Footsteps and Flushing: Life in an Apartment

June 2, 2026May 31, 2026 Heather KightLeave a comment

Some relationships begin with a spark.
Others begin with synchronized bathroom schedules.

My upstairs neighbor and I have managed a level of routine and intimacy lacking in some marriages.

Wake up: 5:00am
Leave for work: 6:00am
Arrive home from work: 4:00pm
Showering: Heard by (often simultaneous) running of water
Bathroom habits: Not much mystery

Anyone who has ever experienced apartment living knows what I mean. It’s simply part of the deal. Landlord repairs your broken fixtures. You know the lifestyle habits of Unit 250.

But let’s revisit “bathroom habits” for kicks and giggles.

We’ll call this The Sound Barrier Illusion.

Our Queen of Grayson was perched upon her throne contemplating the science of acoustic transmission from ground-floor apartments to second-floor units. Okay, yeah, I was wondering how much my upstairs neighbor can hear. Specifically, from the bathroom.

People, I 👏🏻promise👏🏻 you👏🏻the following is exactly what went down next.

Me: I sure hope he can’t hear when I fart on the toilet.
Me: No, I’m sure he can’t because I’ve never heard him.

5 minutes later: sound of overhead footsteps.

Then, as if summoned by my weird meanderings:

BRRPPPTTT

😳😳😳

I froze. Not because my upstairs neighbor has a digestive system. Not because toilets are basically butt trumpets. 🚽🎺

I froze because if I can hear him then … 🤔😳

Comic-style apartment cutaway titled "The Sound Barrier Illusion." In the upstairs apartment, a man carries an "Assembly Required" box while assembling furniture and making thudding noises. In the downstairs apartment, a silver-haired woman sits on a toilet holding a coffee mug and looking up in alarm. A thought bubble reads, "He can't hear me. I've never heard him." Sound waves travel through the floor between the apartments. The caption at the bottom reads, "The exact moment a theory dies." — *When you realize apartment acoustics work both ways.*

However, my last place was less like apartment living and more like a community theater production where everyone accidentally shares the same stage.

I wasn’t hearing noise.

I was hearing:

hydration levels
meal plans
family arguments
infant sleep regressions
bathroom acoustics
culinary experimentation

At that point, I didn’t need to introduce myself.

I already knew too much.

😳

Neighbor:

“Hi, I’m Susan.”

Me:

“Yes. Tuesday is Taco Night. Your son is teething. And you really should call a plumber.”

🤣

My new apartment is downright luxurious by comparison.

The fact that I only hear:

footsteps
plumbing
occasional furniture movement

is anticipated, acceptable apartment noise.

Which is probably why the Great Fart Incident of 2026 was so startling.

I’ve gotten used to a reasonable amount of privacy.

Then suddenly:

BRRPPPTTT

The apartment building:

“Just a reminder that you’re still sharing walls with humans.”

😆

Honestly, I think that’s part of why I love Grayson so much.

It’s not perfect.

No apartment is.

But it gives me enough separation to feel like I have my own life.

I’m not smelling Barry and Joan’s meatloaf.

I’m not involuntarily learning the soundtrack of a toddler’s sleep schedule.

I have my coffee.
My writing nook.
My dogs.
My routines.
My patio.
My peace.

And every now and then:

footsteps overhead

“Hey.”

from the upstairs neighbor.

Which is a much more pleasant soundtrack than:

MYSTERY MEAT ODORS

FLUUUUSSSHHHHH

BABY CRYING

But just in case, where can a person buy ceiling soundproofing?

Asking for a friend.

The Front Porch Swing · The Soft Side of Sass

Gone With The Wind

May 31, 2026May 31, 2026 Heather KightLeave a comment

Here’s a laugh to end your day because the little things are worth a giggle or two.

I walked Phoebe earlier and discovered it was nice and cool this morning.

65°, overcast, and breezy.

My Pennsylvania roots were smiling.

I thought:

“What a beautiful morning. I’ll be productive.”

✔️ Walk dogs.
✔️ Dishes.
✔️ Laundry.
✔️ Coffee.
✔️ Patio.

Then my brain added:

“While I’m out here, I’ll just quickly sweep these leaves.”

Nature:

“No.”

I practically felt a pat on my head and heard, “Well, aren’t you adorable?”

