Category: Eat, Pray, Love

The Power—and the Limits—of Protest

June 10, 2025

Eat, Pray, Love

There’s something deeply American about protest. It’s woven into the fabric of our beginnings—Boston tea parties, marches for women’s votes, sit-ins at segregated lunch counters, and the long, painful road of civil rights movements. And I’m gonna say this clearly: I believe in the right to protest. I believe in raising your voice. I believe in speaking truth to power. It’s one of the freedoms that sets us apart—and we should never take that for granted.

But somewhere along the way, the line between protest and chaos has started to blur.

Let me say this with all the love and all the concern I carry for this country I call home: Blocking traffic on major interstates isn’t brave. Destroying businesses in your own community doesn’t bring justice. It brings fear. It brings destruction. And it undermines the very cause you’re trying to support.

We’ve lost sight, I think, of what real protest looks like. Real protest is powerful not because it’s loud, but because it’s principled. It’s organized, focused, peaceful—and stubborn in the best way. You don’t need to burn it down to be heard.

Right now, our country feels like it’s holding its breath. Emotions are high. People are angry, scared, exhausted. And I get it—we are living in a wild time. But let’s be honest—we’ve been here before. History is full of storms. And every single time, it’s the people who chose to rise above the chaos, not sink into it, who shaped the next chapter.

So I say this with the heart of someone who loves freedom, and respects anyone bold enough to fight for what they believe in: fight with dignity. Protest with purpose. March with your head high and your eyes set on a better future.

Let the message be loud, but let the method be just.

Because when the dust settles—and it always does—the world will remember how you made your mark.

XOXO, Jani

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5 Things to Know About MS: We’re Not All the Same, But We Do Understand Each Other

June 8, 2025

Eat, Pray, Love, The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

There’s a graphic I came across the other day that made me stop scrolling. Simple, to the point, and accurate. It read:

“5 Things to Know About Multiple Sclerosis.”

Here’s the thing: MS doesn’t come with a one-size-fits-all brochure. It doesn’t play fair, and it doesn’t follow a predictable script. And the hardest part? Most people don’t really get it unless they live it—or love someone who does.

So let’s break down what that image said, and I’ll sprinkle in some real-life truth from someone who’s been walking (sometimes limping, sometimes resting, sometimes fighting) this road right at fifteen years.

1. There is no known cure.

This isn’t a flu. You don’t get to “wait it out.” You manage it. You adapt. You cry sometimes, and then you get up and do what you can. There are treatments, and for some, they work wonders. For others, it’s a guessing game of meds and side effects. But cured? No. Not yet.

2. You can’t catch it from someone else.

This isn’t contagious—at least not in the way people think. But what is contagious? Fatigue. Frustration. The feeling of being dismissed. And unfortunately, judgment. We hear things like “but you don’t look sick” or “you were fine yesterday.” Honey, I can look like a million bucks and feel like roadkill at the same time.

3. Symptoms change frequently depending on nerves affected.

MS is the queen of inconsistency. One day I’m fine. The next, my legs feel like they’re walking through concrete and my brain is buffering like a bad internet connection. Tingling, vision problems, pain, exhaustion—pick a symptom, any symptom. MS throws darts and doesn’t care where they land.

4. Not everyone will need a wheelchair.

This one’s big. When people think of MS, they often jump straight to wheelchairs and canes. And yes, mobility aids are a lifeline for many. But others (like me, most days) are still upright, walking, driving, and doing life. Doesn’t mean we’re not struggling. Some disabilities are visible. Others wear good lipstick and keep showing up anyway.

5. Each person’s MS will be different… yet similar.

This is the heart of it. No two people’s MS stories are the same—but talk to someone else with this diagnosis and you’ll both nod a lot. We may have different symptoms, different triggers, different paths—but the emotional toll? The exhaustion, the constant adjustments, the fear of what comes next? Yeah, that part feels universal.

So what can you do?

Be kind. Be patient. Believe people when they tell you what they’re going through—even if they look fine. MS is a rollercoaster we didn’t buy tickets for, and we’re just doing our best to hold on some days.

If you love someone with MS, don’t try to fix them. Just love them. Walk beside them. Carry the load when you can. Let them rest without guilt and speak without filters. And for heaven’s sake, bring snacks. (Trust me on that one.)

And if you have MS: you are not alone. Even on the days when it feels like the whole world doesn’t get it, I promise—some of us do.

Stay steady, warriors.

XOXO, Jani

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One Compliment a Day… Lets Talk About It

June 8, 2025

Eat, Pray, Love, The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

Let me ask you something.

When’s the last time you told someone they were doing a good job?

That they looked beautiful?

That you noticed how hard they’ve been trying?

Now, when’s the last time you thought it…

but didn’t say a word?

We all do it. We think kind thoughts about people—friends, coworkers, family, even strangers in line at Target—but we keep it locked inside our heads.

And that’s a shame, because this world could use a little more spoken kindness and a little less side-eye and snark.

So here’s what I’m proposing:

Let’s make it a personal challenge.

One person.

One compliment.

Every day.

Write it down in your journal.

It doesn’t have to be groundbreaking.

Maybe you admire someone’s work ethic.

Maybe they’ve lost weight.

Maybe they just have the kind of energy that makes people feel safe and seen.

Tell them.

Tell them even if it feels awkward.

Tell them especially if you think

“they probably already know.”

Because odds are… they don’t.

Kindness doesn’t cost a thing—

but withholding it might.

