums, felt like ancient history to me.

We were two people on opposite ends of the same continuum. I wondered who, exactly, should be jealous of whom.

Subscribe now

It all went by so quickly, the 25 years I’ve spent raising children. Of course it did. To paraphrase John Lennon, life is what happens while you’re changing diapers, registering for Super Soccer Stars, managing adolescent angst, and navigating college applications. And then, suddenly, it’s over.

We always knew this was the outcome. We signed up for this gig. If we were doing it right, and if we were very, very lucky, the job was scheduled to change around the 18-year mark. We really can’t, and shouldn’t, be surprised or aggrieved when we wake up and the house is quiet. We knew this was coming from the day we brought our first baby home from the hospital.

I don’t fool myself into thinking that my job as Mom and COO of our family magically ends on an August day when I drive away from a college campus with tears in my eyes. The job of mother, with all of its attendant worries and joys, is lifelong.

But for now, I am contemplating the quiet end of an era. My youngest child is technically an adult and hasn’t been a baby in a very long time. Google informed me that her email account is now entirely under her control. Her doctors’ office will no longer allow me to log into her account to make appointments and pay bills, so good luck to everyone involved. She managed her college process almost entirely on her own.

I’m not sad about any of these things. I’m happy to move into this new stage. This child and I have a great relationship, and we understand and enjoy each other immensely. Will I be sad when she goes off to college? Of course. I’ll be losing my constant companion and buddy. But I’ll also be pleased, proud, and excited for her as she starts this new phase, embarking on the roller coaster of whatever comes next.

Subscribe now

As I contemplated my baby’s birthday while interacting with that little cutie in her stroller, I was reminded that I have not held a baby in forever. The youngest children in our family are my nieces, who are nearly nine. I’ll sometimes see a cute baby on the street and joke that I’d like to scoop them up, place them in my bag, take them home, and snuggle them. My daughter reminds me that this is insane, and that I shouldn’t say these words out loud because someone might call the police.

But I miss the many delicious sensory experiences of holding a baby: that sandbag weight in my arms; the smell of their heads and necks, a mixture of sour and sweet, soap and skin; the impossible softness of their cheeks; the downy fuzz of their hair; their tiny toes and nails, so small they defy logic; the singular quality of their fat rolls, like Pillsbury biscuit dough fresh from the airtight tube.

I know I’ll have other opportunities to hold babies, and I look forward to them. I will enjoy those moments so much, and appreciate them in a way I couldn’t always when the baby was my own and my love was tangled up with stress, exhaustion, and overwhelm. I’ll savor it. I’ll inhale deeply. I’ll gently stroke all of those delicious parts.

And then, with joy, nostalgia, and a little sadness, I’ll hand the baby back.

Share

Leave a comment

Follow on Substack and Instagram.

Ignite your passion, expand your influence, and catapult your success—by being who you are, wherever you are.

In our fast-changing world, there’s often a chasm between who we are, who we think we “should” be, and how we show up for others. It can dim our confidence, connection, and—especially—our believability.

Pam Sherman is a leadership coach, actor, and recovering lawyer who helps people around the world bridge this gap. In Play You, the Role of a Lifetime, she’ll share her counterintuitive solution: The techniques great actors use to create genuine characters can help you

• Explore your own unique and powerful character

• Dream and share your inspiring story

• Grow beyond your believability derailers—unhelpful archetypes and scripts

• Excite the people you want to impact

Through humor, storytelling, and psychology, Play You, the Role of a Lifetime will help you step “onstage” with courage and conviction.

Get more from Zibby Owens in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.

What Chapter Are You…

Leaving:

The chapter of deep loss, caregiving, and holding everything together.

In:

Moving forward with grace, resilience, love, and light—carrying those I have lost with me while opening my heart to what comes next.

Entering:

Rediscovering myself, creating new memories, and allowing joy to return.

Between the end of 2024 and the summer of 2025, I lost both of my parents. As an only child, I carried the weight of every decision. There were no siblings to divide the calls, the paperwork, the appointments, the fear, or the heartbreak. There was just me, trying to be present, trying to be strong, and trying to make the right choices for two people I loved deeply.

My father was in a nursing home in Tujunga. My mother was at the L.A. Jewish Home. They were in two different places, and my heart was constantly in two places too. I navigated a world I never expected to know so intimately: doctors, nurses, social workers, insurance, care plans, staff, forms, emergencies, and the quiet pain of watching your parents become vulnerable.

