Amy K. Gaskin
I serve as a community connector and advocate for adults 55+ who refuse to let aging be something that happens to them — and instead choose to navigate it with clarity, dignity, and strength.
Through Ask Amy About Aging, community initiatives, and strategic media partnerships, I connect families, professionals, and local businesses in ways that strengthen trust, visibility, and long-term community impact.
I became Aging Maven Aficionado in 2019 — not because I wanted a title, but because I felt a calling.
Aging isn’t something to fear. It’s something to navigate — honestly, boldly, and together.
“Why Aging Maven Aficionado?”
Aging isn’t something that just happens to us.
It’s something we walk through — sometimes confidently, sometimes cautiously — but always with questions.
In 2019, I stepped fully into the title Aging Maven Aficionado — not because I wanted a label, but because I recognized a calling.
Seniors needed advocacy.
Families needed clarity.
Communities needed someone willing to stand in that gap.
And businesses committed to serving adults 55+ needed strategy built on trust and long-term impact.
That’s where I step in.
Through Ask Amy About Aging, community initiatives, and strategic media partnerships, I’ve worked to bridge those gaps.
I’ve helped families ask better questions — and find real answers.
I’ve helped seniors connect to trusted resources.
I’ve helped local businesses serve the 55+ community with clarity and heart.
I’ve helped communities grow stronger through meaningful connection.
Because aging well isn’t accidental.
It’s intentional.
It’s built through conversations.
Through courage.
Through clarity.
It’s built when someone is willing to stand in the gap — and walk through it with you.
That’s the work I’ve committed to.
“My Journey”
I have never believed we walk through life alone.
There are people who step onto the train of our lives and change its direction forever.
From the beginning, I was surrounded by people who shaped me — quietly, powerfully, permanently.
My parents were my first foundation.
My dad believed in doing your best at everything you tried. If I didn’t understand something, he didn’t rush me — he explained it again. And again. Until I got it. We played endless card games and board games, and every year I proudly joined the annual “Father, Son & Amy” fishing trips. He never let the fact that he didn’t have a son stop either of us.
My mom gave me presence. She stayed home with me until high school, drove Jackie, Jill, and me everywhere, and taught us discipline with creativity.
But more than that, she made life celebratory.
Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, the Kentucky Derby, birthdays — she knew how to turn ordinary days into memories. She taught me that celebrations aren’t about extravagance; they’re about intention. About making people feel seen.
I am incredibly proud of the business she built. The sports memorabilia store she owns is more than a shop — it’s her legacy of grit and entrepreneurship. Even though I’m not the biggest sports fan, I grew up cheering for the New England Patriots, Celtics, Red Sox, and Bruins. Those teams will always have a place in my heart.
New England fans are proud. Loyal. Steady.
Win or lose, they show up.
I learned that, too.
My grandparents deepened that foundation.
My Grampa built most of the road in Lynnfield. Including his street Edgemere Ave. His house was at the very end, with my Nana. Next door was Auntie Barb’s house with Brian, Todd, and Uncle Kevin. For a while, next door to her house, we had a house.
My Grampa died when I was just four years old. But he left me full of love. I still remember waking in the night, somehow knowing he was gone before anyone told me. That sense of connection has stayed with me ever since.
My Grampie was the next to go. He encouraged me to compete — and to finish. During an eighth-grade cross-country race, a bee stung me and I wanted to quit. He was standing at exactly the right place yelling, “Go. You’ve got this.” I ran faster. I finished. I still hear that voice when things get hard.
Nana taught me that family is everything. When dementia began to take pieces of her memory, I drove down from college with photographs and stories. She always remembered me. Those visits quietly prepared me for the work I would one day do in senior living — understanding that dignity and familiarity matter more than anything.
Grammie showed me strength. She took me to Paris. She let me drive her car. She powered through pain in her later years with grace and grit. I inherited my resilience from her — the instinct to say what needs to be said and to show up for people even when it’s hard. Wednesdays were sacred — summer lunches with her and Uncle Henry that felt like time stood still.
And then there was Aunt Alice.
She was independent, strong, and owned her own store. One fall changed everything. She was alone in her home for days before anyone found her. She never returned to live there again.
Her story never left me.
It’s one of the reasons I became fascinated with technology and systems that help seniors age safely in place. If tools had existed then the way they do now, her story may have unfolded differently.
GREAT UNCLES: CONTENTMENT & AMBITION
In Cape Canaveral, I spent time with Great Uncle Walter and Great Aunt Eleanor — Moose Lodge dinners, Bingo nights, rock shrimp splurges.
He taught me: Wealth is presence.
In Jupiter, Great Uncle Joe and Great Aunt Grace showed me something different.
Joe came from nothing. Built success. Became wealthy through relentless work.
He taught me: Effort changes trajectory.
Two brothers.
Two models.
