Journeys With Jani

Travel Far, Feel Good: Staying Healthy On the Go

April 17, 2025

Travel Advice

Let’s talk travel and tissues. Not the crying kind (though, yes, I’ve teared up over a missed connection or a bad hotel pillow or two). I mean the achoo! kind—those sniffles that sneak up mid-trip and threaten to ruin your perfectly planned adventure. Whether you’re jet-setting across the pond or road-tripping through the South, staying healthy while traveling isn’t just a hope—it’s a must.

Here’s the lowdown on how this Southern-born, globe-trotting travel advisor keeps herself (and her clients) feeling good from takeoff to touchdown.

1. Hydrate Like Your Life Depends On It—Because It Kinda Does

Planes are drier than a Baptist potluck with no sweet tea. Drink water. Then drink more water. I’m not saying skip your in-flight mimosa, but balance, my friend. Keep a reusable water bottle with you and refill it constantly. Especially important when flying internationally or visiting higher altitudes (I’m looking at you, Denver).

2. Hand Sanitizer Is the New Travel Perfume

Don’t leave home without it. Keep one clipped to your bag, one in your pocket, and one in your carry-on. Wipe down tray tables, hotel remotes, and anything else that looks like it hasn’t seen a Lysol wipe since 2006.

Bonus tip: A travel-sized pack of disinfectant wipes is worth its weight in gold. You’ll thank me when your seatmate sneezes into their elbow and then reaches for the armrest you’re both sharing. Ew.

3. Stick With the 80/20 Rule

I’m not gonna be the one to tell you not to try that street taco or the buttery croissant from the café that smells like heaven. But let’s keep things realistic—try to eat mostly clean, mostly fresh, and mostly what your body’s used to. Especially on longer trips, that 80/20 rule (80% wholesome, 20% oh-heck-yes) will keep your stomach from revolting.

4. Sleep Like It’s Your Job

New beds, new time zones, noisy neighbors—travel sleep isn’t always pretty. Bring what you need to create your sleep sanctuary: eye mask, earplugs, white noise app, melatonin gummies, or lavender spray (yes, I’m that girl). You can’t be your charming, Instagrammable self running on fumes.

5. Don’t Skip Travel Insurance. Seriously.

I know, I know. It sounds like an upsell. But listen, I’ve seen a perfectly healthy client end up in a French ER with food poisoning, and another miss their cruise departure because of a delayed flight. Travel insurance isn’t just about cancellations—it’s about staying protected if you get sick or hurt. International or not, if there’s a chance your plans might go sideways, this is your safety net.

6. Move That Body (Even Just a Little Bit)

Long flights and car rides make us feel like Gumby in a blender. Stretch. Walk. Do some light yoga in the hotel room if that’s your thing. Even a lap around the airport counts. Your joints, back, and mood will thank you.

7. Pack a Travel Health Kit (No, Not Your Mom’s Entire Medicine Cabinet)

Here’s what I always recommend clients toss in a bag:

Pain relievers (Tylenol, Advil, whatever works for you) Antacids Motion sickness tablets Band-Aids Cold meds (the kind that don’t knock you out) Electrolyte packets A thermometer (Yes, really. Ask me why sometime.)

8. Listen to Your Gut—Literally and Figuratively

If your intuition says “maybe don’t eat that shrimp cocktail from the guy with the cart next to a sewer drain,” listen to it. If your stomach feels off, don’t ignore it. A day of rest is better than a week of misery. Adjust your plans, call your travel advisor (hey, that’s me!), and remember: the journey should be joyful, not miserable.

In Conclusion…

Traveling is one of the greatest joys in life, but it’s hard to enjoy the view from a sick bed. A little preparation, a lot of water, and some healthy habits go a long way toward making sure your only travel stories are about where you went—not what bug you picked up along the way.

Need help planning a trip that keeps you comfortable, safe, and absolutely unforgettable? You know where to find me.

