So glad you found my blog page. Occasionally, I will post thoughts about coaching and life in general. It is meant to be just food for thought. Feel free to send me your comments through the contact form. I will be happy to answer.

From Label to Fulfillment‍ ‍2/1/26

Repurposing is not about starting over. It’s about starting from what matters. For many people, retirement — or any major life transition — arrives quietly and then all at once. One day you are moving through the world with a clear answer to the question, “What do you do?” And then, suddenly, that answer no longer fits.

Our culture places enormous value on labels. You do X, therefore you are Y. Teacher. Executive. Nurse. Lawyer. Caregiver. Parent. Those labels often serve us well — for decades. They offer structure, identity, purpose, and social shorthand. But after 40+ years of working, raising families, meeting responsibilities, and putting others first, something shifts. The title changes. Or disappears entirely. And then comes the harder question: Who am I now — without the label?

Many people experience retirement as an ending because they’ve been taught to see it that way. The conclusion of productivity. The loss of relevance. The quiet fade-out after a long career. But that framing misses something essential. Retirement — and other critical junctures in life — is not the end of a journey. It is the beginning of a different kind of one.

For the first time in years — sometimes ever — you are invited to define yourself from the inside out. Not by what you produce, but by what you value. Not by what you’ve been called, but by what you care about now. Not by someone else’s expectations, but by your own emerging sense of meaning. This is where repurposing begins.

Repurposing isn’t about finding a new title to replace the old one. In fact, the need for a neat, conventional identity often gets in the way. When we rush to say “I am a…” again, we risk recreating the same constraints we’ve just stepped out of. Instead, repurposing asks a different set of questions: What values have always mattered to me — but didn’t have room before? What parts of myself were postponed, sidelined, or left unexplored? What kind of contribution feels authentic now? What do I want my days to stand for, not just be filled with?

This work can feel unsettling at first. For years, the labels were given. The structure was external. The definition came ready-made. Now, the definition must come from within — and that takes time, patience, and courage. But here’s the truth most people don’t hear often enough: Your worth was never dependent on the label.

Repurposing is not a performance for others. It’s not about explaining yourself at dinner parties or proving you’re still “doing enough.” It’s a deeply personal process of alignment — between who you’ve been, who you are becoming, and what you want the next chapter to express. When you allow yourself that freedom — when you stop trying to fit your life into a familiar box and instead let it take a shape that reflects your values — the result can be extraordinary

Not louder. Not busier. But richer. More intentional. More alive. Repurposing takes time. And when you get there, it can be glorious.

Before & After — The Moments That Change Us 3/7/26

There are moments in life when the ground quietly shifts beneath us. We may not notice it at first. Life looks the same from the outside. The same house. The same routines. The same people around the table.And yet something fundamental has changed. Later we look back and realize that life divided itself into two parts: before and after.

Before the birth of a child.
Before the death of a parent.
Before a diagnosis.
Before meeting the person who changes your life.
Before losing someone you love.
Before a world event that alters how safe the future feels.

In the before, we live with assumptions about the world that are largely invisible to us. We assume continuity. We assume stability. We assume the future will resemble the past. Then the moment arrives that alters the landscape. Suddenly we are living in the after. The after can feel unfamiliar. Sometimes frightening. Sometimes filled with love or responsibility or clarity we did not have before. Often it carries a mix of emotions that are hard to name. The life we lived yesterday can feel oddly distant. And yet the person who lived that life—the person from the before—still lives within us.

One of the quiet challenges of adulthood is learning how to carry both versions of ourselves. The person we were before the shift, and the person we have become after it.

Whenever life moves into an “after,” something from the “before” is lost. Sometimes it is obvious: a person, a role, a way of living. Other times the loss is more subtle. It may be a feeling of certainty. A belief about how the world works. A sense of innocence or safety we once carried without realizing it. We often underestimate this kind of grief. Even joyful transitions carry it. The birth of a child brings love and wonder, but it also quietly closes the chapter of the life you lived before becoming a parent. Retirement opens freedom and possibility, but it also marks the end of decades of identity built around a profession. Something always changes. Our culture does not always give us permission to acknowledge these quieter forms of grief. We are often encouraged to move quickly to acceptance, positivity, or gratitude. But grief has its own intelligence. Grieving the “before” allows us to honor the life we once lived and the person we once were. It helps us avoid the false choice between clinging to the past or rejecting it entirely. When we allow ourselves to mourn what has changed, we create space for something else to emerge. Perspective.

The after is rarely comfortable at first. It asks us to adapt. To reconsider what we thought we knew about ourselves and about life. It asks us to navigate unfamiliar terrain. Yet the after also carries a hidden gift. Perspective. When life changes us, our field of vision widens. We begin to see things that were invisible before. We develop compassion for experiences we once only understood intellectually. We notice what matters and what does not with greater clarity. The after often brings strength we did not know we possessed. This strength does not come from avoiding difficulty. It comes from living through it. Over time we begin to recognize a quiet truth: life will continue to present us with these dividing lines. Before and after moments are not rare exceptions. They are part of the rhythm of being human. Each one reshapes us. Each one deepens our understanding of what it means to live fully.

