“Meanwhile, I quietly accepted the rather deserved message my favourite eldest son was sending. Who knew a middle finger could be so strong and vocal.”
Our eldest son, Aiden, is coming to visit for ten days.
That in itself is wonderful.
He’s bringing his girlfriend. Or should I say “partner”? I’m not sure. But hold that thought….. What’s important right now is that I am totally stressed about this.
Why is it that the moment company is coming, I suddenly notice every cobweb, dust bunny, and household flaw I’ve successfully ignored for months?
Honestly… OMG.
I went to make up the guest bed and looked at the mattress cover. When did I go shopping in the Middle Ages and how did I not notice it was literally decomposing on the bed??
Amazon to the rescue.
New mattress cover.
New sheets.
New towels.
Apparently, I’ve also been living without a dust ruffle, which now seems like a glaring character flaw.
Suddenly, everything needed replacing or scrubbing. My sticky note list multiplied by the hour:
Clean the windows.
Wash the baseboards.
Dust EVERYTHING
Clean the fridge.
Clean the freezer.
Tidy the back porch.
Hide all evidence that actual humans live here.
The arms of the living room chairs? How had I never noticed how filthy they were?
Amazon.
Chair covers.
The leather couch had a tear.
The kitchen suddenly looked ancient.
Had I more time, I would have bought a new kitchen.
And new windows.
Okay… I couldn’t afford either, but for about twenty-four hours I seriously considered remortgaging.
Clearly, I’d tipped.
But this isn’t just company coming.
My son is bringing someone home. Someone important.
Aiden lives in Bend, Oregon, and works as an engineer.
His twenties have been nothing short of extraordinary.
For several years he worked at a mine in Alaska—three weeks on, three weeks off. Most people would have gone home to recover.
Not Aiden.
He’d grab his passport and head somewhere else in the world.
Japan. France. Germany. South America. Mexico.
Skiing. Hiking. Mountain biking.
His passport tells a beautiful story of adventure.
But even beautiful adventures eventually come to an end.
My husband Wayne I were beginning to wonder if living out of a backpack forever was strong long-term plan. Three weeks of vacation every three weeks is amazing, but eventually you need somewhere to unpack… and perhaps remember that mere mortals have to clean their own bathroom. Room service and daily maid service is not a daily reality.
He felt it too.
The adventure had been incredible.
He was ready for a home.
Last summer he came back to Clearwater to see whether maybe his hometown could become his forever home.
He and his sister own a house together, so he moved upstairs and practised being domestic.
It was wonderful having him close.
It was also where I got into trouble.
As mothers sometimes do, I confused observations with wisdom.
Let’s be honest.
I offered opinions.
Lots of opinions.
Far more than were requested. Full disclosure, no opinion was requested. Officially unsolicited.
Love often means well.
That doesn’t matter much if it hurts someone.
Ugh.
He went back to work.
Our text conversations became… quiet.
Very quiet. Silent might be the better descriptor.
Then, on his next rotation home, he arrived with someone.
I wish I could tell you I met her.
I didn’t.
He didn’t bring her over.
I wasn’t invited.
In hindsight, the silence in our text messages suddenly made perfect sense. He didn’t need space; he was still mad.
Wayne met her.
“She’s lovely,” he said.
Well.
Good for him.
Meanwhile, I quietly accepted the rather deserved message my favourite eldest son was sending. Who knew a middle finger could be so strong and vocal.
I had overstepped.
He was a grown man.
I’d forgotten that.
Weeks passed and the text conversations slowly returned.
I apologized.
Sort of.
Unfortunately, I made the classic mistake of apologizing and then following it with…
“…but…”
Which, as it turns out, isn’t actually an apology.
It’s simply saying, “I’m still kind of right.”
The texts went quiet again. I think he even turned off “find my friends”.
Eventually, after considerably more reflection—and considerably less ego—I apologized properly.
No “but.”
Just ownership.
That cracked the door open again.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like walking barefoot across broken glass.
Aiden came back and so did she. Before they arrived, I learned a few things that caught me off guard. The local rumour mill was reporting that she was a mom.
Wait…
What?
Naturally, I did what any curious mother would do and no, I did not pick up the phone. I searched the internet.
What I found wasn’t much.
She had very little social media.
But what I did see made me smile.
She looked genuinely happy.
Kind.
Grounded.
Her daughter—well, I would discover more later…
When they arrived for dinner that first night, she walked through the door like sunshine. She was this tiny little thing with a wild mane of long curly hair and a smile that lit up the room. Her entire disposition was easy and relaxed with incredible confidence. I was sure she must do yoga.
Then came the surprises.
She wasn’t twenty-one.
She wasn’t a young girl.
She was a confident woman in her thirties with a successful career.
She wasn’t the mother of one little girl.
She was the mother of eight-year-old twin girls.
And….Aiden was quitting his job and moving in with them.
My face, unfortunately, has never mastered neutrality. My brows likely furrowed and it was notable that I didn’t jump for joy.
It was a slightly awkward visit.
She summed it up perfectly.
