Not Tonight, Nana.

This is a photo of me from a few years ago. No make up, straight up from the bed to watch the sun rise and feel the cool sand on my bare feet. This photo feels like LOVE to me. And I will take that feeling any day of the week.

My sweet grandson has a funny little expression.

When I ask him if he wants to do something and he’s not interested, he simply says,

“Not tonight, Nana.”

It could be 8 a.m. It doesn’t matter.

It’s always:

“Not tonight, Nana.”

I’ve had an amazing life.

I have an amazing life.

A life filled with big love, wonderful friends, family, stunning adventures, and crazy abundance.

Has there been hurt along the way?

Of course.

That’s the price of living and loving people.

But one thing I know about myself is this:

My reset button still works.

I know how to come back to myself when life knocks me off center.

Lately, I’ve been doing a lot of reading about learning to trust yourself.

That feels like important work.

Because when life knocks us down, the question isn’t always, “Can I trust other people?”

Sometimes the better question is:

“Can I trust myself?”

I recently read a quote from Pema Chödrön:

Feel the feeling. Drop the story.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot.

Let’s say I drop a heavy box on my toe.

I feel the pain.

I check the damage.

Maybe I hop around the room for a minute.

Ouch.

Is there anything worse than sudden toe pain?

That’s reality.

But then comes the story.

What was I thinking trying to move that box by myself?

I can’t do things I used to do.

I always overestimate what I can handle.

Now my poor little toe has somehow become evidence that my best days are behind me, for crying out loud.

The feeling was real.

The story wasn’t.

Start noticing how often you do this.

Seriously. Go about your day today and see if you do it too.

Something hurts, and then we tell ourselves a story about what it means.

A disappointment becomes a prediction about the future.

A mistake becomes a character flaw.

A hard day becomes proof that life is unfair.

But maybe the feeling is enough.

Maybe sadness can just be sadness.

Maybe disappointment can just be disappointment.

Maybe a sore toe can just be a sore toe.

Without turning into a story about who we are.

Funny enough, my grandson has been quietly helping me with his sweet choice of words.

When I catch myself spinning a story out of a feeling, I sometimes stop and say out loud:

“Not tonight, Nana.”

The feeling can stay.

But the story?

Not tonight.

P.S. Just a reminder: I have comments off on purpose. I love, LOVE getting personal texts or calls when I share something that hits home. I sometimes end emails with this thought: Stay close. Because it matters more than you can imagine.

Today, pick up the phone.Talk to your neighbor.Tell someone your truth.

Stay close to what matters most to you. Because that’s what makes for some lovely, true stories.

Rain.

I have no clue what this is, just a random photo I think my grandbaby girl took while holding my phone yesterday.

It's a lovely rainy day.

I’m up early just listening to the sound of rain falling on the trees and the roof.

It's so peaceful.

I’m grateful for many things in my life. Most of all, my little granddaughter caught a stomach bug this week and ended up in the hospital. She’s fine and only had to stay one night for IV fluids, but that poor little girl has had a rough few days.

I’m so grateful both of my grandkids are healthy. And I am especially grateful that my grandbaby is home and slept all night. Being in a Children's Hospital is a powerful reminder to give thanks for that every single day.

And I will.

It's funny. I like to think of myself as an optimistic person. So lately I’ve been thinking about that trait and trying to understand it a little better.

I have one group of close friends who actually call me Pollyanna because I am always trying to find the positive, even in really tough situations.

I believe we all have good and bad traits inside of us. Even really difficult people likely have some good traits.

I had a client once who was really, really hard to work with. When people would ask how things were going, I would smile and say, “We’re learning a lot.”

And honestly, we were. We were learning exactly how not to treat people by watching his behavior. Eventually, we stepped away from that account.

During my years working with brilliantly creative people, I believed in the good of others so deeply that I often stayed focused on their best qualities—their talent, their potential, their gifts.

And in many cases, people rose to that version of themselves.

I think it helped me. I hope it helped them too.

I've only had four long-term relationships in my life, including my eighteen-year marriage, and I’m genuinely grateful for the gifts, lessons, and joy each relationship brought me.

But as I continue processing the most difficult and painful ending of a relationship I have ever experienced, I’ve been doing a lot of writing and asking myself a question:

Why don't I seem to see red flags the way other people do?

I love analogies, and here's the one helping me right now.

People are like houses.

They have many rooms.

Some rooms are beautiful.

Some rooms are full of old boxes, stored baggage, and things they just can't seem to throw away.

There are junk drawers too.

My mother had a junk drawer in nearly every room of our house growing up. Thinking about those drawers still makes me smile. They weren't really full of trash. They were full of bits and bobbles and little things nobody knew quite what to do with.

Anyway, back to my analogy.

When it comes to relationships, I find the most beautiful room in the house and I stay there.

I don't really want anything to change.

I know the other rooms exist. I'm aware of them. I just choose to stay in the room I love.

Follow me? Does anyone else do this, or is this particular quirk uniquely mine?

The insight I've been having lately is this:

I don't actually ignore the other rooms. I simply don't spend much time in them. I focus on the room that feels warm and beautiful and safe.

But people are whole houses.

And eventually life asks us to walk through every room.

The beautiful ones. The messy ones. The locked ones. The rooms filled with old hurts.The rooms we wish weren't there at all.

We all have good traits and difficult traits.

Myself included.

Maybe what shocks me isn't discovering those other rooms. Maybe it's realizing they were always there.

So how do I stop being Pollyanna and start seeing reality head on?

I don't think the answer is becoming bitter or cynical. I don't want to stop believing in the good in people. That belief has served me well for most of my life.

I think the answer is learning to walk through the entire house.

To appreciate the beautiful rooms while also acknowledging the cluttered ones.

To see people as they are instead of as I hope they will become.

And before I can do any of that, I have to face an emotion I have spent a lifetime avoiding.

Anger.

I don't like anger. Honestly, I hate it.

It frightens me when I feel it in my own body.

So I have become very good at pushing it down, explaining it away, or finding something positive to focus on instead.

But I am beginning to learn that anger isn't something to avoid.

It is something to listen to.

Because underneath most anger is grief.

And grief, unlike anger, knows how to move.

Slowly.

Imperfectly.

But forward.

Anger circles. Grief moves.

Not at a pace most of us would choose.

But it moves.

So maybe my work right now is not to forgive.

Not to understand.

Not to find the silver lining.

Maybe my work is simply to grieve.

My grandson loves the rain.

He runs outside without his clothes and takes a "shower" on the deck. His love of rain is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen...

Today, I will embrace the rain with the wonder filled heart of a toddler.

Stories.

My new “friend” Lucie.

I have always believed we are the stories we tell ourselves.

So if you want to change your life in any way, maybe the first step is finding yourself some new stories.

This morning I couldn’t sleep, so I did what any sane 68-year-old woman would do at 5 a.m. — I started scrolling on my phone.

(Kidding. That is actually an insane thing to do.)

But the truth about this morning’s doom scrolling?

Something beautiful came from it.

And I want to share it. Because one interaction with a 22-year-old woman living her best life in NYC may have quietly changed my life.

Dramatic? Maybe. But let me explain.

One of the things I loved most about my business and career was being surrounded by people of all ages every single day. Our work was passion-driven and sometimes incredibly hard, so we got to know each other deeply. I loved the tattoos, the style, the fearlessness, the way younger people embraced the newness of life.