The goal in life is not to erase the before. Nor is it to become hardened by the after. The real work is learning how to hold both. The before carries innocence, hope, and the memory of how life once felt. The after carries wisdom, experience, and a deeper awareness of life’s fragility and beauty. When we allow these two parts of ourselves to exist together, something remarkable happens. We become more human. We develop compassion for the earlier versions of ourselves who did not yet know what we now know. We carry forward the lessons of experience without losing our capacity for curiosity or hope. In coaching, I often see people standing at one of these thresholds. Something in their life has changed, and they are trying to understand who they are now.

The answer is rarely found in abandoning the past. Instead, it comes from integrating it. Your before is part of your strength. Your after is part of your wisdom.And the life you are living now is the place where both can guide you forward.

Can Shattered Innocence Coexist with Inherited Vigilance? 3/3/26

There are two ways we come to understand that the world is not entirely safe. One arrives abruptly — a rupture that breaks our assumptions about permanence and protection. The other is absorbed quietly over time — carried through family history, cultural memory, and unspoken warnings. One is shattered innocence. The other is inherited vigilance.

Shattered innocence is personal. It happens when something cracks the belief that life will unfold as expected. It is not an intellectual shift but an emotional one. The body learns what the mind may have known abstractly: safety is fragile. There is grief in that realization, and often anger. What hurts most is not only what occurred, but the loss of the world as we thought it was.

Inherited vigilance is different. It precedes rupture. It is transmitted — through stories, glances, tone, posture. It teaches watchfulness. It assumes that security is conditional. It does not require personal betrayal to exist; it rests on collective memory. Where innocence trusts, vigilance scans.

One says, “I didn’t think this would happen.”
The other says, “We always knew it could.”

When they meet, the result is complicated. Vigilance may cushion the shock of rupture — after all, the possibility of danger was never fully dismissed. Yet it can also intensify the pain, because the rupture confirms the warning that vigilance has long carried. The shock feels both new and familiar.

Each, alone, carries risk. Innocence without vigilance can drift into naiveté. When disruption comes, it destabilizes not only circumstances but identity itself. Vigilance without innocence can become exhausting. It scans constantly, struggles to rest, and can make belonging feel provisional.

But together, they need not create permanent alarm. The work is integration.

Inherited vigilance can become discernment — an ability to recognize real threat without living in constant fear. Shattered innocence can become wisdom — depth born of grief rather than cynicism. Both require choice: the choice to acknowledge fragility without surrendering to it.

Mature innocence is not ignorance; it is openness. Mature vigilance is not anxiety; it is awareness.

Can shattered innocence live with inherited vigilance?

Yes — if neither dominates. When transformed, they create steadiness: a way of seeing clearly, remembering history, and still stepping forward. Not blind trust. Not constant alarm. But a grounded resilience that holds both warning and hope in the same breath.

Kindness: A Relational Act of Presence. 2.1.26

Kindness is often described as a soft skill—gentle, optional, a polite add-on to life. But in my world, kindness has never been soft. It has been structural. It has held systems together. It has transformed rooms. It has been the quiet force that changes a hospital waiting area, a classroom, a coaching conversation, and the fragile interior of a human heart. I learned early—through the layered inheritance of family stories and through witnessing how people show up when life cracks them open—that kindness is not an act. It is a way of being.

At Wellesley College Center for Research on Women, when Michelle Seligson and I first began shaping Bringing Yourself to Work, kindness was embedded in the question: What happens when adults are emotionally present for young people? We discovered that real learning—real connection—begins not with curriculum, but with who we choose to be in relationship with. The adult who sits a little closer, who remembers a child’s name, who dignifies their own emotions instead of correcting or hiding them—that person becomes a lifeline. Kindness is the learning.

Years later, inside the heightened, sacred spaces of Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, I saw kindness in its most distilled form. A volunteer offering a blanket without speaking. A patient looking up and asking a stranger how they are doing. A hand placed gently on the shoulder of someone waiting for news that might rearrange their life forever. Kindness was not a gesture there—it was oxygen. It moved through the institution silently, like a pulse. It made vulnerability survivable.

And now, in coaching, I see kindness as one of the bravest acts I can choose. Kindness asks us to stay—when our instinct is to fix. To witness—when the story is uncomfortable. To believe in someone’s wholeness—even when they forget it themselves.

Kindness is not niceness. Niceness avoids discomfort; kindness enters it. Niceness glosses over; kindness notices. Niceness says, “How are you?” and moves on. Kindness waits for the real answer.

The more I work—whether writing, supporting someone navigating retirement, or sitting across from a client on Zoom—the more I know this: kindness is relational intelligence in motion. It is seeing the human being in front of you not as a role, a diagnosis, a life stage, or a résumé—but as a story still being written.

Thank you for all the kindnesses I have received this year. They are precious and sustaining.

Among the Tulips 1/27/26

In the spring of 2019, my husband Barry and I traveled to Amsterdam. Neither of us had been before. What we discovered was a city far richer than we had imagined. Especially as it relates to our own Jewish History. Amsterdam became home to both Sephardic Jews fleeing Iberia and, later, Ashkenazi Jews arriving from Central and Eastern Europe. The great synagogues still stand across from one another, quiet witnesses to centuries of refuge, survival, and faith.

