I have a confession to make. Years ago, when I was interviewing moms who were pursuing creative careers while raising kids, I was secretly writing my own story.
There I was, recorder in hand, asking these amazing women how they managed to squeeze meetings between soccer practices or design beautiful spaces while simultaneously managing homework. All the while, I was nodding along, thinking, “Yes, but HOW do you actually make it work?” Because I was right there in the trenches with them.
The Juggling Act Nobody Prepared Me For
Let’s be real — nobody hands you a manual for balancing creative ambitions with parenthood. There’s no So You Want to Be a Writer and a Mom guidebook (though seriously, someone should write that).
What I’ve learned along the way wasn’t from any parenting book or career seminar. It was from those 2 AM moments when I’d finally gotten the baby back to sleep and found myself with a choice: crawl back to bed or spend 30 precious minutes working on that article that had been swirling in my head all day.
Often, I chose the article. Not because I didn’t desperately need sleep (trust me, I did!), but because those stolen moments of creativity kept a vital part of myself alive and thriving.
The Surprising Superpowers of Mom-Creatives
When my older kids were small, I thought I had stay home with them and sacrifice my career aspirations to be a “good mom.” So I freelanced and only took on projects that were mom-friendly. When I became a single mom, I didn’t have a choice about working full time…and I realized that I didn’t have to make a choice between motherhood and career. I was happier doing what I loved, my kids were okay without me, and I was setting a great example for them by pursuing my ambitions.
Here’s what I found when I returned to the workforce that nobody tells you — motherhood actually gave me creative superpowers I never had before:
I became ruthlessly efficient. Pre-kids, I could spend an entire afternoon “getting in the zone” before writing a single word. Post-kids? I can write a compelling intro while the pasta water boils. When you only have 20-minute pockets scattered throughout your day, you learn to dive in without hesitation.
My BS detector got seriously upgraded. Kids have zero tolerance for pretense, and that honesty rubbed off on my work. I found myself cutting through fluff and getting to the heart of things much faster, both in my writing and in my approach to projects.
I stopped waiting for “perfect conditions.” If I had a dollar for every time I’ve written something meaningful while sitting in a parked car during dance class or waiting at the pediatrician’s office… well, I’d have enough for a very nice solo writing retreat!
The Truth Nobody Wants to Admit
Here’s something I wish someone had told me earlier: the supposed “choice” between being fully devoted to your kids OR fully committed to your creative work is a false one. It’s a story we’ve been sold that doesn’t reflect reality.
Some days, I’m a better mom because I’ve had that hour to write and fill my creative well. Other days, I’m a better writer because I’ve spent the afternoon playing pretend and seeing the world through my kids’ eyes.
The messy, beautiful truth is that these parts of my life don’t compete — they complete each other. Every story about resilience I write is deeper because I’ve witnessed my child fall and get back up a hundred times. Every creative solution I bring to a project is more innovative because motherhood has taught me to think outside every box imaginable.
So, to the mom hiding in the bathroom to jot down ideas on her phone, or scheduling calls during nap time, or editing photos after bedtime — I see you. We’re writing our stories together, one beautiful, chaotic day at a time. And these stories? They’re so much richer for containing all the parts of who we are.
A Beauty Journey in Hindsight: A Late-Bloomer’s Love Affair with Makeup & Skin Care
(Pictured-the author and her daughter.)
I’ve always been told I have beautiful skin, and I come by it honestly. My mother and grandmother had that same luminous quality—a family legacy written in our shared features. But I didn’t fully appreciate this inheritance until I watched my daughter’s face bloom with that unmistakable glow of youth, which coincided with the subtle moment I began noticing changes in my own reflection. Thus began my late-bloomer’s beauty journey.
For decades, my relationship with skincare was casual at best: a swift application of moisturizer before dashing out the door. Those persistent dark undereye circles that had shadowed me since childhood? I’d written them off as genetic fate after countless failed experiments with concealers that seemed to highlight rather than hide. My makeup routine was minimalist by any standard—a sweep of blush, a touch of mascara, and lip gloss. Easy-peasy, as I liked to say.
But if I’m being honest with myself (and isn’t that what good skincare is ultimately about—facing ourselves truthfully?), I wish I’d started taking better care of my skin and learning the artistry of makeup much earlier in life.
The Sun-Soaked Regret
Skincare became a priority not just because of the sun damage I’d accumulated from years of believing my olive complexion made me somehow immune to UV rays, but because I realized I could have taken meaningful preventative measures. Those fine lines appearing at the corners of my eyes weren’t just expressions of laughter—they were records of summer days spent unprotected, of a casual dismissal of what my grandmother had tried to tell me about wearing “your cream” every day. (She was a big Oil of Olay fan.)
The Makeup Misconception
As for makeup, I had built an entire belief system around the idea that anyone spending significant time on their appearance was simply “plastering over” their natural beauty. How limited my understanding was! I clearly didn’t comprehend how makeup, applied with skill and intention, could enhance rather than mask our features.
