Have you ever said this … “We should get together soon.” I’ve said it a thousand times, and I’ve meant it. But the reality is, it usually doesn’t happen.

So, this week, I made the call and invited a friend to meet at a fun local wine bar.

I just did it. For once, I ignored that little voice that looks over my shoulder and says, “She’s probably busy. I don’t want to bother her. I don’t want to seem desperate or admit that I don’t have anything to do.”

It was so easy! We went to Beach + Vine, a cute wine bar on the beach. The space was so comfy and cozy. We lounged on an ocean blue velvet loveseat surrounded by sand-colored pillows. Paintings by local artists decorated the walls, and the coffee table had nostalgic menus and postcards displayed under the glass. I ate the entire plate of delicious cheese and olives. My friend was going to dinner later that night; she didn’t want to spoil her appetite, so she took a pass on the food.

We had a great time catching up. We talked about our kids, our work, our exercise plans—or lack thereof—the lotions we like, the proteins we don’t, and if we would really have plastic surgery! I can’t tell you her answer, but mine is still a “not yet.”

For a long time now, years even, it seems like I haven’t seen my friends like I used to. It was so easy then … we were at the same places … at the sports field, at the recital, at play groups, and celebrating at birthday parties.

I’ve longed for the easy, incidental connections that I gained through my kids. They gave me community and identity. We are Moms, and we were in this together! The kids are long gone, and those easy moments don’t happen anymore. Who am I without kids … and does that even matter?

The feelings of connectedness have also waned. One day, I found myself asking, “Where is my community?” And here’s the scientific part of things. Social activity lowers the risk of depression, dementia, stroke, and heart disease. Wow!

There are many studies that say that community matters. One of my favorites is the Harvard Study of Adult Development. The study, which began in 1938, is often called the longest-running scientific study of happiness, health, and longevity. A synopsis of the study suggests that the single most important factor for long-term health and happiness is the quality of close relationships. Not how much money we make, not how clean or big and beautiful our house is. AND, this is important—marriage quality matters more than marital status.

This week’s experiment was a challenge to the question of whether a planned meeting could replace the spontaneous meetings of my parenting days. And I’d answer with a resounding Yes! My relationships didn’t fade because love faded. They faded because the structure disappeared. When the kids left home, the invisible scaffolding vanished.

But I also know it is not a one-and-done kind of thing; it’s ongoing. Building and maintaining relationships is kind of like exercising or eating healthy. I’m going to have to practice and make it part of my routine.

The way I did it. Relationship practice.

This is part of what I’m calling Expeditionvision—my quest to find what a meaningful life looks like. One experiment per week, possible strategies for a happier life. Trying things on purpose and paying attention to what happens. I’m not offering advice or giving instructions. I’m just sharing the way I did it. If there’s something that you’ve been wanting to try—but haven’t—I’d love to hear about it. I’m open to reader suggestions for future experiments.

Field Notes: For Paid Subscribers

Paid subscribers, I’ve added a short field notes section below with what surprised me the most, what I didn’t expect, what I might do next time, and things I’m still working on.

Read more

This experiment was one of the more difficult for me. Asking for help feels like admitting defeat. I’ve always done things myself.

Big things.

Home improvement projects may be the best example. It wasn’t long into our marriage that I discovered that my husband and I had very different ideas on this subject. There are definitely two kinds of people in the home improvement realm. Those who love new tools, working with their hands, and the reward of transformation—that would be ME—and those who enjoy the reveal part of a renovation—HIM. My vision was that I would play the role of project manager to his role of the muscle.

But it didn’t always work out that way … I’ve hung sheets of 4 × 8 drywall, taped, mudded, and added the finishing texture by myself. I designed and installed a wooden fence, including digging the post holes and cementing them in the ground by myself. And I did them both with the confidence of a YouTube University graduate. Yes … I was (and still am) that stubborn.

To be fair, we completed several projects together when we first bought our fixer-upper home. I loved the feeling when a job was completed. The smell of sawdust and the sound of power tools … I didn’t want to quit. My husband, on the other hand, activated his selective hearing. The team effort dissolved, even though my enthusiasm didn’t.

From my current vantage point at the summit of a dog hair accumulation crisis, I realize it isn’t help with big projects that I’m searching for, although I still love a good project. I need help with the day-to-day stuff.

You know that saying, “You don’t know how good things are until they’re gone”? I was talking to a friend recently about how much work she had to do while her husband was out of town. She was amazed at how much he did, and further amazed that she hadn’t noticed his contributions until he was gone. Like me, she thought her husband didn’t do much of anything around the house.

The same can be said for the kids. I remember thinking that the kids added so much work! Which they did, but they also helped a fair amount. We loved playing the “two-minute tidy” game. It was amazing how much better the house looked if we all cleaned for a mere two minutes.

So here I was, feeling overwhelmed by all the dusting, not to mention mopping the floors. I whined and nagged my husband for a few weeks. This had the opposite result than what I was looking for. Negotiations stalled; silence increased. Not good. So, I called a friend who owns a cleaning company for advice.