After my mother moved to the L.A. Jewish Home, I cleaned out my parents’ house, one of the hardest things I have ever done. A home holds more than furniture and photographs. It holds a family’s history. Every drawer, dish, piece of clothing, and small object carried a memory. I was not just sorting through things. I was touching a life we had lived together and trying to decide which pieces of it I could physically carry forward.

Subscribe now

There is a grief that begins before death. It starts when you realize your parents can no longer care for themselves the way they once cared for you. I went through hospice with both of my parents in their respective care settings. Hospice is sacred and heartbreaking at the same time. It asks you to be present in a way that is both tender and unbearable. It asks you to love someone through the final part of their life while also learning, slowly, how to let them go.

After they passed, the responsibilities continued in a different form. There were decisions about cremation, burial, memorials, belongings, documents, and how to honor two lives that meant everything to me. The world expects you to keep making decisions when your heart is shattered. And somehow, you do.

Then, while I was still carrying the loss of my own parents, another family crisis arrived. The Palisades fire took my in-laws’ home of 55 years: the home where my husband grew up, the home that held holidays, neighbors, family history, routines, and memories that could never be replaced.

Subscribe now

My husband and I stepped in together. We looked at more than 60 apartments, trying to find a place where his parents could feel safe, supported, and dignified. We helped move them from the Palisades to Playa Vista, where we now live near each other as a family in two separate homes, close enough to check in, share meals, solve problems, and begin again.

As we were helping everyone else find their footing, my husband and I also had to say goodbye to our beloved fur baby, Barbara, our Queen B, in March 2026. That loss was especially hard to swallow. She was family. She was comfort, joy, routine, loyalty, and unconditional love. Anyone who has loved an animal deeply knows they are not just a pet. They are home. They are witness. They are the quiet presence beside you through the hardest days.

This chapter has taken so much out of me, but it has also shown me who I am. There were times I lost myself in the caretaking, the logistics, the grief, and the responsibility. I became the person who handled things, made the next call, held it together, and kept moving because other people needed me to.

Subscribe now

But through it all, I have moved forward. Not without sadness. Not without missing my parents every day. Not without feeling Barbara’s absence in our home and in our hearts. But with a deeper understanding of what love asks of us, and what love leaves behind.

My parents taught me how to live fully, love fiercely, show up for family, and find strength in the hardest seasons. I do not feel like I am simply between chapters anymore. I feel like I am carrying them with me into the next one. I miss them deeply, but I know they are with me every day: in the choices I make, in the way I love, in the way I care for others, and in the way I continue to look toward the future.

If I could share one thing from this chapter, it would be this: loss changes you, but it does not have to take your light. Caring for the people you love at the end of their lives is one of the hardest and most sacred things you may ever do. It asks everything of you, and there will be moments when you forget yourself inside the responsibility. But love has a way of staying. It stays in the lessons, in the memories, in the way you show up for others, and in the way you learn to keep living.

Where I have been is a place of deep love and deep loss. Where I am now is a place of healing and rebuilding. Where I am going is forward, with my parents beside me in spirit, my family close, Barbara, our Queen B, forever in our hearts, and my heart open to the future.

I carry them with me. I miss them. I love them. And I move forward with love and light.

Share

Leave a comment

Follow on Substack and Instagram.

This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.

It all began at the dairy case, where a brick of cheddar stopped me in my tracks.

“Good through May 1, 2009.”

It wasn’t even New Year’s yet, and spring felt light-years away. More importantly, I hadn’t yet announced that I was pregnant, due with my first baby in mid-April. Those early days of pregnancy felt more like a hope and a prayer than a reality, and motherhood still felt abstract, something waiting in the very distant future.

Until the cheese.

The cheese seemed to know what I could barely trust: that it would stay good through the long winter and still be there by the time I became a mother. As my pregnancy progressed, the expiration dates on the items in my grocery cart reached further and further into the future, while my due date drew closer and closer.

My daughter arrived as planned in late April, dividing my life into a personal BC, before children, and AD, after daughter. Over the course of the last 17 years, there have been plenty of other divisions of before and after: solid foods, potty training, going to school and, most significantly, the addition of each of our two sons. I learned how to be a mother, and then how to be a mother of two and then three. For over a decade, we have faced hilarious ups and heartbreaking downs as a household of five, with me constantly learning on the job.

