Yes, no doubt, I’ve dealt with a whole lotta crazy in my life.
The kind of crazy that would make a great miniseries—equal parts drama, dark comedy, and “did that really just happen?” moments. But here’s the thing… who hasn’t been through something?
Life is a buffet of hard knocks, served with a side of “you’ve got to be kidding me.” We all have our share of trials—some folks just get them supersized.
And I’ve noticed something about those of us who’ve had our plates overflowing more than once:
We tend to handle the unexpected better.
We’ve learned to pivot.
Now, I’m not talking about the frantic kind of pivot—like Ross from Friends yelling PIVOT! while wedging a couch through a too-narrow stairwell, all arms, panic, and poor planning. That’s the pivot of people who have never been in that hallway before.
I’m talking about the kind of pivot you learn from experience. The calm “turn here, shift there” move that comes when you’ve been in enough tight spaces to know where the corners are. It’s changing course when the map gets ripped in half. It’s laughing when you want to cry and making a new plan when the old one blows up in your face.
Truth is, those curveballs life throws? They don’t feel quite as catastrophic once you’ve already survived a few fast pitches to the head. You start to realize you can take a hit and still move forward—sometimes even in a better direction than before.
And here’s my take:
If you’ve lived through chaos, heartbreak, loss, betrayal—or all of the above—you develop this unshakable confidence that you’ll figure it out. That’s the gift. Not the mess you went through, but the knowing that you can land on your feet no matter what.
So yes, life’s still going to throw the occasional sucker punch. But I’ll be over here doing what I do best…
If you were going to open up a shop, what would you sell?
This one started as a little creative spark from my Daily Prompt on Jetpack via WordPress. The question was simple: “If you were gonna open a shop, what would you sell?”
Well, I couldn’t just toss out, “Oh, coffee and cute things.” No. My imagination packed a bag, grabbed its passport, and went fast and ferocious.
I’d call my shop simply… Journeys.
Because it’s about more than trips on a map — it’s journeys of the senses. The visuals, the smells, the textures, the tastes… and yes, the conversations that just might turn into a plan for your next real journey across the globe.
Here’s the twist — you can enter from either end. Step through the front entrance into a light-and-airy, coastal Maine boutique — sunlight pouring in through big windows, soft blues and whites, touches of driftwood, and a breeze that smells faintly of the ocean (even if we’re nowhere near it). Along the windows, a few small café-style tables — the kind you’d find in a coastal cottage — wait for you to sip coffee, nibble on something decadent, and people-watch.
Or, come in through the back entrance, where you’ll be instantly wrapped in the warm, old-world charm of a Cambridge law library — minus the “shhh” energy. Think rich wood shelves, warm lighting, deep chairs you can sink into, and the faint smell of leather and paper. This is my reading lounge & little library, where folks can grab a book, settle in for an afternoon, or check it out for a week or two. The space would seat 20–30 comfortably — perfect for book clubs, travel talks, or those Wednesday night wine-and-snack gatherings where we pretend we’re there for the conversation but really came for the cheesecake.
Now, no matter which way you enter, you’re greeted with the smells of fresh coffee and the sight of a bakery case full of mini cheesecakes that are just the right size to convince yourself they don’t count, plus charcuterie boards that are the real deal. I’m talking artisanal cheeses, fresh bread, cured meats, fruit, nuts, and little things you can’t pronounce but will forever crave once you’ve tried them. This isn’t a pile of lunch meat next to a sleeve of crackers — no, we’re doing charcuterie justice here.
To one side, you’ll find travel goodies — not the generic, airport gift shop trinkets, but the good stuff: luggage tags that make baggage claim a treasure find, beach towels so cute you’ll never want to get them wet, and travel-size everything… because I know you forgot yours at home.
And because I believe in a little luxury, there’d be a small selection of wines right in the library section — available to open and enjoy while you read or to take home for later.
One more thing — no paper, no plastic. All plates, cups, glasses, and napkins will be real, reusable, and charming enough to photograph. Anything “to-go” will be 100% sustainable, compostable, or recyclable. Because treating yourself should never mean trashing the planet.
