It’s Never Too Late To Fuel Your Fire

At 57 years old, I’m starting a new business.

There are days when that feels exciting and empowering… and other days when it feels absolutely terrifying.

Starting something new later in life comes with a unique kind of vulnerability. You’re old enough to understand the risks. Old enough to know things may not go perfectly. Old enough to hear all the voices that tell women at this age to stay comfortable, stay realistic, and stop chasing new dreams.

But deep down, I knew I wasn’t done growing.

And maybe that’s exactly why Fuel Your Fire came into my life at the right time.

One of the things I love most about this business is that it was created from real conversations between women who are living full, complicated, beautiful lives. Women balancing careers, families, aging parents, changing bodies, shifting identities, big dreams, and the constant pressure to take care of everyone else first.

Somewhere along the way, so many women stop asking themselves an important question:

What lights me up at this stage of my life?

That question matters.

Because I don’t believe women are meant to slowly disappear into the background as they get older. I believe we are still meant to evolve. To explore. To build. To learn. To connect. To rediscover parts of ourselves that may have been buried under years of responsibility and survival mode.

That’s the heart of Fuel Your Fire.

We want to create community-based experiences where women can reconnect with themselves and with each other. Spaces where wellness is looked at holistically—not just fitness or nutrition, but confidence, purpose, connection, joy, growth, creativity, and support. We want women to walk away feeling inspired, energized, and reminded that they matter too.

And honestly, this business is doing that for me already.

It’s reminding me that excitement still matters at 57.

Passion still matters at 57.

Dreams still matter at 57.

I think there’s this unspoken idea that reinvention belongs to younger people. That starting businesses, chasing big ideas, or trying something new should happen in your 20s or 30s. But I don’t think growth has an expiration date.

Sometimes the second half of life is where the real magic begins.

Not because we suddenly become fearless, but because we finally understand how precious time really is.

I also think a lot about my granddaughter when I reflect on this journey. I want her to grow up seeing women who continue becoming. Women who are willing to take chances on themselves. Women who understand that fear and courage often walk side by side.

I want her to know she never has to stop growing into herself.

Truthfully, I don’t know exactly where this journey will lead. Building something new is messy. It’s uncertain. There are moments of self-doubt and moments where I wonder if I’m completely out of my mind.

But there’s also energy.
Purpose.
Connection.
Hope.

And maybe that’s the biggest lesson I’m learning right now:

It’s never too late to fuel your fire.

Not at 40.
Not at 57.
Not ever.

Because the things that excite us, challenge us, and call us forward are often the very things that keep us fully alive.

When Grief Shows Up

Grief is a funny thing. It can hit you at the strangest times.

Just today, I had finished my run and sat down to stretch when a wave of overwhelming sadness came over me. Like most people, I’ve experienced moments like this off and on for as long as I can remember. Sometimes these waves are tied to childhood, other times to more recent losses.

There was a time when I used to fight these moments. I didn’t want to feel them. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to understand that it’s important to embrace grief when it shows up.

Sometimes it’s the loss of someone I’ve loved that rises to the surface. I think of my grandmother, Mary, who I lost when I was six years old. I loved her deeply, and I know she loved me just as much. Other times, it’s dear friends—Joanna, Rachel, Catherine—whose absence I feel.

And sometimes, the grief is more abstract. It’s the loss of a relationship I never really had, like the one with my own mother, who chose to leave when I was just eight years old. Other times, it’s grief for something I thought might be part of my life, but never came to be.

Whatever form it takes, I’ve learned to let the grief come. I try to ride the wave instead of resisting it. There are usually tears. But eventually, when I’m thinking about the people I’ve lost, the memories begin to soften the edges, and sometimes even bring a smile.

Not all grief transforms that way. Some losses—like the relationship with my mother—still sit heavy.

Not all grief turns into something soft or beautiful. Some of it stays heavy. Some of it still hurts in ways that time hasn’t fixed—and maybe never will.

And I’m no longer trying to fix it.