“Aiden didn’t really set us up for success, did he?”
No.
No, he didn’t.
That was almost a year ago.
Today they’re arriving for ten days.
Kids included.
And yes…
I’m nervous.
Not because of the dust bunnies.
Because this matters.
Wayne and I weren’t there for the beginning of their story.
We’re arriving somewhere in the middle.
That’s an adjustment.
I’d imagined my son’s life unfolding one way.
Life had other plans.
Again.
Apparently, life has absolutely no interest in following the script I keep writing.
The past year has been good.
Really good.
Aiden and I found our way back to each other.
We’ve had honest conversations.
He has even admitted there may have been a reason for some of my concerns all those months ago.
Maybe the problem wasn’t that either of us was completely wrong.
Maybe we were both only partly right.
Sometimes silence happens because people need space.
Sometimes silence happens because uncomfortable truths have been spoken and both people need time to sit with them.
That was certainly true for us.
We’re remarkably alike.
It’s both comforting and incredibly irritating.
But because we’re alike, we understand each other.
And that’s worth protecting.
So yes…
There is chocolate ice cream in the freezer.
A ridiculous assortment of snacks.
Fresh chocolate chip cookies on the counter.
Extra towels.
Fresh flowers.
But no crafts.
I have to draw the line somewhere.
If the girls want glitter and glue guns, we’ll visit the art studio in town.
Grandma has limits. But I do have puzzles.
I don’t know what this week will bring.
I hope it brings laughter.
I hope it brings memories.
I hope I grow to love this little family that has unexpectedly found its way into ours. I really hope to come to love the woman who loves our son and inspires him to be his best self.
I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t some sadness in letting go of the future I’d imagined for Aiden.
But I’ve also learned something.
Family isn’t always built the way we expect.
Some of the people we love most aren’t related to us by blood at all.
They’re family because they chose us.
And we chose them.
Love is still love.
Connection is still connection.
And that’s something worth celebrating.
Life rarely follows the script.
Thank goodness.
Because sometimes what waits around the bend is even better than anything we could have written ourselves.
Here’s to the messy chapters.
The unexpected ones.
The second chances.
And always holding tightly to what matters most.
With love,
Shelley
Postscript…. they have just arrived and already there is joy as I watched them all tumble out of the truck. This woman that loves my son? I hugged her tight, I hugged her hard. I had so much love in my heart and tears in my eyes. I am hoping she will come to know just how happy we are that she and her girls are here, not just for now but maybe forever.
The reality of becoming Mother of the Bride is starting to set in. I’m realizing I am going to have to up my game and probably not wear a sports bra.
The reality of becoming Mother of the Bride is starting to set in. I’m realizing I am going to have to up my game and probably not wear a sports bra.
Our daughter Megan is getting married this September, which officially gives me the coveted title of Mother of the Bride (MOB). In my head, MOB means refined, understated but classic and……looks ok in the photos. My aspiration is tasteful, graceful and make it look effortless. Yes, my ego is in overdrive but it’s a big day and I don’t want to muck it up. I’m going to need more Spanx and likely some mascara.
For past significant events, I have consistently missed the mark. I wasn’t “stylishly pulled together.” I had perfected a look that often made people raise their eyebrows and ask, “did she check the mirror before she left the house?” No lie. For major events, despite my best efforts, I looked like I’d wandered into a thrift store blindfolded and shoplifted chaos. No one—absolutely no one—comes to me for fashion advice. Especially the visually impaired. I suck.
Last year my friend Marie’s daughter got married, and Marie looked incredible. She was radiant and regal. She floated and everything about her was graceful, and yes, effortless. She wore a navy blue pantsuit. Naturally, I thought, I should also wear a pantsuit. Why rewrite the book, better to copy and paste.
Marie went to an actual store, tried hers on, and ensured it fit. I chose Russian Roulette and shopped online. I typed “perfect MOB navy pantsuit” and landed on a cute little boutique shop called Lily and Kate Vancouver. Lily and Kate Vancouver just sounded so fashionably fabulous! It’s a mother-daughter business that they have owned together for 25 years. I loved their pantsuit. Luxurious fabric, ease of movement and with stylish flair. The model in the photo looked amazing. I wanted to look amazing. It’s a big day, and I’ve seen the photos from my other “big days.” and they were very big FAILS.
Lily and Kate Vancouver was a blessing. I found my outfit. Even better, it was regularly priced for $389. Since it was January, they were having a blowout sale for $89. Perfect. Classy and cheap! My favourite combination. Which is where I get into trouble. Cheap is not classy; that’s called a thrift store.
Six weeks later—six weeks for something allegedly coming from Vancouver (6 hours away)—it arrived. I tore open the package and held it up. Something was wrong. It was navy but that’s where the promises ended.
Friends, this was not a pantsuit. This was a blue polyester tablecloth that had been aggressively given legs. Scratchy blue polyester that made you feel like you were suffocating and couldn’t breathe. Clingy in the wrong places. The seams were big and thick. I’m sure they were sewn by an inmate who just didn’t give a shit. And the zipper! OMG! I couldn’t even reach the zipper. Who makes it hard to get in and out of a pantsuit? Definitely a male inmate who had strong feelings about pantsuits. There was nothing redeeming about this outfit. This was bad. Not even accessorizing with a napkin was going to help.