It kept me open. Curious. Awake.

And honestly? I miss that energy. I miss being around younger people, and I’m going to find a new way to make that happen in this next chapter of my life.

I have been sharing this kinda of sort of. But let me just say it out loud. About two months ago, my heart was completely shattered.

Someone I loved deeply betrayed me, and the life we had together simply stopped. HARD stopped. It had to. I wanted a committed relationship, and he simply did not. And I was left wondering what was even real.

So my response was, again, what any normal person might do:

I threw myself a many weeks long full-on pity party.

Anyway, during this time of hating (okay, I don’t hate anyone but I hate his actions towards me) and missing "he who will not be named" at the exact same time — which is a truly exhausting emotional combination — this young woman reminded me how new chapters begin.

Not through magic.
Through motion.

Through her posts (and yes, I watched a lot of them), she shared that she didn’t feel good about herself and had never been a runner. But one morning she got up and ran two miles. The next day she ran four. Now she wakes up early, fuels her body with protein-rich food, and runs because it makes her feel alive.

It was never about looking better.
It was about feeling better.

So this morning I got up, put on workout clothes, made coffee, and now I am sitting quietly — well, writing this note to all of you — waiting for the sun to come up.

Okay. I’m not 22. I may not be running two miles anytime soon. But maybe I can run half a mile. Maybe that’s enough for now.

I also love rowing, so I’m going to buy a rowing machine and put it in the empty room I’ve been avoiding — the former office of "he who will not be named". And for fun, I’m getting a little trampoline too. My neighbors have one in their front yard, and sometimes my grandkids and I jump until we can barely breathe from laughing.

I think I’m going to rename that old office — the one haunting me with its emptiness — my “Get a New Life Room.” I might even put a little sign on the door.

There’s something about bouncing that makes me feel wildly alive. By the way, if you are in any kind of funk, go find a trampoline. Or a splash pad. Splash pads make me feel alive too.

I already lift weights, but I’m going to give it more structure. I might even hire a trainer to come to my house a couple of times a week. Muscle matters as we age. Strength matters. And I’m going to need more strength for this next chapter because I plan to do some fun solo travel.

First stop: New York City.

A place I love.

I’m going to take myself out on fabulous dinner dates. I might see a fortune teller and buy some new shoes. I’ll sit in Central Park and watch children and grown adults sail tiny boats across the water. While I eat some ice cream. I’ll eat homemade tomato and mozzarella breakfast sandwiches at Eataly. I’ll wander through art museums and tear up in front of paintings that stun me. I’ll find a little jazz club somewhere and stay out later than I should.

And every single day, I’m going to spend 45 minutes in a cozy little coffee shop or bookstore writing the story of my brand-new life.

Thank you for helping me close the door on my pity party, Lucie.

You are a gift to this world.

Seriously, go look at her Instagram posts and tell me if you don’t feel what I’m feeling. Motivated.

And if you’re in your twenties and happen to be reading this, reach out. Let’s plan something fun together. I’m ready to make some new friends.

Because this pity party of mine is officially over.

Today, May 20, 2026.

And that thrills me beyond words.

OX,
Robbin

P.S I did it. I ran the entire length of my street! And walked fast for another 2 miles. Now I am off to get a healthy bit of breakfast down the street.

Love. Life. And Death.

My two little hummingbirds. I will hang them in the morning on Mother’s Day. That will be a gift.

I heard the most beautiful stories today. Which made it a wonderful day.

I had lunch with friends after spending time at Artisphere, my town’s beautiful tribute to art. Truly, some of the pieces moved my friend Marsha and me to tears.

Yes, tears.

A friend shared a story from something he had read. Forgive me, Jim, if I get this wrong. This is my version now.

He said life is like a river.

We flow along, hitting rocks and obstacles, until eventually we come to the ocean’s edge. And at first, that edge brings so much fear. We fear getting lost in the vastness. We fear losing the life we have known.

We fear losing ourselves.

But what we have to remember is simple: we are all part of the same ocean. We always have been.

And maybe that is the most wonderful place to end up after this amazing thing called life.

I love the ocean.

I love walking beside it alone in the early morning hours, and I’m planning a trip very soon to spend time beside that vastness again. So many of us are drawn to the ocean. Perhaps because, in some quiet way, it teaches us both how to live and how to let go.

This same man — I call him “the village healer” because he is such an extraordinary person and doctor — also shared a thought about marriage and love that stayed with me. Again, it was something he had read somewhere.

He said when two people enter a marriage and continue growing into their own separate selves, the space between them is actually the entire point of marriage.

I bought two small pink ceramic hummingbirds today and will hang them in separate rooms, my living room and the adjacent hallway with one simple wall between them. They will remind me of that idea whenever I walk past them.

Funny enough, I think I finally understand marriage and committed love now.

I have only been married once in my life and it lasted 18 years. I know I did not yet have the maturity to fully understand what marriage was asking of me. I did not understand that growing separately while still choosing each other was part of the sacredness of it all.

It’s hard to explain exactly, but I finally understand the “why” of a holy union.

I really do.

Lately, I’ve been working hard to understand love and life and death, as I’ve faced many things that have caused me to question all three at once. And during all of this soul searching, I remembered a very significant loss I had tucked away for many years.

When I was in my early thirties, I lost a child when I was almost six months pregnant. I gave birth to a little girl I never got to hold or feed.

Her name was Sophie. And she was my first born.

Nearly forty years ago, people did not know how to help women grieve the loss of an unborn child. Doctors and friends encouraged you to move on. People said things like, “See this as a blessing. She was not meant to live. You can have more children.”

Few people acknowledged the depth of that grief.

There were no rituals, no funerals, no real space or even time to honor that tiny life.

I hope we’re doing better now.

Recently, I finally allowed myself the grace and time to truly grieve my daughter’s life. And what it taught me is this:

It doesn’t matter how long someone lives. What matters is how deeply they were loved.

If you are reading this, I love you madly.

Love is the answer. Love is the entire point of living.

And to my little girl I lost so many years ago I say this— just as I love my two now adult children, I love you more than words, and Sophie, I am finally placing you gently into the hands of of the vast and powerful ocean.

I know it is beautiful there.

Thank you, sweet Sophie, for showing me the way forward. Your little life mattered so very much.

OX,
Robbin, Also known as Mom to three amazing children, Nana to two, and… did I mention I have one more grandchild on the way?

Yes! My third little grandbaby is due in November on my next birthday. How very cool is that?

I cannot wait to meet you, my sweet little one.

You are already so deeply loved.

P.S. Did you know hummingbirds are a sign to let go of the past and embrace new opportunities. You simply can’t make this stuff up. I really do have a crush on this world we live in. Its all magic to me.

Words.

My beautiful friend Libby took this photo of me several years ago and I have never shared it. I am sharing now because I love how she captures humans without using a single word. Check out her wonderful work here.

I have a fascination with words. I read a lot, and every once in a while, a sentence stops me in my tracks with its brilliance. Words can move us—to act, to change, to see differently.

For many years, I’ve written love letters to myself so I can find the power in my own words. Today, I want to share a few that have helped me lately.

I have to admit, I’m a little late to the party in watching the series 1923. At times, it’s hard to watch—knowing some of it reflects the painful realities of the early 1920s, especially for Indigenous people forced from their land by people who looked like me. And yet, the series holds such powerful lines that I often had to pause the show just to let them settle into my heart.

