Lately, I’ve been noticing my legs in a way I never really have before. Noticing them not in appreciation, but in awareness—because sometimes they feel heavy, stiff, or reluctant to move.
Most mornings, it takes extra effort just to get going. I wake up and my legs feel like they’ve forgotten how to function, how to step. Those first few minutes out of bed I shuffle around like a baby calf fresh out of the womb—awkward, shaky, unsteady. Eventually, the stiffness eases after some walking around, but it never disappears completely. It lingers, reminding me of something I’d rather forget.
I think back to August 2021, the month I was first diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. That flare-up announced itself loudly: it was nearly impossible to walk. I spent about a week struggling before I finally went to the emergency room, where I heard the words that changed everything.
But even before that, there were signs. Earlier in 2021, while in Chicago, I had another flare-up. I could barely walk. I just wanted to sit down wherever I was. My legs dragged under me like they didn’t belong to me anymore. To anyone watching, I probably looked like a drunk person weaving down the street, but really I was fighting my own body with every step.
Sometimes, moving my legs feels like an act of sheer willpower. Each step is a reminder that I can still move, even if it takes more energy than it should. And I can’t help but wonder—am I simply getting older, or am I slowly losing my mobility?
Every case of MS is different. I know this. I’ve been told this. But knowing doesn’t stop me from comparing myself to my sister, who also lives with MS. Her journey has been unimaginably hard, and when I see her struggle, I can’t help but feel fear tighten its grip on me. I am terrified that one day, I too won’t be able to walk and that terrifies me.
I don’t have answers. I don’t have solutions. What I do have is this moment, these words, and these legs that still, somehow, carry me forward. And for now—that has to be enough.
DDC
Question: What’s something in your life right now that requires more effort than it used to?
Lesson: These legs were made for walking. And that’s what they will do. Keep moving forward.
Lately, I’ve been wrestling with a strange feeling. I feel like I left my sparkle in DFW. Back then, I shined bright—bold, vibrant, effervescent. I was the type of person who lit up rooms, who carried a certain energy, a certain extra that made me feel alive.
Now? I feel beige. Neutral. Faded. Completely… blah.
It makes me wonder: is this what growing up is supposed to feel like? Trading in sparkle for steadiness, vibrancy for responsibility, joy for a “just get through the day” kind of existence? If it is—then I don’t want to grow up.
Moving, transitioning, and starting over later in life are not small things. Sometimes the sparkle isn’t lost—it’s buried under the weight of change. We juggle work, family, bills, routines, expectations. And slowly, the parts of us that once danced so freely get quiet. They’re still there, just muted.
But here’s the thing I’m starting to realize: sparkle doesn’t expire. It doesn’t vanish when you turn 30, 40, or even 70. It doesn’t disappear when you relocate or reinvent yourself. Sparkle is a state of being, a choice, a return to what lights you up.
Maybe the question isn’t, “Did I lose my sparkle?” Maybe it’s, “Where can I find it again?”
Finding My Sparkle Again
For me, sparkle looks like:
Being around people who energize me, not drain me.
Doing things that bring me joy simply because they make me smile.
Saying yes to experiences that scare me a little but also make me feel alive.
Dressing up just because, blasting music in the car, laughing loudly at all times.
In other words—sparkle is about choosing vibrancy in a world that often feels dull.
A Note to Myself (and Maybe to You Too)
Growing up doesn’t have to mean giving up my sparkle. Adulthood doesn’t have to equal beige. Yes, life changes. Yes, I carry more responsibilities. But that doesn’t mean I can’t sparkle again. Maybe the grown-up version of sparkle just looks different: less about wild nights out, more about being fully alive in the little things.
And if I’m really honest, maybe the fact that I even miss my sparkle is proof that it’s still in me somewhere—waiting for me to bring it back to life.
Here’s to sequins in the everyday, laughter in the ordinary, and sparkle— always sparkle— no matter the season.
DDC
Question: Have you ever felt beige? Is “beige” a phase we all go through, or a warning sign that I need to recalibrate? And maybe most importantly—what’s your go-to move when you feel beige? What do you do as your personal “anti-beige” to bring the sparkle back?
Lesson: Growing up doesn’t have to mean dimming down. Adulthood doesn’t have to equal beige. It’s possible to carry responsibility and still keep joy, spontaneity, and vibrancy alive.
The only man you can prove I’ve been with once called me haphazard.
