Listen. After two nips of Jameson, writing a blog post should not be on the agenda. And yet—here we are, friends. I’d love to put a disclaimer right up top saying I’m not responsible for anything I type in this current state, but alas…I just blogged about accountability. So, cheers to my own trap!
Here’s the truth: I’m tired. Not the “I need a nap” kind of tired, but that deep, soul-level exhaustion where your brain feels like mashed potatoes and your heart’s doing the most for no reason. The kind of tired where even your feels are in their feels, and you wish they’d shut up already.
This week? Left field. Absolute chaos gremlin energy. And it all started with being off work Monday, which threw my whole rhythm off. I’ve been chasing the week ever since and somehow still losing ground. You ever have one of those?
So yes, I’ll be working Saturday—catching up without a single person needing anything from me, except maybe my playlist demanding a solo office dance break every 30 minutes. (Spoiler: I’ll oblige.)
And yeah, maybe I’m being dramatic. Maybe I’m channeling Cher in Moonstruck—“Snap out of it!” But sometimes the weight of just doing life hits funny. Even when the life is good. Even when it’s great. Today? It’s just…yuck.
But tomorrow? Tomorrow is anotha’ day, baby. And I plan on showing up for it—fresh-faced, loud-music’d, slightly less whiskey-fueled, and definitely more me.
Thanks for letting me ramble. This little space is therapy with better penmanship, so to speak.
Y’all, can we talk for a minute about all the excuses people are making for being terrible human beings these days? I’m serious. Everywhere I turn, somebody’s got a new reason, a new label, a new diagnosis for why they’re out here doing just plain awful things. Let’s take this Brian Kohberger situation—the guy accused of brutally murdering four college students in Idaho. Now they’re saying they don’t want him on the stand because of autism? Because of the way he gazes at people? His awkward stance? That he asked for a coffee while being arrested? That he doesn’t fully understand the weight of what he’s under? That he doesn’t know how to show emotion?
Come on now. I’m no psychologist, but that sounds a whole lot more like sociopathy than autism to me. And maybe it’s both—who knows? But at what point did we stop calling evil what it is? At what point did we decide we needed to wrap every act of violence, cruelty, or recklessness in a diagnosis or excuse?
Don’t get me wrong—mental health is real. Trauma is real. Autism, depression, anxiety, PTSD—they are all very, very real. And I respect that. But there’s a difference between having something and using something as a shield from accountability. There’s a fine line between “this shaped who I am” and “this justifies what I did.”
Look, I’ve made my own fair share of bad decisions. Big ones. Ones that still sting when I think about them. And yes, my childhood—chaotic and heartbreaking as it was—played a role. Of course it did. Our past forms us, no doubt. But the decisions? The actions I took? They were mine. There’s always that split second between the thought and the act. And that, right there, is where your responsibility lives.
There’s a reason the law distinguishes between murder and premeditated murder. Murder in a fit of rage? That’s passion, not love-passion, but the kind of overwhelming emotion that shuts your brain off for a moment. Still wrong. Still consequences. But premeditated murder? That means you sat with it. You planned it. You thought it through and still did it. That’s not a lapse in judgment—that’s a choice. A cold, deliberate one.
Same goes for everything else in life. You don’t get a free pass because you’re going through a divorce. You don’t get to hurt people because you had a bad childhood. You don’t get to be a selfish jackass because you’re depressed. I’m not saying those things aren’t hard—I’m saying your response is your responsibility.
That’s a phrase my friend Tammy reminds me of all the time. And she’s right. I am a reactive person by nature. I’ve spent a good part of my life leading with emotion—firing back before thinking, making decisions from a place of hurt or fear. But in the last few years, I’ve worked hard to pause. To breathe. To think before reacting. It’s not always easy, and Lord knows I still mess it up sometimes. But that’s called being human.
Growth doesn’t mean perfection—it means learning. And learning means admitting when you’re wrong, taking accountability, and doing better next time. That doesn’t happen if all we ever do is make excuses for ourselves or others.
