Last night, I stood on the balcony of my stateroom, surrounded by nothing but ocean. It was so dark—truly dark—with the exception of a soft glow where the moonlight stretched across the water’s surface. It was beautiful, and in that quiet moment, I let the peace of it settle into me.
It brought back a memory of a conversation I once had with Jarrett when he was deployed. He told me about being on the deck of the ship at night when they turned off every single light. There’s a term for it, though I can’t quite recall it now. But he described how the sky would be overcast, with no stars, no moonlight—just darkness. Complete and total. He said he could hold his hand up in front of his face and not see a thing. I can’t even begin to imagine what that kind of darkness feels like.
Sometimes, I think we create our own darkness. Whether it’s through worry, fear, or the weight of things we can’t quite let go of, we find ourselves in a space where we can’t—or won’t—let the light in. But here’s the thing: even in the deepest, stillest darkness, there’s almost always a hint of light, if we let ourselves see it.
That sliver of moonlight reminded me that it’s not about waiting for brightness to return—it’s about allowing ourselves to notice even the smallest glimmer. A little bit of light can go a long way. It can soften the edges, guide us forward, and remind us that darkness, no matter how complete it seems, is never quite as solid as it feels.
I was watching the Today Show this morning—because that’s how I keep up with the world before I decide whether or not to participate in it—and they were going on about how the southern accent is disappearing across the United States. Well, bless their hearts, that’s part of the problem right there.
It’s not that it’s disappearing everywhere—it’s just that the whole of the United States ain’t southern. And when we pack up and head off to college up north or out west, or we marry someone from, say, Connecticut (Lord help us), sometimes we pick up a little of wherever we land. Same way someone who moves to France starts throwing around a few merci beaucoups with a twinkle in their eye—even if they’re still mangling the pronunciation.
Actors are the worst about this. They drop their southern drawl for a career and then try to haul it back out for a movie role—and honey, it sounds like they’re choking on a mouthful of marbles. That’s why Walton Goggins nails it every time. He’s southern through and through and never tried to scrub it off. You can’t teach that kind of authenticity. It’s in your bones, not your vocal cords.
Take Julia Roberts, bless her heart. She dropped her southern accent years ago, but when she played that role in Steel Magnolias, it came back so thick it was almost comical. That wasn’t creamy buttery, warm homemade grits—that was day old instant grits.
Now, Parker Posey in White Lotus? That girl was pretty spot on. She walked that fine line just right—didn’t overdo it, didn’t make it sound like some backwoods cartoon character. That was the kind of southern that sips sweet tea on the porch but will cut you down with one sharp side-eye before you even realize it happened. Why do I feel so SEEN!
My Gramma was from South Carolina, and even after she moved up to Pennsylvania, she never lost that sweet southern drawl. You could hear it in every word she spoke, and I loved that about her.
And my Chubby! She had that accent thicker than Georgia humidity on an August day—grew up in Decata’, not Decatur, and you didn’t dare try to correct her on it.
Now me? I was born right here in the South, but growing up, I went back and forth between my Gramma’s house and my daddy’s house—and let’s just say, it gave me a little bit of a mixed accent over the years. And let’s be real clear about something—Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, is Pennsylvania Dutch country. That’s not exactly a “northern” accent by any stretch. And honestly? I like that I have both. I can flip that southern charm on in a heartbeat, but I’ve got a little something extra tucked in my back pocket too.
The second my feet hit Georgia soil again? Oh, honey, I’m back to sounding like cheesy jalapeño cornbread—sweet, spicy, and a little bit extra.
Folks come to Atlanta expecting to hear those rich southern accents, but Atlanta ain’t exactly the South anymore, is it? It’s a big ol’ melting pot with more transplants than native peaches. But if you drive down into Mississippi, drop below Georgia gnat line, or over to Louisiana? There it is. Thick as molasses and twice as sweet.
I like my southern accent. I don’t have a bit of desire to lose it. Sure, I might could lose some of that cornbread from my hips, but the accent? Oh, it stays. I’m proud to be southern. And I’m proud I spent a little time up in Pennsylvania Dutch country, too. It gave me a different perspective—made me shoot from the hip, stand my ground, and skip the sugarcoating unless it’s on a pound cake.
Is that good or bad? Who knows? But it’s me. And I’m keeping it.