And when I do talk travel planning? I’ll be right there in a comfy chair in the library or at one of the café tables — coffee, wine, or charcuterie in hand — helping you dream up your next getaway.
So no, Journeys wouldn’t just sell things. It’d sell moments. The kind you tell your friends about, and the kind you secretly hope become part of their stories too.
Last night started out like any other—until it didn’t.
We came home to blood. A lot of it. In various places.
Honestly, with the way our hounds like to hunt, we thought maybe they had dragged something in, but we couldn’t find a thing. Later, we realized it was Cash—bleeding from his nose, only on one side. Other than that, he seemed perfectly fine, still wagging that tail like nothing was wrong. The bleeding stopped quickly, but my heart didn’t stop worrying.
This morning, Greg dropped him off at the veterinarian’s office, where they’re running a full battery of tests. We love Dr. Moore at Animal Medical Center, and I know he’s in the best hands possible.
Cash isn’t just a dog—he’s my furry best friend. We adopted him when he was just a year old from the Etowah Valley Humane Society, and we were blessed to get his full history. Back then, I was still in the veterinary field—a blessing in disguise, because within months of bringing him home, he got sick.
His red blood cell count dropped to 4. Yes… four.
What followed was months of tests, rounds of steroids and other medications, and research help from UGA, Merck Pharmaceuticals, and Idexx Labs. No one could ever pinpoint an exact diagnosis beyond the fact that he was immune-compromised.
The week before all of that, he had undergone surgery to remove his spleen because it had twisted. (Spleens, as it turns out, are generally overrated anyway.) Through it all, Cash was a trooper—never once anything less than his happy, hound-dog self.
That’s why, today, this feels like déjà vu. We’ve walked the scary path before, and thanks to prayer, love, and one determined dog, we came out the other side.
So, I’m asking again—for love, prayers, and good vibes for Cash. Because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that the power of prayer, paired with the wag of a determined tail, can work miracles. And Greg and I just can’t accept anything less than our boy being back to 100% soon. 💕 —Jani
You know what hits different than a hot flash in August?
A song from 1984 coming on the radio and suddenly I’m not 56—I’m fifteen, barefoot, and slathered in Hawaiian Tropic, backstroking across the Lancaster city pool with Becca & Gina …without a care in the world (except maybe if there were still Doritos left in the bag).
Music. It’s the closest thing we’ve got to time travel that doesn’t involve a DeLorean and Doc Brown.
The second a certain song comes on, I’m instantly pulled into some mental Polaroid…
– My Grandpa trying to teach me ballroom dancing (with a splash of shagging, because South Carolina). The music? Big Band, Beach Boys, something from his day and forward—back when folks still dressed for dinner.
– My Mama belting Fleetwood Mac like she was Stevie Nicks in a housecoat with harmony from Heaven.
– AC/DC blasting because of my stepdad, who somehow managed to make even “Highway to Hell” feel perfectly normal for a kid.
– Billy Idol? No story needed. Just… Billy freakin’ Idol.
– My Daddy with his deep love for Marty Robbins and any good ol’ country crooner. If you know “El Paso,” you know.
– “Time for Me to Fly” by REO Speedwagon? That was Missy’s go to when we drove past a certain ex’s house like we were in our own personal music video.
– My girl Kristi? “Rock the Casbah.” She rocked it, alright.
– Dana somehow singing “HENNN-RY RUSTED” instead of “Tin Roof Rusted” in “Love Shack” like it made sense—and now I can’t unhear it.
– Theo recording over my Billy Squier mixed tape. RIP “Lonely Is The Night.”
– Jake, Jarrett and me singing “Love Song” by Tesla like we were our own touring band. No shame in our car ride karaoke game.
– Rick’s Place in Lancaster—if you know, you know. I’ve got dance moves from that floor I still feel in my knees.
– And of course, all the 80’s hits from the Calhoun Roller Rink—when Jarie, Jessica and I thought we were straight outta “Xanadu.”
And that’s just the shortlist.
Y’all ever do this? Hear a song and suddenly you’re there—wherever “there” was. A party. A heartbreak. A road trip. A kitchen dance. A funeral. A kiss. A comeback. A moment you didn’t even know was about to be a core memory.