Now, that first baby has a junior prom dress hanging in her closet and a crisp new driver’s license in her wallet. (Just kidding, it’s in her Lululemon keychain wristlet, obviously.) And somewhere between the strep tests, permission slips, birthday parties and carpools, it makes sense that I had forgotten all about the brick of cheddar.

That is, until last week, when I checked the expiration date on a pint of ice cream: 2027.

When we registered my daughter for kindergarten, they gave her an enormous “Class of 2027” T-shirt, comical in both its size and its promise. At the time, 2027 conjured images of futuristic vistas and flying cars. Once again, a future that seemed light-years away is now knocking on our door, this time courtesy of a pint of butter pecan.

And though the ice cream itself will likely be finished before I finish writing this, its message endures. After graduation, it will be time for me to learn a new “after,” one in which our daughter pursues her next endeavor while we cheer for her, likely from a greater distance than we have ever known.

We are on the brink of a series of new chapters, one filled with the “lasts” I already know will come and go too quickly, followed immediately by another chapter of new “firsts” — for the one who made me a mother, and for me.

Share

Leave a comment

Follow on Substack and Instagram.

This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.

What Chapter Are You…

In:

Parenting the living while loving the dead.

I had imagined the moment dozens of times.

Five years after our nine-year-old son, William, died in a ski accident at Big Sky, my family was finally returning to the mountain. I pictured us standing quietly at the place where he took his last breath. We’d hold hands. We’d cry. I’d breathe in the same mountain air he had breathed, hoping somehow to feel close to him again.

Subscribe now

Instead, my three-year-old screamed at me because I threw a blue rock into the trees.

For a split second, I wanted to rewind the moment. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. This was sacred ground. This was where my son died.

But grief has never cared much about my plans.

William died when he was nine years old. In the years that followed, Big Sky stopped being just a ski resort. It became the place that divided my life into before and after. It held our worst day, our deepest sorrow, and every unanswered question I knew would never be answered.

Still, after five years, it was time to go back.

We brought our boys with us: Kai, who remembers his older brother vividly, and Bodhi, who was born after William died. Bodhi has never met William, but he knows him. We say his name often. We tell stories about him. He has always been part of our family.

Subscribe now

That morning felt strangely peaceful. We grabbed coffee and croissants, packed snacks for Bodhi, and headed to the base of the mountain. Waiting there were the first responders who had been there the day William died.

The last time we had seen one another, our lives had intersected in unimaginable tragedy. This time, there were hugs, introductions, and smiles. It was unexpectedly healing to meet them in this place, not at the worst moment of our lives, but years later, standing together in the light.

Then we began the hike.

Without snow, the mountain looked unfamiliar. The chairlifts stood still overhead, and the rocky trail wound quietly up the hill.

Almost immediately, I realized how close we were.

So close to the base.

So close to the lifts.

So close to where I had been waiting for William that day.

It would have taken only three minutes to ski down.

Three minutes from safety.

Three minutes from everything being okay.

That’s all it takes sometimes. Minutes.

My husband stopped walking.

Subscribe now

For years, he had believed he was far away when another skier told him that a boy had gone off the trail. Standing there now, he realized he had actually been only a few feet from William.

Then we saw the tree.

It wasn’t towering or dramatic. It was small. Thin. So thin that an orange rope had been tied around it so we could distinguish it from the others.

I couldn’t stop staring at it.

How could something so small take something so big?

I hadn’t come looking for answers. There are no answers that can make the death of a child acceptable.

I came because I wanted to stand where William had stood. To breathe the air he breathed. To feel, if only for a moment, close to him.

We walked to the tree together.

We held hands.

We cried.

Kai collapsed into my arms, apologizing over and over, as though somehow he carried responsibility for losing his brother. I held him tightly and thought, This is it. This is the moment I’ve been preparing for.

Subscribe now

Then Bodhi tugged at my hand.

“Where’s William?”

The question stopped all of us.

Over the years, we had always told Bodhi that William died in the trees. Somewhere along the way, our language had softened. We would point toward the woods and tell him that’s where William was. What we meant was memory. What we meant was spirit. What we meant was that this was where we felt closest to him.

But three-year-olds don’t speak metaphor.

They take you at your word.

Bodhi thought William was actually in the trees.