Stay healthy out there,

XOXO, Jani

Cindy, Jani, Tammy, Trisha, Krystal

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The Space Between My Eyebrows: A Blue Origin Rant

April 17, 2025

The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”, Travel Advice

So, let’s talk about this Blue Origin situation for a hot second—because apparently, that’s about how long the whole thing lasted. Eleven. Minutes. ELEVEN. As in less time than it takes me to book a full-blown European adventure and pack my toiletry bag.

I mean… there’s a store in my that sells the mini version & it’s for women too!

Now, let me be clear—I am 100% here for actual space exploration. The kind where people study stars, float in zero gravity, and maybe—just maybe—do something that helps humankind. But what I’m not here for is billionaires playing cosmic bumper cars and calling it a mission to the moon. These folks paid big money to take a joyride to the edge of the atmosphere, and now they’ve slapped “astronaut” on their LinkedIn like they just built the International Space Station with their bare hands.

Actual NASA launch!

And the emotions. Oh, the drama. Katy Perry acting like she just witnessed the Second Coming. Oprah’s bestie Gayle King (that’s her name, y’all) practically weeping like she watched someone solve world peace up there. I repeat: ELEVEN. MINUTES. I’ve had iced coffee orders take longer. Heck, I’ve had hot flashes last longer.

> insert multiple eye rolls <

How many days were they away from their loved ones and ground!

Let’s talk about something truly worthy of applause—parenting adult children. You want to feel like you’re navigating uncharted territory? Try guiding grown kids through love, life choices, therapy-worthy family group texts. I’m not saying it takes NASA-level patience, but let’s just say Mission Control has nothing on a momma waiting for her adult son to text back after she sent him a long, emotionally supportive message. Three days ago.

And don’t get me started on travel planning. While these yahoos are spending millions to bounce into near space for less time than it takes to watch The Golden Bachelor, I’m down here planning honeymoons, anniversaries, and once-in-a-lifetime bucket list trips that actually change lives. I help real people experience real wonder—from the pineapple farms in Hawaii to the beaches of Cabo—and I do it with love, spreadsheets, and a signature eye-roll for this Blue Origin nonsense.

So, while I toast to the real astronauts—the ones who train for years, wear adult diapers for science, and maybe lose a toenail or two in the name of space—I’ll also raise an eyebrow at the rich folks cosplaying Buzz Lightyear on a bouncy ride to the sky.

He’s a real astronaut, right?

Because I may not have been to space…

But I’ve survived raising adults, I’ve planned hundreds of actual adventures, and baby, I’ve got both feet on the ground and my head in the clouds.

The end. (Until Bezos gets froggy again.)

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So… Why Am I Writing A Blog Anyway?

April 16, 2025

Eat, Pray, Love

Last week, a friend of mine asked me—genuinely and with no sass—“Why are you writing a blog anyway?”

Now, I could’ve tossed out a quick one-liner or shrugged it off with something funny (which, let’s be honest, is my default setting). But I didn’t. Because her question deserved an honest answer.

Truth is, it’s not a simple answer.

Or maybe it is.

I’ve been writing in some form since I could string thoughts together. My earliest memories of writing go all the way back to that little pink diary with a heart-shaped lock that thought it could keep out a nosy sibling (it couldn’t). But to me, that diary was a sacred place. I spilled my secrets, my fears, my big dreams—and sometimes just what I had for lunch and how mean my step-monster was being. It was mine. All mine. And it felt safe.

Maybe it’s in my blood. My Paw was a writer. So was my Daddy. His two sisters too. And my cousin Jessica? Lord, she can write like poetry pours out of her fingers.

Me? I’ve never considered myself a beautiful writer. I don’t craft prose like some well-trained novelist. What I write tends to tumble out exactly as my brain and heart think and feel. Sometimes messy. Sometimes a little tangled. Always honest.