What about y’all? Do you think accents really disappear—or do they just take a little vacation now and then?
It’s finally happening. Sean Combs—Puff Daddy, P. Diddy, Puffy, Diddy, Love, or whatever monogrammed personality he’s using these days—is on trial. And y’all, I’m just sitting here like… well, it’s about time.
Now, I know how this circus works. His defense team will argue. His accusers will testify. Some folks will stretch the truth like a pair of cheap leggings at a buffet. Others will flat-out lie. But babe, that video—you know the one—is doing all the talking we really need. You cannot tell me that’s a one-off incident. No sir. No ma’am. No way. That kind of behavior doesn’t just pop up like a bad rash. That’s learned. That’s practiced. And worse? That’s controlled.
And his lawyer—actually stood there with a straight face and called it “simple domestic abuse.” I’m sorry, is that on the new Dollar Menu at McTrauma? Because I don’t recall seeing “simple” and “abuse” ever sharing space in a sentence like that before. Abuse—whether it’s physical, verbal, emotional, or all wrapped up in a toxic little combo pack—is never simple. And just because you’ve got a shared address or some rings involved doesn’t somehow make it less violent or less wrong. If he’d done that to a stranger out in public? Oh, he’d be locked up before he could even finish his “Do you know who I am?” speech.
But here’s the thing that really gets me. People ask all the time, “Why didn’t she leave?” Why didn’t she press charges?” And I have to stop myself from getting too high and mighty, because I know the answer. I’ve asked that same question. Then I turn right back around and say, “I know exactly why.”
Sometimes it’s just easier to stay with the devil you know. But y’all… if you’re referring to the person you share a home with as “the devil,” it’s probably time to go. Scratch that—it’s absolutely time to go.
And back to Mr. Combs. It’s sad, but not shocking. It’s Hollywood. That place has been a pit of well-dressed depravity long before I was born, long before my momma and daddy were born. Y’all ever heard of the “casting couch”? That wasn’t just a rumor—that was a whole business model.
The difference now? People—real people—are standing up. Women aren’t as afraid to come forward. Men either. But with that comes a whole other mess, doesn’t it? The folks who see a moment of fame and jump right on that train with a lie in their back pocket. And that’s where it gets complicated.
There’s a fine line between a harmless flirtation and real harassment. And if someone crosses it? Speak up. Say it made you uncomfortable. That should be the end of it. But too often, it’s not. And too often, people wait years to say something. And sometimes, honestly, I think, “Why now?” But then I check myself because I remember—I didn’t speak up either.
I didn’t speak up about the abuse I went through as a child until I was grown. And let me just say, and the silencing shaped me. I’ll never forget the first time I told a family member. You know what I heard? “We’re just not going to discuss that.”
Well, lucky for me, I got tired of staying quiet. Eventually, that silence nearly broke me. But that’s a blog for another day.
Back to this trial—what do you think? Is he going down? And who else should be sitting right there beside him in that courtroom? People we think are angels with perfect PR teams—are they really? Or are they just better at hiding it?
My Mother’s Senior Photo, 1967My Senior Photo, 1987
Mother’s Day is one of those days that, for me, comes wrapped up in a whole mess of emotions—some sweet, some heavy, and some I just tuck away and try not to unpack. I know I’m not alone in that. You see, I haven’t spoken to my mother since 2013, and truth be told, our relationship was never what you’d call “motherly” to begin with. She wasn’t a momma. Not really. I don’t think she had it in her.
That’s a hard thing to admit out loud, isn’t it? That the very person who should have taught me what unconditional love looked like never quite managed it. And before anyone asks—yes, I tried. Lord knows I tried. But our time together was always a roller coaster of ups and downs. And not the fun kind of roller coaster.
With her, it was always a competition. And let me be real clear—I wasn’t even in the game by choice. But she was determined to be the star, the center, the one who mattered most in her parents’ eyes. And the truth is…she wasn’t. I was. I did all the “right” things in their eyes, and she never quite lived up to their expectations. I don’t know what they wanted from her exactly. Trust me, she was beautiful, smart, talented. Now whether she meant to or not, she poured every ounce of that resentment onto me. That’s a heavy weight for a child to carry.
Occasionally she was the proud mother. Any photo opportunity that gave her the chance to brag about what a great job she was doing …she showed up for that!
