Who's That Girl?

For years, I suffered. I dismissed the issues—chalked them up to stress, age, or the endless responsibilities of caring for others. I told myself it was nothing, that I just needed to push through. And so, I did. I cared for everyone else while quietly neglecting myself.

But everything changed after my late husband passed away. The grief was all-consuming, and with it came a sudden and sharp decline in my health. I was exhausted all the time. I was in constant pain. I couldn’t enjoy even the simplest activities that once brought me joy. And worst of all—I couldn’t get answers.

Doctor after doctor. Appointment after appointment. I was bounced around the healthcare system like a puzzle no one had the time—or willingness—to solve. Each visit led to more confusion, more tests, more fear. I began to wonder if I was imagining it all. I felt invisible. Defeated. Hopeless.

Then, finally, everything changed. I found the right doctor.

He was young, sharp, and, most importantly, deeply compassionate. He reviewed my endless reports and tests with care. And when he looked at me following all that review, he was angry—not at me, but at the system that had failed me and disregarded me. He couldn’t believe it had taken this long for anyone to make the call that was needed regardless of my age in order for me to feel good and be healthy again.

From that moment on, I wasn’t alone. He gave me time, information, and guidance. He listened—really listened. He connected me with others to properly make a decision on next steps. And ultimately, he gave me something I hadn’t felt in years: hope.

One year ago today, I underwent a surgery that changed everything for me. The procedure not only addressed multiple health issues and prevented serious future complications—it fundamentally changed me. Physically, yes. But also, emotionally, and mentally.

I remember waking up after surgery and feeling something shift. It was like a light switch had been flipped. The darkness I had carried for so long—pain, fear, uncertainty—it all had begun to lift. I felt lighter. Freer. I knew, without question: things were finally going to get better. I had purged whatever heaviness I had been carrying with me for a very long time.

In those early days of recovery, I made a declaration—to myself and to the universe:

“2025 is going to be my year.
The Year of LM.”

And I didn’t just say it. I felt it in my bones. I spoke it into existence in every conversation, every plan, every small step forward.

Now, with the 2025 year nearly behind me, I can say without hesitation: it has been my year. A year of healing. A year of growth. A year of rediscovering joy and love.

At 46, I feel better than I ever have. I’m energized, hopeful, productive, and connected to not only myself but others more than I’ve been in decades. The gratitude I feel is impossible to fully express. It sits deep in my chest, showing up in the quiet moments and the loud ones. In every dance class I can now take without pain. In every laugh that feels like a celebration. In every plan I make for the future—because, for the first time in a long time, I’m excited for what’s ahead and a little less afraid to plan for it.

This second act of my life isn’t something I’m taking for granted. I’m embracing it fully—every opportunity, every connection, every ounce of joy. I’ve learned that healing doesn’t just happen in hospitals, doctors’ offices or even with time. It happens when we’re seen. When we’re believed. When we finally choose to prioritize ourselves.

So tonight, as I step out to celebrate Halloween—smiling and fully present—I do so with a full heart. Because everything has changed. And because I finally feel like me again.

So grateful.
So appreciative.
So happy.
Finally.

xo LM