He thought we were finally going to find his brother.

My heart sank.

Oh my God, I thought. What have we done?

I had brought three worry stones with me that day. Years earlier, I had given them to William on his first day of third grade so he wouldn’t feel scared at school. Ever since he died, I had carried them in my purse.

Subscribe now

I wanted to leave them for him.

There was a green stone, a pink stone, and a blue stone.

Kai chose the green one, William’s favorite color.

Bodhi surprised me by choosing the pink one, even though blue had always been his favorite.

That left the blue stone in my hand.

I threw it into the trees.

And Bodhi exploded.

He screamed.

He cried.

He demanded that I go get it back.

He was convinced I had been saving the blue stone for him.

“You’re mean!” he yelled. “Go get it!”

He had never spoken to me like that before.

There I was, standing at the place where my son died, holding another child whose world had suddenly come undone.

It was everything I hadn’t imagined.

I had expected reverence. Instead, I was parenting.

And in that moment, something shifted inside me.

I realized I hadn’t come back only to honor the child I had lost.

I had come back to care for the children still standing beside me.

Grief doesn’t pause life.

Life barges in.

Subscribe now

Sometimes loudly. Sometimes inconveniently. Sometimes as a three-year-old who believes his brother is waiting in the trees and cannot understand why his mother just threw away the wrong rock.

For years, I thought healing meant returning to the place where William took his last breath.

Instead, healing found me in the interruption.

It found me in comforting my living child while carrying the love I still have for the one who died.

The mountain gave me something I didn’t know I needed.

Not closure.

Not answers.

A reminder.

The work of motherhood didn’t end when William died.

It expanded.

Now it asks me to do two things at once: to honor the son I will always miss while showing up, fully present, for the children who still reach for my hand.

Share

Leave a comment

Follow on Substack and Instagram.

Here’s the difference between my twins. By the middle of last month, my daughter had everything ready for her college move-in. The upholstered headboard. The ottoman that opens up for more storage. Framed prints for the wall, chosen with the utmost care. Measured, under-the-bed containers. Sheets that match perfectly with the duvet, already washed and folded. Even a laundry bag with space for detergent.

Cut to: her twin brother. Yesterday, he looked over at me with a chin nod and said,“Oh, hey, Mom. I think we need to buy some sheets.”

How we all handle transition is unique — and sometimes maddening for those around us. I used to think I “didn’t like change,” as if it were something I could just strike from the life menu. Now that I’m deep in the Between Chapters project, I’ve been reflecting on the essays written by many of you covering just this. How do we move from one stage to the next? Do we “overpack?” Procrastinate? Cry? Deny? And isn’t the ability to move ahead into another phase really the secret of life?

Leave a comment

7 Quick Quotes on Change (from Totally Booked)

I’ve received invaluable lessons from many recent podcast guests that I feel like shouting them from the rooftop. Yes, the books I cover are different in form and topic, but the conversations are really about how we all get through things. How we pursue our goals. How we create. Contribute. Rebound. As the school year approaches, here are a few thoughts to keep in mind.

1. “Disaster can happen. The world can feel like it's exploding. In the end, things can kind of be okay.” -, Stars in an Italian Sky (listen here)

2. “We can feel like we're doing everything right. We can feel like everything seems so aligned in our life and still feel empty or still be looking for, where is that fire? Where is that excitement? What am I supposed to be doing here?” - , Perfectly Queer (listen here)

3. “You can't always obsess over these looming threats. Sometimes you have to just step back into a more meditative space around them.” - Lydia Millet, Dinosaurs (listen here)

4. “I am in the chrysalis right now. I'm trying to report on how it looks in here. I don't know how I will change, but I can tell that I will.” - Taylor Jenkins Reid, Malibu Rising (listen here)

5. “The more we can understand and address what we're dealing with, the less power things have over us.” - , Finding Focus (listen here)

6. “The thought that kept going through my head every day was, this is not a good use of my time on this planet. And every few months I would sob and my parents would say, you should be a writer. And I would say, that's not helpful. You're supposed to tell me to be a CPA or something practical.” - , The Best We Could Hope For (listen here)

7. “Through it all, I'm often asked, would I change anything? The answer is absolutely not. It was the hand I was dealt. I played it to the best of my ability. If I change anything, I might not be the person I am today.” Richard Antoine White, I’m Possible (listen here)

Let’s Talk

Bringing people together means helping each other through change. Even just being there helps someone else (the author!). We have three signature Zibby events coming up with fabulous featured authors who all have something important to share. But the best might be what you share with the new friend sitting next to you.