We immersed ourselves in museums — Van Gogh’s impossible colors, masterpieces interspersed among modern installations that revolved around social truths. We also took day trips: to The Hague and then to the famous tulip fields. We were in Amsterdam at the height of the tulip bloom.

Tulips have always been my favorite flower. When I was growing up, my dad used to bring home yellow and red ones. My mother planted them beside daffodils in the garden. Those flowers remain one of the few uncomplicated memories of my childhood — pure in their simplicity, and in the fact that despite everything complicated between my parents, they both made room for beauty. In that small way, they chose growing over withering.

So when I entered the tulip fields outside Amsterdam, I expected delight. And the beauty was overwhelming. Endless rows of brilliant colors and shapes swaying in the wind. They were pulsing with life and vibrance. It was everything I had hoped for.

And then I saw it.

A hospital bed rolled slowly down one of the narrow walking lanes between the tulip beds. At first, my mind resisted what my eyes were registering. Beds do not belong among flowers. But there it was.

On the bed lay a woman, perhaps in her fifties. Her skin was pale, almost the color of clay. She was wrapped in blankets and wore a tight red turban. A drip hung beside her. Her eyes barely opened. Her body barely there. She looked very near the end of life.

Walking beside her was a nurse, one hand steady on the IV pole, the other holding her hand. On the other side walked another woman, likely a friend or sister, her face heavy with grief. The woman in the bed wore the faintest smile.

The paths through the tulip fields were narrow and curved. Some turns were tight. Yet, with careful patience, they guided the bed through every bend. At each new section of flowers, they stopped. Because she could not speak, they described everything for her — the colors, the shapes, the way the petals curled or reached. They spoke softly and precisely, as if painting what she could no longer fully see.

Her smile did not leave her face.

Standing there, I felt as though I were witnessing an impressionist painting made real: the woman in red at the center, flanked by devotion, surrounded by impossible color. Twilight seemed to hang in the air.

It is twilight for all of us at some point. And then, inevitably, the dark.

Watching her, I understood something. At the end, we do not long for achievement or certainty. We long for beauty. For peace. For the feeling of being accompanied. For one last moment of belonging to the world.

This woman may have had only hours or days left. And yet she was being given something exquisite — a final passage through wonder.

What stays with me most is not the spectacle of a hospital bed in a tulip field, but the choice behind it. Someone imagined what she might want at the end. Someone decided that beauty still mattered. Someone said yes to tenderness.

Now, as I live in a world that feels saturated with cruelty, I return to this memory often. It reminds me that kindness is still possible — and that it matters more than anything else. These small acts of decency quietly correct my despair. They restore my faith in what is enduring.

Tulips are no longer just flowers to me. They are proof that even at the edge of life, we still seek beauty. That even at the edge, love finds its way through.

And because of her, it always will.

Women Aren’t Meant to Disappear — Aging Is an Invitation to Take Up Space. 2.1.26

The story of women’s bodies, for some, begins long before we ever look in a mirror. It starts as young girls watching other women tug at their dresses and whisper apologies for eating dessert. By the time we reach adolescence, many of us already understand that our bodies are public currency—evaluated, graded, and compared. Then, midlife arrives, and we are blindsided once again. Hormones shift. Weight settles differently. A body that once felt familiar begins to feel like a stranger. Aging can feel like betrayal, as if time is something we should have been able to outsmart.

But what if we are asking the wrong question? For decades, my professional life centered around emotional intelligence in human spaces—first in educational settings, and later as Director of Volunteer Services & Patient Programs at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute. I spent my days in a place where the body was not a billboard of worth, but a vessel of survival. I watched patients celebrate the privilege of breathing. No one asked, “Do I look thin?” They asked, “Will I continue to be?”

That experience, and now my work as a life transition coach, has taught me this: our culture has confused appearance with value. Aging exposes that confusion with painful clarity. Women in midlife and beyond are expected to manage careers, care for aging parents, raise children, lead communities, and more. Yet we are simultaneously shamed for the physical evidence of having lived it all. We are praised for discipline when we shrink, warned when we expand, and offered constant “solutions” to reclaim youth. This relentless pressure is not superficial; it is theft. It steals the possibility of standing fully in ourselves.

Aging can be a reclamation. A return to the truth that our bodies are not problems to be solved, but archives of everything we have survived and offered. The women I coach today often arrive with a familiar refrain: “I don’t recognize myself anymore.” My answer is always the same—of course not. You are new. You have changed. And you are allowed to grow into the space your life has created".

Taking up space is a radical act in a world that asks women to compress. To age with visibility and self-compassion is defiant. It is political. We need a cultural shift that honors the bodies of women not for how little they occupy, but for the lives they carry. We need to speak honestly about the silent grief of body change and the profound relief of release.

If I learned one truth from cancer patients, it is this: beauty is not youth. Beauty is presence. So to every woman looking in the mirror and feeling unrecognizable: you are not disappearing. You are arriving. Your body is evidence. Your body is a story. Take up your earned space.