My High School Graduation Day ‘87
It’s hard for most people to grasp how a mother can look at her daughter and feel anything other than pride and love. But I lived it. And it shaped me.
Maybe that’s why, when Jake and Jarrett were growing up, they became my entire world. I treasured every little moment with them—the late-night feedings, the sticky kisses, the scrapes and bruises, the teenage eye-rolls, all of it. And with each passing year, my love didn’t stay the same—it grew. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be? Isn’t that what being a momma is?
💙 One of my fave photos 💙
That’s what’s “normal” to me. Wanting your children to have a better life. Cheering them on when they succeed. Praying over them when they struggle. Hoping they go further, do more, and live a life filled with love and goodness.
Mother’s Day is a mixed bag for me. I’ve spent years longing for that mother-daughter bond that so many of my friends have. I envied the phone calls, the shopping trips, the easy conversations over coffee. But that ship? Well, it sailed a long time ago.
And yet—here’s the hardest truth of all—if she ever called and needed something from me, I would help. Without hesitation. Because that’s what a momma does. And despite everything, I learned to be a momma by knowing exactly what I didn’t want to be.
So today, I’ll sit in the quiet and honor the kind of mother I became. The kind of love I gave—and still give—to my boys. That’s the legacy I’m proud of. And that’s the Mother’s Day I choose to celebrate.
To every woman out there whose heart is a little heavy today, know this—you’re not alone. And sometimes, the greatest love stories are the ones we write ourselves.
Well y’all… apparently I’m about to be 56. On Thursday. And honestly, I’m not even sure when that happened. One minute I was trying to master the big hair of the ’80s and the next I’m putting readers on top of my head trying to remember where I left my other pair. Life moves fast, doesn’t it?
Now let’s get one thing straight—I’ve never been one of those women who dreaded the big birthdays. Thirty? Fabulous. Forty? Bring it. Fifty? Honestly, I was feeling myself. Sixty? Hmm… I’ll get back to y’all on that one.
But truthfully? I’ve earned every single one of these years. Every laugh line, every stretch mark, every gray hair (well, I don’t know if I have those and you’ll never know either). They’re all little badges from a life well-lived—and still living, thank you very much.
When I look back, I’m proud. Mostly. Occasionally those Facebook memories pop up and I find myself whispering, “Jear Desus… what was I even thinking?” A cringey dude, an overshare, maybe a questionable post. No wait. What? But that’s life. You take the good with the bad, learn what you can, and keep it movin’.
That’s the real secret, isn’t it? The lesson. Not perfection. Not staying young forever. But learning from every wild twist and turn life throws at you.
I feel pretty sure my Gramma and my Chubby would be proud of the woman I’ve become. Oh, they’d roll their eyes at me sometimes—especially when I get mouthy or add a little flair where there’s supposed to be “decorum”—but they’d be proud. Because I know how to act. I love my pearls. I know which fork to use at a fancy dinner.
But let’s be honest… where’s the fun in always being proper?
So here’s my advice as I tiptoe (in wedges) into 56:
Embrace your age.
Embrace your story.
Embrace life—even the messy, complicated, beautiful parts of it.
And most importantly… never forget where you left your readers.
Every weekday morning, I turn on the Today show. It’s my background noise while I sip coffee, squish in-between Cash and Shelby on the couch, and try to convince myself that leggings still count as pants. But in between all that, I catch up on the world—what’s happening, what matters, and sometimes, what we’ve forgotten matters.
This morning, they featured something that hit me square in the heart: Head Start, with Jennifer Garner as the voice behind it. Now y’all know I love her anyway—America’s sweetheart with just the right amount of grit—but today she was spotlighting something bigger than herself: helping kids.
And before we go any further—this is NOT a political post. I don’t care what side of the fence you sit on. I’m not talking to your political beliefs. I’m talking to your humanity. I’m on the side of the kids. Period.
Because here’s the thing: this is America. Why are children still going hungry? Why are we still debating whether a child deserves a decent breakfast?
When I was at Valdosta State, I worked at an elementary school for six weeks—paid internship, helped cover tuition, and changed my whole outlook. That school had free breakfast and lunch. For every single student. It didn’t matter where they came from or how much their parents made. What mattered was that they were children—and children need to eat. End of story.