NEW: Sunday, October 25th from 10 am - 3:30 pm in New York: Totally Booked: Live! It’s our intimate literary talk show with panels, a Whitby Hotel brunch, a book fair, and more. Topics range from fiction and family to health, food, and falling in love. Be there before the conversations air on TV! Authors include , , Beatriz Williams, , Griffin Dunne, Lila Raicek, , , and ! Tickets here. Early bird pricing until Labor Day!

Saturday, October 3rd from 8:45 am - 2 pm: Santa Monica Retreat for Book Lovers: Day Pass! Part of our weekend retreat, the day pass includes panels, shopping and shmoozing at Zibby’s Bookshop, followed by a private luncheon. Hear from , Laura Dave, , Tess Sanchez, , Emma Heming Willis, Jennifer Love Hewitt, David Ambroz, , Jewell Parker Rhodes, , Jordan Roter, and Sarah Mlynowski! Details here. (Weekend experience available, too!)

Saturday, January 23rd, 9:30 am - 2:30 pm in Naples, FL: The Naples Retreat luncheon features dynamo speakers on panels at a luxury hotel, book fair, and a beautiful lunch! Join , , Sarah Damoff, Lisa Barr, , and ! Details here. (Weekend experience available, too! The perfect January get-away with gourmet meals, bookstore browsing, and new connections!)

I mean, really. Don’t our events look fun!? The conversations are waiting for you.

5 Things You May Have Missed:

1. Libby (not Zibby - haha) released their list of the top 20 audiobooks of summer in BookRiot and included our Zibby Publishing title I See You’ve Called in Dead by John Kenney at #6!

2. Zibby’s Bookshop launched a Bookshop Rewards program for both adults and kids. Stop by to pick up a special loyalty card.

3. Our Zibby Publishing phenom Emma Grey recommended When Lemons Give You Life by Anna Johnston in Women. That’s what I picked for an upcoming book club! Our podcast episode ran last week.

4. Totally Booked is back to being a daily podcast. I can’t help myself. Recent conversations: David K. Israel, The Last Mozart; Jaclyn Moriarty, Time Travel for Beginners (which was just featured in People!), Chris Bohjalian’s The Amateur which the Boston Globe called “masterful;” Dr. Lucy Kalinithi, widow of Dr. Paul Kalanithi who wrote When Breath Becomes Air.

5. Watch the recent Zibby’s Bookshop event with and !

Meanwhile, I’m off to buy sheets. Oh no, wait. My son just texted back: “Don’t worry, Mom. I took care of it.”

A sigh and a smile. And maybe a salty tear.

Have a great week.

Share

Leave a comment

In Beyond the Prescription, Dr. Lucy McBride explains why: Modern health care prioritizes transactions over relationships, screens over stories, and data over context. Into that void has stepped a massive wellness industry offering seductive promises of control—“optimize,” “detox,” “biohack”—often without evidence and with real risks.

McBride refuses the false choice between conventional medicine and wellness culture. Instead, she offers a practical middle path built on health agency: the capacity to make informed decisions aligned with your values while advocating effectively for support. This book isn’t prescriptive or perfectionist. It’s a framework to help you navigate uncertainty, misinformation, and the realities of your life.

At the center is a five-step process that moves you from redefining health on your own terms, through mapping your full health ecosystem and understanding how you personally approach care, to asking for help more effectively and making peace with what you cannot control.

The result is a practical, evidence-based guide for anyone navigating the question too rarely asked in health care: Are you okay?

Lucy McBride, MD, is a primary care physician and co-founder of the Ackerly McBride Group in Washington, DC. For over twenty-five years, she has practiced evidence-based, relationship-centered medicine. A graduate of Princeton and Harvard Medical School, with a master’s degree in Pharmacology from Cambridge as a Fulbright Scholar, she completed her internal medicine residency at Johns Hopkins Hospital. She writes the weekly newsletter Are You Okay? and hosts the podcast Beyond the Prescription. Her work has appeared in The Atlantic, The Washington Post, and USA Today. She has contributed to CNN, MSNBC, and PBS, advocating for a holistic, patient-centered approach to health. A native Washingtonian, she lives in DC with her husband and is the proud mother of three grown children. You can find her work at lucymcbride.com.