Because grief isn’t a problem to solve. It’s a reflection of love, of longing, of what mattered—and still matters.

It’s part of me now. Not something I carry reluctantly, but something I’ve made space for.

Because every loss, every absence, every “what could have been” has shaped the way I see the world, the way I love the people who are still here, and the way I show up for myself.

Grief didn’t just break me open.

It changed me.

And at some point, I stopped resisting that—and started honoring it.

Redefining the Numbers That Matter

I was in my early 30s the first time I really worried about the number on the scale.

I had just come through a difficult period of depression—the year I turned 29—and had gained a significant amount of weight. Once the depression was under control, my focus shifted to the weight, because that is what I was told by the doctors to focus on.

Eventually, the weight came off. And that’s when my relationship with the scale really began.

For years after that, the number on the scale had the power to make or break my mood. Even when I gained weight, I could usually lose it again. But then perimenopause and menopause hit—and things changed. What had always felt manageable suddenly didn’t.

For a while, I kept weighing myself, and that number continued to shape how I felt about myself… and, if I’m being honest, how I showed up in the world.

At some point, I stopped stepping on the scale altogether. And that worked—for a little while. But the truth was, I still didn’t feel comfortable in my own skin.

Recently, I found my way back to strength training after a few years away. And something shifted.

I started to realize that the number on the scale isn’t what matters most to me anymore.

What matters is feeling strong. Capable. Powerful.

Today, I deadlifted 165 pounds and bench pressed 65 pounds. These aren’t my personal bests—but they feel like something even better: progress. Momentum. A return to myself.

Of course, I know there are other numbers that matter—blood pressure, cholesterol, blood sugar. Those are important pieces of the bigger picture.

But the number on the scale? That’s no longer the one I look to for a true measure of my health.

These days, I want to lift heavy barbells.

And more importantly, I want to be able to scoop up my granddaughter when she asks, lift her high in the air, swing her around—and hear those giggles.

The scale may still exist.

But it no longer gets a vote.

.

Vanilla Soft Serve and Other Small Acts of Joy

I was sitting outside, just taking a quiet moment for myself, when the thought popped into my head.

I would love a vanilla soft serve with rainbow sprinkles right now.

Not in a serious way. Not in a “I need to go find it” kind of way. Just a passing, almost playful thought.

A few minutes later, I happened to look up and there it was.

The ice cream truck.

No music. No warning. Just there.

I actually blinked, like maybe I was imagining it. And then, out loud, I said, “Why don’t they have the music on?”

And almost instantly, the music started playing.

I just sat there for a second and laughed. Because at that point, it didn’t feel random anymore. It felt like one of those small, perfectly timed moments that shows up just for you. Like a quiet little reminder to pay attention or maybe even to say yes.

And I knew I was supposed to get the ice cream.

So I didn’t hesitate. I walked right over and ordered my favorite.

And for a moment, it was exactly what it should have been. Fun, light, easy.

But then, after I sat down and started enjoying it, the thought crept in.

That quiet, familiar voice. The one that wonders what people might think when they see me sitting there with it. The one that suggests that someone in a body like mine shouldn’t be eating something like that. That maybe it confirms whatever assumptions they have already made.

It is a lot to carry for a swirl of vanilla ice cream and some rainbow sprinkles.

But here is what I am learning. Sometimes it is okay to let the joy come first and stay.

Not because I earned it. Not because I justified it. But because it is allowed.

We talk a lot about fueling our bodies in the big ways. Movement, nutrition, routines, all the things that support our health over time. And those things do matter. I care about them deeply.

But there is another kind of fuel too.

The kind that comes from small, unexpected joy. From moments that feel a little meant to be. From allowing yourself to experience something fully before questioning it.

That matters too.

Because this life we are building, this idea of truly fueling your fire, it is not just about discipline. It is about balance. It is about honoring both what supports us and what lights us up.

And sometimes it looks like vanilla soft serve with rainbow sprinkles on a random day.

So yes, I got the ice cream.

And I let myself enjoy it.