The staff didn’t stop at breakfast and lunch either. They made sure food went home with kids on Fridays. They kept the programs going through summer. And how did they do it? Donations. Volunteers. Pure heart. A community that cared enough to say: not on our watch.
And yes, the government plays a part. But so do we. Each of us. Every time we look the other way or assume it’s someone else’s job—we’re letting kids fall through the cracks.
That’s why I want to shout out one of our own Jennifer’s: Jenny Petersen. If you live in Bartow County and don’t know Jenny, I’m convinced you’ve been buried under a rock. She’s the woman who shows up. Time after time. Volunteering, fundraising, organizing, and doing the work—real work—that keeps kids fed, families supported, and communities thriving. And she has been doing this while raising kids herself and working at a regular job!
For me, WWJD doesn’t just stand for “What Would Jesus Do?” It’s also “What Would Jenny Do?” Because Jenny? She gets it done. And honestly, we need a whole lot more Jennys in this world.
So here’s my ask: let’s keep pushing, Bartow County. Let’s do even more. Not just for the kids who make the honor roll or play sports. But for every child—because their future is our future. Let’s stop thinking “someone should do something” and start realizing we are someone.
Jennifer Garner reminded me of that this morning. Jenny Peterson lives it out every day.
And now I’m challenging myself—and maybe you—to do a little more.
Who told you I had direction? Was it someone with a clipboard and a dream? Because unless we’re talking about GPS directions to the nearest Target or the quickest way to get home without hitting every red light in Bartow County, I’m gonna need you to clarify.
See, I’m not one of those folks who popped out of the womb with a five-year plan and a color-coded binder (I got that later). Nope. I’ve been out here flying by the seat of my pants since 1969, and I’ve somehow managed to land on my feet—most days—with a coffee in one hand and multiple planners in the other that usually get ignored.
A day out of my digital planner…
If anything gives me “direction” in life, it’s a curious mix of gut instinct, caffeine, grandbaby giggles, and occasionally asking myself, “What would Dolly Parton do?” Spoiler: the answer is usually “put on some lipstick and mascara, and keep going.”
Sometimes my direction looks like a well-planned calendar and sometimes it’s just a Post-It note that says, “Don’t forget pants.” And yet, here I am—still navigating the chaos, still laughing, still loving hard, and still pulling together last-minute travel plans like it’s a competitive sport.
So what gives me direction? Faith. Family. And a whole lot of wingin’ it with flair.
Because while I may not know exactly where I’m headed every day, I do know this—I’m going somewhere, and I’m gonna enjoy the ride. Preferably with good music, a biscuit, and the windows down.
XOXO, Jani
Now tell me—what gives you direction, or are you out here with me, cruisin’ without a map?
Let’s get one thing straight: I love this country with every fiber of my being. Anyone who knows me knows that. I stand for the flag, I honor our veterans, and I believe in the ideals that make America the land of the free and the home of the brave.
But loving your country doesn’t mean turning a blind eye to reality. It means acknowledging both our strengths and our shortcomings. It means striving to make our nation better, not pretending it’s perfect.
So, when I hear folks proudly declare, “I only buy American-made products,” I can’t help but raise an eyebrow. Really? Are you sure about that?
LET’S TAKE A CLOSER LOOK
🛍️ The Reality of Retail
Most of the products sold at major retailers like Target, Walmart, TJ Maxx, and Marshalls are manufactured in countries with large-scale production capabilities, primarily:
China: A leading source for electronics, clothing, toys, and household items. Vietnam: Popular for apparel, footwear, and some electronics. Bangladesh: A key supplier of textiles and garments. India: Known for textiles, home goods, and jewelry. Mexico: Produces appliances, automotive parts, and consumer goods, benefiting from proximity to the U.S.
These countries offer cost-effective manufacturing, which helps keep retail prices competitive. It’s not about patriotism; it’s about economics.
👗 Designer Labels Aren’t Exempt
Even major designer labels manufacture their clothing in various countries based on factors like cost, quality, and brand heritage.
FOR INSTANCE…
Luxury brands like Gucci and Prada often produce in Italy and France. Fast fashion labels such as Zara and H&M source from countries like Bangladesh and Vietnam. Sportswear brands like Nike and Adidas have manufacturing in China and Indonesia. Sustainable brands like Patagonia prefer the USA and Portugal for ethical production. You’ve heard of child labor, right?