I don’t think Lily and Kate Vancouver was the charming mother/daughter boutique store I thought it was. I am pretty sure Lily and Kate are actually called Temu. You probably saw that coming. I am an optimist with a credit card. “Hope keeps the agony alive.” I fell for late night shopping wishful thinking and ended up buying a tablecloth for my daughter’s wedding. I totally suck.
A few weeks later, my friend Eleanor sent me a photo of a dress and said, “My pick for your MOB outfit. Classy but not too sassy.” I thought she was insane. It was a beautiful dress but it was shiny and maybe even slightly sexy. Absolutely not something I would choose. It looked so “revealing”. No way. Pass me the Afghan blanket off the couch, I’m sure I can make a skirt.
But Eleanor is that woman. Rolls out of bed flawless. Effortless style. Also brave—she left a safe job, retrained, and reinvented her life. She is AH-mazing! So I listened.
I had nothing to lose and Eleanor knows her stuff.
The dress was beautiful. Luxurious. Somehow smoothing instead of spotlighting every lump, bump, and questionable life choice I’ve ever made. I looked elegant. Actual elegance. And it was nothing I would have chosen on my own.
Which is the point.
We need mirrors and guardrails in our lives. When I’m my only mirror, my inner monologue confidently orders a blue polyester pantsuit. That’s not intuition—it’s unchecked self‑talk with free shipping.
Other people often see us more clearly than we see ourselves. They notice strengths while we’re busy inventorying flaws. They offer a cleaner mirror. One that hasn’t been warped by fear, habit, or insecurities. It is not distorted or cloudy. Often, it is others who see us more clearly than we see ourselves.
So what story are we telling ourselves? And is it actually true?
How much of our self‑narrative is fact, and how much desperately needs some serious (but caring) fact‑checking? Case in point, my self-talk almost had me going to Megan’s wedding dressed up as a banquet table.
I have self-doubts. When I was younger, everything and anything seemed possible. As I get older, I am not sure about anymore. People say, “life is a bed of roses”. I’d like to point out that roses have thorns.
I don’t know what I want to do next. What fills my bucket? What’s fun? What’s the next adventure? Who do I want to be in this next chapter? I’ve been working on “shifting” but sometimes it feels more like sliding.
Which is why I am grateful to Eleanor. She challenged my narrative and held up a mirror. Sure, I can believe I am a bad pantsuit, but she suggested I think again. She saw in a fabulous dress. That’s the thing about friends. They are the hand we grab when we start to slide. Guardrails. Protection from self-deprecation.
Our people are the ones who ask, “Are you okay?” Or say, “I’ve noticed…” They see us more objectively — not inflated, not diminished. Just real. Capable. Worthy.
They ask hard questions. They love us through messy chapters. They remind us who we are when we forget.
Self‑reflection matters — but self‑loathing will take you to strange places where everyone wears polyester pantsuits. We need people who challenge us and remind us of our goodness.
And we need to say that part out loud.
Do we tell people often enough what they mean to us? Are we generous with our compliments? Do we reach out just to say, You matter. I see you. Thank you for being in my life.
Friendship isn’t a noun. It’s a verb. To lean in — consistently and with intention. Calls. Messages. Check‑ins with purpose. Not just emojis after something goes wrong.
Too often we wait until illness, loss, or regret forces the conversation. We can do this sooner.
Life comes in chapters — not all of them joyful. Some are heavy and quietly exhausting. And as we age, many of us think that we should handle it alone. That’s lonely.
Sea otters know better. They hold hands while sleeping in “rafts” so they don’t drift away in strong currents. It’s not cute — it’s survival.
We need more hand‑holding and more hugs and more connection.
We need to ask, “Are you okay?” And be brave enough to say, “Actually, I’m not.”
We tend to celebrate out loud. We invite friends and family into our joy. There are hugs, raised glasses, shared laughter. Joy is public. Grief and hurt are often silent; tucked away and carried alone. Yet both need connection. Both need to be seen. As Brené Brown says, grief must be held to be healed. That feels true.
Relationships are quiet agreements not to let one another drift too far away. We are often unforgiving with ourselves. Friends become the soft place we land—the steady presence when we grow unstable, the hands that keep us tethered. They celebrate with us, yes, but they also sit with us when the story feels heavier. They remind us that we don’t have to keep wearing a version of ourselves that no longer fits.
Thank you, Eleanor, for reaching out. For gently shifting a narrative I had already settled into. For seeing something different when I couldn’t. Your kindness mattered more than you know.
Here’s to new narratives, new adventures and having the courage to see beyond what tries to hold us back.
Wayne I are navigating the “empty nest”. Gretchen Rubin calls this “empti-ness”. I feel this.
My husband and I dated for six weeks before we got engaged and were then married six months later. What can I say? When you know, you know. Except for what you really don’t know.
