What 42 Has Taught Me
Reflections on a year of healing, becoming, and holding on to the light.
I turned 42 this week.
And like most milestones and celebrations since last summer, I felt the weight and wonder of time in a new way.
Last year, I stood at the edge of heartbreak, praying for one more day with my son.
This year, I watched from our foyer while his friends sang him happy birthday and ate cupcakes and ice cream.
Same boy. Same heart. New perspective.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what this year has carved into me—what it’s revealed, refined, and resurrected. If I had to name it, I’d say this was the year I learned how to live again.
Here are five specific things year 42 taught me:
1. Healing is both a battle and a blessing.
There were days I had to claw my way out of grief to be the mom my boys needed. Nights I stayed awake just watching Luke breathe—alerting nurses to his needs, praying that God would restore him to health. Moments I couldn’t believe we were still standing in the mire of all we were navigating.
Healing wasn’t gentle—it demanded everything.
But it also gave us everything.
The ordinary things I used to take for granted—Luke’s laugh, his footsteps on the floor, his stubborn hope—are now sacred. I know now what it looks like to lose nearly everything and build it all back again with the people I love the most.
I’ve learned that healing doesn’t always look like being “all better.”
Sometimes it just looks like trying again.
Loving harder.
Letting the light in, even when it flickers.
2. Presence is the most powerful gift I can offer.
In hospital rooms and team meetings, on back porches and college tours, I’ve learned that my presence—my full, tender, imperfect presence—is more than enough.
I used to chase perfection. And making people happy.
Now I chase connection. And tending to my own needs.
I sit more. I ask questions. I listen deeper.
Because what people remember isn’t usually what you say.
It’s how you make them feel when you simply stay.
It’s hard to support others when you don’t care for yourself, too.
3. Grief and gratitude can live in the same breath.
This year taught me not to run from sorrow.
I let myself feel it—the terror of almost losing Luke, the shift of becoming an empty nester, the ache of all the things that might have been.
But right beside it? Gratitude.
Sometimes louder. Sometimes quieter. Always there.
As I sipped on a glass of Sauvignon Blanc at my birthday dinner last Thursday, I took a moment to soak it all in—looking around the table at the smiles of the people who have walked alongside me this year. And it dawned on me:
Grief doesn’t cancel joy.
It just carves out space for deeper joy—the kind that’s rooted, not rushed.
The kind that can hold both the tears and the celebratory toasts.
And my heart brims full with thankfulness for it all.
4. I’m allowed to evolve.
This year I gave myself permission to change.
To write more.
To dream again.
To say yes to things that scared me, and no to things that drained me—even if it disappointed others.
I stepped into rooms I didn’t feel ready for and walked away from ones I’d outgrown.
And through it all, I’ve been learning that evolving doesn’t mean losing who I was.
It means giving myself permission to become who I was always meant to be.
5. Legacy is built in the everyday.
There’s a quiet holiness in the ordinary.
Drinking coffee in my favorite nook in the kitchen.
Packing lunches.
Checking in with teachers before the bustle of the school day begins.
Relaxing with our dogs on the screened-in porch.
Writing in my journal.
Talking with the boys in the family room when they come home from work.
Answering late-night texts.
These are the threads of legacy—the daily choices to show up with love.
And I’ve come to believe that the most important stories I’ll ever tell aren’t the ones I publish.
They’re the ones I live, with the people I love—over dinner tables, car rides, and everything in between.
This birthday felt different.
Not because I had a big celebration, but because I’m finally living with my whole heart again.
Not racing through.
Not performing.
Just fully here—grateful for the gift of 42.
And hopeful for what’s still to come.
No matter what year you find yourself in, consider this your permission slip to become the person you’ve always been meant to be.
To slow down.
To feel it all.
To speak up and soften, sometimes in the same breath.
To evolve, unravel, rebuild, and rise—over and over again.
The light will find you.
And you, brave heart, are more than ready to shine.
