Your Authentic Writing Guide

During my blessed time before Christmas my sister announced she was getting married. I was so happy for her. I immediately became her wedding planner. Dress. Shoes. Jewellery. You name it. Retired and blessed and living my best life in bridal boutiques. It felt like playing dress up as children again. Pure joy. Until she told me I had to give a speech. Damn it. I told her I wasn’t good at that. She told me to read my own essays. Damn it. She had a point. So here I am in my ne

I’ve published enough essays now that people are saying “more.” “Stefanie we want more.” It’s flattering. Dangerously flattering. So naturally my brain whispers: Maybe… a book? Relax. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I wouldn’t even know where to start. We’ve already covered work addiction, identity collapse, dopamine highs, empathy burnout, aging parents, volunteering, literary analysis, and hiding behind bananas at Costco. What’s left? Look at me already assuming I inspire

OMG. Blank page. Nothing to say. I am in mild panic mode. I need my dopamine fix. My face is red. I’ve had too many Aperol spritzes. The cat is asleep on my legs. My lower body has officially gone numb. And I’ve got… nothing. You all know the greatest hits by now: Former workaholic. Certified lash technician. Self-declared saint. Margarita counter. What is left to reveal? My grocery list? This is hard. Writing is liberating yes. But it’s also exposure therapy with punctuation

In October, my 79-year-old parents decided they wanted to go on vacation. And because I am the Nice Daughter™, I offered to accompany them. Living the life. But let me give you context. My parents are first-generation immigrants from Italy. They arrived here in 1975 with me in tow and about seventeen suitcases filled with tomato sauce and expectations. Typical setup: My dad worked. My mom ran the house like a small emotional monarchy. Baking, cooking, canning, gossiping with

I have always been magnetically attracted to humanity. So when I decided to volunteer at a food bank — every Tuesday, triaging donations — I expected connection. Warmth. Meaningful human interaction. What I got was a sandwich. And not the good kind. I am on a team of three. The other two are retirees like myself. Well — only the title is common. First we have the happiest little man anyone has ever met. Former school teacher. Thirty-five years. Happily married. Proud grandad.

And then my son handed me another book. Have you read L’Étranger by Albert Camus? Yes. Another literary essay. Yes I read it for his French class. You’re welcome son. Again. Written in 1942 L’Étranger follows Meursault — a man living in French Algeria who feels emotionally detached from everything. His mother. His girlfriend. Society. Himself. The novel opens with one of the most famous lines in literature: “Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday.” Right away we understand — t

My son handed me a lot of books during this journey. He didn’t know he was saving my life. He thought he was just getting homework help. You’re welcome, son. Have you read Frankenstein by Mary Shelley? This book was written in 1818. Yes. 200 years ago. Before Netflix. Before doom-scrolling. Before we had approximately 47 better ways to avoid thinking about anything meaningful. I volunteered to help my son in his literature class. Yup. I am THAT mom. The one who raises her han

Do we actually feel our emotions? I ask because for a very long time I didn’t. At work I felt calm. No racing thoughts. No visible distress. Just composed. When emotions in the room were skyrocketing I didn’t escalate. I didn’t panic. I didn’t cry. I morphed into a zen master. Not really. I think they call it dissociation. Oops. Somewhere along the way when emotions became too intense to handle I learned to detach. I could step outside of myself and observe instead of feel. I

While all of this was unfolding — the identity crisis, the dopamine withdrawal, the treadmill therapy — I should tell you about the other thing I did. Because of course there was another thing. While climbing the corporate ladder for 30 years, diffusing metaphorical bombs and surviving performance reviews, I also got certified as a lash extension technician. Yes. You read that correctly. Need a flawless set of volume lashes? I was your girl. And I was good. Website? Built it.

