Yesterday, I found myself sitting on this beautiful cruise ship, surrounded by great company, good food, and breathtaking ocean views…feeling a little homesick. And if you’ve known me long enough, you know heat, weight issues, and my back sometimes conspire to steal the fun right out of a trip. But today? Today’s different.
I woke up this morning with a new perspective and a reminder I’ve told so many of my clients: Leave room to just relax and enjoy. I mean, who am I if I come back from vacation needing another vacation because I tried to do all the things?
I’m a travel advisor, which means I feel this magnetic pull to learn everything possible when I travel. But today, I let myself just be. Tammy (my boss, my friend, my wise travel sister) and I had a long chat over room service about holding each other accountable for our health and wellness. Cindy and Trisha—you’re coming along for the ride whether you like it or not!
I sat on our balcony with my trusty fan, soaking in the sea air while booking a Disney trip for a client. I nearly melted like Olaf, but I didn’t mind one bit. For lunch, I plan to indulge in that incredible buffet pizza I keep raving about—and maybe grab a gelato for good measure. And today? I’ll finally break out my Gimbal and capture some cruise videos to share with you all.
I know my depression can creep up on me at times …NOT TODAY SATAN! Today I’m remembering to slow down, soak it all in, and remind myself that even I deserve to come back from vacation feeling refreshed and happy.
Here’s to salty air, sunshine, and giving myself permission to just be.
There’s something you should know about women who don’t have a lot of friends. Not because we’re cold. Not because we’re standoffish. Not because people we ‘re liked. But because life has taught us how to be selective—and not everybody deserves a seat at our table. And don’t get this wrong. Just because lots of people surround you, does not make them true friends!
Let me explain:
-We pick up on energy quick. We’ve walked into rooms and felt the tension before a single word was said.
-We don’t entertain drama. If it’s not peace or purpose, we’ll pass (mostly LOL).
-We’ve been betrayed by the ones we loved most. So now we move cautious—not cold. -We’re selective, not lonely.
-We’ve learned our alone time is often better than fake company.
-We don’t need a crowd to feel seen. That scares folks who rely on attention to feel important. -We’re not easy to fool. Experience taught us how to spot fake from real—and we’re not going back.
-Our peace is sacred. If we let you into our lives, it’s because your spirit aligned with ours. We’ve learned the hard way— not everyone who claps 👏 is cheering for you.
-We’ve got depth. Small talk and shallow energy don’t feed our souls. Real connection or nothing at all.
-We don’t move out of desperation. We move with discernment. The wrong people call that “standoffish.” And that’s fine.
And while we’re on the subject of truth-telling…
I’ve heard the whispers: “The blog just doesn’t sound like my friend Jani, so I just stopped reading it.”
Well, bless your heart… you weren’t reading it to begin with. 😏
Yes, I use my smart ChatGPT writing buddy to help me organize my thoughts—because my brain is like a blender most days. But don’t get it twisted: the sass, the snark, the soul? That’s ALL me. The best writing still comes from a real, flawed, passionate human.
All writers have someone polishing their work—editors, assistants, helpers. I just happen to use a tech-savvy one that doesn’t drink coffee or take bathroom breaks. But make no mistake: the humor, the depth, the Southern Fried Belle with a hint of Yankee directness? That’s mine. All mine.
The people who sit across from me every week over dinner, drinks, and girl talk? They know the unfiltered, unedited version of me. And they’ll tell you—what you read is me. Just with a few more commas.
And yes—I’ll be honest—I’m a little hurt. And a little mad. Because I’ve realized the loudest critics are often the ones who’ve always enjoyed knocking me down. The same people who serve up gaslighting and passive-aggressive jabs with a sweet tea smile and that good ol’ underhanded Southern “bless-your-heart” nonsense. 👀
But here’s the thing…
My true supporters? They see me now. They don’t need me to shrink or shape-shift to be palatable. They’re the ones who show up, who cheer me on, and who actually read the things I pour my heart into.
So if you’ve got time to scroll through TikTok, Facebook, Instagram, or X—but can’t take a second to support a friend who’s finally picking up a pen and writing from the gut? Well, kick rocks. 🪨
You may not like my writing voice—and you’re not wrong. Writing is different from talking. But make no mistake, baby—it’s still me. Every bold, sassy, soul-baring bit of it.
And if you don’t like it? Well… you know what to do.
Y’all, reunions. Aren’t they funny? That’s actually more of a statement than a question because they definitely are.
So, I graduated from Penn Manor High School in Millersville, PA. But, as anyone who’s known me more than a minute knows, that’s just one chapter of my high school saga. You see, I was a child of divorce (and a little bit of chaos), which meant I was bouncing like a pinball between states, towns, and schools.
Here’s the breakdown for anyone trying to keep up including me!