So let’s stop. Let’s stop rationalizing every bad behavior with a list of diagnoses and traumas. Let’s hold people accountable—not without compassion, but with clarity. Let’s raise our kids to take responsibility. Let’s stop enabling the chaos around us by sugarcoating it.
Let’s do better. We can do better.
Because the truth is, your choices are your own. And how you respond? That’s on you.
Let’s be honest—when someone says, “I love long flights!”…they’re either lying, in business class, or blessed with the ability to sleep sitting up like a bat. But for most mere mortals heading across the pond to Europe, surviving a long-haul flight takes strategy, snacks, and the occasional side-eye at the guy who immediately reclines his seat into your lap.
Fear not, my globe-trotting friends. I’ve wrangled a few long-haul journeys, and I’m here to help you arrive in Europe only mildly disheveled instead of a full-blown travel zombie. Here’s how:
1. Choose Your Seat Like Your Sanity Depends On It—Because It Does
Window seat = better sleep. Aisle seat = freedom to pee without the death stare from strangers. Middle seat = nope.
Use sites like SeatGuru or ask me to help pick your best seat option when booking. You’re going to be in that tiny space for 8+ hours, so make it work for you.
2. Dress Like You’re Headed to the Airport… and Then Immediately to Bed
Compression socks, stretchy layers, slip-on shoes, and a scarf you can use as a blanket, pillow, or emotional support item? Yes, please. Looking cute is great, but looking comfortable while staying bloated-free is the real win.
3. Hydrate Like You’re Being Paid to Pee
Cabin air is drier than my humor. Skip the wine with dinner (or limit it—let’s be realistic) and drink water like it’s your job. Bring a refillable bottle and keep it full. You’ll thank yourself when you don’t wake up mid-flight feeling like a raisin in a hoodie.
4. Entertainment = Survival
Download your favorite shows, movies, audiobooks, or podcasts before you board. In-flight systems are a gamble—sometimes amazing, sometimes the cinematic equivalent of hotel shampoo. Noise-canceling headphones? Game changer. No one wants to hear a baby cry in surround sound.
5. Sleep Like You’ve Got a Sightseeing Tour at Sunrise (Because You Probably Do)
Neck pillow, eye mask, earplugs—get cozy and try to catch some zzz’s. Melatonin or your preferred responsible sleep aid can help reset your clock and ease jet lag. Just test it at home first, please. Nobody wants to see you hallucinate somewhere over Iceland.
6. Move It, Move It
Get up. Stretch. Walk the aisles. Do some airplane yoga in the back if you’re brave. Your legs and back will thank you, and you’ll reduce your risk of turning into a pretzel upon arrival.
7. Don’t Be That Passenger
You know the one. They blast TikToks without headphones, bring tuna salad onboard, or decide 2 a.m. is a great time for a full-volume FaceTime. Don’t be that guy. Travel karma is real, and the travel gods are always watching.
8. Think Like a Local (Time Zone-Wise)
The second you step on the plane, start thinking in destination time. Eat, sleep, and caffeinate accordingly—it’s the best way to trick your body into adjusting. Jet lag doesn’t stand a chance against you and your plan.
9. Pack the Perfect Carry-On Kit
Here’s what I never board without:
• Toothbrush & toothpaste
• Moisturizer & lip balm
• Face wipes (trust me)
• Travel deodorant
• Snacks (protein-rich + a treat)
• Portable charger
• Eye mask, earplugs, neck pillow
• A pen for customs forms—because no one ever has one.
Final Thought:
A long-haul flight is basically travel purgatory, but it’s also the gateway to castles, croissants, and memories you’ll cherish forever. And with a little prep (and a lot of hydration), you can survive it without turning into a cranky mess at baggage claim.
And remember—when you’re ready to take off, Take Time To Travel is here to help every step of the way. From flights to fabulous European stays, We’ve got you covered. Bon voyage, my jet-setters!
Need help planning your European adventure? Let’s make it unforgettable.