Over the years, I’ve worked hard to shape those thoughts into something more fluid, more readable—because Lord knows, not everyone speaks fluent “Jani brain.” But no matter how polished I try to be, my writing is still me. It’s my therapy. It’s how I process the world—past, present, and even the chaos I haven’t met yet.

Some of what I write will be shiny and lighthearted.

Some of it will come from the deeper places—the childhood that wasn’t all sugar and spice, the teenage years that required more strength than anyone should’ve had to muster, the heartbreaks, the healing, and all the getting-back-ups.

Writing is how I breathe when the world feels heavy.

It’s how I hold on to the moments that matter.

And yes—it’s honestly for me.

But—if something I write makes someone laugh out loud, or feel less alone, or stop and say, “Well, damn, me too…”—then I’ll feel like I’ve done something right.

So yeah. That’s why I’m writing this blog.

Not for the likes. Not for the algorithms. But that’s cool, FR!

For me.

And maybe, just maybe, for you too.

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Holding My Head High – Lessons from Chubby

April 15, 2025

Eat, Pray, Love

Describe a positive thing a family member has done for you.

Lily Ruth Atkins Aylsworth

We called her Chubby.

Now before you start picturing a round little Southern granny, let me clarify—my paternal grandmother never had a chubby day in her life. The nickname came before I was born and my Paw would make sure it stuck! Ha!

She grew up in Decata’ (Decatur) Georgia

Chubby was Southern elegance personified. If you plucked a woman off the pages of a Ralph Lauren catalog, dusted her with a touch of sass, and gave her a backbone forged from steel and grace—you’d have my grandmother. Her platinum blonde hair, thick and coarse, was always pulled back neatly as she aged. And even on her worst day, she looked like she belonged on a front porch sipping sweet tea in only the finest—never out of place, always put together.

Purr-fiction in every way

Her hemline always matched her shoes. Which is impressive, considering she had a mountain of shoes—each pair nearly identical except for the color. She loved Estee Lauder—makeup, perfume, and everything in between. Youth Dew was her signature scent. If you ever walked into her home in Adairsville, you’d know she was near before you ever saw her.

Yes, my Paw is wearing a Confederate uniform. It was a festival 🤣

To the folks in our little town, she was “Ms. Aylsworth or Ms. Ruth.” And to be real, some folks thought she was a bit “high and mighty,” as the Southern saying goes. But if you truly knew her, you saw something much deeper. My grandparents were characters—Paw was her “Rooster,” and she was his “Hen” or “Chicken,” I can’t remember. It was like living in a Tennessee Williams play, but with better shoes and less yelling.

One thing I’ll never forget: her long, golden necklace. It had a tiny gold ring on it, and nestled inside that ring was clear resin holding the smallest mustard seed you ever did see. “If you have faith the size of a mustard seed…” And y’all, she did. She truly did. She carried her faith with quiet power, and she wore that necklace like armor. She didn’t need to go on and on. It was just in her.

Esteè Lauder Lipstick, Youth Dew and that ever-present mustard seed

What Chubby gave me wasn’t just a closet full of fashion goals or a love for Estée Lauder (I’m definitely not). She gave me something far more important—the ability to hold my head high no matter the mess life serves up. When my daddy was arrested, when my grandfather passed away during that same chapter of heartbreak, and even when she lost her youngest daughter a few years later—she kept moving forward. Chin up, eyes ahead, faith intact.

That quiet strength? That fierce grace? I know I got that from her.

She shared her good genes and her birthday with me!

Now, I’m a little different. I wear my vulnerability on my sleeve. I cry, I talk, I write. But the getting-back-up part? That’s all Chubby. Every one of us Aylsworth cousins knows it. We joke about all the things we inherited from her—and let’s be honest, the Aylsworth gene runs strong. I see her in my kids too. Even though Jake and Jarrett seem to look nothing alike, they both look (and act) like me, they both carry pieces of her, and now their kids do too. That makes my heart proud in a way I can’t quite put into words.