Kindergarten: Green Acres Elementary
1st Grade: Adairsville Elementary
2nd to 4th Grades: New Holland Elementary
5th Grade: Back to Adairsville Elementary
6th to 8th Grades: Adairsville Middle (well, half of it—because then my parents completely lost their minds and sent me to Ruth Home, like I was some kind of juvenile delinquint)
9th Grade: Adairsville High School for about six weeks
9th Grade part 2: Penn Manor for like a week (I cried every day)
9th Grade part 3: Garden Spot for the rest of that year
10th Grade part 1: Garden Spot (refer to 10th grade part 2)
10 Grade part 2: Adairsville High School for the last month or so because why not?
11th Grade: Adairsville High School
12th Grade: Back to Penn Manor High School, where I officially graduated!
Whew! Did I lose anyone? ‘Cause I think I got lost just writing that! (And believe me, I was just as confused living it back then.)
Ahhh, children of divorce… or military families. One thing’s for sure—you learn how to adjust. Fast. You learn how to melt into a new place and make friends anywhere. And I have. I’ve got lifelong friends from Adairsville, New Holland, and Millersville.
And can we talk about the cultural whiplash of moving from the South to the North? One country, y’all, but it might as well be two different worlds. In Georgia, it’s “y’all,” sweet tea, and “bless your heart” with a side of shade. In Pennsylvania, it’s “you guys,” Wawa, and learning to love scrapple (I didn’t) and 100% up front honesty. “Bless Your Heart” becomes straight up, “you’re an idiot.” Boo!
But one thing that ties it all together—besides my ridiculous number of yearbook photos from multiple schools—is the friendships formed during those years. The inside jokes. The field trips. The sports teams (even though I was more “sidelines with snacks” than “varsity letter”). The dances. The crushes. The heartbreaks. The people you thought you’d never see again, and thanks to Facebook, are now sending you invites to their kid’s graduation party …or their own third or fourth wedding! Oops. Ooops. Oooops.
And that brings me back to reunions. Oh, reunions. They’re a mix of “Oh wow, look at you!” and “Ugh, I knew I should’ve started that diet three months ago,” plus a healthy dash of “Wait, who’s that? Oh my gosh, it’s her!” You get to see the ones who haven’t changed a bit—and the ones you almost don’t recognize. And let’s be real, there’s always someone whose glow-up is suspiciously fabulous, and you’re side-eyeing them like, “Is that collagen, good genes, or just your skincare game?”
Some folks come to reunions to reminisce. Some come to show off. Some come for the open bar. And some—like me—come because we genuinely love reconnecting with those people who were part of our crazy, wonderful, awkward teenage years.
Speaking of reconnecting, I am SO excited about the AHS 80’s Cruise next year! Several of the classes from the 1980s are getting together for this epic trip, and y’all, it’s going to be one for the books. Huge shout-out to Shannon and Brandy for pulling it all together. I can’t wait to cruise into the sunset with my Aville crew, reliving the 80s with big hair, Aqua Net, and all the throwback jams we can handle.
So, here’s to reunions—those hilarious, awkward, and heartwarming reminders of where we came from and how far we’ve come. Whether you’re rocking the same hairstyle from high school or showing off all your cosmetic enhancements that would make your teenage self proud, remember—it’s all about the memories, the friendships, and, of course, the photos you’ll cringe over later!
Y’all ever known a woman who could start a fight in an empty house? One of those folks who can sniff out drama like a bloodhound on a biscuit trail? That’s who came to mind when I heard the old Southern saying:
“She’s got more issues than Vogue.”
Now don’t get me wrong—Vogue has some beautiful issues. Glossy, expensive, full of fashion and fantasy. But when this saying rolls off a Southern tongue, we ain’t talking about couture. We’re talking about chaos.
You know the type. Bless her heart, she’s in a constant state of personal emergency. She’s always “going through something.” If it ain’t a breakup, it’s a spiritual awakening. Or a food allergy. Or a man with a motorcycle and a warrant.
She can’t just tell you her weekend plans—oh no. She’s got to give you the full backstory, the emotional trauma, three exes, and a dream interpretation from a psychic in Mobile.
It’s like… honey, did you just want to say you’re going to Target, or are we unpacking generational trauma right here in the candle aisle?
Now, don’t mistake me—I’ve had my fair share of “Vogue” moments. There were years I could’ve been a whole subscription. Full color spreads of stress, one dramatic event after another, all sandwiched between bad decisions and better stories.
But some folks? They live there. They don’t just visit Dysfunction Junction—they put up curtains and made sweet tea.
And what’s wild is, they’ll say it proudly.
“I’ve just always been this way.”
Well sugar, so has poison ivy, but that don’t mean we need to roll around in it.
But here’s the real Southern truth: most women carrying all those “issues” are usually lugging around someone else’s too. Mama’s expectations, Daddy’s absence, a bad relationship, a worse friendship, and society whispering nonsense in our ears. And instead of setting those down, we just accessorize them and keep going. Like emotional handbags.