I asked for help and then panicked. And here’s another saying that I’ve found to be true … before the cleaners come to clean your house … you clean it!

How was I going to find time to clean the house before the cleaners arrived? As if I could hide the mess from professionals. But still, I didn’t want ANYONE to see our bathrooms, windows, and floors! I needed help. I asked for help, and then I realized why I never ask for help. It wasn’t because I was stubborn … I was embarrassed!

The results of this experiment are still in progress. It will take a little time to get the help I need, and there will be a “breaking in” phase. Not just for the cleaners to learn our house and make friends with Panzer, our large dog, but for me to accept help without feeling defeated and embarrassed. It turns out that the hardest part isn’t letting someone else clean the house. It’s letting someone else see that I needed help.

The way I did it. Lone Wolf.

This is part of what I’m calling Expeditionvision—trying things on purpose and paying attention to what happens. I’m not offering advice or giving instructions. I’m just sharing the way I did it. If there’s something that you’ve been wanting to do—but haven’t—I’d love to hear about it. I’m open to reader suggestions for future experiments.

Field Notes: For Paid Subscribers

Paid subscribers, I’ve added a short field notes section below with what surprised me the most, what I didn’t expect, what I might do next time, and things I’m still working on.

Read more

It’s a fact. There are 168 hours in a week. The amount of time from Monday through Sunday is finite, and there’s no way to change that fact … even though I’ve tried. There are a lot of disruptors, like bad weather, out-of-town visitors, and Daylight Saving Time. Didn’t we vote to do away with changing our clocks years ago?

Once and for all, and because I was sure my husband was wrong when he said I had more free time than he did, I was going to prove myself right when I said, “All I do is go to work, come home, cook dinner, and go to bed … repeat.”

Game on! First, we each wrote down our estimates of how we spent our time each week—work, sleep, food prep, cleaning, exercise, and Bible study. When we tallied up the hours, I had 35 remaining to his 11. How could that be? 35 hours? That’s practically a full-time job!

So, for one week, I doubled down and logged everything I did and the time it took to do it. If you’re wondering, my husband refused to log his hours. I tried to goad him on by saying, “You’re afraid you’re going to lose.” He didn’t bite.

After one week, the numbers were in. Generally, I worked a little more and slept a little less than I had estimated, and everything else just took a little longer. I bought this red-light facial muscle stimulator thing that added nearly 20 minutes to my bedtime routine and a Bodyblade® exercise thing that my brother-in-law recommended to activate the stabilizing muscles of my shoulders in the hope that it would cure the pain I’ve had in my neck for months. That contraption added 20 minutes to my morning routine. I’ll let you know if either of the two pans out. The fine print claims that I should see results within 4-6 weeks.

There were unexpected additions to the log, like the trip to the dentist to replace a lost filling, and perhaps the most shocking—and surprisingly fun—was attending a Pearl Jam tribute band concert. Who knew my rhythm-challenged, monotone husband knew every lyric to their set list? I learned this fact as he triumphantly (and loudly) sang each song to me as I tried to keep myself upright in the mosh pit.

This week, in addition to the mundane time-sucking things on my log, I managed to put together two of the four jumbo bookcases I ordered from Wayfair and had two save-the-world conversations with friends. I do believe that women can devise ways to save the world while fitness walking.

Now that I’ve reached the end of my experiment week, I’m a little less manic about finding the 35 hours I thought were lost. I’m all the more relaxed, and even bordering on serene, knowing that those five hours a day allow me the freedom and flexibility to take an unexpected phone call and accept an invitation to relive the music of my college bartending days. Those five hours each day weren’t lost; they opened a window of opportunity.

The way I did it. The captain’s log.

This is part of what I’m calling Expeditionvision—trying things on purpose and paying attention to what happens. I’m not offering advice or giving instructions. I’m just sharing the way I did it. If there’s something that you’ve been wanting to do—but haven’t—I’d love to hear about it. I’m open to reader suggestions for future experiments.

Field Notes: For Paid Subscribers

Paid subscribers, I’ve added a short field notes section below with what surprised me the most, what I didn’t expect, what I might do next time, and things I’m still working on.

Read more

I improved my memory.

For one week, I set out to try a different method each day that would help me improve my memory.

Not one to waste any time, I went straight to my assistant, Tess, also known as Chat GPT. As you know by now, I like to name things—automobiles, robot vacuums, plants, and virtual assistants. I wanted to find the best strategies to improve my memory, so I turned to Tess.

When researching, Tess often gives me way more information than I really want, and although the details are interesting, they may or may not be helpful. For example, Tess told me that there are actually memory competitions in which the winners are anointed with titles such as “Grand Master of Memory.” Did you know that? I sure didn’t. One grand master, Dominic O’Brian, won the World Championship eight times! That sounded pretty cool. He obviously has a great memory, but I found his methodology a little trying.