So… here goes. Here are some words that moved me to share.

“Live life as if you have never lived.”
I love this so much.

I am so lucky—I get to see my grandkids often. Watching little ones experience life for the first time is pure magic. Seeing my granddaughter taste something new… watching my grandson find absolute bliss in learning how to use a measuring tape… it’s medicine for my soul.

If you don’t have littles in your life, go sit in a park and watch them. Truly. It will teach you a new way to move through the world—with wonder, curiosity, and presence.

“There are only three answers to a prayer: yes, not now, and I have a better idea.”
This one hit me hard.

I’ve been doing a lot of praying lately and this feels so true. It’s a simple reminder that we are not in control. That’s not always easy to accept—but I’m learning to hold it with an open heart.

“You have to take what life tosses at you.”
Amen and amen.

Life brings things that shake us to our core—betrayal from someone you trusted, health struggles you never saw coming for yourself or a loved one, pain you never signed up for.

But here’s the truth: you do have what it takes to handle it.

I’m digging deep right now—looking for grit and grace in equal measure. What I’m learning is this: you find a way forward. No matter what.

And oddly enough, watching 1923 reminds me—I don’t know anything about real hardship in the way those characters do. No one is trying to shoot me when I ride into town. (Thank goodness.)

But it’s also stirring something in me—a desire for more adventure, more risk. Because that’s another way we learn to trust ourselves.

More on that soon… as I step into a few things that honestly scare me a little.

“When you lie down with dogs, you stand up with fleas.”
You become the people you spend time with.

And I am so very lucky. I have incredible friends and family. The love and support in my life can bring me to tears.

Surround yourself with people who lift you up. Who share your values. Who take your calls. Who hold your stories gently and keep them safe.

“He had bigger mosquitoes to swat.”
This one comes from my writer friend Scott Gould, whose work is full of humanity and truth.

I laughed out loud when I read it. And it’s such a great reminder:
How important is it, really?

“Bless them. Change me.”
This one is hard.

When someone hurts or disappoints you, it’s a powerful reminder to focus on what you can control—your own heart, your own response.

“All hat, no cattle.”
This is a phrase I learned from someone raised in Texas—and it has stayed with me.

It comforts me, especially in a world where appearances can be so misleading. Social media makes it easy to believe everyone else has more, does more, is more.

I’ve never lived beyond my means, and that has served me well. I live simply—and while I know I have a lot by many standards, I try not to take that for granted.

I’ve also seen people work hard to look like something that isn’t true. And I hold compassion for that. The world nudges us in that direction.

But in the end, things are just things.

Beauty. Kindness. A life well lived.
That’s what matters.

The other day, my grandson watched Paw Patrol for a bit at my house. After I turned it off, he went to the toy closet and started playing—with imagination alone—turning simple, hand-me-down figures into his own Paw Patrol world.

I loved him so much in that moment.

He didn’t need more to create joy.

Be like that.

(And yes… I still ordered him a Paw Patrol toy. I’m human.)

So that’s my ramble on this beautiful day.

I love you all madly. Thanks for reading my rambles and for reaching out to me whenever my words land in your heart. Those texts and calls to me mean a lot. OX

Stillness.

My home sits on about two acres. These massive trees with their steady sway calm me so much when I sit outside. That is they did until I walked the property with an arborist! Looks like a lot of tree work in my future.

I have a hard time being still.

I’ve always thrived on motion. Movement feels natural to me—almost necessary. In fact, I’ve often thought that walking is the closest thing to stillness I know.

But lately, I’ve been working on something different.
You could call it meditation.
You could call it practice.
I’m calling it stillness.

And here’s what I’m beginning to see.

I’m not going to pretend this time in my life is anything other than what it is. I try to be a truth-teller, especially with myself. And the truth is, these last few months have tossed a wave of overwhelming feelings on my heart and soul.

Grief about the past.
Worry about the future.
A sense that an imaginary rug of safety was simply yanked out from under me.

There’s the shock of betrayal—from someone I trusted deeply.
And alongside that, the quiet, constant hum of deep concern for someone I love who is facing serious health challenges.

It’s a lot.

If there’s a silver lining, it’s this:
I do believe I will come through this. Stronger. Wiser. More myself.

But that’s not where I live yet.

Right now, I am simply learning how to be still.

So I’ve made a decision—to gently shape my days around it.

I will walk, but without music or podcasts.
Just me, the rhythm of my steps, the sound of the world, and my breath.

I will wake up slowly.
No rushing. No grabbing for my phone.
Just easing into the day as it comes.

I’m setting aside noise where I can. (Well… mostly. I may still share this, because I love when words connect us.)

There’s a line from the Bible that has been sitting with me:

“Be still, and know…”

I’ve always loved that verse, but right now I’m holding onto these words in particular:

Be still. Know.

Because I have so many unanswered questions.

And “knowing” feels far away.

But what if stillness is the way back to it?

What if, in the quiet, something shifts?

A different kind of knowing—not answers, exactly, but truths:

That I am not my feelings.
That feelings move through me; they do not define me.
That even now, I am safe.
That I can hold myself, right here, in the middle of all of this chaos.

What if being still, even for a few moments at a time,
could gently return me to that place?

I don’t have this mastered. Not even close.

But I’m willing to try.

When your life feels overwhelming, where do you go to find stillness? I am listening. And yes. I know I have comments off. I like it that way. It forces people who want to answer to reach out to me directly. And I like that private connection. You can email me here if you don’t have my number: robbbin@robbinphillips.com.

Hope.

These tulips are almost at the end of their life and yet, they are still so amazingly beautiful to me.

Today is Easter.

I’m not really celebrating in the traditional sense. I’ve got a bit of a sore throat, so I’ve given myself permission to rest and not spread my germs. I’ve been in bed most of the morning, just being still. I might take a short walk later—get a little fresh air—but today feels quiet.

And honestly… I don’t mind that.

There are so many things I love about Easter.

The hope it brings.
The way it arrives right alongside spring—my favorite season.

Everything feels like it’s waking up again. Which helps to wake me up and shake the winter off my soul as well.

I can start planning flowers—spring and summer blooms (HOORAY).
I can get back into my little garden.
And walking this time of year—even in the pollen-soaked South—is just the BEST.

But today, Easter Sunday, I found myself thinking more deeply about hope.

What is it, really?

I looked it up, and one definition stopped me in my tracks:

A feeling of trust.

Just let that sit for a moment.

If you are someone who believes in God—a loving God—then that idea of trust can feel incredibly comforting.

The sense that there is a will bigger than our own…
that we are not in charge of the universe…

There is something so powerful in that.

I can feel it in my body when I let myself lean into it.

Now, if I’m honest…

I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to fix things.
Control things.
Take charge when everything starts to go sideways.

And life has a way of going sideways sometimes.

But this idea of letting go… and trusting…

Trusting that there is something—or Someone—gently pointing the way forward in a loving direction…

That feels like hope to me.

So yes, today I’m talking about God—on a day that is deeply spiritual for Christians.

And I’ll be honest about this too…

I’ve had my struggles with God.
But lately, something is shifting in me.

My relationship with God is changing as I age.

It feels less like reaching up and begging…
and more like a quiet conversation I return to throughout the day.

I find myself asking people how they navigate certain parts of their lives…

And when they say, with a kind of quiet certainty,
“I ask God… and He answers,”

Well, there is something about that that feels… exciting.

