Art has never not been part of my identity. It just got crowded out slowly, quietly, in the way that things do when life fills in around them.

There are no lost days. Not when the day had a lake and two friends and a stranger in a library who knew the same Michigan towns I did.

If you read my first list, you know I've been paying attention to changes I noticed in my 50s and what that actually feels like — not what we're told it should feel like. Life after 50 has more going for it than we're told. Here are ten more reasons I believe that.

The itch to buy disguises itself as practicality — I just want the right tool for the job — but underneath it’s anxiety dressed up as optimization. If I could just get the setup right, I’d finally feel settled.

I was in tenth grade, sitting in the art room—one of the last times I'd be there before the program shut down forever. My school was dropping their Art program. I was devastated and faced with a decision. Two college catalogs sat in my hands.

One from the University of Michigan. One from Pratt School of Design in New York.

Two futures. One safe. One terrifying.

I spent the last few weeks crafting a small project based on what I perceived as a real need. I ran it past a few colleagues for input, revised my approach, and then launched a free pilot — opening it up to the first 10 people who applied. I promoted heavily and opened my calendar for scheduling.

One person applied. One.

It’s easy to assume pressure comes from the outside. A job. A boss. A timeline. A client.

When those things fall away, you often replace them yourself.

It can look productive. It can even feel responsible. But this wasn’t about responsibility.

Here's what I know now that I didn't know then. A plan built on logic isn't the same as a plan built on truth. Mine was logical. It made sense on paper. It was practical and honestly, reflected how I plan things. Three income streams, three distinct audiences, one person running it all. Clean and tidy.

The fear of choosing wrong has become the reason for not choosing at all.

Laid off and still job hunting after 3 months? Here’s why applying alone isn’t working—and how a 30-day plan can help you regain traction.

Cleaning a closet ends. You know when you are done. Figuring out what you want next does not work that way.

We take thousands of breaths every day without thinking. What happens when you actually pay attention to just a few of them?

It turns out the first step isn’t building something new. It’s clearing out what’s still taking up space.

What the first few days of retirement from a long UX career actually feel like — the habits that linger, the quiet mornings, and the freedom of open time.

After a 35-year career in UX design and leadership, I'm stepping away to pursue coaching, AI consulting, and photography. Here's what's next and how I'm planning my first 30 days.

Midlife pivots can feel like starting from scratch. The Winter Olympics tell a different story. What we see in a few minutes is built on a decade of effort. The same may be true for you.

Feeling stuck with the same difficult people or situations? Learn a grounded way to reframe friction, strengthen boundaries, and respond with intention.

Digital clutter isn’t just what’s on our screens. It’s the steady drip of notifications, pings, and “just checking” moments that quietly fragment our attention and wear down our nervous system.

In revisiting Cal Newport’s Digital Minimalism, I’ve been reflecting on how many tools, apps, and services I’ve adopted with good intentions, only to realize that their cumulative cost often outweighs their individual benefits. This isn’t about rejecting technology. It’s about reclaiming choice.

A digital reset doesn’t require drastic change. It starts with noticing what actually supports what matters, and what simply adds noise.

I realized that starting the day well wasn’t enough. I needed another touchpoint to reset—something that could support me in the middle of it all, not just the beginning.

There’s nothing like being outside your comfort zone to wake you up.

Sometimes it’s small. Ordering food you cannot pronounce. Wandering off the tourist path and realizing you are fully in unfamiliar territory. You cannot coast in these moments. You have to pay attention.