Dominic made the method of loci, which dates back to ancient Greece and the Romans, all the rage. In a nutshell, the method of loci suggests putting the items you want to remember in a familiar place. Take your grocery list—eggs, bread, bananas—and put them along a path as you walk through your bedroom. Cracked eggs on the door, bread stacked up on the bed, bananas hanging from the ceiling fan create a mental picture. According to Tess, creating mental pictures is the backbone of Dominic’s memory tricks, and the more ridiculous the picture, the better.

And it works! But I don’t really care whether I remember my grocery list or not. The thing I want to remember the most are people’s names, and pausing to create a ridiculous mental picture when first introduced to someone makes me feel and probably look like a lunatic. Sorry, Dominic. You may be a world champion, but isn’t there another method?

I’ve dreamed of having an assistant like Ann Hathaway’s character Andrea, who worked for Meryl Streep’s character Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada. Andrea was responsible for standing next to Miranda and feeding her the names and back stories for each person as they approached. Wouldn’t that be an amazing assistant to have?! I haven’t figured out how to get one, but I need to work on it.

Another suggestion that I’m sure you’ve heard of is repeating the person’s name back to them when you’re first introduced. “Hello, Frank. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Frank.” It works, but it’s such a popular technique that everyone “sees” you doing it.

No, I want a memory technique that’s much cleverer.

Trying to come up with my own method reminded me of my high school AP English teacher, Mr. M. I’m not calling him “Mr. M” to protect his identity. I’m calling him Mr. M because I can’t remember his name! What I remember about Senior AP English was that it was common for students to flee his class in tears when the bell rang. Mr. M was tough! He was also a very clever wordsmith. He wanted us to broaden our vocabularies and tasked his students with learning new words … a word a day … and he loved pop quizzes—hence, all the crying.

Armed with The New York Times Crossword page-a-day calendar and a pair of turtle shell reading glasses, I vow to increase my vocabulary. And I’ll use it to associate words with clever mental pictures when I’m meeting someone new. I’m now ready for Loquacious Larry with a running faucet for a mouth … or Tenacious Terry, with a hammer and a box full of nails.

The way I did it. Wordsmithing.

This is part of what I’m calling Expeditionvision—trying things on purpose and paying attention to what happens. I’m not offering advice or giving instructions. I’m just sharing the way I did it. If there’s something that you’ve been wanting to do—but haven’t—I’d love to hear about it. I’m open to reader suggestions for future experiments.

Field Notes: For Paid Subscribers

Paid subscribers, I’ve added a short field notes section below with what surprised me the most, what I didn’t expect, and what I’m still working on.

Read more

The best way to load a dishwasher. The best way to train a puppy. The importance and intricacies of monochrome decorating. All were A–OK with me. The dishes were clean, the puppy was already potty-trained, and white picture frames on white walls did look nice after all.

This was not a situation of picking my battles. Being “Right” and making sure that everyone agreed with me was very important to my younger self. Now that I’ve completed nearly 58 trips around the sun, I’m coming to terms with how much I don’t know.

And yet, I set out on my journey to visit my son convinced that I would impart my years of wisdom and fix things. That is something I do. I fix things. The flight would take six hours, plenty of time to prepare a list of positivity slogans: “Own your attitude. Stop blocking your own happiness. Where you put your time and energy is where you will go. Celebrate your progress—even the small stuff. You choose what kind of person you want to be.”

I had a whole page, single-spaced.

I hadn’t even unpacked my suitcase before it was clear my son had no interest in my Pollyanna approach.

The thing is, I believe in every word. Having a positive attitude and routines have helped me navigate life. Relenting on the dishwasher, the puppy, and the decorating was easy. What wasn’t so easy was letting go of my insistence on positive thinking, not to mention having morning and bedtime routines.

Generally, I start my case by saying, “It’s not just me … The experts agree that getting up early and starting the day with an accomplishment (like making the bed) and exercising will create a path to success” or “The experts agree that turning off electronics, going to bed at the same time each night, and recording positive details from the day in a journal can be life-changing.” And then there’s my favorite: “PRAY, pray, and pray over everything.”

Routines have always been my jam. As I was thinking about some of my favorite routines, I was remembering bedtime with my toddlers. Our bedtime routine started with “skin a cat,” which meant raising your arms over your head so Mom could pull your shirt off and get you in the tub. Then, into the jammies, brush the teeth, and snuggle up to read a story book. The smell of Johnson’s baby shampoo in their hair and the weight of their heads on my shoulder while I read and we looked at the pages together was such a precious time. Bedtime was definitely a favorite time of day when the kids were little. Of course, not every night went smoothly. Many were full of struggles and tears. Not wanting to go to bed … not wanting to take a bath … demanding that I read just one more story.

That memory and more are reminders that even the best routines sometimes fail. And at every age, we all prefer to drive. I’m sure my son and I will continue to debate the “best way” to do many things, but this week, I let him be right.

The way I did it. Skin A Cat.