I had an idea. Post my essays on Facebook groups. Midlife crisis. Cool retired women. Retired over 50. You get the idea. Well. Well. Well. Can you imagine the audacity of the admins deleting my posts? The nerve. They didn’t even take the time to read them. Automatically deleted the second they were posted. I totally related to that crowd. I had inspirational material they should have loved. Maybe I hit a nerve? Maybe I was too profound? Regardless — 9 year old me was upset. S

OMG. I actually did it. I wrote it all down and hit send to the universe. No draft folder. No “maybe later.” Just publish. The feedback was immediate. Some people think I have something going on here. Others think I’m having a nervous breakdown. For the record: I am not having a nervous breakdown. I’m having what’s called an epiphany. Everything I wrote is everything I lived. Everything I wrote has been looping in my head for years like a motivational podcast I never subscrib

You already know I’m a recovering workaholic. So it should surprise no one that during my full dopamine years I neglected family and friends. Friends. We met a couple about fifteen years ago at daycare pickup. We immediately clicked. She was funny and nice. I was funny and nice too. She must have caught me on a day when everything at work was completed and everyone was satisfied. Basically I was in a good mood. So we clicked. For years we’d meet occasionally. Dinners at each

When I retired, my aunt sent me the most beautiful letter I had ever received. I was at the spa. Celebrating. Cucumber water. Fluffy robe. The whole performance. And then my phone lit up. I read it once. Then again. Then I started crying in the relaxation lounge like someone had just delivered terrible news between massages. Which is a look, let me tell you. She wrote: “Today, a door closes. You have every reason to be proud of your career. Think of all the times you made a d

Here is something nobody tells you about retirement. You will lose track of the days. Completely. Entirely. Without apology. I could not tell you what day it is if my life depended on it. And the strange part? I don’t entirely mind. When I was a fully functioning workaholic — not yet in rehab — this would never have happened. I had Outlook. My bible. My life manager. My everything. BIBLE. I do not say this lightly. Every meeting. Every deadline. Every person. Managed, organiz

Now that you know where I came from — the basement, the little girl, the ballerina dream traded for a boardroom — let me tell you what I built on top of all of it. For 30 years I believed I was hardworking, dedicated, ambitious. Turns out I was just high. High on applause. High on performance reviews. High on “Great job, Stefanie.” High on being needed. You want to know what withdrawal looks like? It looks like crying at 10:30 a.m. on a Tuesday because no one emailed you to s

I always dreamed of being a ballerina. Sophisticated. Graceful. Those ballet shoes drove me absolutely crazy. But there were no extracurricular activities growing up. We played outside after school until someone called us in for dinner. That was life. Stay outside. Don’t disturb. We’ll call you when we need you. I loved school because it kept me busy. Away from the ordinary. Away from the quiet. Summers I dreaded. Eight weeks outside not to disturb. I dreaded the last day of

My mother is Italian. And if you have an Italian mother you know exactly how this goes. One evening she asked me, in Italian of course: “What the hell did you put on the Facebook?” To my relief she doesn’t read English. So I told her to learn it if she wanted to find out. Felt brave. Error. My sister jumped in just before my mother could lunge at my throat. “It’s a personal essay,” she said. My mother: “A what? What do you need to speak about that is personal on the Facebook?

There’s a little girl I’ve been carrying around for a very long time. She’s quiet. Obedient. Extremely good at making herself small. She learned early that the safest place was down. Head down. Voice down. Expectations down. She became an expert at disappearing without actually leaving the room. Impressive skill set really. Completely useless but impressive. For years I thought she was just shy. Turns out she was just scared. And here’s the thing about scared little girls who

If no one will applaud me, I will. And surprisingly, it feels better. The release I feel writing this — this entire ridiculous, dramatic, overanalyzed identity crisis — is unlike anything I have felt before. Not the applause. Not the promotions. Not the farewell lunch with the cake and the speeches. This. Because for the first time, I am not performing. I am not pretending to be fulfilled. Not pretending to be “so happy and grateful.” Not pretending that leisure equals purpos

During my NLP course the lecturer mentioned a book: Afformations by Noah St. John. Apparently instead of affirmations you ask empowering questions so your brain stops fighting you. Brilliant. Revolutionary. Slightly culty but in a charming way. I ordered it on Amazon with next-day delivery. Because if I’m going to reconstruct my personality I would like it expedited. The preface mentioned that good ideas come in the shower. The shower. I read that and thought: interesting. Be