—Jani, you go-to-gal at Take Time To Travel
The Take Time To Travel Team – Cindy, Jani, Tammy. Trisha, Krystal
Life is one big journey—and I’m sharing mine, one mile and one moment at a time. Subscribe to follow along.
This one’s personal. Not hypothetical. Not theoretical. Not distant.
I was molested.
For years.
By someone in my own family.
I didn’t come forward then. I couldn’t. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t even able to fully understand it, much less say it out loud.
And like so many survivors, it took years of healing—years of carrying a truth that scorched my insides—for me to get to a place where I could even begin to speak it.
So let me ask you something:
Why is there a statute of limitations on child molestation?
Because let me tell you something from someone who lived it:
Abuse doesn’t come with a timer.
Healing sure doesn’t.
And trauma? That crap clings to your bones, your voice, your relationships. For life.
So why does the law say, “Well, it’s been X number of years—guess it’s too late”?
Too late for what?
Too late to acknowledge what happened?
Too late to hold someone accountable?
Too late to protect the other people they almost certainly went on to harm?
Because make no mistake—when someone molests a child, it’s rarely a one-time thing. If they got away with it once, they probably got away with it again. And every day that goes by, every year the law stays silent, gives them more cover.
Let’s be real:
The statute of limitations doesn’t protect victims.
It protects predators.
It gives them a countdown to safety.
And it tells people like me, like us, that our pain has a shelf life. That justice expires.
It doesn’t.
It shouldn’t.
Survivors often stay silent because they don’t feel safe. Because they were threatened. Because they were manipulated. Because they didn’t even understand what was happening to them until years later. And when they finally find the strength to come forward, what are they met with?
“Sorry. Time’s up.”
That is not justice. That is betrayal. By a system that should be fighting for us, not against us.
And I don’t care how many years have passed—what happened to me is still not okay.
It wasn’t okay then.
It’s not okay now.
And it won’t ever be okay.
So if you’re reading this and you’ve lived through something similar, I see you.
If you’re still carrying it, still navigating the wreckage, still trying to find your voice—you are not alone.
And if you’ve never understood why survivors don’t “just report it” right away, this is why.
Because we’ve been silenced, doubted, shamed, blamed.
And then, when we finally rise up and speak… the law says, “Too late.”
It’s that time of year again—cleats clacking on concrete, the smell of fresh-cut grass, and the sound of little voices yelling “I got it!” as fly balls sail through the air. Yep, Little League season is here, and y’all, I swear it does something to my heart every time.
Watching my grandson Wyatt take the field is like stepping into a time machine. He’s been playing for several years now, and every season I’m blown away by how much these kids grow—not just physically, but in confidence, skill, and pure love for the game. The way their faces light up when they connect with the ball, or when they finally beat that kid who’s been pitching heat all season… it’s magic.
Baseball truly is America’s pastime, and there’s something sacred about those dusty diamonds and dugout chatter. These games may be “little,” but the memories? They’re huge. And if you’re a parent or grandparent who’s ever spent your evenings in a camp chair with a concession stand hot dog in hand, you know exactly what I mean.
It honestly feels like just yesterday my own boys were out there—dirt-streaked faces, grass-stained pants, and all. I spent so much time at those ball fields back then. Like, SO much. I could practically chalk the baselines myself! And now here I am, back in those same stands, cheering on the next generation.
There’s a rhythm to Little League that gets in your bones. The warm-ups, the rally caps, the post-game ice creams—it all matters. Because this isn’t just about baseball. It’s about teamwork, resilience, and learning that sometimes, life throws curveballs—and you can still swing hard and smile afterward.
Here’s to Wyatt, and all the kids out there giving it their all. And here’s to the grandparents, parents, and coaches who show up game after game. The seasons may fly by, but the memories last a lifetime.
Starting this blog has been on my heart for a long time.
I’ve poured myself into journal after journal over the years—writing out the good, the bad, the messy, and the downright unbelievable. Friends have been telling me for years that I should write a book about my life. And maybe I will one day. But for now… this blog is my beginning.
I’m a storyteller.