This is part of what I’m calling Expeditionvision—trying things on purpose and paying attention to what happens. I’m not offering advice or giving instructions. I’m just sharing the way I did it. If there’s something that you’ve been wanting to do—but haven’t—I’d love to hear about it. I’m open to reader suggestions for future experiments.

Field Notes: For Paid Subscribers

Paid subscribers, I’ve added a short field notes section below with what surprised me the most, and what I would do differently the next time. Thank you for your support! XO, ~Stephanie

Read more

This experiment was a reader’s suggestion from Carol. She suggested taking fifteen minutes a day to improve your surroundings. She went on to say that she had used her fifteen minutes for cleaning, organizing, and purging.

This suggestion came in weeks ago. My first reaction was to doubt that a mere fifteen minutes could make much of an impact on my surroundings. I’ve told you how overwhelmed with projects I’ve been and that I’m struggling to just keep up with the basics of laundry, dusting, and feeding myself something other than takeout.

Almost as if on cue, the song “Swinging on a Star” began to play. It’s a great song, with music by Jimmy Van Heusen and lyrics by Johnny Burke. Crooner Bing Crosby made it famous, and it won the Academy Award for Best Original Song in 1944.

The musical moral tale asks if you would like to swing on a star and carry moonbeams home in a jar—meaning that you use your imagination and curiosity—and be better off than you are … or would you rather be … a mule … a pig … a fish—and be stubborn … messy … and foolish.

The lyrics were so familiar, but I’m not sure when or where I would have heard them or sung them. Obviously, I wasn’t around in the 1940s. Perhaps at primary school? Anyway, my hesitancy to try the experiment was certainly stubborn and mulish. The fact that I was so overwhelmed and had so many possible improvements to my surroundings, was piglike messy. So then, was I being foolish like a fish—forever swimming with blinders on?

The answer to that question was … yes! … which suggests I was also potentially going to yield to the song’s moral tale—our choices shape who we become.

Since I didn’t want to be a mule, a pig, or a fish, I took the challenge.

My first fifteen minutes were spent on a drawer full of junk. I’d rather not admit to the tale of this drawer, but I should give you the full picture. When we had our kitchen cabinets replaced, I saved the old drawer full of miscellaneous “stuff” for when I had time to sort through it. That was six months ago. I found about ten thousand paper clips, a clump of rubber bands that had lost their elastic and fused together, and fistfuls of dried-up markers and pens. I did salvage the remote control to our garage door opener, a viewfinder keychain with an image of our daughter on the soccer field, and three AAA-size batteries. Not quite a pirate’s bounty, but definitely worth the fifteen minutes.

The next day, my fifteen minutes were spent on the box from the bathroom cabinet. Again, it was a box that had been patiently waiting for six months. When we replaced the kitchen cabinets, we replaced the bathroom one, too … because, why not? The contents of the old bathroom cabinet were poured into said box. Inside, I found twenty-five mini bottles of shampoos, conditioners, potions, and lotions, all well past their expiration date, and most of them half used. I also found a few gadgets—a prickly face roller, a smooth jade stone, and packages of Crest white strips, all of which had promised to make me look younger. I’d saved them for “just in case.” Just in case I traveled somewhere, or just in case I found the time to torture my teeth with bleach and torment my face with tiny needles. None of those cases occurred. All of it went into the trash.

So this week, instead of settling into the comfortable mud of “this is just how things are now,” I’m choosing to swing at something small but shiny. Not because I have to. Not because it’s practical. But because even at this age, we still get to decide what kind of creature we’re becoming. Thank you, Carol.

The way I did it. Swinging on a star.

This is part of what I’m calling Expeditionvision—trying things on purpose and paying attention to what happens. I’m not offering advice or giving instructions. I’m just sharing the way I did it. If there’s something that you’ve been wanting to do—but haven’t—I’d love to hear about it. I’m open to reader suggestions for future experiments.

Field Notes: For Paid Subscribers

Paid subscribers, I’ve added a short field notes section below with what surprised me the most, and what I would do differently the next time.

Read more

I carried my Kate Spade bag and wore my tall red suede boots and Chanel N°5 perfume to work. Perhaps all three at the same time was a bit of overkill–the bag is blue and didn’t really match the boots and the rest of the outfit–but it felt like a do-or-die moment. I discovered my special collection decomposing and drying up in my closet. I had been saving these luxury items for a luxurious occasion.

WHY?

What was I waiting for? Who wrote that rule of deferred living: Save the good things for when life is more deserving of them … and why was I following it?

I was so excited when I purchased the boots–I stood dreamily at the checkout, imagining the parties where I would wear them. I won the Kate Spade bag in a raffle at a lady’s luncheon. I remember feeling two inches taller when my name was called, and I walked through a sea of women dressed in their best to retrieve my winnings. The perfume was a gift from a longtime friend, and it was such a special gift. Our normal gift exchange was usually limited to items costing no more than $20.

Perhaps that was why I was saving them. Special items deserve special occasions, right? I was stockpiling a better life instead of wearing my own life. The problem is that my circle of action has become woefully small now that the kids have left the nest. My weekly routine of work, meetings, and going to Aldi and Wal-Mart isn’t likely to change anytime soon. Maybe this is my life.