At the time, I wasn’t clear on the definition, but the word stuck with me. Haphazard. Neither “hap” nor “hazard” sounded like he meant it kindly. The moment has clung to me for over 20 years.
We were at a gas station exchanging something—I can’t remember the reason why. The why has faded. The what, however—what he said—stuck.
Haphazard means something done in a random, disorganized, or careless way—lacking a definite plan, order, or direction.
And the truth is, twenty-year-old DDC was, in fact, haphazard. No plan. A little order. A vague direction.
Fast forward two decades.
While preparing for my son’s college graduation, I realized how many days I’d be away from the office and thought: Maybe I’ll dye my hair hot pink while I’m off. A bold vacation choice. I’d done it before—dyed it pink in January for our family cruise, then went back to “office-approved” before returning to work. I’m not loyal to any one hair color these days, but I absolutely love hot pink.
So I asked my son if he cared. He said, “I couldn’t care less.” Cool. He’s calm like that—unbothered by most things.
Then I mentioned it to my mom. “Hot pink hair is unprofessional,” she said. I explained I’d return to work with a natural color. I even recalled that during my job interview, I specifically asked my supervisor about hair color. He said he didn’t mind pink hair.
But as the trip approached, I stalled. I never bought the dye. The night before we left, I realized: I’m not doing it.
And that’s when it hit me.
Haphazard.
He called me that twenty years ago—when it was true. But even now, with a plan, permission, and pink hair history, I still didn’t follow through. Why?
Because some part of me didn’t want to hear his mouth, even if only in my memory. I didn’t want to imagine his face twisted in disapproval.
Why do I care? I wish I didn’t. I’m disappointed that I gave energy to a man from my past whose opinion should hold no power today. But here we are. It happened.
DDC
Lesson: Even when we grow, old voices can echo. The challenge is learning to turn the volume down—and let our own voices lead instead.
Question: What old label or comment still lingers in your mind—and how much of your present is it quietly influencing?
A year ago today, I loaded up a 15-foot U-Haul with my memories, my belongings, and a heart full of hope (and fear) and drove away from the life I had built in Dallas over nearly two decades.
I didn’t know what would meet me on the other side of that drive to Gonzales, Louisiana. I just knew it was time. Time to be closer to family. Time to listen to that quiet inner nudge that kept whispering, “It’s okay to begin again.”
Today, I find myself in my feelings. Raw. Reflective. Fragile. I’m struggling to concentrate on my HR duties, so I decided to pause and write. It’s been a while since I’ve posted—my last entry was on my birthday, November 23, 2024. I had just turned 43. A lot can happen in a year.
Since that post, life has unfolded in unexpected and beautiful ways.
I landed the job I once dreamed about—an HR Coordinator role that truly fits me. For years, I worked in recruiting and longed for something broader. I wanted to expand beyond interviews and resumes into a more holistic HR space, and I did it. My current role allows me to support employees more fully, contribute to engagement, and still flex my recruiting muscles—without it consuming my entire day. It feels like purpose and alignment found their way back to me.
Slowly but surely, I’m settling into life in Gonzales. I have a church home that pours into my spirit. I’ve joined a local Toastmasters club that’s helping me grow in courage and connection. I’m meeting new people. I’m rekindling old friendships. I’m rebuilding a life from the ground up—and letting it look different this time.
But even with all the progress, there are days like today—quiet, emotional, and a bit heavy. Days where I miss the familiar. Days where the cost of the move feels loud. Where the memories from Dallas tug on my heartstrings, reminding me of what was. Starting over is brave… and it’s also tender.
I’m learning that success and sadness can coexist. That growth often walks hand-in-hand with grief. That joy doesn’t erase the ache—it simply reminds us why we keep going.
So today, I’m giving myself grace. To feel it all. To celebrate the milestones. To mourn the losses. To rest in the middle of the journey.
If you’re reading this and you’ve started over recently—know that you’re not alone. It’s okay to feel everything. It’s okay to still be finding your footing. It’s okay to be proud and sad all at once.
This isn’t the end. It’s just the one-year mark. And I have a feeling year two will be even more powerful.
All Good Things, DDC
Lesson: Starting over is both brave and tender—and it’s okay to feel everything that comes with it.
Question: Have you ever made a big life change — like moving, changing careers, or starting over? What helped you get through the transition?
Six months ago, I packed up my life, loaded a U-Haul, and left behind nearly two decades in Texas to start fresh in Louisiana.