I swear, music is a memory vault with a damn good DJ.
So if you’re ever feeling low, do yourself a favor—hit play. Let your own soundtrack roll. It might make you cry, but I bet you’ll laugh too. It might remind you of who you were, but even more of who you still are.
And if you’re lucky? It’ll make you text that friend from way back and say, “Remember when…”
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to recreate a roller rink routine in my kitchen with a hairbrush mic and a Spotify playlist.
Do you ever just scroll through social media and wonder if people have completely lost their grip on reality? Like—truly believe that we are living in the Worst Time in History? Now, don’t get me wrong—today’s world has plenty of issues. But… trauma isn’t new. Global crisis isn’t new. Hardship isn’t new. And for some reason, we’ve forgotten that.
This post was actually inspired by something I saw shared by Hannah and Renee on Facebook, originally from Heavy D. It gave me pause—because the perspective was powerful. So of course, I had to dig into the history a bit deeper (and put my spin on it, naturally).
So sit back and let me give you a little reality check—wrapped in truth.
👵 Imagine Being Born in 1900…
If you were born in 1900 in the United States, your childhood wasn’t exactly filled with iPads and Pop-Tarts. Nope. At 14 years old, World War I breaks out. A global bloodbath. By the time you turn 18, it’s finally over—with 22 million people dead. Happy Birthday, kid!
But wait—it gets better. Right after the war ends in 1918, the Spanish Flu pandemic shows up. Not the sniffles, not a bad cold—this sucker wipes out an estimated 50 million people worldwide by the time you’re 20. Fifty. Million.
💰 Then the Economy Crashes and Burns
Just when you think you’re catching a break, 1929 hits and boom—the Great Depression. Banks collapse. People lose everything. Unemployment soars to 25%, and global GDP shrinks by over 25%. You’re 29 years old, trying to build a life, and instead you’re scraping by on hope and Hoover stew.
🌍 But Wait, There’s More: Another World War
By the time you’re 39, it’s 1939 and here comes World War II. And at 41, you’re officially living through another global nightmare as the U.S. enters the war after Pearl Harbor. Between then and your 45th birthday, over 75 million people die worldwide. That includes 6 million Jewish people murdered in the Holocaust. Evil on a scale we can barely comprehend.
🔥 Cold Wars, Hot Wars, and a Whole Lotta Fear
You make it to 50, and then the Korean War kicks off. Another 5 million deaths. By 62, the Cuban Missile Crisis nearly ends the planet in a nuclear blaze. The world literally held its breath for 13 days while we sat one red button away from annihilation.
Then just for fun, the Vietnam War drags on from your mid-60s into your mid-70s, killing up to 4 million people. And let’s not forget the civil rights movement, assassinations of major leaders, Watergate, and watching disco happen. (Honestly, disco might have been the emotional breaking point for some.)
😳 And Y’all Think 2025 Is the Worst?
Don’t get me wrong—our modern world is a mess in its own right. Social unrest, political drama, climate chaos, health crises. Yep, all valid concerns. But we’re acting like struggle is brand new.
Let me be clear: we are not the first generation to face hard times. Not even close. But what’s different now? We’ve become loud about our stress and quiet about our resilience. We treat every inconvenience like the end of civilization and every disagreement like a betrayal. Meanwhile, our grandparents were out there surviving wars, pandemics, food shortages, and economic collapse—and still managed to put on a dress or tie on Sunday morning and go to church with a smile.
💡 Here’s the Point
Perspective. It’s a powerful thing. Our ancestors made it through devastation we read about in history books. And they did it without therapy apps, organic smoothies, or TikTok rants. They survived. They adapted. They kept going.
So let’s cool the hysteria, stop treating every modern-day problem like it’s the first of its kind, and take a breath. Be smart. Help each other. Have grace. Because no matter how bad it feels right now… this too shall pass.
And when it does, don’t forget to be the person who survived it with empathy, not ego.
If you won two free plane tickets, where would you go?
You ever play that game in your head—what if you won something big? Like the lottery, or a car, or even just two free plane tickets to anywhere in the world? Well, I’ve played that game, and honey, let me tell you, I’ve got my answer locked and loaded.