What surprised me most wasn’t learning the techniques—it was discovering how much I would enjoy the ritual itself. The careful application became a form of mindfulness, a daily practice that helped me appreciate my face and its natural contours, textures, and expressions. In the quiet moments of blending and brushing, I found unexpected joy.
The Late-Bloomer’s Learning Curve
So I started. At 38 years old. And I was completely overwhelmed.
For someone who had always gravitated toward the clearance section at Target, stepping into Ulta and Sephora was like a cultural shock. Imagine someone who grew up knowing nothing but the humble offerings of a local farmer’s market suddenly navigating the endless aisles of Costco. The abundance was paralyzing.
I had to determine my priorities. What did my skin truly need? How much time was I willing to dedicate to this new practice? The revelation that different products served different purposes for night and day routines was just the beginning of my education.
In my novice enthusiasm, I purchased an entire product line for both night and day from a single brand, operating under the misguided assumption that mixing brands was somehow forbidden—as though skincare products from different companies might wage chemical warfare on my face while I slept.
Finding My Way Through Trial and Error
When it came to makeup, I was utterly lost, but I knew my dark circles were priority number one. I started asking questions that now seem so foundational:
How do I apply concealer without it settling into fine lines?
What does it mean to “blend” properly?
Is primer actually necessary, or just an industry ploy to sell more products?
What magic do these “brighteners” promise to perform?
My first makeup shopping expedition at 38 remains etched in my memory. I’d arranged to meet a couple of friends at Sephora for moral support—experienced guides to navigate this bewildering new territory. They found me testing lipsticks, confidently swiping on shades I thought might work. My best friend’s expression shifted from delight at seeing me to visible alarm when she spotted the garish color I’d chosen. “Wow,” she said, eyes widening, “we found you just in time.” We laughed so hard, but her gentle intervention saved me from a purchase that would have sat unused in my makeup drawer for years. That day taught me the value of trusted friends who won’t let you walk out wearing a lipstick shade best described as “nuclear coral.”
I learn by doing, through tactile experience and observation. Through countless YouTube tutorials, patient beauty counter consultations, and yes, some regrettable purchases, I’ve developed a pretty solid routine now. I sometimes wonder how different my approach to beauty might have been had I possessed this knowledge in my twenties—but then again, perhaps I thought I didn’t need it back then. And there’s something wonderfully confident about that younger self too.
A Ritual of Self-Love
Today, I’m fully invested. The morning routine with its gentle cleansers and vitamin-infused serums. The evening ritual of removing the day with balms that melt away not just makeup but stress. The makeup application that has become so second-nature I can complete it without fully waking, with good lighting of course.
I see these practices not as reflections of vanity, but as intentional acts of self-love—tangible proof that I consider myself worthy of care and attention. In a world that often asks women to minimize their needs, there’s something quietly revolutionary about declaring: this face, this skin, this self—deserves this time.
As I help my daughter navigate her own relationship with beauty and self-care, I hope to pass along not just the genetic blessing of “good skin,” but the wisdom that caring for yourself is never frivolous. It’s a conversation between generations, written in small, daily gestures of attention and care.
Fashion Victim: My Lifelong Love Affair with Clothes (And Their Revenge)
I have always loved fashion with an intensity that borders on the ridiculous. I love how one piece of clothing, an accessory, a new lipstick, can transform not just an entire outfit but my whole outlook on the day. The perfect ensemble gives me confidence that radiates from within; but if my outfit is off, it feels like the universe itself has tilted slightly off its axis.
This dangerous love affair—and I do mean dangerous—started at a very young age.
The Dress That Wouldn’t Fit (But Would Be Worn Anyway)
I can remember being 5 years old, laying out my adored pink dress the night before a special day. This wasn’t just any dress—it had a delicate peter pan collar that made me feel like a proper young lady, and a tea-length skirt with silky accordion pleats that swished magnificently when I twirled. The tiny white polka dots scattered across the fabric looked like stars in a pink sky. In my five-year-old estimation, it was the height of sophistication.
When my mother passed by my room and saw the dress laid out with such reverence, she warned me: the dress didn’t fit me anymore. I refused to accept this fashion blasphemy. The next morning, I engaged in what would become the first of many battles with an uncooperative garment.
I squeezed, I wriggled, I contorted my little body in ways that would impress a yoga master. When I finally managed to get it on, I could barely breathe—but victory was mine. I proudly paraded to my mother, chest puffed out (as much as the fabric would allow), only to have her dissolve into laughter. The buttons in the back, she pointed out, were a full six inches apart, exposing the skin of my back like a racing stripe down the middle.
I wore it anyway. Fashion demands sacrifice.
Pictured: The author (wearing the dress when it actually fit), and her brother.