Unfortunately, my bag, boots, and perfume weren’t my only discoveries. I also found the champagne pink evening gown I purchased for a future formal ball that I never attended. It drooped sadly on the hanger, with straps that had lost their elastic long ago. I found a tube of that iconic Dior Forever Rouge #999 lipstick, which had melted to one side, and a pair of metallic gold Manolo Blahnik high heel sandals. The sandals were surrounded by flakes of gold that had come unglued. Wine may become better with age, but unlike the biblical wedding at Cana, when the good wine kept flowing despite the growing crowd, biblical intervention didn’t keep my good stuff going. I ended up tossing them all into the trash.

At that moment, I realized that waiting for a special occasion quietly assumes that there will be one. I had waited too long; my treasures were now trash. I don’t want to see my collection of fancy scarves and costume jewelry meet the same fate.

My workday outfit didn’t make life extraordinary. It merely reminded me that the life in progress is the one that counts. So I carried my Kate Spade bag and wore my tall red suede boots and Chanel N°5 perfume to work. This was my first step to STOP saving things for a life in my imagination. No violins played. A red carpet wasn’t rolled out. Nothing remarkable happened. But I used the good stuff.

The way I did it. No more saving the best for last.

This is part of what I’m calling Expeditionvision—trying things on purpose and paying attention to what happens. I’m not offering advice or giving instructions. I’m just sharing the way I did it. If there’s something that you’ve been wanting to do—but haven’t—I’d love to hear about it. I’m open to reader suggestions for future experiments.

Field Notes: For Paid Subscribers

Paid subscribers, I’ve added a short field notes section below with what surprised me the most, and what I wouldn’t do the next time.

Read more

The experiment was to test the advice of leadership experts and self-help gurus who encourage getting up early every morning. General consensus suggests that creating the habit of starting your day with intention and simple accomplishments will lead to increased productivity and emotional well-being.

Yes, please!

Robin Sharma recommends starting the day at 5am in his book, The 5 AM Club: Own Your Morning, Elevate Your Life. This all sounds well and good, but 5am is entirely too early. I knew I couldn’t sustain that. So, my plan was to set the alarm for 6am and find out if getting up early would start my day AND keep my day on a positive trajectory.

You see, I’m in a funk. I’ve been dragging myself through each day. The morning coffee that usually gets me going stopped doing the trick. And worse, my sluggish start continued throughout the day. And the afternoon coffee wasn’t working any better. I was getting a lot done, but rather than a feeling of satisfaction that usually accompanies checking things off my list, I felt exasperated that there was still so much more to do. I’m not loving this version of my day.

Something unusual happened about the same time I noticed this funk. Perhaps not unusual for most … it was January, after all … but it was definitely unusual for Florida. It had been cold for several days in a row. Not just cold, but freezing cold, with a windchill in the teens. On the second day of the cold snap, the branches of my favorite trees—the three double clusters of Christmas palms along one side of our yard—had turned brown. They may not survive the cold snap, which is very sad. When I planted the trees years ago, they were barely two feet tall, and now they soar over twenty feet.

It was the freezing cold that led to the next thing that happened. For several mornings in a row, I stayed in bed. Our house was cold and dark. Of course we have heat, but it was no match for the early morning temperature; the thermostat read 62 degrees!

It was so warm and cozy, curled up under the covers. I stayed in bed so long that I had to rush to make it to work on time. And if I’m being honest, I noticed that starting my morning late set off a chain reaction, and I was behind all day.

Could that be the reason for my funk? Would having an extra hour or two at the start of the day make a difference? I was going to find out.

The first day was easy; the alarm went off, and I got up.

The second and third days took a little more convincing. I was glad for my sunrise lamp. I bought the sunrise lamp because I loathe getting up and out of bed when it’s still dark. Having a little light definitely helped; I managed to get up and going about 6:05 and 6:07, respectively.

On the fourth day, I hit the snooze button.

By Friday, the final day of my experiment, I hit the snooze … and then I hit it again … and again. It was 6:30 when I guilted myself out from under the covers. And in case you are curious, it was COLD. This cold snap has been the coldest and longest of any we have had for more than ten years.

It’s because of that cold snap that I’ve decided to give myself a little grace and continue my experiment. My days did start to feel a little less dreary. On three of the five nights of my experiment week, I had time to “meal prep” healthy lunches and make dinner when I got home—two things I didn’t have the time or the energy to do before.

Perhaps my stumbling block was not only the cold, but also not having planned anything to do when the alarm went off. I was missing the second part of the recommendation, which was to celebrate a small accomplishment. For that reason, and armed with the plan to exercise, meditate, or read at the start of each day, I will continue to set my alarm for 6am.

The way I did it. The 6am club.

This is part of what I’m calling Expeditionvision—trying things on purpose and paying attention to what happens. I’m not offering advice or giving instructions. I’m just sharing the way I did it. If there’s something that you’ve been wanting to do—but haven’t—I’d love to hear about it. I’m open to reader suggestions for future experiments.