I don’t sugarcoat.
I don’t dance around the truth.
But I’m also not quite ready to drop names, dates, and every gritty detail just yet.
So this is me, putting my passion—and my past—on paper. Or screen, rather.
I’m inviting you to follow along as I start this journey, one story at a time. Raw. Real. And 100% me.
Alright y’all, let’s have a little chat about the hot mess that is 23andMe right now. Because… what in the DNA is going on?
So here’s the tea: 23andMe, that little at-home DNA testing company that had everyone spitting into tubes and shipping off their genetic secrets like they were ordering shoes on Amazon, has now filed for bankruptcy. Yep. Bankrupt. And guess what? Another company is swooping in to buy them. And that, my friends, is where things start to feel all kinds of wrong.
Now, let me start by saying—I never did 23andMe. I don’t know, something about it just didn’t sit right with me from the get-go. Don’t get me wrong—I absolutely love that it helped people find long-lost family members and gave folks a peek into their ancestry. That’s beautiful, and powerful, and I’ll never knock that. I get the appeal.
But me? I’ve never been able to shake the feeling that sending off your literal DNA to a for-profit company might not be the brightest idea in the box. And look, I’m not some tin-foil-hat-wearing, black-helicopter-watching, government-conspiracy-type (unless we’re talking about what’s really in hospital pudding cups, but that’s another story). I get that we give blood at the doctor, we pee in cups for labs, and honestly, if the government really wanted our info, they’ve probably had it since we first got our social security number.
But this? This is different.
With 23andMe, we weren’t just giving a little info—we were giving all of it. Everything about who we are, genetically speaking, handed over on a silver spit-filled platter. And not just for health screenings or ancestry purposes—your data could be used in research, sold to pharmaceutical companies, or God knows what else depending on the fine print. And now? A brand new company is about to own all of it.
And that freaks me out.
Because while the government may or may not be quietly keeping tabs, what I do know is that I don’t want some random group of venture capitalists, tech bros, or data miners having access to the inner workings of my entire family tree and medical blueprint. And if you were one of the millions who did do 23andMe? You don’t get to take that info back. It’s not like canceling Netflix. That data is out there, and someone new is about to profit off it.
So yeah, I’m a little salty about it. I think people were sold the promise of connection and understanding, and they weren’t wrong to want that. But the price we pay for convenience or curiosity is getting higher—and more personal—every day.
Anyway. If anyone needs me, I’ll be over here trying to remember if I ever even said my maiden name online, much less mailed it in with my DNA attached.
Stay smart, stay skeptical, and maybe don’t spit in anything you can’t take back.
Y’all, let me tell you something I hear way too often:
“Your trauma made you stronger.”
Now, I know folks usually mean well when they say that. They’re trying to put a little inspirational bow on a big ol’ box of mess. But every time I hear it, I have to resist the urge to squint my eyes, tilt my head, and ask, “Did it, though? Did it really?”
Because no, sugar. My trauma did not make me stronger.
It didn’t give me some magical resilience superpower.
It didn’t transform me into the Bionic Woman.
It didn’t give me abs, clear skin, or a better credit score.
You know what it did give me?
A very dark, very inappropriate sense of humor.
Oh—and the ability to make a room full of people laugh with a story that probably should’ve ended in therapy instead of a punchline.
So when someone says,
“Your trauma made you stronger.”
I smile sweetly, lean in close, and reply:
“It absolutely did not. But it did make me funny. And I’ll take that.”
Because let’s be honest—
Strength is overrated.
Funny pays the bills, gets the laughs, and heals the heart in its own sideways, sarcastic, southern way.
And if I’ve got to carry my baggage, honey, you better believe I’m gonna monogram it and turn it into a stand-up set.
Let’s talk about something not-so-glamorous but oh-so-important—entry requirements for international travel. I know, I know… paperwork isn’t the fun part of vacation planning. But trust me, nothing puts a damper on your dream trip faster than being turned away at the airport because you didn’t have the right documents in hand.
Let’s break it down.