I knew Wayne was “my guy” but I was also realistic to know that we had moved quickly. We bought my engagement ring at a gas station in a little town called Field (population 350). It was one of those rings that they sold at the cash register. Very sparkly for something that cost $3.21. It was a good thing we got married six months later because that ring didn’t last much longer.
My wedding band wasn’t much fancier. We bought a simple gold band on sale at Sears for $100. My rationale was that it was easy to get married but likely harder to stay married. My request was that if we made it to 15 years, I would get my real ring. I figured that after 15 years we would likely have some kids, been tested and if we survived, we would buy a ring. We made it to 15 years but it didn’t make sense that we would put a bunch of money into something that just sat on my finger. Honestly, there was also a very good chance that I would lose it. Instead, we splurged and took a family trip to Mexico instead. That was joy.
I remember the easy days when I was completely enamored with Wayne. It was sheer bliss and everything seemed effortless. We scrounged together some money to buy a house for the bargain price of $74,000. It wasn’t much but it was ours and I guess having a house made me think a house needed a “housewife”. In a flash, was suddenly wearing an apron all day and behaving like June Cleaver, dutifully cooking and cleaning. I think I even ironed. And then I realized, I hate cooking. I also hate ironing. Cleaning made me feel organized so I kept that but otherwise, why was I wearing an apron full time?
I didn’t know how to “be married”. I had been pretty good at dating and short bursts of living together but day in and day out for the rest of my life? Whoa. There was a niggle that maybe I should have dated more than six weeks. We needed to navigate a few bumps. I just wish I hadn’t fallen for the stereotype. Wayne had blue jobs and I had pink jobs. Never once did I think that the pink job meant fixing the septic system but I could have colour coded a few other things differently. Cleaning the bathroom didn’t have to be pink and taking out the garbage didn’t have to be blue. It was the only playbook I knew. I see why textbooks go through revisions.
We chose the typical vows. “For better or worse, for richer and poorer, in sickness and health, to love and to cherish, til death to us part”. It sounded easier on our wedding day. I kind of thought “for better or worse” meant addressing the toilet seat being left up and “in sickness and health” might mean the flu. And on my wedding day, I vowed with all my heart to cherish Wayne forever.
We started poor so that was easy. It took thirty years for us to be tested with “sickness and health” and that little line “for better or worse” was a journey unto itself. There are plenty of stories and they were all chapters in the infamous playbook. We were married two years, bought a house and then had two kids with exactly two years between them. Check. We shared the vision of raising our family and working hard to ensure that things were ok. There were a million adventures and a zillion memories. It was hard but it was good because we had a shared mission. There was need for adjustment and a learning of what it meant to be a couple but also a family. There were fights. I might have held a hammer to Wayne’s head when he said “you just don’t understand” to which I replied “then for F#CKS sake explain it to me or I will bash your head in”. Not my finest moment but I got my point across. We needed to communicate. Every day we had to work for what mattered.
We have weathered floods, fires and more evacuations than what I thought ever possible but we did it. We lived in small spaces and yes, Owen slept in the hallway because we only had 800 square feet. Wayne thought we would save money if we bought a hot water tank that was for an RV. Sure, we saved money but everyone had to learn how to have a cold shower. Things are different now. Fast forward 33 years years and I am still in awe that my house has closets when for years, it was makeshift. No one uses the doorbell but I feel fancy knowing I have one. I should check the battery though…. I also love some other luxuries that didn’t exist in early days. It’s not just that my car has power windows, the steering wheel is heated! There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t feel grateful. It just wasn’t easy, there was work required.
Our daughter Megan is getting married in September. She is in that blissful state where everything is magical and her greatest stress is finding a DJ for the wedding. It’s so lovely to be a part of this early chapter. She has found her “person”. They have been together for five years and they still adore one another. They love being together and their time together. Simply, they are madly in love. I want them to enjoy this time because it is so special and incredibly magical. However, what I do know is that with the passing of time comes reality and bliss fades as a relationship matures. Storms are real.
Megan is in that beautiful place of planning their life together. She has her own playbook and I have every confidence that their journey will be good. She has a wonderful man who absolutely adores her and listens to her. She also listens to him. By all accounts their relationship is loving and respectful. But it’s easy in the beginning and I wanted her to hear from those that have walked the path of long term relationships to share their wisdom for how to keep the magic and perhaps her life script might have room for notes in the margins.
I organized what I called a “Mother Cluck” party. Nine women who had been in relationships for decades and would be able to share some wisdom of how to hold things together when “for better or worse” was tested. It was an amazing night. I took notes and filled 57 cards with advice. What was fascinating is not only how much Megan learned but how much we all learned from one another. We all can reflect on how to lean in, even after several anniversaries. There was nothing trite about the evening. Each woman was really raw and honest. They spoke about their challenges and what it took to keep going. They shared their perspectives, their regrets and what they would have done differently. Life is long.
These are some of the thoughts that were shared:
Don’t do your own catering at the wedding
Only invite people that mean something to you
Ask for for linen napkins and beautiful table cloths so you can make family events feel special.