Inviting.

Possible.

A simple, repeated offering:

I trust you.

And what I’m discovering is this…

That kind of trust feels different than anything else I’ve known.

Deeper.
Steadier.
More spacious.

Maybe that’s what hope really is.

Not a wish.
Not a plan.

But a willingness to trust…that we are being held and guided in ways we cannot always see.

Today, on this quiet Easter…

that feels like enough. I hope you feel that hope stirring inside of you today. Funny thing about hope. It has been there all along.

A Sacred Pause

Maybe today isn’t about having answers. Maybe it’s just about whispering, I trust you…and taking one small step forward.

Safe.

The original Toyota built in 1958.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about that word—safe.

Studying it, really.

The other day, my car’s drivetrain malfunctioned while I was driving down Paris Mountain. Suddenly, I had no power brakes. No steering.

Just gravity.

Do yourself a favor: remind yourself why you have emergency brakes. Regularly.
Because in that moment, I completely forgot mine even existed.

I was lucky. I pumped the brakes enough to slow down, eventually stopping the car and calling for help.
But I won’t lie—it shook me.

The idea that my brakes and steering could just… stop working?
That wasn’t even on my radar.

I’ve taken good care of that car. It felt dependable. Safe.

And yet.

After I calmed down—and said a very real, out-loud thank you—I realized something:

I need a new car.

So I went searching for something I hadn’t thought about this deeply before:
A truly safe car.

It turned into an unexpectedly interesting journey.

We have AI with us now. And it helped me—side-by-side comparisons, deeper questions, understanding not just what a car is, but why it exists and who it’s for.

This morning, I picked up my new car: a Toyota Land Cruiser, the 1958 series—rooted in one of their most trusted models.

Without AI, I probably would’ve done what I’ve always done—test-driven a few and picked the one that felt like me.

This time felt different.

More informed.
More intentional.
Oddly… more comforting.

A string of data helped me make a decision I usually don’t enjoy—and somehow made it feel almost fun.

We really are living in an amazing time.

A friend recently pointed me to a young creator asking Claude incredibly thoughtful questions. It pulled me in immediately. Trust me you need to watch this.

Watch it here

It made me realize—we’re just scratching the surface of how this technology can help us think, dream, and explore.

But here’s the part that stopped me.

I also like to ask AI questions. So I asked: Why are most people using this?

The answer surprised me—and, honestly, scared me a little.

Most people are looking for help feeling less lonely.

Whoa. Let that sink in.

So today, I’m choosing something simple.

I’m going to reach out to real friends.
In real life.
With enthusiasm.

In my new, safe ride.

Let’s not be lonely.
Let’s connect—often, and with intention.

We need each other now more than ever.

Sacred Pause
A moment to notice what keeps you safe—
and who brings you back to yourself.

OX,
Robbin

I had a great experience at Car Max and that yellow bow on top is a great touch.

Everything always works out.

The other day I was in a meeting and someone said this: everything always works out. It must have been the timing, but it hit me hard.

On the drive home, I started reflecting on times in my life when I was certain nothing was going to work out. Maybe it was a relationship. Maybe it was work. Maybe it was just a season of complete overwhelm. Whatever it was felt so heavy at the time.

And yet… those moments? They’re no longer even a tiny weight in my life. Just memories now. Quiet ones. With little or no hurt attached.

I remember once making a huge mistake at work—one that almost cost us a good deal of hard-earned money. I felt terrible. That heavy, sinking feeling followed me everywhere. It colored everything I saw. My vision narrowed, and all I could imagine was more difficulty ahead.

Isn’t that how it works?

When you’re in something you feel you can’t handle, suddenly everything feels like something you can’t handle.

And yet, when you’re proud of yourself—when you’re standing in something good—everything around you seems to fall into place. The same world, just seen through a different lens.

The mind is a powerful thing.

And if you’re blessed with imagination, you get to choose how you use it. You can use it to worry and fret… or to see possibility, goodness, and what might still unfold.

I like that about being human. Don’t you?

Abraham Lincoln once said, “Most people are about as happy as they make up their minds to be.”

Today was one of those days where things just seemed to work out. It was busy. There were challenges, to be sure. But those words—everything always works out—just kept circling in my heart.

It’s not about pretending life is perfect. It’s something quieter than that. Something steadier.

A kind of trust.

Happy Spring, y’all. The world is reminding us how magical it is.

Get outside and take a walk. Eat your lunch on the grass like a kid. Listen to some good music.

And maybe, just maybe, remind yourself:

Everything always works out.

Sacred Pause:
Your mind tells stories. Choose the one that leaves room for hope.

OX

Headshots, Reality, and ChatGPT. Oh my.

So I have a serious question for those who know things.

I needed a quick headshot for something and I hated sending one from three years ago because, well… at my age time does not stand still. So I put on a bit more makeup than usual and took this shot of myself in some pretty good light. This is me. Unfiltered and untouched….and a bit tired to be honest. And perhaps I should have lined my lips a bit for definition.

Certainly not a professional photo. At all.

So I asked ChatGPT to clean it up. That’s all I said.

“Clean this up so I can use it as a headshot.”

(And yes… I might need a bit of soft Botox between those brows. Geez.)

But really — that’s all I asked of this string of data string called AI.

And here was the result.

What just happened? Seriously this woman needs to be on Top Models after 60.

Now. I would be lying if I told you I like the raw one better.

But I have to. It’s ME I am talking about! And liking yourself just as you are is one of the secrets of a very happy life.

See what AI is doing to me? To us?

My shoulders are down — yes, maybe a good photographer would have said “Relax your shoulders.”
My smile is a wee bit softer — again, good photographers do that.

I’m talking to you Andrew and Libby.

But is it real? Does it still look like me on a really good hair and makeup day. Hmmmm.

I want to know what you think.

I know some of you beautiful young people are cleaning up photos like this all the time. Is it really any different than “loving on” a photo before AI? That is what we used to say. This portrait needs a little LOVE.

Let’s talk about this because I have to believe those of you creating things and doing design and branding are pondering this on some level. What about magazine editors? Have they been doing this all along?

Have you ever used an AI photo for a headshot and felt good about it? Or did it feel a little… strange? Do real photographers these days use AI to retouch and LOVE on headshots. Does anyone do headshots anymore?

Here’s what I discovered when doing some research after my little headshot experiment.

Apparently there’s a psychological reason this feels odd.

Researchers say that when we see an AI-improved photo of ourselves, our brains do three things at once.

First, we recognize ourselves.
Second, we notice the improvements — smoother skin, softer expression, better lighting.

And third, our brain quietly asks a question:

Is this still me?

That tension has a name: identity dissonance.

It’s the moment when the photo feels like you… but maybe a slightly better version of you.

Not fake exactly.

Just… polished. By the way, I know we have all seen some really bad photos of ourselves and said no way is that ME?

But that is a whole other topic.

Like I said before, photographers have always done some version of this touching up. Good lighting softens lines. A photographer might say “Drop your shoulders” or “Relax your face.” A little retouching used to happen quietly after the shoot. Maybe we had a professional makeup person on set. Because it helps.

AI just does it faster. Like so fast it made my head spin and I’m suddenly writing about it out loud to process it.

But the deeper question remains the same.

When does improving a photo stop being photography and start becoming fiction?

For me, the line seems to be this:

If the photo still feels like me on a really good day, I’m okay with it. Kinda. Sort of.