If I won two free plane tickets, I wouldn’t even hesitate. I’m grabbing my cousin Jarie, booking us in Delta One (because if we’re dreaming, we’re dreaming right), and we’re flying non-stop straight to Italy for a two-week whirlwind of wine, food, culture, and unforgettable moments.
Now, let me tell you a little something about Jarie. She’s the cousin who would have my back in a bar fight, a PTA meeting, or a life crisis. She’s tough, loyal, hilarious, and full of heart. And she deserves to see more of this big ol’ blue marble we live on.
Why Italy?
Because Italy is everything …and my dream!
We’d start in Rome, because duh. The Colosseum, the Pantheon, the Vatican—history literally oozes from the cobblestones. We’d eat cacio e pepe* at some little hole-in-the-wall trattoria**, drink house wine that tastes like heaven, and probably get scolded by an elderly Italian woman for not eating enough. (We’d accept that scolding with gratitude and go back for seconds.)
Then we’d hop a train to Florence. Art and architecture that’ll make you cry, gelato so good it makes you question every other dessert you’ve ever loved, and leather markets where Jarie would absolutely haggle like a pro.
Next stop: Tuscany. Wine country. Rolling hills, olive groves, sun-drenched villas. We’d sip Chianti Classico under a pergola at golden hour and toast to family, friendship, and free plane tickets.
And Venice? Don’t get me started. Floating through the canals with a spritz in hand, getting lost in those winding alleyways, and buying masks we absolutely don’t need? Yes, please.
We’d finish off our Italian love affair on the Amalfi Coast (I love hearing Trisha talk about it). Lemon trees, sparkling sea views, cliffside villages like Positano and Ravello, and seafood that tastes like it was caught moments before it hit our plates. I can already see Jarie with a linen wrap and oversized sunglasses, living her best life while I document every second on my phone like a proud momma at a dance recital.
But here’s the real reason.
I want Jarie to feel what I feel when I travel—to stand in front of something ancient and beautiful and bigger than life and feel small in the best way. To breathe in air that smells like garlic and sea salt and basil and history. To hear languages she doesn’t understand but somehow still feels. I want her to know that there’s so much more to see, to taste, to feel, to live—and she deserves every last bit of it.
So yeah. If I won two free plane tickets, I wouldn’t be thinking tropical or trendy. I’d be thinking timeless. I’d be thinking Italy—with Jarie by my side, eating pasta, laughing till we cry, and living like the queens we are.
*Cacio e Pepe (pronounced KAH-cho eh PEH-peh) is Italian for “cheese and pepper”—and that’s literally all it is. But don’t let the simplicity fool you. This Roman classic is pure magic.
Here’s what’s in it:
Pasta – Usually spaghetti or tonnarelli (a thicker, square-edged pasta) Pecorino Romano cheese – A sharp, salty sheep’s milk cheese Black pepper – Freshly cracked, bold, and peppery Pasta water – That starchy water is key to creating the silky sauce
That’s it. No butter. No cream. No garlic. No nonsense.
It’s all about the technique: tossing hot pasta with finely grated cheese and pepper while adding just enough pasta water to melt the cheese into a creamy, clingy sauce. It’s cheesy, peppery, salty, and totally comforting—basically the Italian version of grown-up mac and cheese, but with a passport and way more attitude.
If you’re ever in Rome, order it at a trattoria. If it’s done right, you’ll dream about it for the rest of your life.
**A trattoria (pronounced tra-toh-REE-uh) is a type of casual, family-owned Italian restaurant. Think of it as the cozy middle ground between a fancy ristorante and a no-frills osteria.
Here’s what makes a trattoria special:
🍝 Homestyle cooking – The food is traditional, hearty, and often based on family recipes. No over-the-top plating here—just good, soul-satisfying dishes. 🍷 Affordable prices – It’s usually less expensive than a ristorante, and often the house wine is cheaper (and better) than anything you’d find back home. 🪑 Laid-back vibe – Casual seating, maybe a chalkboard menu, sometimes no printed menu at all. Don’t be surprised if the owner is also your waiter and chef. 🇮🇹 Local and seasonal – Menus change based on what’s fresh and in season. You’re getting a real taste of the region you’re in.