My neat pile blew apart and most of the leaves scattered… back on the patio floor.

Leaves possess a mysterious property where they remain completely motionless until the second you’ve organized them.

Then they become sentient.

I laughed out loud, put the broom away, and sipped my by-then cold coffee.

Honestly, younger me would have:

Swept.

Re-swept.

Muttered.

Re-re-swept.

Declared war on the wind.

Current me:

laughed

“Good enough.”

returned to coffee

That, my friend, is wisdom.

😌💅

And can we just appreciate this weather for a moment?

65°, overcast, breezy…

That’s the kind of morning that tricks you into believing you should become:

a patio person,
a gardener,
a woman who journals outdoors,
someone who regularly enjoys fresh air.

Then Atlanta remembers it’s Atlanta.

🥵🔥

For now, though, I enjoyed my cooler coffee, the cleaner-ish patio, and the fact that Hotlanta took a break today.

A successful morning, even if the leaves won on points. 🍂☕💜

Canine Chronicles · The Front Porch Swing

Picture it. Grayson, 2026. 🐶

May 18, 2026May 17, 2026 Heather KightLeave a comment

I love being a dog mom.

I really do.

Until I don’t. And anyone who cherishes those furry little freeloaders will get it.

(In my best Sophia Petrillo voice) Picture it … Grayson, 2026.

It’s a dreary Monday morning. My mood is happy and hopeful in spite of the cloudy sky. Even the familiar alarm clock that sounds a lot like my Corgi whining to go out doesn’t offend me. We walk.

But then … oh, then it happens.

Phoebe (my Corgi) heads toward a spot covered in pine straw and, most likely, the scent of other dogs. I expect her to squat. Possibly hunch.

No.

She digs a little and decides breakfast is served in the form of what I suspect to be poop.

HEAVY SIGH.

I hold on to that glimmer of hope that it’s something else. A randomly abandoned French fry. Maybe a crunchy bud off a harmless tree.

With a tug on her harness, I disrupt her snack.

She lifts her head, pine straw hanging from her mouth.

Being the responsible dog mom that I am, I attempt to yank the straw from her jaws. Successfully. Only it’s not just straw that dislodges. Because of course it isn’t.

My hand is smeared with feces. No idea what type. I didn’t have Bear Grylls along to identify the scat. What I do know:

It is mushy
It smells bad
It clings to my fingers like glitter to … well, anything

Meanwhile, Phoebe’s side-eyeing me like I’m the server that took her plate with half a ribeye on it. 😒

Ma’am.

The poo-poo platter was NOT on the menu.

I’m scraping an unidentified fecal sample from my fingers with the dog waste bag. Trying not to gag. Considering my life choices. Nearly dragging Phoebe and my Chihuahua Maggie to anywhere but the buffet of boo-boo.

Oh, Maggie? Sporting a look somewhere between disgust and full-on smug. I swear her eyes say, “Mother, please note that I’m the civilized one here.” 😏

Duly noted.

Apparently, my canine crew consists of an angelic Chi and a 15-year-old Corgi faster than the speed of light when it comes to sidewalk snacks.

And in spite of her dietary delicacies, I never stop walking her. Or treating her. Or looking into those big brown eyes while stroking her big white ears.

I can’t imagine life without Phoebe.

Poop bags and all.

Small cream-colored Corgi-Chihuahua mix sitting attentively on a sunflower-themed kitchen mat beside white cabinets, looking up at the camera with wide dark eyes and oversized upright ears. A plush bee-striped gnome decoration rests at her paws while she waits hopefully in the kitchen. — *A nose for buried treasure and ears for ignoring Mom.*

Menopause & Mischief · Red Flags & Walking Punchlines

The Fish Heard ’Round the Dating App

May 17, 2026May 17, 2026 Heather KightLeave a comment

Ladies.

We need to discuss the fish.

At this point, I have accepted that if I remain on dating apps long enough, I may eventually qualify for a freshwater fishing license. I have now seen more bass, crappie, trout, and bluegill than the average employee at Bass Pro Shops.

I joined another dating app hoping to meet a nice emotionally available man somewhere within a reasonable driving distance of Georgia.

Instead, I am wading through an aquatic documentary narrated by middle-aged men in reflective sunglasses.

