I am not who you think I am

I’m struggling to find the [b]old woman who started this newsletter

This is one in a series of very personal essays on what getting old is really like, from the blessings to the bullshit. If my writing resonates with you, I’d love to have you as a paid subscriber. Your support helps me continue the work of writing that matters, to me and to you.

When I wake each morning, I look out at my neighbor’s green grass, as bright as a baseball diamond, and beyond to the gently rippled waters of the Deer Isle Thorofare. In the distance, a handful of islands poke up, their rounded silhouettes of pine and spruce trees, rimmed by granite rock, as crisp as a 3D collage. This is the view from my bedroom—one that I am so grateful for. This is what I’ve called home for the past decade. 

View of the Deer Isle Thorofare, a narrow passageway between Penobscot Bay and Jericho Bay, off of Stonington, Maine.

But there’s more going on in my life right now than this perfect postcard view, so I want to pull the curtain, just for a moment, just to be more honest with you.