There is a kind of grace available to you right now, in this very moment — no perfect morning needed. Just a willingness to pause, breathe, and notice.
There is wisdom in the pause.
Starting your day sitting in gratitude with intention, allowing yourself to really feel it—invites one of the highest frequencies there is into your life.
Not for the big moments or the ones worth celebrating, just for this—-the breath in your body, the ground beneath your feet, the simple grace of still being here.
There’s something almost sacred about real gratitude. Not the kind you perform, but the kind that finds you — in the way morning light falls soft across a room, in that first sip of something warm, in the simple miracle of an ordinary day.
Here’s what we know — the words you speak and the thoughts you carry have energy. They shape the way you feel, the way you move through a room, the way your day unfolds. Choose them wisely. Choose them kindly. Especially the ones you say to yourself.
Gratitude is one of those choices. And it might just be the most powerful one you make all day. We don’t always get to choose what the day brings. But we get to choose how we meet it. Open hand, not clenched fist. You don’t need a ritual or a perfect morning or the right words. Just these two, meant sincerely, before the world asks anything of you: Say thank you.
And mean it.
This moment, this breath, this life — it’s all worth the gratitude.
“The grief no one warned you about — and the woman waiting on the other side of it.”
The day we moved our only child into her Boston dorm, my husband and I drove home through five hours of tears and highway and not enough words. We’d done everything right. We’d raised her well. And when we walked back into our own house, the quiet that greeted us was unlike anything I had ever felt before.
I thought I was ready. I had packed the boxes, bought the shower caddy, done everything a mother does. I had been preparing for years.
I was not ready.
“Empty nest grief shows up dressed as pride, as gratitude, as relief — all the feelings you’re supposed to have — and so you almost miss it.”
You smile through it. You let other people’s “you must be so proud!” paper over it. But then — usually quietly, usually alone — it makes itself known.
For me, it was the first dinner without her. I looked at her empty chair and felt something crack open so completely I had to put my hands flat on the table just to stay upright.
She wasn’t gone. She was growing up — living her life with the enthusiasm of someone raised to do exactly that. She was fine.
I was the one who wasn’t fine.
Her flourishing and my grief existed in the same moment, made from the same event. That was the thing no one had warned me about.
“No one gives you language for this. You just walk around with it, unnamed and heavy, wondering if something is wrong with you.”
People ask cheerfully: “So what will you do now?” As if the answer is obvious. As if years of yourself didn’t just walk out the door.
But that surface question is almost never the real one. The real question lives one layer deeper, and it’s harder to say out loud:
Who am I, now that she doesn’t need me in the same way?
That’s the one that wakes you up at 3am. That makes Sunday afternoons feel impossibly heavy.
I won’t pretend I have an answer — because I don’t. What I found instead was that sitting with the question taught me things I didn’t know I needed to learn.
I had given myself away in stages — first to my career, then to my child — until the woman I’d started with had quietly disappeared beneath the weight of all that devotion.
I now see that she had been there all along. I was the one who had walked away.
I think of my mother now in ways I never could before. She stood in this exact silence once — watching me walk toward my own life — and I had no idea what it cost her. I understand now, Mom. I finally understand.
I’ve spoken to enough women in this season to know what’s possible. The one who went back to school at 54. The one who finally started the business she’d sketched in notebooks for thirty years. The one who simply decided to learn what she actually liked — quietly, just for herself, for the first time in decades.
I don’t have my answer yet. I’m still in it — still learning to sit still without calling it failure. But I’ve stopped apologizing for that.
The quiet house isn’t absence. It’s space. And space, when you stop treating it like a problem, turns out to be something you can actually use.
Dear woman in the quiet house—
All those precious years of yourself went into another person — willingly, fiercely, without regret. And now that person has walked out the door, suitcase in hand, and into her own extraordinary life.
The woman who comes next has already earned everything she needs.
Start with her.
— With love, from every woman who has been where you are.
—-If this resonated, there is more waiting for you at styleandserenity.com
Congratulations on this remarkable achievement! Your hard work has led you to the college of your dreams, and we couldn’t be prouder of you.
As you step into this exciting new chapter, remember that this journey is about so much more than just academics. It’s a unique opportunity for self-discovery — a precious four years to explore your passions and uncover the talents that make you uniquely you. Embrace this time as a canvas where you can paint your dreams and aspirations.
Above all, pursue what brings you joy and ignites your spirit, rather than just what seems profitable. True success is measured by your happiness and fulfillment. Embrace positive self-talk; remind yourself daily of your strengths and abilities. Surround yourself with uplifting thoughts and people who inspire you and make you feel good and valued.
We miss you dearly, and our greatest hope is for you to flourish and thrive during this beautiful phase of your life. Remember to savor the journey, don’t just focus on the finish line. Enjoy every step along the way!
Be bold, be curious, and most importantly, be your authentic self.