And before anyone gets defensive:
I grew up around country boys. I know men fish. I’m not anti-fishing. I’m not even anti-photo-with-a-fish.

I am, however, confused by the ratio.

There’s something fishy about this selfie.

Sir.

If your fish occupies 83% of the selfie while your own face peeks out from behind it like a confused witness, I no longer know who I’m supposed to be dating.

You?
Or Trevor the Trout?

Because currently Trevor has more personality.

One man’s fish was so close to the camera that I instinctively leaned backward while looking at my phone. Another held his catch with the reverence of a newborn baby while staring into the lens like he’d just won custody.

And the sunglasses.

Always the sunglasses. 😎

Apparently, there’s a national shortage of profile pictures featuring:

eye contact 👀
emotional warmth 🤗
or shirts. 👕

Meanwhile, I’m over here trying to determine:

Does he communicate well?
Does he have emotional intelligence?
Can he discuss feelings without requiring medical intervention?
Would he survive a conversation longer than “Fish bite good today”?
Is he a good catch or is he just full of crappie?

Instead, I’m getting:
“countryboy565513483”
holding a walleye like it personally pays his mortgage.

And look, I understand hobbies are important. Truly. If you enjoy fishing, great. Go forth with worms and dreams.

But perhaps — just perhaps — your dating profile should include at least one photo where the woman can identify you without needing assistance from the Department of Fish & Wildlife. You’re not luring in anyone. We’re not falling for your line.

At this point, I’m beginning to suspect dating apps are a form of catch and release for divorced men with pontoon boats all named Jenny.

source: screenrant.com

I swear they travel in schools.

You block one Fish Man and three more appear holding bass at slightly different angles.

One profile after another:

fish 🐟
fish 🐟
fish 🐟
suspicious pilot 🥷🏻👨🏻‍✈️
fish 🐟
shirtless man named DaveAllNight69 😳
fish again 🐟

Let’s be reel for a moment. If I wanted pictures of Aqua Man, I’d sign up for jasonmomoa.com. 🧜🏻‍♂️😏

And yet, somewhere buried beneath the seaweed and mirrored Oakleys, there probably is a genuinely kind man who just likes to fish on weekends and has no idea the rest of his gender has turned “holding aquatic life” into a mating ritual. A guy who will spare the rod and spoil the woman.

To that man:
I see you.

Please step forward without the trout.

Until then, I’ll just keep swimming.

Carpe diem.

Sincerely,
A woman developing Fish Ick one bass selfie at a time. 🐟

The Front Porch Swing · The Soft Side of Sass

When “Why?” Doesn’t Matter

March 21, 2026May 17, 2026 Heather KightLeave a comment

The Grief No One Warns You About

They tell you about grief.
They tell you about missing them.
About the quiet house.
About the first holidays, the anniversaries, the birthdays.
They tell you about tears.

What they don’t tell you is that your body remembers.
Not just their voice.
Not just their laugh.
Your body remembers what it felt like to be held.

And one day, maybe years later, you’ll be fine.
You’ll be functioning. Working. Laughing. Living your life.
And then something small will happen.

A moment of warmth. A memory. A conversation that feels easy.
And suddenly…
Your chest aches.
Your arms feel empty.
And you realize, with a clarity that almost knocks the wind out of you:

You don’t just miss him.
You miss being loved like that.
—
There’s a term for it, I’ve learned.
Attachment grief.
Touch starvation.

Clinical, tidy words for something that feels anything but.
Because there’s nothing clinical about waking up and wishing that someone would wrap his arms around you and say, “I’ve got you.”

There’s nothing tidy about your body remembering a place it used to rest… and not having anywhere for that feeling to go.
—
And here’s the part no one says out loud:
You can have a full life and still feel this ache.

You can have:
family who loves you
friends who show up
a life you’re grateful for
…and still miss the specific, irreplaceable intimacy of being chosen, held, known in that way.
Those things don’t compete.
They coexist.
—
Some days, it hits harder than others.

Some days it looks like tears.
Some days it looks like standing in your kitchen eating comfort food you haven’t made in years.
And some days… it looks like laughing, feeling warm for a moment — and then realizing that warmth has nowhere to land.
—
If you’ve felt this, I want you to hear me:
There is nothing wrong with you.