I miss her. Lord, do I miss her. If I could go back in time, I’d soak up every second. I’d sit with her in that kitchen, watch her apply that Chestnut Estee Lauder lipstick, and maybe borrow a pair of those matching shoes.

But most of all, I’d thank her—for showing me how to walk through life with grace, even when your world feels like it’s falling apart. And for reminding me, without ever saying a word, that sometimes, faith as small as a mustard seed is more than enough.

I hope she looks down from Heaven and will always be proud of us.

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Big Pharma, Dire Wolves & An Unlikely Hero

April 15, 2025

Eat, Pray, Love

So here’s the thing—I had never seen Dallas Buyers Club. I don’t know why, really. Maybe I was busy being a momma, maybe it slipped through the cracks of my usual true-crime and travel doc binges. But tonight, I finally watched it.

Whew.

Y’all… Ron Woodroof was not your stereotypical hero. He was rough around the edges, offensive in more ways than one, and lived a life that didn’t exactly scream “noble.” But he was a damn hero all the same. He fought like hell—not just for himself, but for anyone who needed help in a world that was too busy cashing checks to give a damn.

Ron Woodroof

And watching it now, in 2025, hit different. Because we’re still here. Still watching Big Pharma rake in billions while patients drown in red tape and trial periods. The FDA? Don’t even get me started. I mean, how is it that we can throw millions into resurrecting the freakin’ dire wolf—yes, the big prehistoric dog thing—but somehow we still can’t figure out how to cure cancer? Or Multiple Sclerosis? Or ALS? Or any number of diseases that rip families apart every single day?

But sure. Let’s bring back ancient wildlife. Maybe throw a Game of Thrones quote in there for dramatic effect: Winter is coming.

Prehistoric Dire Wolf

Meanwhile, the people who need real help—actual solutions—are still fighting the same battles Ron Woodroof was fighting in the ’80s. Only now the drug names are fancier, and the commercials have better lighting. But the truth? Still ugly.

I don’t know, y’all. I’m not saying we should stop funding science. I’m not even saying dire wolves aren’t cool in a museum kind of way. But maybe, just maybe, we could reallocate some of that Jurassic Park money toward saving the people who are here right now.

Because what Ron did back then? It shouldn’t still be the exception in a world that claims to be advanced. It should’ve sparked a revolution. Instead, it’s 2025, and we’re still trying to survive systems built for profit instead of people.

But hey. Dire Wolves, right?

XOXO, Jani

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Frankie’s!

April 14, 2025

Eat, Pray, Love

What is your favorite restaurant?

Oh gosh, to pick just one favorite restaurant? That’s like asking me to choose my favorite pair of shoes—it just ain’t fair. But if I had to choose, I’m going with Frankie’s on Roswell Road in Marietta. Hands down. No hesitation. That place owns a big ol’ piece of my carb-loving heart.

I LOVE authentic Italian food—the kind that tastes like it came straight outta Nonna’s kitchen in Naples. And let me tell you, Frankie’s is the real deal. We’re talkin’ house-made pastas, sauces that simmer like they’ve got secrets, and bread that makes you want to pull up a chair and stay a while. It’s cozy, it’s charming, and it smells like heaven the second you walk in.

Frankie’s always. If you haven’t been—what are you even doing with your life?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m suddenly craving gnocchi.

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These Boots Were Made For …Hoarding

April 14, 2025

The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

Let’s get something straight right out of the gate: I have more shoes than DSW, and no, I will not be taking questions at this time.

It started young—high school, to be exact. That’s when my Adidas obsession took root. Clean, classic, cool. Pair them with jeans, a skirt, or questionable teenage decision-making—they just worked. And it never stopped. The collection grew. Multiplied. Evolved. Some girls collect charm bracelets or perfume bottles. Me? Sneakers and boots, baby.