Field Notes: For Paid Subscribers - Thank you for supporting my work!

I’ve added a short field notes section below with what surprised me the most, and what I wouldn’t do the next time.

Read more

When planning my experiment, my romantic imagination pictured each kiss in slow motion. He would pause in the doorway, the morning light spilling around him … my fingers curling into the soft fabric of his jacket, his breath brushing my cheek—warm, familiar, and somehow new—and when our lips met, it was slow and deliberate, a kiss that lingered like a secret meant only for the two of us.

Not the quick, practical kiss that lands somewhere between his cheek and the air beside it. Not the half-mumbled, “Have a good day,” kiss delivered while one of us is already halfway out the door.

That type of kiss has been our routine for years.

For this experiment, I’m talking about the kind of kiss that feels intentional. The kind that suggests that there is a story still unfolding between two people who already know the endings of each other’s sentences. I wanted to see if something so simple as taking one minute to purposely pause and intentionally kiss my husband goodbye would have an impact on my day.

And maybe on his day, too.

For one week—one work week, Monday through Friday—mornings when I’m generally rushing out the door, I would stop to give my husband a kiss goodbye.

In the Hallmark movies, the kiss is often the final scene where the sunlight falls artistically across the kitchen floor and the tea kettle whistles softly in the background. The husband quietly enters the kitchen and kisses his wife lightly on the neck. She realizes—suddenly and profoundly—her love for her husband as they embrace in a passionate kiss. Roll the credits.

My reality, however, was that most mornings I caught him on the phone as I was leaving. I maneuvered in front of him and leaned awkwardly in, lips puckered, while attempting not to spill my large pink Yeti mug full of coffee or drop my lunch while keeping the bag on my shoulder from sliding onto his lap. Each morning, for a brief moment, I waited for something to happen.

Nothing did. He received the kiss, returned it, and went on with his day.

But on Friday, I forgot.

I was distracted by the long list running through my head—there was a meeting at work, emails I needed to send, and phone calls I needed to make. I realized I had forgotten the kiss as I walked into my office. The moment was lost.

As I reflect on my experiment, and the way it progressed through the week, kissing him goodbye became less about creating a moment and more about marking one. This is where the early morning ends. This is where the day begins. This is us, still standing in the same doorway after all these years, still choosing each other before stepping into whatever waits beyond it.

The way I did it. A kiss goodbye.

This is part of what I’m calling Expeditionvision—trying things on purpose and paying attention to what happens. I’m not offering advice or giving instructions. I’m just sharing the way I did it. If there’s something that you’ve been wanting to do or try—but haven’t—I’d love to hear about it. I’m open to reader suggestions for future experiments.

Field Notes:

Paid subscribers, I’ve added a short field notes section below with what surprised me the most, and what I would or wouldn’t do the next time.

Read more

I started thinking about my favorite pie in November. The holidays are synonymous with baking for me, and I give myself permission to bake … a lot. Starting with Thanksgiving dinner and then again when Christmas was on the horizon, I surveyed my family, asking for their favorite dishes and desserts and quietly suggested my favorite—which nobody wanted. I did bake pies. And if I remember correctly, they were pumpkin and pecan, respectively. Both were delicious—but again, not my favorite.

It is now nearly the end of January, and today I baked my favorite pie—just for me. And I have to tell you, it was delicious! The crust was flaky and crisp, with just the right amount of saltiness to complement the creamy, rich vanilla custard. The peanut butter layer on the bottom and whipped cream topping were just like I remember from my childhood. I served myself a slice on one of my floral dessert plates, which are normally reserved for special occasions, and savored every single bite.

I also have to tell you that I almost didn’t do it!

I spent the whole week working up to it, or should I say, coming up with reasons not to do it. Sugar, dairy, and peanut butter are all inflammatory … and think of all the extra calories! It would take hours on the stationary bike to work them off. Not to mention that it just seemed silly to be agonizing over it!

On one hand, baking a whole pie just for myself was self-indulgent. I can’t remember ever having made a decadent dessert just for myself. However, I would make fantastical cakes for the kids’ birthdays in a heartbeat … an alligator cake, an airplane cake, a gecko cake, and a sunflower cake to list just a few. And there were the more sophisticated creations, like the crème brûlée, chocolate ganache, and lemon chiffon cakes for my girlfriends. Baking birthday cakes was my jam.

On the other hand, this wasn’t a special occasion. So was I saying that I’m not worth it? That seems a little too dramatic. But that’s something we do as Moms—stifling our likes to fulfill the wishes of those around us and feeling guilty if we don’t. But that was then, when the kids were home. Now that it’s just the two of us, I had more or less stopped baking.

Why did I do that? I enjoy baking.

Once I began assembling the ingredients, my mood became as lighthearted and hopeful as the Big Band Love Songs station I was playing on my phone. I chilled the glass bowl and beaters in preparation for whipping the cream topping ever so slowly to the enchanting voice of Ella Fitzgerald. I stirred the vanilla custard and baked the savory crust. There was no reason to rush.