You are not broken.
You are not “stuck.”
You are not failing to move on.
Your body is remembering something real.
And real love doesn’t just disappear because time has passed.
—
I don’t have a neat ending for this.
No five steps to heal.
No “and then it got better.”
Some days it’s softer.
Some days it’s louder.
But I’m learning this:

A small tan Chihuahua sits on a couch beside a person wrapped in a soft, pastel blanket decorated with otters. A gray throw blanket is draped nearby, and a TV plays in the background, creating a cozy, quiet living room scene. — Sometimes you need a soft otter blanket … and a potato.

Feeling this ache doesn’t mean I’m losing.
It means I loved in a way that left a mark.
And maybe… just maybe…
that same part of me that feels this deeply
is also the part that could feel it again.

Even when hoping for that feels dangerous.
—
Until then…
Some days, we cry.
Some days, we cope with cookie dough ice cream.
And some days, we write about it
so someone else out there knows
they’re not the only one.

Dating After Dignity · The Front Porch Swing

Why Am I Single?

February 16, 2026 Heather Kight2 Comments

It sounds straightforward, doesn’t it? The answer should be simple. Perhaps you’re:

Relatively young
Fulfilling other needs
Actively looking but not finding
Actively finding what you’re NOT looking for
Divorced
Widowed
Not looking, finding, or interested

I’m sure the list goes on with as many answers as there are people in this big wide world. I could claim a few of those points as my own. Lately, though, the lonely mind has poked at my self-worth. And when self-worth feels the squeeze, here’s what bubbles up:

Too old
Unattractive
Too much
Too little
Only two options: settle or resign.

QUICK PAUSE

Okay, okay — apparently, WordPress AI felt my subject matter was too dire for a Monday afternoon. I sincerely hope y’all laugh at the following image as much as I did. What I requested was a middle-aged confused woman with thought bubbles surrounding her head with these questions: Am I too old? Is this all that’s available? Am I unattractive? Will I be alone forever?

THIS was the result. Now I question the “Intelligence” in “Artificial Intelligence” more than I question my romantic future.

AI-generated illustration of a puzzled middle-aged woman surrounded by thought bubbles filled with scrambled, unreadable text, humorously suggesting confusion. — AI: “is THY liattle alle?”
Me: Blink twice if you’re being held captive!

Possible conclusions:

Even AI thinks the dating apps make no sense.
I asked AI to capture my dating confusion. It had a stroke.
Apparently, my insecurities are written in Ancient Glitch.

Moving on!

What I was explaining before being so rudely interrupted 🤨 and comedically distracted 😏 is this:

loneliness amplifies doubt and disregards clarity

I’m not single because attachment grief drowns out logic.

I’m single because I refuse to trade peace for proximity.

Because when I say I want someone to “do life with,” I don’t mean:

Someone to occupy the other side of the bed.
Someone to say hello in the morning.
Someone to help with the dogs once in a while.

I mean:

Someone who notices.
Someone who shares the mental load.
Someone who doesn’t treat basic contribution like a favor.
Someone who sees me without my having to earn it.

That’s not fantasy.
That’s equity.

And here’s the hard, honest part:

Once you’ve lived asymmetry, you can’t unknow it.

I can’t go back to thinking,
“Well, this is just how it is.”

I know what it costs.
I know what it feels like to carry more.
I know what it feels like to not be thanked for the invisible.

So now my bar is different.

And that makes the in-between season lonelier.

That’s not weakness.
That’s growth.

It also means the ache isn’t just “I want someone.”
It’s “I want someone who meets me.”

And that’s rarer.

It’s not pathetic.
It’s selective.

And that’s going to feel isolating sometimes.

But it’s also why, if and when I partner again, it will not be asymmetrical.

Right now, though, I’m sitting in the clarity.

And clarity can be cold before it becomes empowering.

Pessimism often spikes right after clarity.
Because clarity removes illusions.

Hope risks disappointment.
Pessimism feels like armor.

And illusions are comforting.

Here’s the truth:

Sustainable love for a widow in her 50s is not impossible.
It is rarer.
It requires patience.
Discernment.
Time.
And crossing paths with someone who also did his work.

But even if sustainable love never shows up again,
I still want my life.

That’s not resignation.
That’s sovereignty.

I’m not hinging my existence on partnership.
I’m not saying, “Without it, what’s the point?”

I’m saying,

I want it. But I also want my life.