In a world where people are quick to judge, quick to criticize, and quick to scroll on by, let’s slow it down and be intentional. Let’s build people up instead of tearing them down. And yes, I’m even talking about the gal at the gas station with the sparkly nails.

Compliment those too.

Start today. Reach out to someone you love—or someone you barely know—and say,

“Hey, just wanted to tell you… you matter.”

Let’s lift people up on purpose. Let’s be the reason someone smiles today.

So tell me—who are you reaching out to first?

XOXO, Jani

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Marriage: It Ain’t All Butterflies, Boo

June 5, 2025

Eat, Pray, Love, The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

Let me go ahead and say this right off the bat: my marriage doesn’t fit the mold of what you see in rom-coms or sappy social media posts. We don’t do daily forehead kisses or synchronized coffee sips on the porch swing. What we do have is a love that’s steady, seasoned, and strong enough to weather life’s messiest chapters—and that, my friends, is the kind of love that lasts.

Our marriage began after our kids were already grown. That meant we didn’t get the typical “start a life, raise a family, grow old together” path. We came into this already shaped by life—by heartaches, healing, and hard-earned wisdom. Ours is a blended family. One that didn’t grow together in the traditional sense but grew stronger by choice, by patience, and by the shared love we now pour into our grandchildren.

And oh, those grandbabies? They are the glue, the laughter, the chaos, and the calm all wrapped up in peanut butter fingerprints and belly giggles. Watching him be “Grrrr-pa” is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. That bond he has with them? It’s deep. It’s real. And it’s a reminder that love multiplies when it’s given freely, not just through blood, but through presence and consistency.

Now don’t get me wrong—love is beautiful. But it’s not always glamorous. It’s not always butterflies and breakfast in bed. Sometimes it’s holding each other up when the weight of the world feels too heavy. It’s middle-of-the-night medicine runs, deep sighs after long days, and showing up even when you don’t feel like it.

The truth is, love alone isn’t enough to sustain a marriage. You need commitment. You need maturity. You need someone who doesn’t flinch when life throws its ugliest punches. Because when it gets real—and I mean really real—romance alone won’t carry you. It’s character that will.

I know without question who will catch me if I fall. He may not recite sonnets or bring home flowers on random Tuesdays (though I wouldn’t complain), but he shows up in all the ways that matter. He stays. He tries. He loves me in the middle of the mess.

And that’s the secret, isn’t it? Forever isn’t about grand gestures. It’s about choosing each other again and again, especially when it’s hard to do. Especially when life isn’t shiny. Especially when love feels like work.

So if you’re out there thinking forever has to look a certain way—remember this: it’s not about how you started or even when. It’s about who stays when things get hard. It’s about who stands beside you—not just in the good times, but in the real ones.

And if you’re lucky, it’s about watching your grandkids dance around the living room, knowing that this is the kind of love that builds a legacy.

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Disembarkation: AKA: Don’t Let The Gangway Hit Ya On The Way Out!”

June 1, 2025

Eat, Pray, Love, The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”, Travel Advice

Well y’all, today is the day—

disembarkation day. And let me tell you something: while I’ve loved every second of salty air and bottomless shrimp cocktails, I’m more than ready to get the heck off this ship.

Don’t get me wrong—

the cruise was fabulous. But after a week of eating like a Kardashian at an all-you-can-eat buffet and pretending I didn’t hear my bank account crying every time I passed the onboard shops, I’m ready to trade in these high seas

for my low country porch swing.

I’ve hit that point where my stretchy pants are begging for mercy, my back is screaming from pretending I’m 25 doing the Macarena at the deck party, and my face is saying

“Get me off this floating hotel before I turn into a human saltine!”

Now, disembarkation? It’s always a production. You’re given luggage tags and color codes like you’re in kindergarten and they’re telling you it’s snack time. The cruise staff is on the intercom at dawn, chirping, “Good morning, lovely guests, it’s time to disembark!” like it’s a blessing. Honey, I’m packed, zipped, and ready to sprint down that gangway!

I’m already imagining my own bed, my own bathroom, and not having to make awkward small talk with people I’ll never see again in my life. I miss my pups. I miss my coffee that doesn’t cost $14 a cup. And heaven help me, I even miss my laundry pile. OK. That was a lie.

Let’s be honest—when I travel, I travel hard. I love every second of it. But I’m also the girl who, on the last day, is 110% ready to go home. I’m basically standing by the cabin door with my suitcase in hand like, “Don’t make me late for my Uber to reality!”

So today, I say: farewell, ship life. You were good to me. But my porch, my coffee mug, and Cash & Shelbys wet noses and Bean’s need for attention are calling me home.

XOXO, Jani

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When The Darkness Is Your Own…

May 31, 2025

Eat, Pray, Love, The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

Let’s Talk About It…

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.

Let a little light in. It’s good for the soul.

XOXO, Jani

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Is The Southern Accent Disappearing? Let’s Talk About It…

May 14, 2025

Eat, Pray, Love, The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

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?

XOXO, Jani

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The Diddy Drama—Let’s Talk About It

May 14, 2025

Eat, Pray, Love

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?

XOXO, Jani

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Mother’s Day: A Mixed Bag and a Lesson in Love

May 10, 2025

Eat, Pray, Love

My Mother’s Senior Photo, 1967

My 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.

XOXO, Jani

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Fifty-Six? When Did That Happen?

May 5, 2025

Eat, Pray, Love, The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

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.

XOXO, Jani

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