We’ve all had the if onlys. If only I had waited to get married. If only I had landed that job. If only I hadn’t let people treat me that way. It’s easy to look back on our lives with everything we know now and fall into regret or self-judgment. With years of experience behind us, our perspective sharpens, but it can also become unforgiving. Therapists call this hindsight bias: the tendency to evaluate past decisions with the clarity we didn’t have at the time. In midlife, when reflection feels almost inevitable, hindsight bias can make earlier choices seem flawed or shortsighted, even when they weren’t.

I tried to ignore it for as long as I could. But no matter how hard I tried, it slapped me dead in the face every time I looked in that damn mirror. I was aging. Not gradually, not subtly—but undeniably. The crow’s feet, the pesky bunny lines, the unwelcome age spots all conspired against me. But what unsettled me most was something harder to name. My entire countenance seemed to be changing. The longer I looked, the more unfamiliar I appeared. It was as if I were turning into someone else. Then one day, it hit me. There, between my sagging jowls, drooping brows, and receding hairline, I saw my grandpa Archibald staring right back at me. The realization landed with a mix of panic and disbelief. Suddenly, I had a flashback to the Brady Bunch episode when Jan Brady discovers she’s destined to look like her wacky, old Aunt Jenny—only this wasn’t a sitcom; it was my real-life reflection introducing me to someone I wasn’t quite ready to meet!

Childhood trauma occurs when an individual experiences one or more of what are known as adverse childhood experiences. These experiences include physical, sexual, or emotional abuse, neglect, or household dysfunction in which one might grow up around mental illness, divorce, domestic violence, an incarcerated relative, or substance abuse. The ACE study determined that those who experience adverse childhood experiences are more likely to present with a higher incidence of negative health and behavioral outcomes as adults. This study helped reveal the lifelong consequences of childhood trauma. We also know that trauma can impact the structure and neurochemistry of the brain, resulting in a more intense fear response.

Has it dawned on you that your free time outside of work has transformed into the most “me time” you’ve had in years? Sure, our children, parents, and pets still demand our time and attention, but those carefree nights out with girlfriends seem like a distant memory from a pre-kids, pre-elderly-parents, pre-pet era. Nowadays, your newfound freedom is filled with chores, endless phone scrolling, binge-watching the latest shows, or simply standing in a room trying to recall why you walked in there.

As I entered my 40th year on earth, and ten years into a potent longing to participate in one of the most epic acts of human creativity—building a family—I found myself, through a series of circumstances beyond my control, living alone and leading an autonomous life. My affections run deep for my joyous dog and two magical cats. Still, I feel a primal yearning to become the matriarch of a human family whose lineage will continue for generations. 

Losing a partner is a fact of life. Though we know women tend to live longer than men, it doesn’t make it any easier when they leave us. It’s not something most women actively plan for. My paternal grandmother lost my grandfather in her early 60s. My parents were both in their 80s when my father passed. I was even younger when I experienced this unexpected, unwished-for, uncoupling—an unwanted witness to a slow and painful death.

If you’re one of those women who had a hypercritical mother like I did (mine put me on a liquid diet at 16 years old against the doctor’s advice), you can pretty much expect the remainder of your life to be about learning to saturate yourself with bountiful, gorgeous heaps of love. Okay, thanks for reading, bye!  Wait! I’m just kidding, but that’s actually the main message. So let’s hang out a bit—I want this discussion to amuse and inspire you. Allow me to be your guide on a personal journey about food, weight, and learning to cherish ourselves.

My breast cancer journey did not start with a routine mammogram. It began when my youngest daughter and I were on our way to my grandson’s soccer tournament. What started out as a beautiful morning took a quick and harrowing turn. We were involved in a terrible car accident on the interstate with an 18-wheel tractor-trailer. One moment, we were careening across the highway, and the next, we found ourselves in the emergency room with severe injuries. I was diagnosed with a burst fracture in my back, and my daughter suffered a traumatic brain injury.

I’m blessed with a wonderfully eclectic group of fabulous female friends—different ages, lifestyles, and stages of life. Whenever we gather for a ladies’ night, we often find our conversations gravitating toward the state of affairs on being a woman. We fuss and laugh and raise our margaritas in solidarity. In our exasperation, we rail about the unfairness of it all and how we can be a force for change, leverage our voting power, and support all the right causes. 

A woman’s middle years are filled with abundance. It’s one of life’s great transitions and offers many opportunities for growth and transformation. And let’s be real. It’s also a time of reckoning, vulnerability, and loss. 

Think back to what you were doing at 21. Maybe you were dancing at clubs or cramming for college exams. Or were you still enjoying the benefits of living at home with somebody else paying the bills? Not me. I celebrated my 21st birthday as a newlywed, drinking sparkling cider and promptly throwing it up thanks to severe morning sickness. Six months later, I had my first daughter.

What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? Learn how one woman overcame a scandalous affair to find hope and healing on the other side.

Yes, changing careers is hard. Yes, it’s uncomfortable, especially in midlife. But what if you could finally do something you truly enjoyed?

I ripped the sheets off the bed for the third time that week. Those darn night sweats were lasting far longer than my daytime hot flashes. I attempted to sneak past the family room, bundle in arms, but my parents were already up and dressed, in their recliners, and ready to put in their breakfast orders. Mom wanted the usual, toast not too brown, two eggs over easy, and coffee not too hot. Dad wanted bran cereal, milk on the side, coffee piping hot, and his supplements. I threw in the wash, let the dog out, and got busy in the kitchen.