That’s strength — even if I don’t feel strong today.

Here’s the paradox:

The woman who wants better, who won’t settle for asymmetry, who would still live fully even if love didn’t return?

That’s exactly the woman who is capable of sustainable love.

Because she won’t tolerate imbalance.
She won’t shrink.
She won’t perform for crumbs.

So maybe today isn’t about deciding whether love exists.
Maybe it’s about this:

I will live fully.
And if mutual love crosses my path, it will meet a woman who knows exactly what she wants.

And if it doesn’t, my life is still mine.

Loneliness is weather.
It can be heavy.
It can feel permanent.
But it moves.

And something important happened today:

I clarified that I don’t want “someone.”
I want mutuality.

That changes the whole narrative from
“Will I be alone forever?”
to
“I’m not willing to be uneven again.”

That’s not pessimism. That’s standards recalibrating.

Tonight, I’m not pathetic.
I’m not delusional.

I’m a woman who:

Misses shared life.
Refuses asymmetry.
Still wants her own life either way.

That’s not tragic.

That’s strong and tender at the same time.

And if the thought shows up again later …
“I want someone to do life with,”
it won’t be an indictment.

It’ll just be a truth.

Truth doesn’t make you pathetic.
It makes you human.

Dating After Dignity · Menopause & Mischief · Red Flags & Walking Punchlines

Who Ordered the Word Salad?

January 9, 2026January 8, 2026 Heather KightLeave a comment

🚩 Brought to you by Red Flag Friday, where the specials are cheap and the apps are questionable.

When I was a kid, Mom sometimes fed us good old Campbell’s Alphabet Soup. The warmth, the comfort, the spelling lesson in the form of noodles. Good stuff – not simply because it was filling and tasted great when accompanied by a peanut butter sandwich. It was good because if we expected alphabet soup, we weren’t surprised to receive “word soup.”

However, when ordering from the dating app menu, there are times when the server brings me something I did not request. Part of the process is to send messages to people you want to know. Unfortunately, there are those who obviously didn’t read the not-so-fine print (a.k.a.: my profile) and want to order off-menu. Or perhaps, make enough changes to the dish that the chef throws her hands in the air and claims (in a very cheesy French accent), “I cannot work in such horrible conditions!”

Meet Derrick, a gentleman who swiped right on my profile last week. It was as if I ordered alphabet soup and instead, the waiter brought me a word salad. 🥗

*Please take a breath at some point in this sentence.*

Let’s translate this from Dating App Word Salad into plain English:

“I want someone I can trust and want to be trusted”
= I have no idea how trust is built, but I’d like it delivered immediately.
“Someone I can love and want to be loved”
= I have discovered the concept of mutual affection. Recently.
“I know where I’m at in life and I hope she do to.”
= Grammar has left the building, but expectations remain high.
“Time waits on noone”
= I will rush intimacy while claiming I’m not playing mind games.
“I want a natural woman without all the makeup.”
= I enjoy policing women’s appearances while offering zero commentary on my own.
“Who I go to sleep with is who I wake up with.”
= This sentence did not need to be here. At all. Ever.
“I’m not Denzel but I’m not Freddie Kruger either.”
= Sir. Those were not the only two options.
“Let’s keep it 100 and be 100.”
= I have reached the end of my motivational poster vocabulary.

Menopause & Malarkey official verdict:

This is not dangerous…
but it is exhausting.

It’s giving:

sincerity without self-awareness
pressure disguised as romance
and a faint whiff of “I will be confused when you have boundaries.”

Also, bonus Red Flag Friday note 🚩:
Any person that says “I’m not looking to play mind games” almost always plays emotional Jenga.

Dating After Dignity · Menopause & Mischief · The Front Porch Swing · The Soft Side of Sass

Discernment with a Side of Fatigue

January 3, 2026January 3, 2026 Heather Kight2 Comments

According to Match.com, January 4th is supposed to be their busiest day of the year.

I took the bait and decided to peruse. And peruse. And … sigh. You get the picture.

After receiving a “like” from a spot-on candidate for Red Flag Friday, I cranked up the computer, fully prepared to whip up the latest witty exposé. Then suddenly, I was tired.

Tired of scrolling.
Tired of swiping.
Tired of what feels like a big joke.
Just … tired.