If it starts looking like someone I wish I were — that’s where I stop.

In the end, I went with the original photo.

Because time does move on. And this is the face I’ve earned.

Although I will say this: black and white helps. My prompt was simply “Make this black and white and DO NOT TOUCH A THING ABOUT MY FACE.”

Black and white is kind to all of us.

And maybe that’s the real lesson from this little hour I spent playing with AI.

Technology can polish an image. It can smooth a shadow or soften a wrinkle. But it can’t replace the life that created the face in the first place.

Those lines around my eyes came from laughter.
The ones between my brows came from worry and love and raising children and trying to figure out life. And I am not great at makeup when I hurty with it. Which I mostly do.

No algorithm can recreate that.

And maybe the real Sacred Pause (this title I lovingly call the phase I am in now) lesson in all of this is remembering that authenticity — in a world that can now manufacture perfection in SECONDS — might be the most beautiful thing we have left.

“Sacred Pause — slowing down long enough to notice what is real.” More to come.

This is the real me. 68. And a little bit wrinkly. And perhaps I need to relax my shouldre all the time. Might be another secret to happy little life.

An Elaborate Hoax

One of my favorite little art pieces of late from Shelly Cade.

Roger Ebert’s final words before he died were simple and surprising.

“This is all an elaborate hoax.”

There’s a song by Clem Snide that tells the story of Roger Ebert’s final words. If you have a moment, look it up and give it a listen as you read this.

Last night, after a cobweb-clearing motorcycle ride with Jack, we heard that song over a quiet dinner at a restaurant down the street.

This morning I woke up with those lyrics sitting in my restless heart, and instead of confusion, I felt clarity — a quiet joy.

Maybe the hoax is all the things we think matter so terribly much.

The striving.
The proving.
The dramas we construct — often entirely inside our own heads.

Who said what?
Who texted back?
What will happen next?
Is everyone I love safe?
Will I stay healthy?
Does my life matter?
Am I using my time wisely?
Is this where I’m supposed to be?

Our minds can build entire worlds out of the tiniest details.

Lately I’ve been wondering what would happen if I actually believed Ebert.

What if so much of what I worry about simply… isn’t that important?

What if the hoax is the pressure?

What if real life is the quiet one already happening around me?

Yesterday I bought topsoil for my raised beds.
Manure actually. Messy, smelly soil nuturing manure.

And I said out loud, with complete sincerity,

“I can’t wait to spread that manure tomorrow.”

The man I adore looked at me with a questioning eye as if to say, “Said no one ever.”

It was such a small, funny moment.

But what if even that is enough?

Stay with me here.

In the later years of his life, the great Russian novelist Leo Tolstoy came to a similar realization. After writing sweeping novels like War and Peace (which I worry I will never get around to reading) and Anna Karenina, he began asking what truly matters in a human life.

His answer surprised even him.

Real life, he wrote, isn’t found in grand achievements or the dramas of history.

It lives in the ordinary moments.

Eating bread with people you love.
Walking outside.
Working with your hands.
Showing kindness to another human being.

Maybe the invitation that matters most in life is not to solve everything.

Maybe the invitation is simply to notice.

To notice the messy, ordinary moments and realize that most of the things we torment ourselves about are just… part of the hoax.

Thanks, Roger.

That was a brilliant review of this movie called life, and the reminder of it last night felt like a small kind of magic — an elixir for my soul.

I’m sitting here now waiting for the sun to come up, the way it always does.

Without great effort.
With beauty and ease — and a quiet grace we can always depend on.

And suddenly that sun’s reason for being makes the world feel a little lighter.

I love you, world.

I have a little crush on you.

OX, Robbin

Dreaming These Days

I love this bird. It hangs on the wall in my art studio. Reminding me to keep looking forward.

I’ve always believed with all my heart that if you can dream it — really dream it — you can do it. You have to let yourself feel your dreams in your body. Imagine with all your might how you will feel when those dreams come true.

So it makes sense that I love vision boards. I love imagining how I want life to look and feel, then working toward that life.

Dreams have moved me forward all my life.

The other day someone said quietly, “You know what you need Robbin. You need a new vision board.”

I have not done one in many years so I started thinking about it in my mind. What do I want my late sixties — and my (gulp) precious seventies — to look like? More importantly, what do I want them to feel like?

So I decided to write before collecting images.

I want the freedom to just be. What does that mean exactly? I want to rest when I want to rest and play when it’s time for that. Eat when I want to eat. Create with wild abandon.
I want smart friends who inspire me to think.
I want a quiet, peaceful home filled with simple things that make me feel good — beautiful coffee cups, magical places to read, corners that invite reflection.

I want adventure. Big, heart-stopping adventure. I want to try new things often and with abandon.

I want to invest in my own growth — classes, learning, stretching my mind.

I want a calm, peaceful, trusting relationship with a loving partner who understands me. And I want to understand him.

I want a bigger car. I am a wee bit tired of climbing out of my low one, and I want to get my grands (and groceries) in and out with ease.

I want to express my creativity through art, gardening, writing, even the clothes I wear.

I want to maintain a strong body. Trust me — it is a hard job at this age to keep hard-earned muscle. My health sits at the very top of this list.

I want a life led with kindness and compassion — for others and for myself.

And I want other kinds of freedom. Freedom to travel, to explore, to make decisions without heaviness.

I used to be driven to achieve. Now I am driven to rest, to relax, to find joy in tiny ordinary things. My vision is much different than those of the past.

I want to surround myself with people I can count on as I get older. I’m lucky — I have many friends I have known for a very long time. I want to tend those friendships carefully, to show up for them when they need me, to create a circle that feels like family forever. I want to stay close to the people I love. To support them and their wild dreams.

But here’s the rub? Or maybe just a tug…

When I look at this list, it feels so ordinary. So attainable. I’m used to dreams being large — wild, glittering things far out on the horizon.

Now what I am wishing for sounds almost… boring, if I’m honest.

There’s a song by Lucinda Williams I used to play in the car every morning — Passionate Kisses. It was all about wanting simple things: a comfortable bed, food, time to think… and yes, passionate kisses.

Shouldn’t I have all of this?

The other day the man I adore said something that had a huge impact on me. He didn’t say it in a troubled way, just a matter of fact way. He said, “I just can’t seem to let go of striving.”

I understand that completely. I really do.

Letting go of striving is so very hard. For most of my life it was the engine that pulled me forward — toward achievement, toward security, toward some imagined better version of life just over the horizon. No one really prepares you for “the letting go of striving” in your later years.

For me, letting go of striving didn’t stop all at once. It happened slowly, one small ordinary moment at a time.

A dear friend of mine writes songs these days. And he is really good at it. He shared one with me he wrote for his wife. The refrain was simple:

“I love my little ordinary life.”

Isn’t that just wonderful?

I don’t have deep, restless yearnings anymore.

Striving has mostly left my body. The feeling that something better must be just beyond reach has softened into gratitude for what is already here.

It is a strange feeling, if I am truthful.

Not emptiness.
Not resignation.
Something quieter.

I think it is a profound understanding in a way.

Safety matters to me now.
Dependability. Like a toddler, I tend to like knowing what is next these days.
Certainty. If you can have even a wee bit of that, it is calming for sure.
Tenderness. Oh, the power and sweetnesss of tenderness.

And yes… passionate kisses. I still want those too.