Flatware matters
Don’t get photos in your undies – heck, just go au naturelle
Have a “signal” when you are in the mood
Don’t ever ask for a fondue pot
Stay to the very end of your wedding, don’t leave until you have danced and hugged everyone with joy.
Marriage is an amplification of all that is good. When that isn’t happening, re-evaluate and either get back in or get out.
Your partnership should double your happiness and half your pain.
Don’t take your relationship for granted. If you start treating others better than your spouse, hit the reset.
Make it a practice to express gratitude and say thank you. Acknowledge their efforts.
Make sure your “person” is your VIP
Watch for the “creep”. If you start negative behavior, you need to stop. You can’t take advantage of one another.
“You always…” just leads to war.
Your time together needs to mean something. Don’t get distracted.
Scorecards are for losers.
Truth: If you are both annoying it’s ok. It’s called acceptance.
It’s the little things that cause problems. Joke about it, being serious just leads to arguments.
Focus on the future vision together.
Work together on projects.
Make sure you connect. Take drives. Deck time is good times.
It’s ok to say “I’m sorry, I was wrong”.
Don’t go into a fight. Fight for the relationship.
Make sure you both stay in contact with friends.
And that is just a sample. Megan learned a great deal that night but so did I.
Wayne and I are currently navigating the “empty nest”. Gretchen Rubin who is an expert in human nature calls this “empti-ness”. I feel this. Our kids are grown and are off discovering their own lives. The playbook we had saw this chapter filled with grandkids. That may or may not happen. Heck, our youngest son still hasn’t had a girlfriend. Our playbook seems to have blank pages and we are floundering. What are we now? How do we get back to who we once were or do we? This chapter is blank and no instructions. The “Mother Cluck” party wasn’t just for Megan. It turns out it was for me too.
I have let a few negative things “creep” in through the door. Have I committed to being Wayne’s best better half. I was really good for a long time but I can see there is room for some improvement. I have slipped. Note to self.
And it’s not just Wayne. I have let “life” distract me from others who are invaluable to me. The Mother Cluck advice wasn’t just for marriage or partnerships, it was for friendships and family too. I need my own notes in the margin because lately, I have forgotten to make people know that they matter.
I don’t want to live with “emptiness”. I want to refill the bucket but that means reconnecting with purpose and intent. I have let “life” distract me from the people that matter.
Recently I attended a funeral for a wonderful man that endured brain cancer. When he was diagnosed, he was given a year. He defied the odds and lived three years and each of those years, he lived with more purpose than anyone I know. At his service, the high school gym was packed. His eulogy didn’t espouse hours of volunteering or decades of coaching, those that loved him spoke of feeling like they were the only person that mattered in his presence. He was a loyal friend who made life matter for those around him. He used his last years to lean into those that he loved. I was humbled and inspired.
What matters? The people that we hold close. All relationships take work and time. The playbook or script needs to blank because we need to fill in the pages with memories and experiences. I felt safe with my “playbook”. I needed a “template”. I’m not sure why. I wish I had been more like Megan and have a script that continues to evolve. Even sequels for that matter.
I used to be “busy” but not so much now. I just let the habit of “busy” take over. My new note in the margin is to reconnect. Yes, life is “busy” but what at what expense? Our health? Our well being? At losing connection? Seems a poor trade off.
Thank you Mother Clucks. Thank you for the reminder that what matters is each other. Thank you for reminding me that it is important to make space for the people I love. And true, no one needs a fondue pot, but I do need you.
This is my new chapter. Those that I love and ensuring I find ways to connect. Not just simple texts but visits and time. Creating memories and fighting for the relationships. Yes, relationships change and there are shifts but is the shift because we aren’t compatible or because I just let it go? Good question. I’m going to find out as I lean back in.
Life is only joyful when shared. Selfies are lonely, memories with others are enriching. Netflix has been fighting to have a full time relationship with me but that it empty. It takes effort to connect and I think that’s worth finding. Wayne and I have a wonderful deck not just for us but for all those we love.
Life if messy and as time passes, we are each thrown into challenges and it’s hard. I have solace in the company of those who are accepting. Thank you. You have no idea what your shelter means to me. I apologize for being absent. For better or worse, I choose better and making more notes in the margins.
I’m not alone in this transition. It’s real. It happens to many of us and it’s scary letting go of what grounded us for so long. Who are we without our habits, traditions and patterns? I haven’t been sure where I now fit or where I belong but that is because I was trying too hard to hold on. I didn’t realize that if I just let go, I might feel free. If I let go, I might find more. How to let go of control and shift into new beginnings.
It was Sunday November 30, 2025. A bleak and boring afternoon and also bloody cold. I was walking the dogs and listening to my podcast. Truly boring until it wasn’t.
The dogs were unbelievably boisterous that day and for whatever reason, even though they had ACRES of land to romp and play, they chose to come charging up behind me and inadvertently took me out at the knees. It was so fast that I couldn’t even feel the world stop. I was flung up in the air and came crashing down to earth, smashing my wrist and ankle on frozen ground. I heard the bones break. It wasn’t pretty. I know this because it was one of those painful moments when you actually have to roll over and be sick because of the pain.