There are times (like tonight) when I swear there are zero acceptable matches anywhere on the internet. Posts and profiles that deserve nothing more than an eye roll somehow pick and pull at my self-esteem. Guys who wear tank tops in bathroom selfies and definitely failed Grammar & Punctuation 101 send me messages and “likes.” But it’s not about those who are attracted to me.

It’s about those who aren’t.

In Metro-Atlanta, there are 6.09 million people. I have no clue how many of those people are online looking for a genuine connection leading to a serious relationship. Seems like the odds should be pretty good.

So why am I being directed to the equivalent of the $5 movie bin at Walmart?

My favorite movie is Sleepless in Seattle from 1993. Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan in their rom-com glory. One quote in particular — the one I’d like to believe — is this:

Image of Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks in Sleepless in Seattle, displaying a quote from the film. Source: www.magicalquote.com. — *Source:* *http://www.magicalquote.com*

However, given the virtual rocky road that continuously leads to exhibits for Red Flag Friday, I’m more prone to believe …

Cartoon of two middle-aged women at a café, one with coffee and one with wine, exchanging confused looks and shrugging as question marks appear above their heads. A phone and dessert sit on the table, suggesting a baffling conversation.

“It’s easier to be killed by a terrorist than it is to find a husband over the age of 40!”

That statistic is not true.

That’s right, it’s not true. It only feels true.

— Sleepless in Seattle

Ladies and gents, maybe you’re in the same boat where the rule of metaphorical fishing is catch and release.
Maybe you run headfirst into a wall decorated with red flags, scammers, and a whole lotta “bless his heart.”
And perhaps — like me — you quietly ask, “What’s wrong with me?”

Listen to me …
Close the app.
Take a deep breath.
Exhale slowly.

If you take away one thing from today’s post, let it be this:

There are zero acceptable matches online today.
Which is not the same thing as ever.

The truth is, the internet is crowded with auditions, not partners.
Many profiles read like they were assembled by raccoons with Wi-Fi.
And the cocktail of chemistry, emotional intelligence, self-awareness, and punctuation is… tragically small.
You’re not failing at dating.
You’re outgrowing the nonsense.

I, for one, refuse to settle for nonsense, just okay, or “well … maybe.”
Nor should you.

It’s beyond brave to open our hearts to love after loss.
That courage deserves to be met with honor and respect.
YOU deserve nothing less.

I’ll keep wading through the shallow end of the dating pool — rolling eyes, blessing hearts, and trying not to take those quirky algorithms too seriously or too personally. In spite of the occasional pity party, I am truly grateful that God says, “Not today, Satan” and keeps me from anyone unworthy of all the sass and sweetness that is unapologetically me.

The Front Porch Swing · The Soft Side of Sass

For the Love of Writing

December 31, 2025December 31, 2025 Heather KightLeave a comment

Looking back on 2025, the woman in the mirror isn’t the one who left 2024 behind. Not that there was anything wrong with her: on the contrary, she was a fighter, a survivor managing life one day at a time after loss.

Loss of her mother in 2018
Loss of her husband in 2023
Loss of her father in 2024

With each loss, she said farewell to another piece of her heart. But like many who have gone before, she had no choice but to keep moving forward. Keep working. Keep living. Keep … breathing. There were good days and not-so-good days, and she conquered them all. It wasn’t always pretty and definitely wasn’t easy, but she did it.

Enter 2025: a new year and new adventures. She took an Alaskan cruise for her 55th birthday. She walked more. She laughed more. And much to her delight, she reconnected with an old passion — writing.

It was quite by accident, but oh, the fire was still there, inside and waiting like embers that never quite burned out. A “what if” sparked a deeper processing of grief through storytelling and fantasy, giving permission to feel again.

Like a plot twist we didn’t see coming, she wrapped herself in words and wonder of her own creation. Her heart awoke and her soul burst forth, allowing confusion, pain, heartache, and longing to flow out of her fingertips like tears from her eyes. But not just the hurt! She found hope, confidence, and laughter — so much laughter. Love was waiting in the wings, a soft whisper of, “hey, I’m still here.” She permitted that whisper to be heard.
To explore.
To resonate.