Adidas? Got ’em. Converse and Vans? Obviously. Docs? Forever. Frye? A Southern girl’s rite of passage. Bed|Stu and Blowfish? Yes and yes. Let’s not even start on the boots. Lord, the boots. I’ve got combat boots and cowboy boots. Dress boots. Slouchy boots. Ankle, knee, and over-the-knee (for reasons, okay?). Rain boots—wellies if you’re feelin’ fancy. I even have hiking boots, and let’s be real, the only trail I’m trekking is from the front door to the mailbox.

And heels? I’ve got heels that scream confidence, wedges that whisper brunch, and sandals that say “beach me, please.” Birks because I’m practical sometimes. Crocs because… look, I said don’t judge me. Loafers and ballet flats and a few that deserve their own insurance policy. Let’s have a moment of reverence for my Coach Moto boots bought in NYC—yes, I still remember the exact store, the smell of leather, and the delusion that I’d be sensible with footwear from that point on.

People ask me, from time to time, “Are you ever going to sell any of your shoes?”

Sure, I say with a fake smile and a silent bless your heart.

Would I sell my children? No.

Would I sell my shoes? Same answer.

I mean, what if that one outfit suddenly demands the pair of leopard-print wedges I wore once in 2012? What if there’s a surprise theme party that screams for red patent leather stilettos? What if… I actually go hiking?!

Okay, no to that last one. But still.

Shoes aren’t just footwear. They’re moments. They’re memories. They’re personality, attitude, and backup confidence when I’m running low. So yeah, I have a lot of shoes.

And no, I don’t have a problem. I have options.

XOXO, Jani

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Monday Mayhem: The Dishwasher Diaries

April 14, 2025

The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

Ah, Monday. That overachieving little troublemaker of the week. Always showing up with the promise of order and productivity… only to trip you in your fuzzy slippers before your second cup of French roast.

This morning started off like any other: me, my coffee, and the hum of the dishwasher offering its usual white noise as I prepped for the day. I tossed in a sponge and our well-worn plastic pan scrubber without a second thought—because clearly, I live on the edge.

Fast forward about 30 minutes. I strolled back into the kitchen, ready to serve breakfast to my four-legged freeloaders, and what do I find? Not peace. Not calm. No ma’am—bubbles. Bubbles creeping out the sides of the dishwasher like a scene from a low-budget soap opera (pun very much intended).

Jear Desus.

I opened the door, and it was like I’d summoned Mount Sudsyuvius. An avalanche of foamy fluff came spilling out, and Shelby, my Basset hound and resident drama queen, took one look and fled the scene like she was dodging a felony.

The lightbulb moment came soon after: I must’ve unknowingly committed the cardinal sin of dishwashing—introducing actual dish soap into the mix. Likely lingering on the sponge or scrubber from handwashing dishes over the weekend. And let me tell you, it doesn’t take much. Just a smidge of that stuff in a dishwasher and you’ve got yourself a live-action bubble bath.

So there I was, armed with towels, muttering words not fit for Sunday school, sopping up my soap-based crime scene before it took over the entire kitchen.

After work, the plan is Operation De-Suds: a couple rinse cycles with vinegar and baking soda to evict the remaining fluff monsters and hopefully avoid murdering my dishwasher in the process.

So here’s to Monday—and all the unplanned, unpredictable, ridiculously bubbly mayhem it drags in with it.

May your week be productive.

May your coffee be strong.

And may your dishwasher mind its damn business.

XOXO, Jani

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Life Ain’t Fair…and That’s Kinda the Point

April 13, 2025

The Sitcom Called “Mary Jane”

Y’all. Can we just have a little come-to-Jesus moment?

I am flat-out over this new trend of blaming everybody and their momma for every little inconvenience, trauma, or misstep. And before someone gets their feathers all ruffled—no, I’m not saying childhood doesn’t leave marks. Believe me, I know it does. But at some point, we’ve got to stop blaming our past for every poor decision we make as grown adults.

If my boys turned out that soft, I might’ve had to disown ‘em (not really, but you get the idea). Thank the good Lord above they’ve got grit—and maybe just enough of their momma’s attitude to keep ’em grounded. At times they fail and maybe even wallow a bit hit then they strap up.