So when I say “little hole-in-the-wall trattoria in Rome,” I mean the kind of place where Nonna is in the kitchen, the wine flows freely, and the pasta makes you believe in magic.
I believe in the Second Amendment. I believe in my right to protect myself, my family, my home, and yes—my little Basset hounds if it ever came to that. I was raised around guns. I’ve shot ‘em. I’ve cleaned ‘em. I’ve respected ‘em. So, let’s get one thing straight right out the gate: this is not an anti-gun blog.
But Lord have mercy—something’s gotta give.
The number of school shootings in this country? It’s terrifying. And what’s even scarier is how numb we’re all becoming to it. Another headline, another lockdown, another “thoughts and prayers” post before we just… move on. But these are children. Babies. Classrooms should be loud with pencil tapping and bad recorder solos—not bullets.
Now, I’m no policy maker. I don’t pretend to have the answers. But I know this much: saying “if someone wants a gun bad enough, they’ll find a way” doesn’t mean we stop trying to make it harder. That’s like saying, “people are going to drive drunk anyway, so let’s not bother with the DUI laws.” We’ve got to use some dang common sense.
Here’s where I land:
Yes, I want to keep my guns. No, I don’t want unstable people to have easy access to theirs.
Seems like there ought to be a middle ground, right?
Background checks? Sure.
Safe storage laws? Absolutely.
Red flag laws so a clearly unstable person can’t just walk into a store and grab an AR-15 because they had a bad breakup and a grudge? Yep.
Mandatory waiting periods so someone has time to cool off or reconsider? That feels reasonable.
I’m not trying to take anyone’s freedom. I’m trying to protect kids and keep schools from turning into war zones. There’s not a teacher in this country who signed up for combat duty. And there’s not a momma I know who should have to explain to their child how to barricade a classroom door with a desk.
And while we’re at it—can we also talk about the mental health crisis? Because that’s part of it too. We’ve got to stop brushing off warning signs because “he was always a little quiet” or “she just needed attention.” We need counselors, not just cops. We need adults to stop being scared to speak up when something feels off.
Listen, I don’t believe the government is coming for our guns. And if they are? They’re gonna have to go through my overly organized ammo box first. But I do believe we can support the right to bear arms and also support laws that make it a privilege earned through responsibility—not just something handed out like Halloween candy.
Protect our rights.
Protect our kids.
Both can be true.
Let’s stop acting like it’s one or the other.
Let’s be the generation that finally says: “Enough.”
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go double-check that my safe is locked, my coffee is hot, and my Basset hounds haven’t dragged a sock into the yard again.
Nothing dramatic. No wild hand gesture or kitchen tantrum. Just a simple slip, a clink, a crash, and there it was—shattered into a thousand tiny pieces across the floor.
And what did I do? Instinctively, I got down on my hands and knees and started cleaning it up. Every sliver. Every shard. I moved slow and deliberate, because I didn’t want to cut myself—or worse, leave a piece behind that someone else might step on.
Because that’s what you do when glass breaks, right?
You clean it up.
But here’s the thing—I’ve been thinking about what would’ve happened if I hadn’t. What if I had just… thrown a towel over it? Or shoved it into a corner, out of sight, out of mind?
I mean, I would still know it was there. I’d be the one walking around it, stepping carefully, rearranging things to keep others from finding it. Eventually, someone—me or someone I love—would trip over it. Or maybe it would slice open a bare foot at the worst possible moment.
And that, my friend, is what brokenness does when you ignore it.
I don’t just mean broken dishes. I mean the stuff deep down inside us. The grief. The shame. The guilt. The disappointments. The trauma. The lies we believed. The truths we buried. The moments that cracked us wide open.
We all carry our own version of broken glass.
And just like that shattered tumbler, we’ve got two choices:
We can clean it up.
Or we can cover it up.
One gives us peace, the other just gives us a ticking time bomb.
I’ll be honest—I’ve spent seasons in my life doing both. There were years when I tried to hide the mess. Slapped on a smile, threw a rug over the pain, acted like everything was fine. But brokenness doesn’t just sit quietly in a corner. It waits. It festers. And eventually, it makes itself known—in your body, your relationships, your decisions.