Elise Loehnen is the host of Pulling the Thread, the author of the New York Times bestseller On Our Best Behavior, and co-author of True and False Magic: A Tools Workbook with Phil Stutz. She has co-written twelve books, five of which were New York Times bestsellers. She was the chief content officer of goop, and co-hosted The goop Podcast and The goop Lab on Netflix. Previously, she was the editorial projects director of Condé Nast Traveler. Elise lives in Los Angeles with her husband and two sons.

Get more from Zibby Owens in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.

What Chapter Are You…

Leaving:

The mess of a brain being re-wired.

In:

My midlife breakthrough.

Entering:

Stepping into my essence with understanding, grace, and authority.

When I was a kid, my favorite place to be was a tiny linen closet in my house. I’d crouch in the nook beneath the bottom shelf with my pillow and blanket, my flashlight and pen. I’d write on the wall and read. My mom knew about this place and pretended not to. She let me have that spot, just for me.

Subscribe now

In that linen closet, I’d think and live in a thousand places nobody else knew about but me. I created a world that way. The world became so broad, so wide, so intricate, that whenever I was outside my little closet and people asked me what I was thinking about, I’d wonder immediately: Where do I start? Eventually, not knowing where to start, I’d turn pink. Then red. And I’d fall silent. The storm inside my body felt like it was about to burst through the walls of me.

I turned red for a long time.

I became a painfully shy adult. It was hard to talk to people. Most of the time, I felt like I had a different thought, answer, or question than the people around me. My thought patterns didn’t seem to match theirs. So it was often hard to start a conversation and even harder to continue one.

My closet, my words, and my books became safety.

Not surprisingly, I became a writer.

Subscribe now

Well, first I became a painter, then a writer. I wrote and wrote, and as the years passed, I found myself able to share a little more. Someone once told me I just had to practice, that this was how shyness was broken. So I practiced talking to others. Painfully, I practiced.

Eventually, I learned that being an introvert was okay. That my energy came from other places, from the quiet that allowed me to build thought patterns that were, indeed, different from others. That was okay. That was even good. I got a PhD and began to understand the value of those thought patterns. I wrote more. I read more. I realized I didn’t have to break the very thing that made me. I had to break through.

For years, I asked God to help me be less shy, to turn less red. I felt like there was so much inside I still didn’t know how to share.

Then I had kids, and I had to break out of my shyness to make sure they were safe. I had to be out in the wild and, at the same time, become a kind of dome of protection for them. I morphed. I was no longer simply inside my warm, quiet linen closet. Instead, I became the shelter itself: a protective, transparent dome that let the light in so my children could grow, while still shielding them from whatever might come flying at them. Through that dome, I had to become both tougher and more transparent.

Subscribe now

The shyness started to fall away, and I felt stronger, as if I were made of invisible steel.

Then my brain got rewired.

Literally. The canals my brain had created to deal with puberty’s hormones back in my tweens had to reconfigure themselves when I went through early menopause and estrogen took a back seat. But with estrogen in the back seat, I also became less embarrassed. The pink and red were almost gone. Instead, I wanted to paint my hair pink, to go a little wild.

I started to remember who I was before I went into that closet. The core. The essence. The self. I also started to value everything I had gathered inside my little linen closet and, later, inside my dome. I started to take my time when people asked me a question. I started to ask the questions I wanted answers to, even if they were complex, even if people didn’t have answers to them yet.

Subscribe now

For years, I wanted to break my “shyness.” Now, I’m breaking through instead. I’m renaming the shyness, breaking down the doors I closed on myself, rebuilding them differently, and looking out onto the big world with the self I built.

It feels good.

In my late forties, I still have versions of my linen closet: my office, my retreats into writing, the moments while the kids are at school or camp, the quiet pockets away from the hustle and bustle of my company. That’s who I am. The only difference is that now, I can share it.

Now, when someone asks me what I’m thinking, I tell them. I just start somewhere. I decide when to let others see inside the dome, and when not to. And I’m grateful for the light that shines through, and for the light I am finally able to turn on from within.

Share

Leave a comment

Follow on Substack and Instagram.

This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.

What Chapter Are You…

Leaving:

Planning and testing out a retirement life here and in Italy.