And that’s how I did it. I baked a peanut butter pie for no reason.

This is part of what I’m calling Expeditionvision—trying things on purpose and paying attention to what happens. I’m not offering advice or giving instructions. I’m just sharing the way I did it. If there’s something that you’ve been wanting to do—but haven’t—I’d love to hear about it. I’m open to reader suggestions for future experiments.

Field Notes: For Paid Subscribers

Paid subscribers, I’ve added a short field notes section below with the part I didn’t expect, and a link to my first story about my favorite pie.

Read more

For weeks, months, and even years, I’ve tried to rally friends to go to the theater with me. Today, I thought I had a better than average chance of having a companion when I announced to my captive audience—the four friends who were in my truck delivering signs for a community project—that I would love to go to a play that afternoon. Since a mutual friend was one of the actors in the play, I thought at least one of them would want to join me. As I have said, …

Crickets.

I didn’t even try to cajole my husband into going. A lesson that I’ve learned over the years is that when I’ve convinced him—he would claim that I forced him to go along when he REALLY didn’t want to—neither of us was happy about it. Nor were the people around us. I don’t want to be the couple that is bickering constantly, and no one else wants to be with that couple either.

After wallowing in a pool of negative self-talk … the tickets are expensive, the seats are usually uncomfortable … remember the last time when I got a charley horse in my right hip? Besides, there are so many things I should be doing; the floor hasn’t been mopped in weeks, laundry is piling up, and the dining room table is covered in clutter. The list went on and on as I surveyed my surroundings.

Then, partly because I made a pledge to you when I announced my year of trying … but even more because I pledged that I was going to do things differently this year … I gave myself a proverbial kick in the pants and changed into my going-out clothes.

Admitting that I’m afraid is challenging. It’s something I’ve been trying to understand since the kids left the nest. I’ve settled on this definition: Fear of a certain situation is not the same as being a fearful person. Generally, I’m not a fearful person. So, what was it about going to the theater by myself that gave me pause?

This isn’t easy for me to admit, but the truth is I was afraid of what other people would think. Would they think my husband and I were on the outs? I’ve thought that when I’ve seen married women out by themselves, I’ve wondered where their husbands were. Would people feel sorry for me? Would they think that I didn’t have any friends?

The drive to the theater that should have taken ten minutes took twice as long, and I questioned myself all along the way. I arrived only minutes before the show and I hadn’t purchased a ticket in advance. I told myself that if the show was sold out, it was a sign that I shouldn’t go. As it turned out, the volunteer at the box office had trouble running my credit card, so he said I didn’t have to pay. He printed me a “cast and crew complimentary ticket” and told me to go on in. I could have taken that as a positive sign, but I didn’t. Instead, I wondered … Did he feel sorry for me, too?

Then the lights blinked on and off, signaling that it was time for the show to begin. Thankfully, I didn’t have to stand awkwardly in the lobby, and I made it to my seat. The woman next to me was scrolling on her phone. I managed to settle into my seat without having to make small talk, which I found oddly comforting because I typically to talk to people. I always say hello to people that I pass on the street … and I’ve been known to strike up conversations in the checkout line.

Once the show started, my questioning mind vanished. For two hours, my cares and responsibilities, and wondering what others might think—which had been my constant companion leading up to that moment—were gone.

And that’s the way I did it … Going Solo.

This is part of what I’m calling Expeditionvision—trying things on purpose and paying attention to what happens. I’m not offering advice or giving instructions. I’m just sharing the way I did it. If there’s something that you’ve been wanting to do—but haven’t—I’d love to hear about it. I’m open to reader suggestions for future experiments.

Field Notes: For Paid Subscribers

Paid subscribers, I’ve added a short field notes section below with what surprised me the most, and what I wouldn’t do the next time.

Read more

Remembering the noise of the house when the kids were home. Remembering the chaos, the schedules, and the confidence of being needed. Then the kids were gone. My world packed up and moved away. I was alone, feeling sorry for myself, and blaming my husband.

Those memories became Empty Mess, and eventually they became a habit—one essay a week—and a small way to try to make sense of the quiet.

But lately, I’ve felt a shift.

Now, I don’t want to remember quite as much as I want to try …

Not “try” in a dramatic, reinvent-yourself way. I’m not launching a program or offering a system. I’m not chasing transformation. What I’m curious about are the small things—the ordinary things that I’ve thought about doing, postponed doing, or quietly assumed that I was finished doing now that the kids are grown and have left the nest.

So, I’m starting something new, and calling it my Expeditionvision. I created this smashup word last year and announced it as “My Word of the Year.”

Well, I’m now ready to start.

Expeditionvision is simply one small experiment a week, tried on to see how it goes, and written about honestly. No mastery. No optimization. No advice. Just action, attention, and reflection.

