With no other option, I had to adapt quickly to my circumstances.

I worked for my father during every holiday, summer, and weekend. I pulled my stepmother off the driveway when she passed out drunk and dragged her into the house.

I also cared for three younger boys, aged 9, 4, and 2—changing diapers, washing their clothes, packing George’s school lunch, and preparing meals.

Until now, I’ve rarely spoken about those years. The Vietnam War was a constant presence on television, fueling my lifelong disdain for war. At fourteen, I considered becoming a nun and joining a seminary, but the philosophy and theology felt overwhelming.

I was more drawn to action and introspection in a household filled with talkers.

I seldom spoke unless directly addressed.

Making friends was brutal; I was often seen as ‘weird’ for my desire to discuss profound human ideas and the state of the world.

It often felt like I was seeing the world in a way that set me apart.

I made others uneasy in a society where most people preferred the comfort of familiar conversations—ones that, in my view, lacked much substance.

Those who know me tend to like me well enough as long as I keep my more profound thoughts to myself.

As I neared fifteen, I began to speak my mind more openly. However, I realize now that much of what I said was a defense mechanism to mask my pain, often projecting it onto those around me. I pointed out others’ flaws in maintaining control and a false sense of power—not the most endearing trait.

As I write this, I find myself reflecting on who I am. I’m just ordinary, not extraordinary, even to those who know me.

Tomorrow marks the end of my seventy-first year on this Earth, and I’ll begin my seventy-second.

Like many others, I’m an overweight, gray-haired, short white woman. In a crowd, I wouldn’t stand out. In January, I retired from a 30-year career and now work from home and spend my days writing.

Life seems to be speeding up more than ever. Many people don’t realize that I possess a deep intuition and a heightened ability to sense the emotions around me. I can speak insightfully on a wide range of topics and hold firm convictions, yet I also respect and value the beliefs of others.

I’m passionate about animals, creation, empaths, God, intuition, humanity, our children’s future, religion, travel, and the reasons behind people’s beliefs.

When someone takes the time to engage in a deep conversation with me, it brings me to life.

My eyes light up, I smile, and the weariness fades away—I feel ageless in those moments. Although I’m not religious, I have a rich spiritual life. My relationship with religion, and even with God, has always been a mix of love and frustration. I’ve often reflected on my experiences and wondered why God sometimes seems distant.

For many years, I regularly attended church and even found solace in sitting in pews at churches around the world during my travels. Being in a church has always felt familiar and comforting.

I’ve been married three times, but never for love.

Two of those marriages took place in a church. I was searching for a way to heal my hurting heart. I realize now that much of my pain stemmed from relationships and hidden truths. I believed that getting married in a church would bring me healing, but it didn’t. Instead, I continued to navigate a world that felt perpetually gray, where nothing was ever black and white. Common sense didn’t come naturally to me in my younger years.

Even with the responsibilities of motherhood, I remained committed to pursuing my dreams and excelled in my career as an advocate and educational consultant. I also found great fulfillment in volunteering as a grief counselor at Hospice for four years, supporting those in their final moments.

Are you afraid of death?

I’ve never feared it, not even when I was twelve.