She learned that the capacity to love doesn’t fly away when a spouse exhales in this world and takes his first breath in Heaven. No. When one has loved — has received loved — deeply, greatly, and completely, then she has much more to give.
And that’s not forgetting; it’s forgiving.
That’s not dishonoring; it’s discovering.
That’s not ignoring the past; it’s inviting the future.

As she penned (okay, typed) stories and scenarios, a root began to show its face: guilt in the form of self-doubt and self-deprecation. Our heroine kicked at that root, questioning its motives and exploring its existence. A tug here. A pull there. One final yank exposing the lie that many widows — that this widow — had accepted as gospel:
“It’s wrong to want love again.”

That, my friends, is hogwash.

Having loved like crazy creates a thing of beauty — the capacity to love even more.

Having been loved like crazy creates a spark that says, “I’m alive and I’m allowed.”

Who knew releasing the artist within would release the woman inside?

I, for one, am happy to meet her, take her hand, and boldly march into 2026 smiling, writing, living, and thriving.

Softly lit writer’s desk in front of a glowing fireplace, with warm amber and blue flames reflecting off glass stones. A blank notebook and pen rest on the wooden surface, creating a cozy, introspective atmosphere that suggests creativity, reflection, and emotional warmth. — My muse feels like home.

Happy New Year from Menopause & Malarkey! Let’s jump in together, shall we?

Menopause & Mischief · The Front Porch Swing · The Soft Side of Sass

Christmas Eve Chaos

December 25, 2025 Heather Kight2 Comments

Twas the night before Christmas, and with festive smiles,
We drove to the mountains – all 100 miles.
My gas tank was full. The dogs had been fed.
“Join us in Blue Ridge,” my daughter had said.

“We rented a cabin — twill be so much fun!”
Four dogs, three kids, and room for each one.
So, trunk packed with presents and GPS ready,
The dogs and I traveled along sure and steady.

We got to the cabin — what a delight!
Why not expect everything to be right?
My daughter looked frazzled searching her phone.
“We need the door code,” she let out a moan.

Her husband called VRBO begging for help.
The dogs were barking, and one let a yelp.
The children — all hungry — started to whine.
My bladder was screaming, “No, it’s not fine!”

Cartoon-style illustration of a woman locked out of a cabin on Christmas Eve, staring at her phone while her two small dogs, Phoebe and Maggie, stand beside her in the snow near luggage and wrapped gifts. — Christmas Eve plans: cabin in the mountains.
Reality: locked out, dogs judging me, 220 miles later… back home.
Still counts as an adventure, right? 🎄🤷🏼‍♀️

The afternoon sunshine started to fade
Into the dark, like the plans we had made.
After an hour that seemed more like two,
“Sadly, there is nothing more we can do.”

The grandkids were angry, and so was I.
My daughter, defeated, wanted to cry.
My son-in-law? Bless the heart of this spouse.
He laughed and said, “How about Waffle House?”

By this time the dogs had marked every tree.
No longer caring, I squatted to pee
Behind a trash can, safely out of view.
Security cameras? Just one or two.

We had to decide — it was getting late.
No decent options provided by fate.
We all hugged good-bye and got in our cars.
We drove back to Georgia beneath the stars.

One hundred miles, and then I was home,
Travel completed and nowhere to roam.
Christmas lasagna was not meant to be.
Instead, a sandwich — dogs staring at me.

Photo of two small dogs, Maggie and Phoebe, sitting close together and looking up attentively at their owner, their faces expectant and expressive. — *“Please, Mum, might we have some more?”*

Tucked in my bed, I was sleepy and warm,
With Maggie and Phoebe — back to our norm.
My eyelids grew heavy, but not my soul:
There are things in life I cannot control.

I fell asleep with no pain or sorrow.
Christmas morning will be here tomorrow:
Not in a cabin surrounded by trees,
I don’t need fancy; my heart is at ease.

We’ll gather together, the kids and me,
And open the presents under the tree.
We’ll eat Christmas turkey and drink eggnog,
And later enjoy that post-dinner fog.

Laughter will ring through the air like a bell.
Past Christmas stories will make my heart swell.
With love in my heart and kids in my arms,
Holiday magic will sprinkle its charms.

When the day’s over, I’ll slip into bed,
Dogs by my side, pillow under my head.
Stars in the sky will show up and twinkle.
I’m glad I can stay indoors to tinkle. 😁🙃🙈🎄🎁