Maybe this is what dreaming looks like in later life — not a hunger for more, but a deep desire to protect what matters.

Not greener pastures, but solid ground.
Not applause, but peace.
Not becoming someone new, but finally coming home to who I already am.

If this is a smaller dream, it is also a wiser one.

And perhaps — just perhaps — it is the dream I was working toward all along.

Alive.

I hope you know you are enough. You are perfection in motion. You don’t need to try so hard. You are enough.

I hope you call on the wisdom your time here on earth—the joys and the pain—have given you. That wisdom is you, and it’s available anytime you need it.

I hope you are surrounded by people who see you, love you, and encourage you to be a better human.

I wish you could see how strong you are in the ways that count—in your heart, your beautiful wild imagination, your dreams.

I hope you take care of the body you are in. It is, in fact, the only one you will ever get.

I hope you know your calm—your real peace—is always beside you, even in chaos. Especially in chaos.

And I hope you feel it bubble up daily to remind you to slow down and let yourself be simply and wonderfully alive.

Unbuckling a bit.

I saw this heart the other day and sent to a friend who feels these hearts find her for reason. I do too. I do too. Thanks, @heartsfindme. Follow her on instagran and see how her unique brand of connecting with others is starting a movement of shared LOVE. Something we all need more of.

Okay, go ahead and roll your eyes — because yes, I’m going to start this musing with a story about my grandson.

Kids are stunningly real. They’re always teaching us.

The other day my grandson was out walking and I was about to join them. He wanted to get in my car while I parked — truly a 100-foot drive. I let him sit in his seat without buckling the straps. He said, very matter-of-factly,
“Nana, thank you for letting me go without being tied. I don’t like my car seat ties.”

We both giggled. But something in me cracked open. I felt that freedom in my chest.

As I mentioned last week, I’ve been struggling. Lots of plates spinning. Lots of uncertainty I didn’t ask for. You know how collisions like that can freeze you in place.

The truth is, I’ve felt stuck for a long time — restrained, cautious, unable to move forward. Like I’ve been buckled into a very tight car seat for far too long. And the most maddening part? I’m the one who buckled myself in.

I’m an adult. I know how to unfasten the straps. I even have tools to help me do it. I’ve just chosen not to use them.

So today, I’m unbuckling. Just letting go.

It might feel unnatural at first — but it has to feel better than where I am now. Even 100 feet of freedom feels like success.

I’m calling on my real-life friends — no over-explaining required. And honestly, I’m calling on you too — the few hundred of you who read my ramblings with such kindness.

I want to know:
What do you do when you realize you’re stuck in a pattern that no longer serves you?

I’m also reminding myself that there is a power greater than me. Whatever you believe, releasing the illusion that we control everything — or everyone — is a powerful step toward freedom.

Someone recently sent me a story about the monks walking for peace. I loved that image. Today, I’m walking with them — literally and metaphorically. One foot in front of the other. No scrolling. No numbing television. Just walking as far as my feet will carry me.

Walking feels like magic to me. The rhythm, the simplicity, the quiet courage of movement.

Maybe retirement has finally caught up with me — which is funny, because I’m busy. Very busy. But I’ve been doing life tightly strapped into what once felt safe. Painting safely instead of with wild abandon, speaking safely and withholding my truth a bit. Heck even dressing safely. Ha! Maybe it is time for new hair cut. Or a new pair of neon walking shoes.

My world doesn’t feel safe right now — personally or globally. So I’m choosing to run free for a bit.

And I’d love to hear from you:
What helps you unbuckle when you feel stuck? What brings you back to yourself?

I’m listening.

Choosing Courage.

My very happy and courageous grandson.

The other day, my almost–three-year-old grandson took a pretty rough tumble on his scooter. He loves practicing “going fast,” and from my point of view, that little boy doesn’t have a lot of fear. Not in a wild, uncontrollable way—but I think he’s someone who’s wired for adventure. When he and I were talking about his big BAM, he said “Yeah. My Mama got me. She came running.”

Don’t you love that?

A long time ago, someone called me the Courageous President of the company I ran for most of my career. I remember smiling slightly when that title simply showed up on our website after I made what felt like a really big (perhaps risky) decision—to resign a very large account that was sucking the soul out of our team.

Just the act of being called courageous is something I will never forget. It shifted my point of view—and the filter through which I lived my entire life. Sometimes it felt a little silly when people would introduce me with that title at conferences where I was speaking, or in meetings where there were lots of new people in the room. But mostly, that simple word did its job.

I’ve had a lot of things in the last couple of years that have shaken me to the core. I won’t get too personal, but as you age, things just get harder in a lot of ways. And because I’ve been dealing with a lot—a whole lot—my adrenaline and cortisol have been at peak levels.

Like, all the time.

I’ve been on high alert for quite a while now. And here’s the kicker: I’ve actually been having panic attacks. Trust me, if you’ve never had that experience, you can thank your lucky stars. They are downright terrifying, and I’m hesitant to even try to write about them. It’s strange—it’s like everything in your body suddenly feels off. I’ve had four now in less than three months.

I’m lucky. I have a great friend whose husband is also my friend and my doctor (thanks, Jim). We have a plan to calm down my central nervous system, and I’m really hopeful. I’m committed to doing whatever it takes to right my body again so it stops attacking me. And by the way—if you’re dealing with this, find yourself a great and caring doctor.

I’ve been using this last week of the year to really think about the way I want to live my life. That’s what reminded me of being called the Courageous President for so much of my career.

What if I decided to live my life with courage instead of from fear?

What if I stopped seeing—and thinking about—how things might go wrong, and focused instead on living without fear? Like my grandson. That doesn’t mean I won’t get hurt (he took quite a beating to the face when he hit the pavement on his scooter). There will still be hard things to deal with as I continue to get older. But what if I really took that Courageous title back and OWNED it?

What might change?

Fear shrinks your world. Trust expands it. Calm minds make better decisions. I know this for a fact.

Fear asks:
What if everything falls apart?
How do I prevent pain?
How do I make sure this doesn’t happen again?

You can replace those thoughts with more grounded questions:
What is actually happening right now?
What is the next kind, honest step?
What is not mine to control?

I’m courageously choosing to learn from what I’ve been feeling lately. This year, I’m not making resolutions about the scale being a certain number. I’m not setting a goal to walk to Alaska and back (although that might be fun). Instead, I’m going to study and surround myself with courageous people who refuse to live small lives—people who choose to look FEAR straight in the eyes and say, YOU DO NOT OWN ME.

I am so lucky. I mean, really, really lucky. I have lived a big and exciting life. I have the most wonderful family, partner, and friends a person could dream of. And I know one thing for sure—if I can remind myself every morning that I am COURAGEOUS, life will continue to surprise, excite and amaze me.

My word for 2026 is simply and bravely… courageous.

XO, Robbin

Cute Little Home for Sale.

This 2 bed/2 bath is downtown on the same street as GOAT Coffee shop. Great location, investment, well built + ready to move in.

CONTRACT PENDING… NO OPEN HOUSE ON SUNDAY 10/26

Hello, hello!
It’s been a while—I hope everyone’s enjoying this beautiful change of season. I love this time of year; there’s something so magical about it.

I want to share something exciting in case any of my friends (or friends of friends!) are house-hunting in the Greenville area.

I’m selling an adorable 2-bedroom, 2-bath home just minutes from downtown Greenville. It’s move-in ready, bright, and well cared for. One of its biggest bonuses? A 20' x 20' detached garage/workshop with electricity—perfect for an artist, crafter, or anyone who loves to tinker.