Here’s the truth we don’t say out loud enough: Parents are going to screw up. Repeatedly. Dramatically. Spectacularly. There is no manual. Half the time we’re just doing the best we can with what we’ve got—and praying we don’t completely mess y’all up in the process.

And another thing? Everybody has some kind of bull crap from childhood. Everybody. Some wounds are deeper than others, sure—but no one escapes unscathed. It’s part of the human experience.

Also. People will hurt you. You will hurt people. That’s not always intentional—it’s just part of the messy, tangled web we call life. You will love and lose and laugh and cry and wonder what the hell just happened. And then? You pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and carry on.

Because here’s the big, not-so-secret secret:

Once you hit adulthood, your life is your responsibility.

Not your momma’s. Not your daddy’s. Not that one bad teacher you had in 7th grade. YOURS.

You make the choices.

You pick the path.

You deal with the consequences.

And if you screw it up? Guess what? You deal with that too. I mean, get some therapy! Take a pill! Chew a gummy!

I’m not trying to sound cold-hearted. I’m just being honest. Because somewhere along the way, this culture decided that every mistake needs a scapegoat. And y’all… that’s just not how life works.

Life isn’t fair. It’s just life.

And the sooner we stop expecting fairness and start embracing personal accountability, the sooner we start actually living.

One of my son’s favorite quotes comes from George Jung, and it’s stuck with me for years:

“Sometimes you’re flush, and sometimes you’re bust. And when you’re up, it’s never as good as it seems, and when you’re down, you think you’ll never be up again—but life goes on.”

Ain’t that the truth?

So, deal with it.

Learn from it.

Grow through it.

And for heaven’s sake, quit whining and start walking.

With tough love (and a smirk),

XOXO, Jani

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Five Everyday Things That Bring Me Happiness—Monday to Friday Edition

April 13, 2025

Eat, Pray, Love

What are 5 everyday things that bring you happiness?

— In No Particular Order, Y’all —

1. That First Sip of French Roast Coffee

There’s just something about that first sip. It’s warm, bold, and feels like the world might just be okay after all. French roast is my love language. And let’s be honest—until I’ve had that mug in hand, I’m really not ready to interact with anyone, including myself. Espresso for extra points!

2. My Fur-Babies: Cash, Shelby & Bean

My morning crew includes two floppy-eared Basset Hounds and one independent, slightly judgy feline. They follow me around like I’m the queen of snacks, and in return, they offer unconditional love (and lots of hair on everything I own). They are my peaceful chaos and my favorite therapy team.

3. Porch Sittin’ with Coffee & Critters

This is my happy place. Coffee in one hand, two sleepy Bassets at my feet, and the rocking chair doing its slow Southern back & forth. The world is quiet, the sun’s just coming up, and I’m soaking in that sweet little pocket of peace before the day begins.

4. Early Mornings Before the World Starts Yellin’

Truly, I’ve always been a morning person—but these days? I crave it …with that coffee! Those calm, quiet minutes before the emails, calls, and general chaos take over… they’re gold. There’s power in waking up early on purpose and actually enjoying the silence.

5. Morning Reiki, Prayer & Meditation

This has become my sacred routine. A few minutes of healing energy through Reiki, a quiet prayer of gratitude, and a little meditation to pull it all together. It grounds me, calms my mind, and reminds me to breathe—before the whirlwind of life kicks in.

In Closing…

Happiness doesn’t have to be loud or expensive.

It’s not always a grand adventure.

Sometimes, it’s just a quiet porch, a strong cup of coffee, and a two Bassets snoring at your feet.

Life gets busy—but these small, soulful moments? They’re the ones I cherish the most.

XOXO, Jani

P.S. Want a peek into my porch life? Stay tuned for a snapshot series I like to call “Coffee, Critters & Calm.” It’s nothing fancy… but it’s everything I need.

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