I had spent 19 years building a life, raising my son, and making memories away from home, but the pull to return was undeniable. After my Daddy passed, my Mama was left alone, feeling aged and heartbroken, and I found myself alone, without a career, and needing a new direction. So I made the choice to come back, ready to be there for my Mom and to start life anew.
The decision wasn’t easy—starting over in your 40s takes resilience, adaptability, and, to be honest, a good supply of lotion infused tissues for those tough days and deep, tearful moments. A lot of tears have been shed. I felt a pull to rediscover my roots, reconnect with family, and carve out a new path.
This journey has come with plenty of adjustments and a fair share of unknowns. From adapting to life with my mom under one roof again, to building a new career, nurturing my faith, and even finding ways to invest in my own wellness, these last six months have challenged and changed me. Each step has been about more than just unpacking boxes; it’s been about uncovering pieces of myself that I hadn’t focused on in years. A new beginning.
Home. All boxes are unpacked, and my clothes and things are put away—everything has a place, and there’s a place for everything. After twenty years of living on my own since leaving my parents’ house with my one-year-old son, moving back has been an adjustment. A huge adjustment. I was a bit worried, knowing that in the past, Mom and I had a track record. We could only go about four days together before our personalities started to clash. How would it be to live under her roof, under her eye, and under her expectations?
Now, we seem to be adjusting pretty well—or at least, I think so. Wishful thinking. Every few weeks, I get the inevitable “we need to talk” conversation. This month’s topic? Replacing the wine I finished. Fair enough. So, after work, I’m off to the local grocery store to pick up two bottles of wine per her request.
Career. I now hold three jobs: bartender, barista, and Bursar’s Assistant. The first two are part-time weekend roles, while the Bursar’s Assistant is a full-time, four-month contract position with the college. Being in a state role here in Louisiana feels significant, and I can almost feel my dad smiling down, proud to see me in a government-related role like he once was. Miss you Daddy.
This summer, my good friend encouraged me to apply to a temp agency with hopes of finding work at Southern University, despite it being over 30 miles away. And about a month ago, I received a job offer much closer to home—a position at a local community college less than six miles from where I live. Blessed and highly favored. I’ve driven by the sign for the college countless times without truly noticing it, so discovering it in this way felt meant to be. Huge thanks to TT!
My second week at the college I expressed my interest in becoming a permanent team member and asked to meet with the Director of Human Resources. I came to the conversation prepared with points thoroughly outlining my qualifications for a posted Technology Coordinator role—and it was clear that the Director was just as ready to discuss the unposted HR Coordinator role with me. Smile. After a welcoming conversation, I applied for the HR Coordinator position where I’d be “the face of the human resources department.” The face? Wow! Right up my alley!!
Wellness. I’ve been doing pretty good with consistent daily walks, which have become a reliable part of my routine. I tried the Beachbody 21-Day Fix program, a plan that helped me lose 30 pounds in the past, but this time, I haven’t managed to complete it. I’m leaning towards a simpler approach—sticking with daily walks, strength training twice a week, and practicing portion control. My sweet tooth had been out of control, but I’m finally reining it in. Though my attempts to restart a more intense fitness regimen haven’t stuck, I’m grateful for the consistency I’ve found in simpler routines that keep me grounded and healthy.
Relationships. This is an area where I continue to struggle. I am intensely lonely. Tears. The last six months have been deeply lonely; when I arrived, I isolated myself, rarely reaching out to others. Depression weighed heavily, leaving me without much to say. Worried about being perceived as “the depressed girl,” I stayed in my own bubble, finding comfort in audiobooks. So far, I’ve listened to 50 books this year—more than I have read in my lifetime combined.
Now, I almost feel ready to reconnect, but I’m not quite sure how to step back into social circles. Do I need to schedule time with friends, like an appointment? Everyone has busy lives of their own. Maybe I will ask ChatGPT to create a structured approach to re-entering the world. Gotta love the ChatGPT! Mom and I are under the same roof but I still can’t quite say we are close. Tears. My son and I have set up a weekly call, and each week we find a good time to talk, catching each other up on our lives. I love me some Mason Riley:) That one connection has been a lifeline, and maybe it’s a good model for reconnecting with others.
Spiritual. In October, I took a meaningful step and became a member of a local Baptist church. This past Sunday, I signed up to serve in the Media Ministry, and I’ll attend my first meeting this Wednesday. I also began a prayer journal over the weekend. Since I’m new to prayer journaling, I’m using the ACTS Prayer Model—Adoration, Confession, Thanksgiving, Supplication—as a guide for my entries.