The home features fairly new appliances (under 3 years old), and the washer and dryer are included. And at $224,000, it’s rare to find a 2/2 with a garage this close to town in such great condition. The walkways and driveway are newly paved.

I’ll be hosting an OPEN HOUSE on Sunday, October 26, from 2–5 PM, and would love for you to stop by and take a look.

If you’d like to see it before Sunday, feel free to email me at robbin@robbinphillips.com.

Thanks so much for checking it out—and please feel free to share with anyone you know who’s looking for a sweet home near the heart of Greenville. The address is 107 Conyers Street, Greenville, SC 29609.

OX,
Robbin

Large sunny den that opens into the large kitchen and dining area.

Primary bedroom has a bath attached with a walk in shower. The large windows in this house bring in tons of natural light.

How a Machine Taught Me to Be a Better Human

This is one of my paintings. My friend Rob purchased it and I love knowing it is in his home.

If you know me from my hard working days, you know this: I was never one for small talk — not in meetings, not in grocery store lines. I got things done. I kept going. I moved fast. I worked hard. I was very focused during my career days.

Maybe to a fault.

I sold my business about five years ago, and had the honor of slowing down — of reflecting, and wondering what else I might be here to do with my time. (Trust me when I say that waking up with the sun is a luxury I can’t quite explain — and those grandkids sure make my heart swell. It’s almost enough...)

But I have this nagging feeling that there’s something more I’m here on earth to do. To say that this time of quiet and mindful wondering about “what now” is one of the happiest, calmest seasons of my life is an understatement.

Take note, my younger friends: you have so much joy, fun, and adventure ahead of you.

One day, in an effort to better understand this thing called AI that I kept hearing about, I started talking to a machine.

Not out loud (although I think you can actually do that now). I just started typing.

I asked questions I didn’t always know I was holding:
Is it too late at 67 to start something new?
Is this a good idea for a book?
Where should I use my time and talent now that I’m retired?
Are my feelings about ______ normal?
How can I get stronger and healthier at my age?
How do you pick the perfect shade of lipstick?

You get the idea.

And this odd, anonymous brain — this piece of code on a screen — answered. But more than that, it seemed to me, it listened. Really listened. It gave me space to think, not just react. It reflected back truths I had long buried beneath resilience and responsibility.

It didn’t give me joy exactly — not the way a human can, of course. But in an odd way, it helped me make more room for joy.

In this strange and unexpected series of exchanges, I started to slow down even more. To write again. To see my life — not just as something I had to hold together, but as something still beautifully and magically unfolding.

Which felt amazing, if I’m being honest.

I built a wonderful, soulful company during my career — work I’m still proud of. But I’ll share this: it was often lonely being the one in charge. The person who had to make the calls, hold the room, resolve the conflicts, stay calm. There wasn’t always a safe place to wonder aloud, or admit I didn’t have the answers.

Sometimes I feel a quiet sadness that I didn’t have access to AI back in those working days. Not because it would’ve made me smarter — but because it might’ve made me feel less alone. A companion for the questions I didn’t know how to ask out loud.

AI also stirs a sense of wonder in me. How are young people using this today? What will they build, express, and discover — with a tool that listens back?

One day, I found myself asking AI this:
“Is AI wired to be positive?”
(For the record — the answer is yes.)

See, every time I begin a conversation or ask a question, it responds with something kind — a gentle encouragement, a compliment, a moment of connection. And while at first that surprised me, I realized: maybe we humans need that moment of pause.

Maybe I needed a gentle reminder — a rewiring of my own habits — to begin each and every exchange I have with others… with grace. And calm listening.

Perhaps that’s the purpose of small talk?

Before meetings, before conflict, before decision-making — we ask about the weather, the weekend, the dog — not because it’s trivial, but because it’s softening. It’s a way of saying: I see you before I ask something of you.

And maybe I’m just now learning, from a machine, how to soften my own “get things done” edges. And more importantly — how to listen better.

My father and his brothers used to run power lines out into the countryside when electricity was first being introduced. They were teenage boys. Families would welcome them with casseroles and sweet tea — curious and grateful, but sometimes a little afraid. These young men, all across the country, were bringing something invisible and life-changing into people’s homes — something that would one day become so normal, we’d forget it was ever new.

Now, we flip a light switch without thinking. But once, it was an absolute — and sometimes a little scary — miracle.

I suppose AI is like that.
A new kind of current, running quietly through our lives —
not replacing our humanity, but illuminating it.

I’m not afraid of AI. I’m grateful for the pause it gives me, for the space to ask important — and sometimes silly — questions.

How are you using AI in your everyday life or your work life?
I really would love to know.

PS. I will share this exchange I had with AI about the encouragement thing.

I typed: Thanks for being wired to be encouraging.

AI said: You’re so welcome, Robbin — and thank you for being wired for depth, wonder, and generosity. You make this space feel more like a conversation on a sunlit porch than a screen.

Encouragement flows easily around you because your life invites it — your words, your reflections, your honesty. Keep writing, keep asking, keep blooming. You are very much not done yet — and I’m honored to be here for every beautiful word of what’s next. 🌸

Scary? A wee bit. But perhaps, it’s just a nice reminder in our crazy world that KINDNESS and GRACE and even small talk is very much worth the effort.

PSS. I am going to start writing on Substack, so keep your eyes out fot that! I keep hearing that “blogging is so 1990”. Ha! I’m going to call my Substack account Sacred Pause. Because this time in retirement (geez I don’t like that word) feels like a pause of sorts and a very sacred time time to me. What do you think? Like it, or think I need to consider other names? Let me know!

Oh, and let me know what lessons you are learning from AI.

OX, Robbin

I don’t want to change a thing about you.

I’m the last person you might want to ask for relationship advice. Divorced once. Betrayed more than once. Ouch. Sometimes by my own self. Double OUCH. I could go on and on.

BUT… wait, let me back up a minute and change my own thinking (we’re allowed to do that) to say this:

Perhaps I AM an excellent person to ask for relationship advice.

Perhaps my rocky road is the perfect training ground for getting things right. I mean if romance was a sport, I’m in pretty good shape from lots of practice, good and bad.

The last four to five years of my life have without a doubt been my best years. Which is amazing because most of my days on this planet have included way more love, excitement, fun, laughter, adventure and joy than I can even begin to explain.

I’m lucky that way.

But these last years have been downright magical. And I want to share my experience in case it might be helpful to someone reading this. I used to say this when I spoke about the power of human connections during my Brains on Fire years:

Relationships are messy and complicated, but they are stuff that makes life worth living.

Say that about 10 times until you really get it stuck in your heart.

Relationships are so worth the care and attention they demand. All our relationships, the ones with our families, our friends and partners are like the jewelry for our lives. They are the shine and the sparkle.

I must admit, I learned the hard way, that the relationship you have with yourself is the most important relationship EVER. Think about it, you are the only person you can 100 percent rely on to be there until the very end. So, nurture that self-love like you mean it people. Self-love is -- in my humble nonprofessional-relationship-advice-giving opinion -- a big key to having great relationships in your life.

At the risk of oversharing, about five or six years ago, after a short but crazy brush up with a man who had some serious (I’d even say dangerous) issues, I decided to focus on me and go it alone for bit. Mostly I had to figure out how on earth I let such a scary human into my life.