It’s Not Always Just a Passport
Sometimes, traveling is as simple as grabbing your passport and heading out the door. Many countries welcome U.S. travelers with open arms and zero extra paperwork. Mexico, much of the Caribbean, and parts of Europe often fall into this easy-breezy category (depending on the length of your stay, of course). That said—never assume.
Visas, Health Declarations, and That Fine Print
Other destinations may require a bit more prep. Some places need:
• Tourist Visas (applied for online or upon arrival)
• Health Documents (think proof of vaccinations or travel health declarations)
• Digital Entry Forms (yes, even those count—hello, QR codes)
And here’s the kicker: requirements can change. Fast. What was true last month might not be true this month, especially in a post-pandemic world.
Real Talk: This Is Why You Have Me
When you’re working with a professional Travel Advisor (ahem—me), I make sure you know exactly what you need and when you need it. Whether it’s navigating eVisas for Vietnam, health screening forms for Costa Rica, or understanding that the Schengen Zone has a 90-day rule, I’ve got you covered.
Pro Tip
Always check the official government travel site for your destination—or better yet, just ask me! I stay up-to-date on all those tricky little details so you don’t have to spend hours falling down the Google rabbit hole.
So go ahead and dream big. Want to sip wine in Tuscany? Ride camels in Morocco? Chase waterfalls in Iceland? Let’s do it! Just promise me one thing: don’t leave the paperwork to the last minute.
Ready to plan? Have questions about entry requirements? I’m here for it. Let’s make sure your trip starts smooth and stress-free.
—Jani, your go-to-gal at Take Time To Travel
The Take Time To Traval Team – Cindy, Jani, Tammy, Trisha, Krystal
Life is one big journey—and I’m sharing mine, one mile and one moment at a time. Subscribe to follow along.
Let me paint y’all a picture: it’s a peaceful Sunday just after my granddaughter’s birthday party, and we opt for dinner. I decide to treat this body (that I love, even if it betrays me) to a hearty little something from Los Mesquites.
I ordered the Cubana plate. Because why not? Life is short, pants are stretchy, and queso is eternal.
But somewhere between the beans, the rice, the mountain of meat, and what can only be described as molten green lava disguised as tomatillo sauce, I may have made a life-altering decision. That sauce was hotter than a NYC Fireman’s Calendar in July—but did I stop?
Of course not.
I’m a Southern woman. We eat with pride, not caution. I dabbed at my forehead like a dainty lady but kept right on goin’, because flavor triumphs over fear.
Well…
Fast forward to 2 a.m., and let’s just say things went sideways. Violently. Dramatically. Biblically. My stomach was audibly protesting like I had swallowed a marching band, and the rest of my body said, “Ma’am, we’re gonna need you near a bathroom at all times.”
Now, I’m not saying it’s that “bug that’s goin’ around” (even though everybody I know has had it, and their cousin’s dog too). No no, I’m just sayin’ maybe—maybe—that tomatillo sauce pulled me into spiritual warfare I was not prepared for.
I’ve been up and down all night like I was auditioning for a Pepto-Bismol commercial. One minute I’m freezing, next I’m sweating like a sinner in Sunday school. I’ve made dramatic promises to the Lord. I’ve googled “can you overdose on ginger ale?” And I’ve officially lost count of how many times I’ve told my cat, “If I don’t make it, tell the dogs I love them.”
But still. I do not have the stomach virus. I refuse to give it that kind of power.
I have… a culinary consequence.
So learn from me, sweet friends:
• If you feel brave enough to go for the extra-hot tomatillo sauce… maybe have a game plan.
• Don’t trust a meal that looks too beautiful and smells like heaven—it might be plotting against you.
• And if you wake up at 2 a.m. with your stomach doing gymnastics? Just know you are not alone. I’m here. In my bathroom. Sending love and cautionary tales.
With queasy love, light, and a whole lot of Liquid IV,
XOXO, Jani (your fire-breathed, lesson-learned, still-not-technically-sick travel advisor)
Journeys With Jani 