When It’s Not Wrong—Just Not Right for You

Have you ever found yourself in a place or situation where everyone around you seems happy—yet deep down, you know you’re not?

I’ve been there more than once. And for a long time, I assumed that meant I was the problem. How could I not be, when everyone else seemed content?

But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized something important: if a place or situation doesn’t serve you, it doesn’t matter how well it works for everyone else. It’s okay to admit that something isn’t right for you—even if it seems to be working perfectly for others.

That doesn’t make you the problem. It simply means you need to move on and find what does work for you.

I spent far too much time trying to change myself to fit into spaces that were never meant for me. And sometimes, those spaces did fit—at least for a while. But over time, as I grew and changed, I started to notice things I was no longer willing to overlook. What once felt acceptable no longer aligned.

That’s not failure. That’s growth.

I know some people will say that if you repeatedly find yourself in situations that don’t work, then maybe you’re the common denominator. But that’s not what I’m talking about here.

I’m not talking about conflict or struggling to get along with others.

I’m talking about that quiet voice inside you—the one that tells you something just isn’t right.

And learning to trust that voice might be one of the most important things you ever do.

Because sometimes the shift isn’t about fixing yourself—it’s about paying attention to what truly fuels you… and being brave enough to follow it, even before you fully understand where it’s leading.

What Does A Runner Look Like?

She looks like a runner.

It was a simple comment. Casual. Probably not meant to carry much weight.

But it has stayed with me.

Because the person it was said about… doesn’t run.

She’s strong. She’s fit. She shows up for herself in ways that deserve respect. But running? That’s not her thing.

And yet—that’s what a runner looks like?

I haven’t been able to shake it.

Not because there’s anything wrong with her. But because of what it quietly suggests about me.

Because here’s the truth—I don’t look like what people picture when they think of a runner.

I’m not the image you see in ads or magazines. I don’t fit the mold that so many people have been taught to associate with speed, endurance, or strength.

And yet…

I’ve run over 200 races.
Nine marathons.
Countless miles in between.

I’ve shown up on the days when it felt easy—and the days when it felt impossible.
I’ve run through stress, through change, through seasons of growth and seasons of doubt.

Running is not something I look like.
It’s something I live.

And maybe that’s the part we’ve gotten wrong.

Somewhere along the way, we started believing that movement has a “look.”
That strength has a shape.
That being a runner is something you can determine with your eyes.

But being a runner isn’t about appearance.

It’s about choosing to show up.
It’s about putting one foot in front of the other—again and again—whether anyone is watching or not.
It’s about building something within yourself that no one else can define for you.

This season of my life has reminded me of that in a deeper way.

My body has changed.
My pace has changed.
My routines look different than they used to.

But none of that takes away from who I am.

If anything, it’s made me more certain.

Because being a runner was never about fitting into a box.

It’s about showing up—especially when it would be easier not to.
It’s about choosing to keep going, even when things feel different than they used to.

It’s about learning how to trust yourself in new seasons.

And maybe that’s what we should start recognizing when we look at someone and think—

She looks like a runner.

Not a body type.
Not a pace.
Not a number.

Just someone who knows who she is…
and isn’t afraid to keep showing up for it.

To keep showing up for herself.

To keep fueling what’s still there.

Jumping for Joy (and for Them)

This time of year always leaves me feeling a little melancholy. January and February carry too many hard anniversaries. On January 17, 2012, I lost my fabulous friend Joanna to colon cancer. On January 11, 2018, the world lost the amazing Rachel. And on February 25, 2022, we had to say goodbye to the always fun and quirky Catherine. Both Rachel and Catherine were taken far too soon by breast cancer.

Joanna and I met through swim team. Our daughters became fast friends, and our own friendship quickly followed. Her diagnosis came as a shock—she was incredibly active and took such good care of herself. During the last four years of her life, I was fortunate to be one of the people she spent a lot of time with. While that closeness made her passing even harder, I will always cherish our walks and talks.