I gingerly lifted my head and looked to see the damage. My hand was curled like an aging wicked witch and I couldn’t move it. Broken. Definitely broken.
I am no stranger to broken wrists. Heck, I broke my right wrist the first time in 2019 and again last November. Both were “sport” injuries which made for good stories. This was nothing exciting, almost pathetic but terribly painful.
I was able to move to my side to get my phone. I called my family. This would have been a good time for someone in my family to answer. But no answer. Terrific. Now I was going to die out in the wilderness. Great.
I lay back down and contemplated what freezing to death might be like. I realized that it could take a while. Sure it was cold but it was a November cold, not January cold in Eastern Canada. It seemed like a better plan to try and figure out how to walk back to the car. That would be faster except that everything hurt. Even my foot. I would later learn that I broke a bone in foot. That would explain the pain.
I am not sure how but I finally made it back to the car and tried the family again. No answer. More voicemail. If I had been having a heart attack, I can assure you I would be dead before anyone answered. Like seriously, it’s not like I call them every hour of every day. Surely, twice in under an hour might have sparked some concern? “No problem family, I’ll be fine”.
Thankfully, a friend called just when I wasn’t sure what to do next and she was there in five minutes to pick me up to take me to the hospital. As for the dogs, I locked them in the car. F#ckers.
I remain eternally grateful that our little town has a hospital and a wonderful medical team. The xray confirmed that the wrist had shattered rather nicely and because it was pretty bad, they had to do a closed reduction. This sounded very civilized or maybe anything sounded good when under the influence of fantastic drugs.
A closed reduction is painful. They have to try and put the bones back into some sort of alignment which involved separating the bones and trying to put them back so they looked kind of straight. More drugs, a light anesthesia and at least the bones were stretched and kind of back together.
At this point, there might have been a little too much punch in the pills and I was sick. So sick. But good news, my family finally noticed that I was missing and arrived at the hospital. “Find My Friends” app is a miracle. It was Owen who kind of wondered where I was and noticed I was at the hospital. He thought I was visiting someone until he noticed multiple calls. Two and two still makes four and he came to find me and then called the rest of the family. To Megan’s credit, she was legitimately out of cell service. The new joke in the family is that they are going to get me a panic button to wear when I go out alone. Funny.
It was nice to have them there. Also, Wayne held hand while I barfed. I’m not really sure why he got me a garbage can as a barf bag. Hospitals have those cute little plastic bowls but oh no, nothing but the best for his wife.
Fast forward to the next day when my daughter Megan drove into the “big” city for an ortho consult. It was really incredible. Almost abandoned in the woods and less than 18 hours later I had surgery and was sent home with a plate and 9 screws in my arm and bundled up in a cast with strict orders not to pick up anything; not even a teacup for the next six weeks.
Great. The holiday season in a cast. That should be easy.
“Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.” ~Forrest Gump
My tombstone will never say “she lived life in free flow”. It will likely say, “Shelley Sim – control freak and addicted to lists and yellow stickies” True story.
I have tried to control most things. The weather was exempt. My children were not. Well, until they fired me and I became redundant to their lives. It was bound to happen. They cut the string and it felt like being thrown off a building and falling aimlessly into an abyss. I wasn’t sure how I was going to land, if I was going to land, what would catch me.
I landed. It was messy and my ego was bruised. Twenty nine years I had control of the clan and then I didn’t. Who was I if not their “mother” with an abundance of unwanted advice? Now, I was an invalid and dependent on the children to drive me. I guess not all my unwanted advice wasn’t useless and unwanted as they willingly took up the task of “Driving Miss Daisy”. Megan even decorated the house for Christmas.
Speaking of Christmas, surely this was a domain where I could still have that sliver of control to keep the traditions. If only.
I dislike Christmas. It’s like Instagram on steroids and I cannot compete. I am not perfect. Yet I try. Christmas 2025 was not my best.
A shattered wrist made me dependent on others. I strongly dislike being dependent. Asking for help is uncomfortable. The universe was certainly having a good laugh.
There are a few things that anchor our Christmas season. The biggest is that our family leads a community dinner for December 24th. For this year, it was anticipated that we would be making over 550 meals. For someone that can’t stand cooking, there is irony that this is the event that I am passionate about. What I do believe is that I am not the only one that dislikes Christmas and preparing meals is a way of ensuring that people feel seen and that they belong. It’s an effort and I am eternally grateful to my community that they care the same way I do. Food costs are high and yet, my little community gives generously. It’s not just the donations but also the 70 volunteers that gather to peel hundreds of pounds of vegetables and deliver meals as well as serve to those who come to the sit down evening dinner on December 24th. Normally, I have it all “under control” Until this year. This year, I was royally f@cked.
One should never order food under the influence of opioids. Why I felt it was a good idea to order LESS food than 2024 knowing that I had over 100 more meals to prepare still boggles my mind. It was a startling moment on the night of December 23rd when we ran out of food. Help. I needed help.
