I took these photos on my 60th birthday, just a few short weeks ago. Why? To serve as a reminder—down the road—of who I am today.
Every face tells a story, and I thought I’d share mine… at least up to now.
As I look back and begin to write my story, I know it’s not about being better or worse than anyone else’s—it’s simply mine, just as yours is uniquely yours.
I was born in Chicago, IL, on March 25, 1965. My mother was only 16 years old—a baby herself. She married my father in an attempt to break the cycle of abuse and addiction that she had grown up in.
Unsurprisingly, the marriage didn’t last. They divorced, and my earliest memories are a patchwork of change—new towns, new schools, new faces. My uncle (my mother’s brother) always lived with us and often felt more like a brother than an uncle. He was always fun, but man, could we fight!
We moved a lot in those early years, and while that instability could have left me feeling lost, it sparked a deep resilience instead. I learned to adapt quickly, to read a room, to find my place—or make one—wherever I landed.
I grew up fast. There wasn’t much choice. My mom did the best she could, and I now understand the strength it must have taken just to keep going under the weight of her own unhealed wounds. I didn’t always understand her then, but I have deep compassion for her now.
That’s the thing about wisdom—it softens you. With time and perspective, you begin to see people and situations more clearly, with less judgment and more empathy.
My father died by suicide when I was still young. That kind of loss leaves a scar that never really fades—it just becomes part of who you are. And when I was 46, I lost my mother—she passed away at the age of 63. Far too soon. Losing both parents before I was even 50 left me with a kind of loneliness that’s hard to explain—but it also gave me a greater appreciation for life, for healing, and for showing up fully while we still have the time.
In many ways, my childhood taught me how to survive. But over the years, I’ve worked hard to do more than just survive—I’ve fought to thrive. And with each passing decade, I’ve become more of the woman I needed when I was a girl: grounded, self-aware, fiercely protective of my boundaries, and soft where it matters.
Turning 60 felt big—not because of the number, but because of the reflection it invited. These photos aren’t about vanity. They’re about honoring the journey: the laugh lines earned from joy and sorrow, the strength etched into my bones by years of doing the hard inner work, and the beautiful, undeniable truth that aging is a privilege.
I’m not finished writing my story. But now, I know—I’m the author, not just a character reacting to the plot. And I hope this encourages you—whether you’re 26 or 66—to embrace your own becoming. To celebrate the chapters you’ve already lived and to look ahead with hope and optimism to the ones still being written.
Beyond the Hustle 