In:

The chapter where the manuscript gets dropped on the floor and all the chapters get mixed up.

Entering:

Returning to parenting a teenager and grieving a loss.

Even when my daughter Annie had become so thin and weak that waking up in the morning exhausted her, I still held out hope that we would find a way to give her more time.

After she died, and I looked back on those days, it made sense in some impossible way that she had. Her body was under attack from the inside out. What began as breast cancer spread after her bilateral mastectomy, finding its way into her liver, chest wall, and skin. She was relentless in her search for trials, medications, doctors, and programs that might treat the Stage 4 cancer invading her body. She tried everything that sounded helpful and contacted anyone who might be able to help. Through it all, right up to her very last day, she showed up as a mom, wife, sister, and, so meaningfully to me, a daughter.

Subscribe now

The time of life when I imagined handing some family responsibilities to my eldest child, my daughter, looks very different now. The days of downsizing and passing along heirlooms and treasured mementos to the next generation came to an abrupt end. Not that Annie would have wanted my old china or the photo albums stacked in the bookcase. She had her own treasured keepsakes, some of which are in the new house her husband and son moved into about six months after her death. Others have been given away or stored in crates in the basement of a home she never set foot in.

Imagining myself as an old woman also looks very different now. It hit me only recently, through one random, tiny thought: “I thought Annie was going to be the one who plucked my stray chin hairs when I was old.” That thought opened a whole new vision of my future, like a door swinging open onto a landscape I had not yet allowed myself to see. I had been so busy grieving the day-to-day absence of her from my life that I had not considered my future without her.

In some ways, of course, I had, especially when I thought of her 12-year-old son and how he would manage without his mom. As the months turned into years, and he became a teenager with all the milestones that stage of life brings, it was hard not to think that Annie should have been there for the first conversation about the new girlfriend or how to handle being sent to detention for bullying. Which was a misunderstanding, of course. She raised him better than that. He has become such a thoughtful, funny, and smart young man that it’s hard for my eyes not to well up when he calls me to share an academic accomplishment or a victory on the soccer field. She should be here for this.

Subscribe now

And then, one day, I realized she should be here for me, too.

She already had been, in so many ways. When she died, I posted the news on social media and called her my north star. But she was that and so many other things. My better half. My best friend. A trusted confidante. I was 22 years old when she was born, with a husband who worked 15 hours a day and no close friends with children yet, and we were joined at the hip. In her first four years, we moved from Texas to Georgia to South Carolina, back to Texas, and then to Connecticut, where her little brother came along. Soon after, I divorced their dad and stayed in the same small town, in a tiny apartment near the town green.

Annie became my go-to helper, even as I tried to limit those responsibilities and let her just be a kid. But that’s the kind of daughter she was. And that’s the kind of person she grew into: a helpful, thoughtful friend whose acceptance of people was unconditional, and who never left a soul feeling unseen or unheard.

That is one of grief’s cruel surprises. Just when you think you have anticipated all of its parts, there are always more. I think it’s because the brain cannot handle it all at once. How could I possibly have made it through those first few hours, days, and weeks if I also had to mourn my future without Annie? I could barely conceive of missing her the next day. Who would I call? Who would I text? Who would I send that funny Instagram reel to? How could I go to our cottage in Maine without her? Who would take care of it when I was gone if I could not hand the reins to Annie’s competent hands?

It is a chapter I never saw coming, one that took the place of the chapter that was ripped out, its ragged edges still visible in the crease of the book. The part where she would become my helper again, even if I didn’t want her to be. She would have a spreadsheet for my medications and doctors. She would admonish me for not getting enough exercise or having another glass of wine. She would send her son over to mow the lawn and make sure to come over at least once a week for dinner. She would bring me sweet treats, and we would still have our movie-night sleepovers.

And she would pluck my stray chin hairs.

Share

Leave a comment

Follow on Substack and Instagram.

This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.

What Chapter Are You…

Leaving:

Full-time work.

In:

Dragged into retirement kicking and screaming.

Entering:

Not currently employed (i.e., retired).

I refuse to think of myself as retired, preferring the phrase “presently unemployed.” At 74 years old, I’ve finally accepted that full-time employment is unlikely to be in my future. But I’m still hoping for a few more decades of intellectual stimulation and social connection, the kind that came naturally during my working years.

In search of something new that might keep me vital and active, I turned first to my friends.