I called everyone I could and by some miracle, everyone I called answered with further generosity. More volunteers came, the grocery store delivered and our new little boutique market cooked more ham in their fabulous new ovens. While I am not a fan of Christmas, I do appreciate a good miracle. The universe may laugh as I am humbled but it smiles when I finally get the message. Sort of. There was more to learn.
With Christmas Eve behind us, I could focus on the family and Christmas Day. We have certain traditions and this year, I had my mom and her husband, my dad and his fiancée along with my father-in-law. We also had our youngest son Owen and we were excited to have our daughter Megan and her fiancée join us for Christmas morning. So far so good.
The plan was for us all to gather first thing Christmas morning but we had to wait for Megan and her partner. Her fiancée has his own family traditions. He needed to go see them. Really? They live here, “our” family had come from afar. Can’t we be the priority? Rude. So we waited. They arrived and it was lovely. Different but lovely and yet, I confess to being irritated. I had a vision of what it was supposed to be and had a difficult time bending to having to wait. Sharing is not one of my strong suits. I also was missing our eldest son who was thousands of km’s away working in Alaska. It was a “gap” and it went against “tradition” and how I wanted it “to be”. Oh wait, is that the Universe having another laugh. I think it is.
Christmas dinner was also going to be different. Megan was hosting at their place with all her fiancée’s family. Twenty eight people in total. We arrived and I felt awkward. My awkwardness manifested as annoyance. I made a big deal out of small things. Why did HIS family have stronger presence and where was the “tradition”? Please give me back control so that I could “manage” this. Now the Universe was just howling with glee.
I was upset because things were changing. Things weren’t as they once were, where it was familiar and comfortable. I wasn’t just redundant, now I felt that I had lost my place. Of course this isn’t true. Things just shifted. Traditions were changing and the family was expanding. From the outside, this should be a seamless passage but it’s harder than it looks. Again, the theme of 2025, holding on too tight and not seeing that the chapter that was about to unfold included new traditions and the opportunity to be accepted into a larger family that had so much to give.
Megan’s fiancée’s family is nothing but lovely and kind and caring. I just felt outnumbered. He has a BIG extended family. What I should have seen was a family opening their arms but I was still stuck in wanting to “control” what it should be, how it “used” to be. Everyone else had wonderful desserts, I ate humble pie.
My dad wasn’t feeling well so I took him and his fiancée back home. I was glad for the time with him and enjoyed the rest of the evening but I lamented that we weren’t all together sitting by the fire in front of the Christmas tree. The rest of the crew stayed at Megan’s and participated in the Cornhole competition. Who plays Cornhole at Christmas? They did and Bert, my father-in-law at age 86 got second place! He was a star!
Christmas was different than I had hoped and imagined. This mid-life bit really is tricky. People move on. Things change. Evolution. Not that it really worked out for the dinosaurs.
Life moves on. The Prime Minister of Canada, Mark Carney, gave a superb speech this past week at Davos. He said, “We know the old order is not coming back. We shouldn’t mourn it. Nostalgia is not a strategy,”. While my life is not world politics, the sentiment applied. I was holding onto nostalgia and not adapting to change.
My daughter has a wonderful husband to be. She is marrying into a large family that loves to be together and is very eager to embrace us. I want to also embrace them and have to let go of what was and be enthusiastic about new beginnings but I wanted it on my terms. So silly. How lucky we are that she has found such love with so many people. It’s a mother’s dream that her daughter is so loved and yet, I was a stick in the mud. That needed to change. I needed to change. I needed to grow into a new reality that come with new traditions and new relationships. I was just mourning old ways and if I kept holding on, I would be left out. Did I mention the dinosaurs? I wasn’t being left behind, I was being invited to be a part of something new.
When I visited my sister in November, she gave me a book called SHIFT – 7 Mindsets for an Inspired Midlife, written by Peter Reek. It seemed timely to pick it up post Christmas. Barely into the book, everything “shifted” for me.
“The first half of life is all about building – identity; achievement a place in the world. But the second half invites a different kind of work. It calls us inward. It ask us to loosen our grip on the self we’ve so carefully constructed and begin the gentler, braver process of release. Our focus shifts from crisis to opportunity. It’s a change to refocus, redefine, and realign our lives with our deeper, more spiritual aspirations.”
“Embracing midlife is recognizing and seizing the opportunity that comes with age. It’s shifting from a mindset of acquisition to one of meaning and purpose. As we navigate this journey, we can find peace in the transition, knowing our experiences have equipped us with the wisdom to live more authentically and purposefully. The second half of life provides us with the opportunity to leverage the hindsight of the first. We can step more deeply and confidently into who we are and focus on the relationships and pursuits that are most important to us. We can also let go of those things that have kept us from doing so.”
He goes on to say that our best years are not behind us but ahead of us. “The second half doesn’t start with a blaze of glory, but with a deep breath. A lighter step. A willingness to let go of what no longer serves us.” “The road ahead isn’t about become someone entirely new. It’s about becoming more of you. Clearer. Kinder. Less burdened by the weight of proving, and more alive to the wonder of simply being”. Lastly, this stage of transition is a paradox. “The quiet mark of wisdom. Learning to live in the stretch between what was and what’s next”.