Joanna was also a huge cheerleader in the early days of my running journey. She built up my confidence as I trained for my first race—a 5K on New Year’s Day 2012. She was so proud of me and promised she would be there to cheer me on at the next one. Sadly, that was not to be. Still, I carry her with me during every race I run.

Rachel was another friend I met through swim team, but I got to know her even better when I became a summer nanny for her four children. Rachel was smart, kind, and one of the most authentic people I have ever known. She never hesitated to tell you she loved you. When she was diagnosed with breast cancer for the second time, it was devastating, yet she fought fiercely to stay for her kids.

Rachel had a rare gift for seeing the good in people and appreciating even the smallest kindnesses. I think of her often, especially when I run or walk by her favorite bench near the lake. Sometimes I stop there for a moment, sit quietly, and spend a little time catching up with her.

I met Catherine through the running program at PR Run and Walk. When we first met, she too was battling breast cancer and was deeply involved with a charity called F.O.R.C.E. Catherine changed my life in early 2013 when she asked if I would consider running the Marine Corps Marathon that fall as a fundraiser. At the time, I hadn’t even run a half marathon, and my initial answer was no. But after talking it over with my husband and a close friend, I decided to take the leap.

That fall, I ran MCM—and then again the following year—as a fundraiser for Team F.O.R.C.E. Catherine thankfully went into remission, and we went on to share many adventures together, including the American Odyssey Relay, a 200-mile relay from Gettysburg to Washington, DC. Catherine loved yoga and often tried to convince me it would be a great addition to my routine. I always resisted, convinced it wasn’t for someone like me who struggled to sit still and be quiet. I know she would be thrilled to know I’m finally making space for it now.

While there is deep sadness in losing each of these women, I try to focus on how incredibly lucky I was to have known them. Each one brought something different and special into my life—something that shaped me in ways I still carry forward.

That’s where my photos come in.

At some point during a run, a walk, or a meaningful moment, I’ll jump and take a photo midair. It’s a small, joyful act—but for me, it’s intentional. That jump is a reminder that joy and grief can coexist. It’s my way of choosing life, movement, and gratitude, even while carrying loss. In those moments, I think of Joanna, Rachel, and Catherine—women who lived fully, encouraged boldly, and loved deeply.

When I jump, I’m not ignoring the sadness. I’m honoring them by celebrating the fact that I’m still here, still moving, still finding joy. I try to live in a way that reflects what they gave me—and sometimes that means quite literally taking a leap in their honor.

Learning to Start Again Without Motivation

The worst of perimenopause and menopause hit me right around the time the world shut down in 2020. Looking back, it was the perfect storm. Overnight, routines disappeared, uncertainty took over, and many of the habits I’d built and relied on for years slowly unraveled. Things that once felt automatic – movement, structure, self-care – suddenly felt heavy and optional.

Even now, years later, and despite feeling so much better physically, and mentally, I have struggled to fully return to those healthy habits. I kept telling myself that once the motivation came back, everything else would fall into place. But the truth is, the motivation just hasn’t shown up the way I expected it to. 

What I finally realized is that for where I am right now, discipline has to come first. Motivation can’t be the prerequisite anymore – it must be the result. I’m trusting that as I show up consistently, as I begin to see progress and feel more like myself again, the motivation will follow.

There’s a reason Nikes “Just Do It” campaign has stood the test of time. It’s simple, honest, and uncomfortable in the best way. Sometimes you don’t feel ready. Sometimes you don’t feel inspired. But you do it anyway.

I’m no longer allowing myself to sit around, waiting for motivation to magically appear, because experience has taught me that it doesn’t work that way for me. Instead, I’m choosing discipline – small, intentional actions done consistently, even on the days I don’t feel like it. To help keep that commitment front and center, I’ve  given myself a small physical reminder: something I wear on my wrist as a cue to follow through. 

This season isn’t about perfection or pushing too hard. It’s about rebuilding trust with myself, one disciplined choice at a time, and believing that motivation will meet me along the way.