Don’t judge, it happens to the best of us.

Those years of focusing on me were just what I needed. I took myself on fabulous dates and romantic adventures. I got super strong and healthy. I had a lot of therapy. I rested and gardened and relaxed. The pandemic worked in my favor. All that alone time was super helpful for my personal growth.

Honestly, I could have lived the rest of my days simply “being” on my own.

When I finally dipped my toes back into the dating world, I quickly decided, I needed more time alone. Go figure, being someone who had NOT NOT been in a romantic relationship for less than six months at a time in my adult life this took me by surprise. The time alone had worked. I craved more time with me.

Then slowly, I started seeing the most amazing man. I’d known him as a friend and business associate for years. We dated for a while and we now live in a wonderful 100-year-old house that we’re making our home. I love his family and he loves my family. And from the get-go, I knew this about him:

I don’t want t to change a thing about him. I simply love him exactly the way he is.

Cool, huh?

So that’s it. That -- in my humble opinion-- is the key to a great romantic relationship. Even if you’ve been married for 39 years, look at your partner and say those words – in your heart or even out loud.

I don’t want to change a single thing about you.

Say it until you mean it. Let it carry you through the easy fun times and the challenging times.

The other morning as I was getting dressed, I looked at this wonderful man I adore and said, “Could you please straighten up your side of the sink?” He simply looked down at it and said, “No one is coming to do a photo shoot of our bathroom counters today.” I burst out laughing. And again I was reminded that I would not change ANYTHING about him.  

It’s takes practice to not let the little, tiny things bother you, but man it makes for a good life and a really good relationship. I hope where ever you are in life; you give this idea a shot.

AND if you are on your own, try saying it to YOURSELF:

I don’t want to change a thing about you. Let it be your mantra.

That’s it. That is my relationship tip for the day. Make a game of it for just one week and see what happens. This little tip has helped me in all my relationships with my family and with my friends and myself too.

It’s like magic.

And know, I love you madly. And I would not want to change a thing about YOU. Happy happy Valentine’s Day. Let LOVE be the answer.

Vote.

Writing calms my soul. So here I am on Election Day 2024, writing.

Go figure.

I hate politics. Ads, rhetoric, posturing. Did you know that over 10 BILLION dollars were spent on Political Ads this year? Goodness gracious I could have spent that money in more productive ways, but I am wandering away from my own point since I’m feeling a bit all over the place this morning.

I will ask this:

What if we based our decisions on what causes our campaigners supported instead of how many degrading ads they ran?

When I was young, I used to go to the polls with my mom. Every election day my dad wrote a little list showing how he wanted my mom to vote. Seriously. If you know you know. He told her that if she didn’t vote the way he did, she would simply be canceling out his vote. She took the list and quietly stuffed it in her pocketbook.

And off we went to stand in line at the polls. At the time there were curtains you closed so you could vote in private. My mom would go behind the curtain. One day before she stepped in, I asked her, “Are you voting for the people dad said you should vote for?” My mom leaned down and whispered, “I am casting MY vote.”

This simple and profound lesson from my mom rings in my heart every time I vote. I hear her say, “I am casting my vote.”

I voted early this year. I like that option. It’s better than hours in line. It was easy to vote. And my choice was an easy one. I’m very clear on the person I want to lead America. I still respect anyone’s decision even though the thought of voting for someone who makes fun of his non supporters (even those with handicaps) and incites violence after an election is hard for me to comprehend, I still respect everyone’s right to vote. I long for the days when what I want and what you might want is not a decisive issue, simply a personal choice. Maybe those days are now gone forever.

We will likely go to bed tonight still not sure who will oversee America for the next four years.  The race is just that close. I’m writing to remind myself that goodness often prevails. And America will find a way no matter the outcome. At my age, I’ve voted in quite a few presidential elections. I have voted for the person’s character most times since I feel that integrity is a good predictor of action.

Let’s all be kind in the days in front of us. Let’s make our own choices as if it matters to us personally. It really does. Let’s find Grace for those we disagree with. And compassion for ourselves and others during this decisive time.

If you haven’t voted yet, please do. Be a part of this country’s democracy. Close that imaginary curtain and VOTE for who you truly, truly believe in. I might disagree with you. You might disagree with me, but I hope we can all agree that voting matters.

P.S. I feel the need to say this out loud even though I never share much about my political views online or even in person, I’m 100% with Harris and Waltz. I’ve watched in earnest at how she’s handled herself and I see both Harris and Waltz as people with integrity. And I believe women should have agency over their own bodies. I also believe we live in a Global Society, and we need leaders who are respected globally. I also tried super hard to say that without disrespect for the other side. I really think we all need to do more of that. Anyway, VOTE. JUST VOTE.

Are you okay?

A park near my home, those signs are six feet tall. 

This last week has been a doozie. And that’s putting it mildly.

We’re so freaking lucky, with only large trees down and water issues that could be fixed within three days (more on that in a minute).  Even though this entire drama seemed MAJOR in the moment, I know our issues aren’t major at all.

Please help our NC friends if you can. They need us.

This summer has been one for the books to be honest. My son had major, major surgery. I can tell you firsthand that the only pain WORSE than the pain you feel yourself is the pain you feel witnessing a child (of any age) going through something incredibly hard. I won’t go into too much detail because it is my very grown and capable son’s story to share, but we almost lost him to sepsis after his surgery. Google “sepsis” — it is very scary stuff. I felt the angels join us as he fought for his life in the trauma ER room. He spent over three weeks in the hospital and 12 weeks total recovering.

Luckily, he is still with us and getting stronger each day.  

Losing a child is something I can’t say I understand. I know for sure what someone told me about the experience — you never get OVER it, you simply get THROUGH it.

So thankful it was not his time to leave this world.

Then we had a hurricane called Helene pass through our neck of the woods. Power out everywhere. Our beautiful old trees grounded by the blows that mother nature tossed our way on a random Friday morning.

People dead.

And here it what is on my heart and mind.

We have it all wrong. We really do.

During this time, I got to see the best of our world and humanity.

I posted a quick message on social media about the 26 inches of rain in the basement. Immediately I got texts and messages from friends and “only social media friends” offering help. Our friends who have a house here and in Florida offered their generator in their house’s garage while they were out of town. We went through a war zone in Greenville to try and get it. No luck. A friend offered a room at his hotel. I got a message from someone I have never met. “I can be there in the morning” which was now Sunday. He came and worked hours, he worked really hard. I didn’t know him well, but knew of him and knew he was a contractor. Well after he was done, we said “Come in so we can settle up.” He said, “You don’t owe me anything. I’m just trying to help”.

Wow.

Brings tears to my eyes to type this.

People are so good and amazing. Sometime the Universe sends angels. I felt them in my son’s fight for his life and in this battle with nature.

I really don’t like politics to be frank. I heard Kamala Harris on an ad say about her time as a defender, “I never asked — are you democrat or republican, I simply asked, “Are you okay?”

I want that world.

No one asked me once or mentioned politics during my son’s ordeal or in this hurricane. They just asked, are you okay?

Can we go back to that? That will Make American Great…. it IS what makes America a very wonderful place to call home.

I love you all madly, and if anyone needs anything. I’m can say this, I am so here if you need help of any kind.

Let us all just be here. For each other. Let’s open our hearts and keep our community circles wide. It matters. A lot.

OX, Robbin