Living between what was and what’s next; Control-shift. A way forward. I get that now.
Much of 2025 was about this paradox. I was trying to hold on when in fact, it is about what’s comes next. This sentiment has given me comfort. I’m not alone in this transition. It’s real. It happens to many of us and it’s scary letting go of what grounded us for so long. Who are we without our habits, traditions and patterns? I haven’t been sure where I now fit or where I belong but that is because I was trying too hard to hold on. I didn’t realize that if I just let go, I might feel free. If I let go, I might find more. How to let go of control and shift into new beginnings.
I found solace in the following parable.
In a small village, there lived a woman who often felt weighed down by habits, routines, and fears she wished she could outgrow. One evening, while working at her old computer, she accidentally pressed Control + Shift, and her application updated instantly—new layout, new perspective.
She paused.
It struck her that life, too, has its own “Ctrl + Shift” moments.
Control, she realized, was about recognizing what she could hold in her own hands—her choices, her reactions, her willingness to grow.
Shift was about lifting herself just a little higher—changing her angle, her mindset, her approach.
And so she began to practice this quietly powerful command in her daily life:
When old frustration returned, she pressed Control—taking ownership of her response.
When fear whispered familiar doubts, she pressed Shift—choosing a different thought.
When life presented the same problems again and again, she pressed Control + Shift—updating herself instead of waiting for the world to change.
Over time, people noticed that she walked with more calm, more clarity, more purpose. Someone once asked her, “What changed?”
She smiled gently. “Nothing around me changed,” she said. “I just learned the power of Ctrl + Shift—to take control of the moment and shift who I am becoming.”
So here I am in 2026. Shifting. Understanding the need for a reset. Being willing to update myself. My resolution for 2026 is to do more things that I think I might be terrible at. So far it has been incredibly fun. With a broken wrist, I couldn’t join in on winter activities and had to search out new activities. I joined a group making homemade cards. Most of the group made four, I was happy to have completed one. I painted ceramics. My creation was worse than anything I could have done in a kindergarten class and resembled an underwater Armageddon. Despite the instructors belief that it would look “better once fired”, it was still awful but I had a great time.
I’ve also taken up Cornhole. It’s fantastic! Once I laid down my obnoxious bias of what it “should be”, it gave way to new connections and I’m having the time of my life exploring new hobbies, new relationships and new ways to connect. Maybe midlife is actually something to look forward to. Maybe, it’s awesome.
Life is messy, transition is hard and the curve balls are brutal and the Universe laughing doesn’t help.
What I have learned is that I if I lean in, I find better connection and can be delighted by the unexpected. Way back in an earlier post, I cited “it doesn’t happen TO you, it happens FOR you.” True story.
2025 was a difficult year. Not knowing where I fit, wondering if I was relevant and being confused about what would feel the void. I left 2025 feeling grateful for the lessons of connection and the glorious results of being vulnerable and asking for help. It has opened my world wider. I don’t have to have control. I can have vision and I can enjoy the ride and the many wonderful people that I meet along the way. I want to make the shift and let go of the control. It’s had its place but no longer and that feels so much lighter.
Yes, I’m scared. I don’t know what it will look like. It’s humbling and it’s hard but it’s far more fun than holding on to what no longer works. Nostalgia is not a strategy; it is what was and those memories are beautiful, it’s just not the future of our reality. I need to adapt. Maybe it’s ok to let go of things that no longer work. This might mean letting go of relationships and habits that used to be comfortable but they no longer work. It’s doesn’t have to be dramatic rather soft change that allows me to live more authentically to who I am. “Shifting” doesn’t have to be a loud change, rather it’s quieter. The ability to blend into a new reality. To be open to what comes next, to try new things.
My “shift” is to embrace the ambiguity of not knowing but being optimistic instead of static. To lean into the adventure and not know the outcome. To stay focused on values that matter rather than traditions that might have held me hostage to what was. I will say it again, this is not easy but I will be the way of the dinosaur if I don’t get with the times and make these shifts.
We don’t know what’s ahead. It can change in a second. I realize that the secret sauce is to live in the moment. My need to control in the first half of life was to lay the foundation. That was accomplished. That chapter is complete. For 2026, I want to learn to learn how to cross the chasm; the stretch that exists between “what was and what’s next”.
I wish you the very best for 2026. That whatever has been holding you back, you can lay it down and be less burdened and less weighted down by any “should’s” that you are carrying. And if you are in free fall between what was and what might be, you are not alone no matter what stage of life. Find a hand to hold and buckle up. You can do this. What if the best years are not behind us but really are in front of us!
With care and love for all that 2026 brings,
Shelley
I’m not alone in this transition. It’s real. It happens to many of us and it’s scary letting go of what grounded us for so long. Who are we without our habits, traditions and patterns? I haven’t been sure where I now fit or where I belong but that is because I was trying too…
And Then I Jumped...... 