Personal. I started the Google Project Management Program two years ago. 24 months. Though it’s advertised as a six-month program, I have a former colleague who managed to complete it in just five weeks. I’m currently on course 5 out of 6. I finished the coursework once but didn’t pass the exam, so I’m going through the modules a second time, now taking detailed notes to ensure I fully understand the material.
Finances. I’m thrilled to say that I finally have a little cushion in the bank, and it feels amazing. My bartending job has allowed me to save cash money for the first time in my life. Last month, Mom and I went to get our toes done, and being able to pay for my own gel pedicure was a small but meaningful milestone in my financial progress.
Creativity. Becoming a YouTube content creator was one of my top goals for 2024, but so far, I’ve only managed to produce a handful of videos. I’m not entirely sure what’s holding me back—maybe it’s the fear of others judging my videos, a lack of clarity on how to navigate YouTube, or perhaps I don’t want it as much as I initially thought. I need to reflect on my motivations and determine the next steps to move forward.
On November 16, 2024 it will be officially six months back in Louisiana, and I’m finally beginning to feel grounded. Unpacking all my belongings was just the first step; now I’m learning to navigate life with family again and balancing new roles that push me forward professionally. I’ve embraced each challenge with patience and humor, including the occasional mother-daughter “we need to talk” chats. Every area of life has required intention, from joining a church community to stabilizing my finances and prioritizing health and creativity.
This season has reminded me that starting over is complex, sometimes messy, but it also brings growth and connection. Whether it’s learning to find joy in the simplest things, reconnecting with people, or laying the foundation for new habits, I’m realizing that “home” is more than a place. It’s a process of rediscovering who I am and creating a life that aligns with that. And while I’m not where I thought I’d be, I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
DDC
Lesson: In the words of Fantasia Barrino’s brother from her short lived time in reality tv, “It feels so good to be home, shorty!”
Question: What’s your go-to move for staying connected without looking like you’re desperately craving human interaction …even though you definitely are?
PS. I went to Alexander’s Market to my buy my mom’s wine. It costs $18.99!! She got money!!! Two bottles are not in my budget, so I bought one bottle. I will get bottle #2 next week and I will no longer drink her 5% ALC wine anymore.
I’ve been in Louisiana for 70 days now, and I’m just about settled into my space. I have one moving box left to unpack—shoes. It’s amazing how many shoes I have, considering I wear the same pink flip-flops on a regular basis.
I know to clean the guest bathroom every Friday and take the trash out on Tuesday evenings.
I’ve got a couple of churches on my radar and have selected a local Toastmasters club to join.
I know of two taco spots with great deals. Mi Padres has a Taco Tuesday special: three tacos and a margarita for $15.
I started working as a bartender at a daiquiri shop three miles away and had an interview with PJ’s Coffee today, which went well.
Mom and I have developed a good rhythm. I enjoy quality time with my mom and Mason. We saw Inside Out 2 together. Great movie. I’ve made a few connections with old friends.
I was introduced to a very nice cigar bar in town. Good vibes. Great music. Perhaps I enjoyed the venue more because of who I was with than because of the venue itself. Perhaps.
How long does it take to start over? I am starting over in my forties. I have the opportunity to choose my identity. I am trying to figure it out as I go.
It has been a little over a month in my new to me home. I am officially all moved into my new bedroom. I now inhabit the room that has been historically called my Mom’s “sewing room” my entire life. My parents moved to this home after I had been in Dallas for a few years. Until a month ago, I had not spent longer than two consecutive weeks in Louisiana in the last 19 years. Needless to say, I never felt at home in my parent’s house. I was a visitor.
There are four bedrooms in my parent’s house and I always chose to sleep on the couch. My parent’s occupied the owner’s suite. My Mom had her sewing room to create magic. My Daddy had his version of a man cave called “The Chamber” which he shared with Mason over the summers. The last bedroom was called the “Black” room because of the elaborate black bedding, black headboard my mom refurbished, and black ornate curtains on the windows. My sister has spent time living in this home. She slept in the “Black” room for several years. She had positive affirmations posted on the walls. It has always been my sister’s room in my mind. Therefore, I slept on the sofa (whether Nicole was here or not.)