So to my sisters out there with more issues than Vogue—I see you. I love you. But maybe it’s time to unsubscribe. Rip out a few pages, recycle what doesn’t serve you, and keep the good glossy parts for when you need to shine.
Because Lord knows we’ve all got issues.
It’s what you do with ’em that makes the difference.
Today I was filling out a perfectly innocent travel form for a brand-new client. Name? Check. Date of birth? Check. Gender? Easy peasy—F, for female. Obviously.
But then—as it does more often than I care to admit—my brain took a sharp left turn.
You see, back in my vet-med days, when we’d spay a female animal, we didn’t just send her home with a cone of shame and a sassy attitude. No sir. We gave her a tiny tattoo on her belly. Just a little green line so if she ever wandered off—or ended up as a stray—some poor vet tech wouldn’t slice her open just to find out she was already “fixed.”
And now, here I am thinking: why don’t we do this for humans?
I mean seriously… you’re out there in the wild (aka Applebee’s on half-price appetizer night), looking for wife number four or husband number six, and there’s just no way to tell.
Like, do you casually slide your mozzarella stick to the side and ask:
“Hey girl hey… are you fixed? ‘Cause I ain’t tryin’ to be nobody’s baby daddy.”
Or maybe:
“Listen, I want kids. Are your pipes still plumbed, or are we just wasting time here?”
See what I mean? Confusing. Inefficient. One awkward night away from needing a flow chart.
Meanwhile, dogs got it figured out. No fuzzy grapes? Neutered. Tattoo on the belly? Spayed. Boom. Instant clarity. The animal kingdom is out here making better life decisions than half the folks on dating apps.
Anyway, my brain moved on to something equally ridiculous right after that (probably involving cheese or serial killers), but I figured I’d share that little gem with y’all. Just a glimpse into what it’s like living in this wonderfully unhinged head of mine.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got travel quotes to send, laundry to pretend I don’t see, and some unsuspecting soul to explain that “yes, all-inclusive means alcohol too.”
I caught a segment on the Today Show this morning that stopped me right in my tracks—and I’m not just talking about needing to refill my coffee. They shared a story about a school (somewhere in New York City, I think) where sixth graders were filmed answering a simple, yet powerful question: “What would you want to tell your future self?” Or maybe it was “What’s something that really matters to you right now?”
Then—fast forward six years—they showed those same kids again, now high school seniors, watching their sixth grade videos. This time, they were asked to talk to that version of themselves. What advice would they give? What had they learned? How would they prepare that little sixth grade soul for the road ahead?
Y’all. I was a goner.
Full body goosebumps and more than a few tears.
I immediately started digging for a picture of myself in sixth grade. The first one I found was of me and my sister. I didn’t even have to think twice—that was the one. I stared at it for a long time. My sister’s gone now, and looking at her younger face with mine in that photo? Well, let’s just say it wasn’t exactly waterproof mascara day.
But I sat with it. And I thought… what would I say to that sixth grade girl?
Here’s what I’d say:
“Hang on, honey.”
Because life was already a little rough, but it was about to get bumpier. Heartbreak. Confusion. Moments that would shake me to the core. But I’d make it. I’d survive. I’d grow stronger with every scar. Stronger than I ever thought possible.
I’d tell her that her weird sense of humor would become her armor, that her gut instinct would serve her well, and that she should trust it more than she does. I’d remind her to keep writing—journals, poems, scraps of paper with truths scribbled in Sharpie—because that writing would one day help her tell stories that mattered.
And I’d say this loud and clear:
Love hard. Love fiercely. And don’t ever let anyone come between you and the people who love you back. Life is short. Family is sacred. And chosen family? Just as precious.
That little girl in the picture had no idea what was coming… but I do. And I’m proud of her.
So here’s to the sixth grade versions of all of us. May we never forget them. And may we keep fighting to be the kind of person they’d be proud to grow into.
Have you ever heard the theory about people who’ve never broken a bone? According to a viral TikTok trend, individuals who have never broken a bone might possess certain spiritual qualities or protections.
Hmmmmmm…
Well, let me tell you, I’m one of those people. Despite a childhood that could be described as a series of unfortunate events, I’ve managed to keep all my bones intact. No casts, no crutches, just a whole lot of emotional resilience.
So, what’s the deal with this theory? Some believe that never breaking a bone is a sign of spiritual protection or good karma. Others think it might indicate that your soul has already endured enough in past lives, sparing you from physical injuries in this one.
Now, I’m not saying I buy into all of this, but it’s an interesting perspective. Maybe my unbroken bones are a testament to the strength I’ve built through life’s challenges.
Or perhaps it’s just dumb luck…
Either way, it’s a fun theory to ponder.
Have you ever broken a bone? Or are you part of the unbroken club like me? Share your thoughts in the comments below!
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.
Journeys With Jani 