I am fully aware that some of the posts I’ve made recently, especially the live videos, have not been the most flattering images. In fact… I pretty much frightened myself, lol. But I’ve consciously chosen to go ahead and post them anyway, because there are experiences I’m having while I’m traveling — the lessons I’m learning, the reflections on life — that I really want to share as I’m living them.
I want to be honest: I’ve experienced a lot of loss over the years. Friends, colleagues, people I loved — I’ve seen too many of them go. But the one I learned about last night hit me differently. It reminded me exactly why I am perfectly okay sharing less-than-flattering images of myself.
Barbara was my surrogate sister. She was my first real childhood BFF and the one whose family took me in when I was a child and my own home life was falling apart. They fed me, bathed me, gave me a safe place to sleep while my mother was dealing with my father’s death. Barbara was the girl I pressed my thumb against to become blood sisters. She was the first friend I learned to smoke cigarettes with, drink Boone’s Farm and White Lightning 190 proof, (and various other sundries) .  We learned about vacation Bible school and later skipping high school. We would write notes for each other signing our parents names to get out of school early or to go in late. We would sneak in and out of each other’s bedroom windows or tell our parents that we were spending the night at each other’s house and then end up sleeping in the bathrooms at the ballpark after we got done running the roads as teenagers. We would frequently have matching outfits for the first day of school. We would hang out at the neighborhood pool hall talking about boys. She was the first one I had a major falling out with — and the first one I learned to love again despite our differences.
Through the years, life took us down separate roads. I moved away for college and discovered a bigger world. She stayed back in the neighborhood and her path was harder. She continued to live hard and play hard, carried pain, and never found the spiritual toolkit that allowed me to face my own pain instead of running from it. I learned to process trauma, face tragedy, sit with tears, and still keep living. She never embraced taking the chance to find a new way of life.
Even as life went on and our contact became less frequent, I knew I could always count on a call from her — a holiday, a birthday, just checking in. That connection was a tether to the corner of Dahlia and Linden in Azalea Park, where we built forts behind the shed or played in the laundry room when it rained. Once we talked, it was like we’d never moved away.
But recently, the calls stopped. Deep down, I already knew. And last night, a message from a mutual friend confirmed it: Barbara had passed.
Even when you expect it, it hurts. It hits you. And strangely, instead of wanting to hide, her death made me want to show up even more. Those imperfect videos, the angles that weren’t flattering, the lighting that didn’t capture me in the “best” way — they are proof not just that I lived, but that I am still living.
I’m at a point in life where I can say, without hesitation, that I am a proud member of the “we do not care club,” something many women of a certain age join. When I was younger, working as a corporate executive, everything had to look a certain way. My hairstyle had to be perfect. My shoes had to be fashionable. My car had to send the right message. I played a role I could hide behind. I heard early on that when the interior feels inferior, you dress up the exterior.
Today, I no longer feel inferior. I no longer need to hide behind any of that. In fact, I feel fully comfortable in my own skin — unmasked, unapologetic, and real. And yes, I am getting older, but ironically, I feel younger than I have in decades because I have let go of all the false pretense.
That’s why I share these photos: one of me at my healthiest, before breast cancer; one right after, fragile and uncertain; and one now — seven years into medication that probably aged me fifteen years in five. My face is softer. More lined. More lived-in. And I am grateful. Grateful to still be here to tell this story, grateful to have learned to face my pain rather than run from it, and grateful to live fully in the imperfect, messy, miraculous gift of life.
These images are not about vanity or perfection. They are proof that I am still here. Alive. Moving. Breathing. Healing. Running the road.
Barbara didn’t get that chance. And I am so sorry she didn’t. I wish she’d found the tools I found. I wish she’d had more time. But since she didn’t, I will honor her the only way I know how: by living fully, honestly, and gratefully. By staying present to the small wonders around me — flowers, clouds, bees, even saying hello to the mailman. By embracing life as it is, in all its imperfect, beautiful, fleeting glory.
So yes, I share these less-than-perfect images. I share them because life is too short to hide behind angles, filters, or masks. I share them because I’m still here. And I want others to see that even with scars, lines, tears, and experiences, it’s possible to keep moving, keep healing, and keep running the road.
I am also sharing one of me and my BFF, may she rest in peace, and may I honor her memory as I continue to LIVE while I am alive.