Now, I am extremely grateful to say that I officially have my own room. My Mom has moved her sewing things to her bedroom. I’ve got my black and white decor with a pop of hot pink. White dresser, white nightstand and white bookshelf. Black queen headboard and black bedding. A black and white striped plant stand with pivotal books placed on top for decor. Becoming, A Belle in Brooklyn, and a NIV Journal the Word Bible. There’s a piece of me in every room of the house now and a few 27 gallon storage containers in the garage. There’s a black painted accent wall. Limousine Leather by Behr. Semi gloss. The cherry on top is the perfection that is Dandelion, my oversized mirror, exists perfectly as the first magnificent image you see when you enter my very own room. It all screams DDC!
I officially have a space to call my own.
DDC
Lesson: I am incredibly grateful for having a room to call my own. This experience has taught me the value of having a personal sanctuary, a place where I can relax, reflect, and recharge.
Question: What possession do you own that whenever you see it, then you immediately feel at home?
I’m feeling low. I haven’t had an income since March. I’m literally living off the grace of God and my Mom.
I’ve had a few interviews. The interview process is completely draining. I am drained. Mentally drained. Physically drained. In the interviews, I turn my personality all the way on. I am engaging. I take notes. I’m knowledgeable about the organization. I’ve made notes about the interviewer from their LinkedIn profiles. I show my interest in the role without the true desperation I actually feel. When I really just want to say, “pick me, choose me, hire me. Please, just give me a chance!”
I want to push through. I’m trying to push through. It’s a daily struggle. Trying to be hopeful. Trying not to drown in my tears. All the while I really just want to give up. I want to curl up in the bed. Comfy pajamas. Covers over my head. Schitts Creek playing in the laptop. Crumpled up used tear stained tissues all around.
A change of address is coming and I am experiencing a multitude of emotions. Excited. Sad. Nervous. Eager. Nostalgic. Regretful. Joyful. Curious. Grateful.
Excited. I moved to Texas two weeks after my college graduation in May 2005. I have visited throughout the years but never longer than 2 weeks. I am excited to experience the 2024 version of Louisiana. Excited to establish a life of intention. Excited for a chance for a new beginning. A life reset:)
Sad.
Nervous. Being in my parent’s home without my Daddy has saddened me every visit. Sometimes just for a moment. Sometimes for a few hours that include wailing tears. I am nervous about my ability to maintain a positive, happy, hopeful disposition. Nervous that my sparkle will dwindle in my new environment. Nervous that the grief stricken energy which permeates the walls of my parent’s home will transfer to me. Nervous that my pop of pink starburst energy will become beige.
Eager. Moving home is the ultimate reset. A metamorphosis. During metamorphosis, the caterpillar undergoes significant changes in its body structure and physiology, eventually emerging as a completely different creature with adaptations suited for its adult life. I am eager to undergo significant changes. Change in body structure. Change in environment. Change in mindset.
Nostalgic. A time was had in the DFW metroplex these last 19 years. I have been reflecting over the people and places that made an impact on who I am today. I spent many a Friday night happy hours at the Pappadeaux’s on Frankford then would let the night take us where it may. Hey Kelly*. I remember the night that a semi famous comedian gave me the dollars out of his pocket after I performed Mary J. Blidge’s ‘Not Gon Cry’ at Maxwell’s on a Tuesday. Karaoke was, is, and will forever be my love. Thankfully, I stumbled upon a Thursday night karaoke only 3 miles away.
Regretful. Are you familiar with the butterfly effect? A concept which suggests that small changes in initial conditions can lead to vastly different outcomes. New discoveries of productivity and attention strategies that I have been learning recently make me wonder who I could have been if I knew then what I know now. I am currently using a pomodoro technique to write this blog. It is a time management method designed to improve focus and productivity by breaking work into manageable chunks and incorporating regular breaks to maintain mental freshness. It involves breaking work into intervals, traditionally 25 minutes in length, separated by short breaks. I wonder who would I be if I knew the pomodoro technique in 2005. What could I have done with that one simple technique? We will never know and it does no good to ponder over the what ifs.
Joyful. I am moving home to live with my Mom. Last year my Mom suggested the idea of my moving home. I am still in shock that this move was her idea. I am joyful to have the opportunity to build a meaningful relationship with her at this stage of our lives. Joyful for the front row seat to her potential metamorphosis. EXTREMELY joyful for having a significant reduction in monthly living expenses.
Curious. What lies ahead? Will I shine bright like a diamond? Will I be a neutral beige? Will my Mom and I become buddies and have a made for television relationship? Hallmark not Tubi.
Grateful. I am grateful that my Mom has welcomed me into her home.
DDC
Lesson: A passenger called me Starburst as a nickname this week and I liked it.
DDCANDTHECITY 