It’s a global economy, and companies make decisions that align with their business models.
🇺🇸 Loving America Means Being Honest
Patriotism isn’t about blind loyalty; it’s about holding our country to its highest standards. It’s about recognizing our achievements and acknowledging our flaws. As one article notes, “True patriotism… means holding one’s country to its own highest standards; protest doesn’t dishonor flag or anthem, but rather the opposite” .
So, before you boast about exclusively buying American-made products, take a moment to check the labels. It’s okay to support American businesses, but let’s not kid ourselves about the origins of every item we purchase.
❤️ A Call for Thoughtful Patriotism
Let’s channel our love for this country into actions that make a difference… Shall we?
Support local businesses and artisans. Advocate for fair labor practices globally. Educate ourselves about the products we buy and their origins.
Loving America means striving to make it better—for everyone. It’s not about slogans or declarations. It’s about informed choices and meaningful actions.
Not long after my grandson was born, my son looked at me—tired, overwhelmed, still slightly terrified—and said, “So just like that… I’ve been demoted?”
Ha! I didn’t even hesitate. “Of course you have, sweetie. Welcome to middle management.”
Now listen, I love my children. Deeply. Madly. With a fierceness that only grew over the years. I know people say, “There’s no greater love than when they’re first born,” but I think those people must’ve tapped out early. Because I have loved my boys more and more as time has passed. Watching them grow from tiny tornadoes in OshKosh overalls into sarcastic, successful, sometimes smarter-than-their-mama adults? That’s some BIG LOVE. (And no, not that HBO polygamy mess—I mean the real kind.)
But grandchildren? Oh honey, that’s a whole different category. That’s like going from running the kitchen every night to just showing up, sipping wine, and clapping when the soufflé doesn’t collapse.
Being a parent means sleepless nights, questionable snacks, and constant questions about whether you’re doing it right. Being a grandparent means snacks for dinner are charming, naps are optional (for me), and if they want to wear rain boots with pajamas? Fashion icon!
As a grandparent, I’m no longer responsible for shaping the future of America. I just get to soak up the right now. I’m not stressing about college funds or who they’ll marry or whether they’ll remember to brush their teeth every morning. (Let’s be honest, I’ve seen the state of some of their parents’ mouths—they’ll be fine.)
And when one of my grandkids does something hilariously naughty—like saying, “ Hell yeah!” or hiding a grilled cheese behind the couch or sneaking upstairs just for the thrills, I don’t panic. I don’t lecture. I just smile, take a picture for posterity, and let that quiet little chuckle rise up because ohhhh yes, I’ve seen that move before. Jake and Jarrett were the original rascals, and baby, history repeats itself.
So no, parenthood hasn’t ended. It’s just been… promoted. I get to love my grown kids with pride, admiration, and the occasional unsolicited advice. And I get to adore my grandkids with wide-open arms, zero guilt, and plenty of ice cream.
Parenthood is the masterpiece.
Grandparenthood? That’s the encore.
And you better believe I’m standing center stage, soaking in the applause.
Tonight, on my way home, I was sitting at the red light at Tennessee Street and Main, just minding my business (and singing like I was auditioning for The Voice), when my eyes caught something that made me laugh out loud — again.
On the corner, there’s this little art store. And right in front of it? That same “GOING OUT OF BUSINESS! FINAL DAYS!” sign that’s been flapping around like a sad little flag of desperation… for at least a year now. I’m not even exaggerating. A year, y’all. Probably longer if we’re being honest.
Every few months, I spot it again like a ghost of clearance sales past, and every single time I wonder — what is happening here? How many “Final Days” does one business get before it’s just… normal days? Did they misunderstand the assignment? Did they get emotionally attached to the thrill of a “final” moment? Are they like that one friend who throws a “goodbye” party for every move but still shows up two weeks later at the neighborhood pool?
I need answers. Real ones. Somebody — anybody — make it make sense.
At this point, that sign feels like part of the permanent landscape. Honestly, if they actually closed, I think I’d miss seeing it. It’s like the world’s slowest breakup… and none of us have any closure.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll stop in and buy something. You know, for the sake of “supporting local.” Or maybe just to ask, “Y’all okay?”
Journeys With Jani 