Why I Strike a Superhero Pose on My Long Runs

At some point during most of my long runs, I stop, turn toward my phone, and strike what I lovingly call my superhero pose—hands on hips, chest lifted, standing tall. Sometimes I’m sweaty. Sometimes I’m tired. Sometimes I’m questioning every life choice that led me to this exact mile.

And every single time, I take the photo anyway.

The idea for this pose didn’t come from a running book or a coach. It actually came from an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. In the scene, one of the characters talks about “power posing”—standing in a confident, expansive posture for a short amount of time to change how you feel. The claim was that holding a superhero-style stance for just two minutes could increase testosterone, lower cortisol, and boost confidence.

Naturally, I was skeptical. Two minutes of standing still doesn’t exactly sound like a magic fix.

So I did what many of us do when something catches our attention: I researched it. And while the science isn’t perfect or unanimous, there is evidence suggesting that posture can influence mindset. Standing tall, taking up space, and opening your body can signal confidence to your brain—even if you don’t feel particularly confident in the moment.

Here’s the thing: I never stand in that pose for two minutes. Sometimes it’s ten seconds. Sometimes it’s just long enough to snap a photo and laugh at myself. But somehow, it still works.

Over time, the superhero pose has become a tradition—my own quiet ritual during long runs. It’s a pause that says, Look at you. You’re doing this. It’s a reminder that showing up matters, even when the run isn’t perfect, even when my body feels different than it used to.

And in the last few years, my body has changed—dramatically. Perimenopause and menopause brought exhaustion, weight gain, brain fog, and a sense of disconnect that I wasn’t prepared for. I didn’t always recognize the runner staring back at me in the mirror. Some days, I still don’t.

There are moments—mid-run, mid-mile, mid-thought—when I ask myself why I keep pushing. Why I keep training. Why I keep lacing up when things feel harder than they used to.

The answer isn’t about pace or distance or race goals anymore.

I keep going because running helps me feel like me.

The superhero pose is my way of honoring that. It’s not about pretending I’m invincible or strong all the time. It’s about acknowledging resilience. About standing tall in a body that’s changing. About claiming pride in the effort, not just the outcome.

So yes, I’ll keep stopping on my long runs. I’ll keep striking that pose. I’ll keep reminding myself—on tired legs and uncertain days—that strength doesn’t disappear just because things change.

Sometimes, strength looks like simply showing up… and standing tall long enough to remember who you are.

Starting Over—Again!

Since the fall of 2019, I’ve been determined to complete my 10th marathon. Each time I signed up, though, life threw a new obstacle in my path. Turning 51 brought unexpected changes—perimenopause and menopause—that left me exhausted, gaining weight, and struggling to recognize myself. My energy was low, my mind felt foggy, and I wondered if I’d ever feel like the runner I once was again.

Then the pandemic hit, shutting down races and routines. In those early months, I suffered a significant ankle sprain, followed later by Covid. Somewhere in the chaos, I became anemic, sprained my ankle again, and lost my motivation for the gym. Just as things finally seemed to be improving, a serious knee injury sidelined me for nearly a year.

Despite all of this, I refused to give up. I kept signing up for marathons—and even a few 50Ks—but each time, something went wrong. I found myself stuck in a cycle of disappointment and self-criticism. Not making it to the start line became a pattern, and with every missed opportunity, I grew harder on myself.

A few weeks ago, something shifted. I realized I’d lost sight of the basics—both physically and mentally. Instead of focusing on what I couldn’t do, I chose to start fresh. Now, I’m training for a 5K, just like I did for my very first race on January 1, 2012. My hope is that once I cross that finish line, I’ll feel strong enough to move on to a 10K, then a 10-miler, a half marathon, and eventually, marathon number ten.

This time, I’m celebrating every step forward. I’m learning to be patient with myself, to honor the progress I make, and to remember that every new beginning is a victory. If you’re facing your own setbacks, know this: starting over isn’t a failure—it’s a courageous choice. Progress is possible, one step at a time.