Cleaning it up takes time. It’s painful. It’s not always graceful, and sometimes you’ll find a piece months later that you swear you already swept away. But it’s worth it. Because when we choose healing—real, messy, soul-level healing—we protect not only ourselves, but the people who walk through life with us.
So if you’ve got some broken glass on the floor of your heart, maybe this is your gentle nudge to pick up the broom.
Not for perfection. Not for performance.
But for peace.
And if today isn’t the day you can clean it all up? That’s okay too. Just start with one tiny shard.
I grew up with Ozzy Osbourne’s voice echoing through the speakers—wild, raw, untamed. The Prince of Darkness. The rebel. The rocker who defined a generation (or two). But the older I get, the more I find myself drawn not to the madness, but to the man behind it.
There’s a photo I came across not long ago—Ozzy standing with Sharon and their children, all smiles, wrapped in love in front of a waterfall. And y’all, it stopped me in my tracks. Because in that snapshot, you don’t see the mayhem or the chaos. You see family. You see love. You see a man who, for all his demons, never stopped loving his wife and kids fiercely.
Sharon stood by him. Through addiction, scandals, health scares, and fame that would’ve broken most people—she held the line. And he knew it. Their love wasn’t perfect, but it was powerful. Rooted. Gritty. Real.
His kids adored him. You can see it in their eyes, their arms wrapped around him like he was their whole world. And maybe he was. Maybe they were his reason to keep trying. Because make no mistake, Ozzy fell. Many times. But he got back up. Over and over. Not for the spotlight—but for them. For the people he loved.
That’s what hits me hardest now. Not the headlines or the music (though let’s be honest, “Mama, I’m Coming Home” still gives me chills). It’s the reminder that even the loudest voices in rock ‘n’ roll are still just people. Fathers. Husbands. Sons. Survivors.
Ozzy wasn’t just a legend—he was a man who loved his people. And they loved him right back.
And y’all… that? That’s the kind of legacy that matters.
Weight loss …oof! The topic alone makes half of us cringe and the other half start Googling the latest “quick fix.” But here’s the truth—there’s no one way to get healthy. And that’s the beauty of it.
From surgery to supplements, apps to accountability buddies—people are using all kinds of tools to get where they want to go. And let me be clear: I am not here to shame a single soul for the path they choose. Because for some, a medication or procedure is the thing that finally helps them break free. For others, it’s a new product line, a meal plan, or just sheer determination and sweat equity.
The point is—whatever works for you, works for you.
But what I will say (from experience): there is no product, plan, or “shortcut” that can completely replace the real work of caring for yourself. You still have to show up. You still have to adjust habits, fuel your body better, and move in ways that support your health. Even with help—and help is totally valid—it still requires commitment.
Let’s be real, too—we all want to look good. Ain’t no shame in that game. Feeling confident in your skin is a beautiful thing. But I also want to feel good. I want to breathe easier, sleep better, and be able to run (okay, walk briskly) through Disney with my grandkids without needing a nap and an oxygen mask halfway through.
I’ll be honest—I was doing great for a long time. And then came 2020, lockdown, stress, and those “few” extra pounds that snuck in like uninvited houseguests and just refused to leave. And now? I don’t feel like myself in this body. My frame’s not built to carry this much weight. I’ve got curves (thanks, genetics), but this ain’t it.
After a recent little heart rate scare (yikes!), I decided to do something for me. I’m starting a new routine—a mix of health-focused products, better eating, and intentional movement. I’m giving this my all, not just to look better, but to live better. Because I’ve got a big life to keep up with—kids, grandkids, and a bucket list full of places that aren’t going to explore themselves.
I’ll share exactly what I’m using after 30 days—along with before and after photos (gulp). Then I’ll update you each month so we can walk this road together—one real, imperfect, grace-filled step at a time.
Let me say it louder for the folks in the back:
Your journey is your own.
Whether you choose surgery, supplements, shakes, or a good ol’ fashioned reset—you deserve to feel good in your body.
So here I go. Starting over… again. And proud of it.
Journeys With Jani 