The Debbie Gibson Incident (a DIY Disaster)
The 80s and 90s were a glorious time to develop a fashion obsession. My style icons weren’t curated Instagram influencers but pop stars whose images I devoured in magazines like Tiger Beat. When I was 10, I spotted Debbie Gibson in a black miniskirt, crisp white button-down, and black pork pie hat—the epitome of cool. I had to have this look, despite having none of the required elements.
Undeterred by such trivial obstacles, I embarked on my first DIY fashion project. I raided my brother’s dresser and discovered a pair of black pajama pants. After careful assessment, I determined that if I wiggled enough, I could fit my entire torso into one of the pant legs. Perfect raw material! With the decisiveness of a fashion surgeon, I snipped off the unneeded limb and a length of fabric from the bottom.
The result, of course, was a gaping hole where my hip should have been covered. No matter! I tucked what was left of the severed leg into the hole and declared it fashion-forward. I completed the ensemble with one of my stepdad’s white office shirts (so oversized it was practically a dress itself) and a dusty old fedora excavated from our coat closet.
Voilà! My parents were conveniently out of town, so no adult was present to prevent me from leaving the house with half my thigh and ass exposed. From the front, I was convinced I was Debbie Gibson’s doppelgänger.
Reality struck when I arrived at school. What had seemed like a minor structural issue at home became increasingly problematic as the day progressed. My teacher’s curious glances evolved from confusion to concern, while my friends abandoned all pretense of politeness and openly mocked my creation. The “skirt” rotated throughout the day, creating a window to different parts of my anatomy at random intervals.
But true fashion devotees aren’t easily discouraged by public humiliation.
Debbie Gibson, 1980’s Fashion Icon
The Peg Pants Incident (Wherein Fashion Claims Its Revenge)
A year or so after the indecent exposure incident, peg pants became the rage among the fashionable set. For those who missed this particular trend (you lucky souls), allow me to explain: The denim industry was still experiencing an identity crisis in the aftermath of bell bottoms and disco. In small-town America, you couldn’t simply buy any style of jeans you wanted—you took what local stores offered and modified them to match whatever you’d seen on MTV.
We wanted our jeans to hug our calves and ankles with python-like constriction, emulating our favorite celebrities. Regular tapered jeans? Insufficient. We needed our thighs normal but the bottom half of our legs to resemble toothpicks. The solution was “pegging” our pants: folding the bottoms over vertically first and then horizontally, rolling them as tight as humanly possible until we achieved the desired silhouette. And when I say tight, I mean circulation-threatening tight.
Peg Pants & Keds: A Classic
In fifth grade gym class, we faced the dual torment of changing clothes before class and showering after—a special kind of hell for pubescent girls. One fateful day (a Tuesday, as I would later have cause to remember), I found myself struggling with my meticulously pegged pants. I’d rolled them so tightly that they had become leg shackles, refusing to slip over my ankles. Somehow, I’d managed to get them completely inside out with my feet still trapped inside.
Sitting on the locker room bench, I enlisted a friend’s help. She gripped the denim and yanked with the force of someone trying to start an ancient lawnmower. The physics worked perfectly—except instead of the pants coming off, my entire body was pulled forward. My butt disconnected from the bench, and I landed with a spectacular thud on the cold, hard tile floor, the impact knocking the wind from my lungs. I lay there, momentarily paralyzed, my inside-out pants extending from my legs like denim tentacles and my ass, once again, on display for my classmates.
Someone fetched the gym teacher, who summoned the principal. The male principal. I gazed up at him from my supine position, realizing that this moment was equally mortifying for both of us—him seeing me with my pants around my ankles, my days-of-the-week underwear announcing it was “Tuesday” to anyone unfortunate enough to be present.
My mother eventually arrived, and between her and the principal, they managed to restore my pants to their proper position. They carried me to my mother’s Grand Am (would later become my first car), where the principal laid me gingerly across the backseat. My mother, convinced I was being dramatic, drove with her usual abandon, sending me rolling onto the floor during the short journey home.
Her skepticism evaporated a few days later when a spectacular purple bruise bloomed across my tailbone. The doctor’s diagnosis: a bruised coccyx, with peg pants listed as the official culprit.
Pictured: The author at the height of 5th grade fashion.
The Price of Passion
Three decades later, I still bear the scars—both physical and psychological—of my fashion devotion. Yet my enthusiasm remains undimmed. I’ve graduated from DIY disasters to a more sophisticated appreciation of design, texture, and style. My closet is carefully curated, my fashion risks calculated rather than calamitous.
As a writer who loves to cover fashion and beauty, these early misadventures gave me something invaluable: perspective. I understand the transformative power of clothing, how the right outfit can make you feel invincible, and how the wrong one can quite literally bring you down.
I’ve learned that fashion should be fun but perhaps not taken too seriously. After all, no trend is worth a bruised tailbone.
But I still occasionally catch myself eyeing a too-small dress or impossibly high heels with longing, thinking, “I could make that work.”
Because fashion may be dangerous, folks—but some loves are worth the risk.