Subscribe now

“Mahjong,” said Beth. “It’s social, it’s stimulating — it’s perfect.”

“Canasta,” Laurie advised. “It’s fun and it’s easy.”

But games have never been my thing. My ex-husband and I played a lot of bridge while he was in business school. I wasn’t crazy about the game, but it was an inexpensive way to spend an evening with friends. Whenever I played, though, I would notice my heart racing, my muscles tensing, and my jaw clenching. I was always terrified of making a mistake and letting my teammate down. Thankfully, my bridge days ended when he graduated.

So I cast a wider net. In a decidedly unscientific poll, I created a post asking the members of a Facebook group for women over 60 what they were doing to keep themselves sharp. To my surprise, I received almost 500 responses.

Subscribe now

Some women embraced adventures my back could not survive: motorcycle trips on Route 66, zip-lining, scuba diving, surfing, even rappelling down waterfalls. I admired their courage from a safe distance.

A number of women in my poll had chosen this time of life to go back to school and earn graduate degrees. They stressed that they were doing so for personal fulfillment, not to advance themselves economically. I was especially admiring of the woman pursuing a master’s degree in aerospace law.

I was amused by the unexpected popularity of the ukulele. Apparently, it’s forgiving on aging hands, and if Dick Van Dyke could learn it at 97, maybe there’s hope for the rest of us.

Unsurprisingly, no one in my poll mentioned cooking. I expect women of my generation have already spent quite enough time at the stove, thank you.

Subscribe now

Even before I conducted my survey, I had decided to return to the writing seminar that was pivotal to my life in my 30s and 40s. So, for me, the women who chose to write provided the most inspiration. Take, for instance, the 74-year-old woman who had recently published her third mystery novel. Or the retired doctor who began writing romance novels after retiring in her 70s.

I still don’t expect you’ll find me at a mahjong table on Tuesday afternoons. But my survey reminded me that retirement doesn’t have to mean giving up. There are books to write, classes to take, music to learn, people to meet, and perhaps even a ukulele with my name on it.

I began this search wondering how to stay engaged and vital. I finished it realizing that growing older doesn’t mean running out of possibilities. It simply means choosing among new ones.

Share

Leave a comment

Follow on Substack.

This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.

What Chapter Are You…

Leaving:

Being everything to everyone.

In:

Crossroads.

Entering:

Choose my own adventure.

I am turning 50 next year. My youngest starts college in September. My husband just became an early retiree. I have lost 100 pounds and never felt healthier. My book club business is thriving, and my partnerships and community outreach keep expanding.

I am in the sandwich years, with aging parents on one side and kids leaving the nest on the other. There is so much change all at once, and yet, in some ways, I feel like I’m just getting started.

Subscribe now

I used to say I could see the light at the end of the tunnel as I looked toward the freedom of becoming an empty nester. I love my kids and the laughter around the dinner table when all of us are together. But part of my role as their mom is to set them free into the world, to let them make their own choices, good and bad, knowing they will always have loving parents to fall back on.

Now that this moment has arrived, with three empty bedrooms in my home and a husband with more spare time, I find myself busier than I ever imagined. My book clubs are all on waitlists. My calendar is booked well into next summer. I thought this might be the year we became very young snowbirds, but I love the community I have built in my little world of books, and I feel a responsibility to continue our monthly gatherings. Plus, in the last couple of years, I have made some of the closest and most rewarding friendships of my life. I am not ready to trade all of that for warmer weather.

I find myself constantly thinking of ideas, ventures, and ways to create meaningful connections. I have contemplated writing a book. I have thought about opening a gathering place for women, with cozy rooms for reading, events, games, conversation, and friendship. I always imagined this would be the stage when I would start slowing down, but my mind seems to want more.

I do cherish the quiet time with my husband, and I want more time for just the two of us. I taught him how to play mahjong so we would be more engaged with one another instead of doomscrolling in silence next to each other on the couch. We have been married for 25 years and still act like teenagers in love.

Subscribe now

And so here I am, at this crossroads, trying to balance the desire to slow down with the urge to take on a million things at once. Whatever this chapter may be, I feel deeply fortunate to have my health, my family, my friends, and my community. I am lucky to have so many avenues in front of me and the ability to choose my own adventure.

And who says I only need to choose one?

Share

Leave a comment

Follow on Substack and Instagram.