Each week, I’ll try something related to the things I love … food, marriage, usefulness, joy, better health, forgotten lessons, the house, the garden … or the everyday things that make up my life after being Mom. Then, I’ll share my experiment with you.

“The Way I Did It.”

This phrasing matters to me. I’m not interested in telling anyone how to do anything. There’s no shortage of how-to content in this world. What I’m interested in is what it feels like to do something because you want to—to notice the hesitation, the resistance, and the small surprises that don’t show up until you try it.

If you’ve been reading here for a while, you know I’ve written about usefulness, competence, overthinking, marriage, and the quiet fear that creeps in from a lack of purpose. Expeditionvision isn’t a departure from those themes—it’s a way of moving through them instead of circling around and dwelling on them.

My hope is that you don’t think of it as “Here’s what you should do” but more as “Here’s what happened when I did this.”

Some weeks, the experiment will be tiny. Some weeks, it might feel oddly gargantuan. Sometimes I’ll learn something. Sometimes I won’t. That’s part of the point of it all. I’m not looking for tidy conclusions—just honest observations.

And I don’t want to do this alone.

If there’s something you’ve wanted to try but haven’t—something small, ordinary, or quietly intimidating—I’d love to hear about it. Maybe it’s cooking, asking for help, leaving something unfinished, using the good stuff, letting something grow wild, or doing nothing when you’re used to being useful. I can’t promise that I’ll try everything, but I’m open to reader suggestions as part of this experimental year. This feels like the right next step for me—not a reinvention but a continuation with action.

So, if you’re willing, come along. I’ll try something each week and let you know the way I did it.

A Year of Trying.

The time to admit that last year’s resolution, the idea of getting better and better and becoming the best version of yourself has been quashed because time has run out. The new year is upon us and the clock is ticking—it’s time for a full court press. The actions we take now could impact the whole year. Do we repeat the same dreaded New Year’s resolutions and likely end this next year with feelings of anxiety and dismay for once again not accomplishing them? Or is there a better way?

But who am I kidding? My resolutions have been the same for years: get in shape, eat better, be social, be spiritual, complete my lists of home projects, and work my business goals. It’s a good list! I feel passionate about each one. I have more than twenty-five articulated and weighted goals with accompanying steps, typed into a color-coded spreadsheet that I have dutifully moved forward year after year. And yet, it’s quite possible that I’ve regressed, and have actually become worse!

Could it be hormone related?

That’s my go-to excuse. There has to be something other than the regular old lack of motivation that is responsible. Does any of this sound familiar? Your phone is never where you left it. Two glasses of wine send you reeling. You’ve lost your ability to focus, and you’re absolutely sure someone else must have eaten that huge block of cheese. It’s the hormones! Because what else could it be? Why else could the things that were once accomplished with enthusiasm now feel like a never-ending marathon?

Or could my list of resolutions be the culprit?

Get in shape. I joined the gym, and my bank account is charged every month. I don’t understand why there are never any classes when I want to take them.

Eat better = cooking more. And really, who has the time? I shop the organic aisle and plan the weekly menu only to toss the rotten veggies into compost containers at the end of the week.

Be social and spiritual. Who wouldn’t want that? Yet, in reality, both are surprisingly difficult to do on your own.

I’ve had better success with house projects and work goals. There are more “completed” checkmarks on those line items—perhaps because money is involved. Getting paid to do a job and paying someone else are somehow more motivating than simply feeling and looking better.

Truth is, the resolutions we make are not all good or all bad … just like the relationships we have with the people in our lives. This is something at the top of my mind as I reflect on this last year and the goals that were not met and the people that have been lost.

There is no time machine to return to the past. The past is past.

The new year is now upon us, and with it comes a fresh perspective and the opportunity to move forward and place the old year into the graveyard of good intentions.

I’ve often said he is the most dramatic member of the family—a title he’s kept through our kids’ teenage years and my hormone shifts! Amazing. This time, his overly dramatic response was to the present…

Read more

Or it would be if anyone else noticed or found out. Three of the items on the display table were gifts that I had given.

The party invitation read, “Unwanted Gift Exchange.” The premise of the party was similar to a white elephant gift exchange, except rather than purchasing joke gifts for the party, you were supposed to bring an item yo…

Read more

It’s no secret that my husband and I are slowly turning into “those people.” You know them, the people on your street in a house that you wonder if anyone s…

Read more

She was comparing my bag to the backpack worn by the plucky cartoon character that traveled through episodes of fantastical trips disguised as educational programming. As you know,…

Read more

This year’s festivities included many new friends, which is something I’ve always enjoyed about Thanksgiving dinner. It is entirely acceptable to invite acquaintances and new neighbors to join in the meal and squeeze around the table. There were nearly twenty of us and two turkeys!

Read more

When we lived in Indiana, I loved driving through Brown County’s winding back roads to look at the leaves. We made a day of driving up and down the rolling hills and oohing and aahing as we drove past the brilliant orange, red, and yellow trees.

In Florida, fall is …

Read more

The only thing he said was, “I bet everyone stunk.”

This peculiar conversa…

Read more