In life sometimes, if we are lucky, we come across individuals whose strength, determination, and selflessness leave an indelible mark on our hearts. My friend Liz was all that, sprinkled with extra sugar and spice! We met when we had just both become mothers for the first time, since then, we navigated life together in our new role as mothers and eventually, a bond of friendship, a sisterhood developed.
Our conversations ran deep, we spoke about everything and anything. We talked a lot about the people who mattered the most to us, our families , parents, siblings, spouses, children, and childhood best friends. We connected because we both knew the value of an authentic friendship. We always made time for one another and touched base once a week, even if it was just a quick call or text. We looked forward to spending time with one another, it almost always resulted in buckets of laughter, tears and lots of good food!
Liz had battled cancer twice before , when she found out that she had cancer again , she was resolved on beating it. “ I did it before, I can do it again! I can beat this! “ I believed that she could. She was amazing , her fight with cancer was quiet but it was fought valiantly, with her quiet reserve, her signature smile and with so much dignity and grace. She never allowed fear to consume her. Our friendship allowed her to share her fears with me and it allowed me to help get her back to faith or just let her cry. She sometimes needed a good cry, we both did, and then we would find something to laugh about! Liz made a conscious decision to embrace life fully, second by second, moment to moment. She was determined to be positive and her family served as the driving force behind her strength.
We lost Liz a month ago today, I miss her deeply.
Her loss was undoubtedly heartbreaking for all who loved her but her memory continues to inspire and uplift. In one of our last conversations, she asked me not to allow myself to wallow in sadness when she passes, but to enjoy every second of life and to keep an eye on her kids. That’s a promise I plan on keeping.
My view of life has been shifted because of my friend. Bit by bit, cancer took parts of her, what remained was her kindness, empathy, wit and her sweetness. She always expressed her gratitude and counted her blessings, she lived for her family. She cherished her friendships and paid attention to foster and nurture those relationships. Her children are amazing, a testament to her and her husband’s loving attention and dedication.
She would joke that dying young meant she would never have wrinkles and that she would be reunited with her mother, who had passed away from cancer only a few years earlier. She missed her lovely mom so much, and I know she was happy to have finally been reunited.
I want to honor her legacy by embracing life with the same passion, compassion, perseverance and determination.
In the end, my friend’s journey was not defined by her battle with cancer, but by her unwavering commitment to love, hope, and making the world a better place for her children. May her story continue to inspire us to be better, to connect, to give more, and to cherish each precious moment we have with those we love.
When I look at her children’s faces, I see her smile and her eyes.
Her absence will forever be felt but I will forever be grateful to have known her beautiful soul.
Happy Mother’s Day to all of you amazing, selfless, strong mothers. You have the privilege to help shape and mold the next generation. Let them to be kind, compassionate, productive, loving human beings.
Mother’s Day was my absolute favorite holiday to spoil my mom.
In the past I’ve written her poems, painted a portrait for her, dedicated songs, expressed my love in heartfelt cards, flowers and gifts. She reveled in all the attention and love she received from her children and grandchildren. I loved seeing her happy. She was our best friend. She was the most magical beautiful soul. She left this world almost four and a half years ago, just four months after we lost our dad. I miss them both so immensely that the grief I feel no longer exists in the same space with my other emotions. Instead, it has carved out its own singular realm and like breathing—it is ever-present and subconscious.
My mother, a woman from a prominent family in Afghanistan was slight, but her frame belied her strength and resilience. She was the Matriarch of our family, a proud Afghan and woman of deep faith who always put her family first. She was a stylish, regal, worldly, educated, kind and a lifelong feminist. She was able to have conversations with world leaders and the guy next-door just as easily and as eloquently. She made everyone feel special and valued. She was always impeccable with both her manners, and the way she presented herself . She always dressed, wearing heels, jewelry and makeup, with a few spritzes of her signature perfume, Chanel No. 5.
On the first Mother’s Day after she died, I walked into an elevator in Nordstrom, a store we frequented together, to find an elegantly dressed older woman wearing my mom’s signature perfume. It made me flinch inside. As soon as the doors of the elevator slid open, I ran out, gulping mouthfuls of air and letting out a jagged cry. I just wanted my mother.
I’ve inherited some of my mom’s beautiful jewelry and have kept a few articles of her clothing. Every few months, I sit on the floor surrounded by her things and I carefully select a box to open. I choose just one, because I ration the sweet lingering perfume trapped inside them. I put my nose inside the container and take a long whiff before I quickly close it again. For a few minutes, I am dazed and shot full of adoration—and although my chest feels hollowed out, it is still too small to contain all my emotions.
Since their passing, I have felt as if a thick, warm coat that kept me insulated against the harshness of the outside world has been pulled off with one swift motion. I am exposed to life’s elements. Still, I am learning to wrap myself in every detail, smell, and color of those happy memories until the harshness relents just a little and I am warmed by the rich fragrance of Channel No. 5.
I miss you mom, I carry you within my heart always and I see you within your grandchildren .
