I use wonder to mean be curious, be open, let in awe, be comfortable in a luscious not-knowing. It’s not a fleeting feeling. It’s a way of moving through the world. And that… that is radical. Especially in a culture that worships certainty, control, and productivity. Especially for women in our third chapter—who’ve been told our job is to tie up loose ends. I say, let's unravel those ends; play them out in wonder and evolution.

Rebel Aging is a bold, witty, and empowering call to reimagine what it means for women to grow older. Blending storytelling, cultural critique, and actionable wisdom, this book challenges ageist narratives and celebrates the third chapter of life as a time of reinvention, resilience, and radical self-acceptance.

Some truths don’t get softer with time. They sharpen. They deepen. They shout. This week, as Rebel Aging takes its first wild steps into the world, I’m returning to the declaration that started it all. It’s a love letter, a battle cry, and a refusal to shrink. If you’ve read it before, read it again. If it’s your first time—welcome to the rebellion.

We rise by remembering our own agency; by tending the next generation; by organizing, storytelling, and building scaffolding where the old beams have splintered. Not in grand gestures, but in consistent acts—of integrity, of vision, of showing up.

As we age, we can find that grief is no longer a rare visitor; it’s a companion. It can show up with casseroles and question, or it can arrive suddenly with anger and outrage. I find I’m  holding grief, anger, reverence, regret, and the dissonance between "natural" and "unjust" endings. How do I hold space for both the long-lived and the barely-started?

Pop quiz! How old were you when you realized you were aging—not just getting older, but aging? What happened that made you stop and think: Wait…when did this happen?

For some women, aging is tied to parenting. Life marched forward in tidy segments: kindergarten, public school, high school graduation, maybe college drop-offs, and eventually, the glow of grandparenting. The seasons of your children’s lives became the calendar for your own.

Protest is powerful. We saw the proof of that over the weekend! But protest alone isn’t enough. If we want to protect democracy—not just for this moment, but for generations to come—we have to play chess, not checkers. We must think in decades, not just news cycles. In short, we must bring the long game.

Let’s speak truth into this moment.

What we’re witnessing is not new. A government—our government—turning its might inward, branding dissent as danger, deploying force not to protect but to suppress. This isn’t the first time we’ve seen tear gas bloom in American streets or peaceful protest met with armored denial. But just because it’s happened before doesn’t mean we accept it. Not now. Not ever.

Maybe you know the feeling. Maybe you’ve heard it too: “You don’t look your age!” Like it’s supposed to be a compliment, but somehow it lands more like a test I didn’t know I was taking. A veiled warning about what is—or isn’t—appropriate anymore.

Most of my travel in recent decades has been work-related. Purpose-driven. Outcome-oriented. Squeezed into tightly packed 10- to 14-day windows. This 21-day adventure? It’s something different. And as a result, it’s teaching me things.

There’s a special kind of magic that happens the moment you switch on your out-of-office reply. It’s not just an automated message—it’s a declaration. A manifesto, really. I am stepping away. I am reclaiming my time. The world can wait. I matter now.

Before visions of hammocks and fruity drinks fully take over (tempting, I know), let’s get real. Taking a break isn’t just about lounging—that’s not my style. It’s about something deeper: perspective, presence, and giving yourself the grace to breathe beyond the borders of your daily rhythm.

Like many, I’ve found myself doom-scrolling more than I care to admit—eyes glued to headlines, heart clenched somewhere between rage and resignation. The world feels like it’s teetering on the edge of something, doesn’t it? I remind myself of something simple, grounding, and true: Democracy isn’t just a right. It’s a responsibility.

We may not run countries, sit on Supreme Courts, or write constitutional amendments—but that doesn’t mean we’re powerless. One of the great revelations of aging is realizing just how much impact we can have, right from where we are.

Sometimes it feels like the world is spinning too fast—and not in a charming carousel kind of way. Take a breath. Let’s step out of the frenzy and into something more grounded. Here’s the truth: you’re not behind—you’re equipped. You’ve been quietly assembling a toolkit your whole life. You just might not realize how powerful it is.

The third chapter—the part of life where the glitter and ribbons of youthful approval have worn off, and the next pages are still unwritten. You start piecing things together differently. You don’t just decorate your life anymore; you construct it—deliberately and defiantly—from fragments of what’s true, what’s joyful, and what refuses to be quieted.

Shenanigans matter! They’re a testament to redefining aging for women, proving that laughter and connection can transform the way we see ourselves and each other. When you’re joyful, your body lights up with all kinds of good hormones, including dopamine and oxytocin, serotonin, and endorphins—the quartet responsible for happiness, connection, and that unbeatable feel-good glow.

I’ve been thinking about walking the walk—especially since we have so much talk swirling around these days. Parsing that out led me to thinking about values and virtues—what they mean and how they’re connected. Think of values as the "why" and virtues as the "how." If you value justice, you might practice the virtue of fairness. If you value wisdom, you might cultivate the virtue of discernment. If you value love, you might express it through the virtue of generosity.

Aging quietly? Nope. Not here. Not now. Not ever. We’ve spent too many years navigating expectations, smoothing our edges, and whispering when we should have been roaring. This third chapter? It’s ours to live out loud—with presence, power, and a refusal to shrink.

Doors open all the time. Some swing wide while others creak just enough for us to slip through. But an open door isn’t the same as a seat at the table, and a seat at the table isn’t the same as feeling like you are truly valued.

Inclusion is the invitation, the open door. But belonging? That requires stepping through as yourself—not as the person you think the room wants. And if we’re still wearing masks to fit in, are we really belonging at all?

What is it about time that sharpens our sense of justice? Why do older women, instead of fading into invisibility, step into their power and demand justice?

History tells us this: When the world needs progressive revolution, look for the women who have seen too much, who have outlived patience, and who no longer care whether they ruffle feathers, or “worse”.

Arriving into our third chapter is like stepping off a train into a bustling station—equal parts chaos and charm, where every platform holds the promise of a new adventure. But before we rush forward, there’s a small office tucked away in the corner, waiting for us: the Lost and Found.