Family means Traditions
Whether it’s sleep overs, time together on the lake during the summer, holidays, and celebrations. Family means traditions, togetherness, and so much more.
Summer at the lake was wonderful, but going the Saturday after Thanksgiving to Great Uncle Bill’s and Great Aunt Jane’s cabin has some of the most special memories.
The Saturday after Thanksgiving was sacred. We gathered, ate a huge feast, put on performances, and then went out together to cut down our Christmas trees. Cathy, Brian, Todd, Andrea, Jennifer — all of us bundled up and laughing. It was tradition. It was rhythm. It was home.
My cousin Chip always made me feel safe growing up. I knew if anything ever happened, I could go to him.
Brian is still that steady presence. We spent our 21st New Year’s together in Portland, Maine — the night I learned alcohol wasn’t really my thing. Some lessons are simple. Some are lasting.
Family wasn’t just something we talked about.
It was something we lived.
Lynnfield
We built a house next door to my Auntie Barb, who was next door to Nana and Grampa. The kids in the neighborhood played together and got together for the annual Lynnfield Fourth of July Parade.
Every summer, we loaded up for the annual Fourth of July parade in Lynnfield.
Red, white, and blue everywhere. Folding chairs along the curb. Kids weaving between neighbors who had known one another for decades.
My favorite year was when the theme was Cartoons, and cousin Brian and I went as Bam Bam and Pebbles. I was in it to win it! Brian, kept dragging his bat, though, everytime the judges looked away, I’d elbow him. But we won that year! My Grammie made our matching caveman costumes and I even had a bone in my hair.
Costumes slightly crooked. Hair sprayed into submission. Smiling like the world was exactly as it should be.
The parade wasn’t about spectacle. It was about repetition. Ritual. Showing up in the same place year after year with the same families.
It was small-town America at its best — where you waved at people by name, where someone’s uncle was directing traffic, and where community didn’t need branding because it already existed.
Tradition. Belonging. Continuity.
And even then, I was learning something I would carry for decades:
Community is built in ordinary moments repeated faithfully.
The Blizzard of ’78
Before Hampton. Before Windmill Lane. Before sarcasm. Before structure.
There was the Blizzard of 1978.
Massive snowbanks. Silence. The kind of stillness that feels sacred.
My dad built me an igloo in a snowbank so large he could stand upright inside it — and he’s over six feet tall.
I didn’t know it then, but I learned something in that snow cave:
When the storm hits, you build something inside it.
That metaphor would follow me for my entire life.
Learning life’s lessons
While living in Maine, I started learning some of life’s lessons.
There was a path through the woods that led to a little shopping plaza. One of the stores was a hardware store, and for some reason, I was drawn to it. I followed the path and liked to walk around the store. Apparently, I was particularly attracted to colors, so the paint aisle was my favorite.
Free paint sample cards. Hundreds of colors. Endless possibility.
So every day, I’d take one. Or two.
Until I had collected over a hundred.
The owner followed me home.
I had to return every single one — to the correct slot.
Lesson learned: Just because something is free doesn’t mean it’s yours.
Integrity. Before age seven.
Auntie Barb’s Girls’ Days
My Auntie Barb — my dad’s sister, my godmother — believed in intentional time with girls.
Up the road from where my Nana’s house and Auntie’s Barb’s house lived her best friend, Linda. Linda had a daughter my age, Tara. Since Auntie Barb had 2 boys, she would make time to do Girls’ Days Out. Sometimes for lunch, sometimes for dinner.
We saw plays in Boston. We dressed up. We went to elegant restaurants.
One night, before Peter Pan, I ordered Chicken Cordon-Bleu and Grasshopper pie and ate every bite like a polished young lady.
And then…
I filled all six pockets of my fancy coat with unwrapped buttermints.
Nearly fifty.
I had to apologize to the restaurant owner. And I wasn’t allowed candy at the play.
Apparently, the hardware store’s “free” paint samples lesson hadn’t kicked in and that lesson needed repetition.
But those days mattered.
And decades later, I would create Auntie-Neicey days with my niece, which turned into girls’ days out with my daughters, and sometimes their friends.
Everything circles back.
FAMILY FRIENDS: THE VILLAGE YEARS
In the ’70s and ’80s, it truly took a village to raise a child.
And my village was extraordinary.
While waiting for our house to be built, my parents met some of their closest friends: Gary and Vicky. Mike and Sheila. Ted and Jan. Cheryl. Charlie. Judy and Ray.
They weren’t just neighbors. They were extended family.
My mom had 100 people at my first birthday.
While the adults ate steamers, I was given my first lobster. It became my birthday tradition. And I loved it so much I ate lobster every day on my honeymoon.
Most of those same 100 people traveled to my wedding in 2000 in Northern Virginia.
That’s what loyalty looks like.
Kathy — my mom’s best friend since second grade — did my hair and makeup at my wedding. Every morning growing up, she and my mom speed-walked the beach faster than most joggers. Marlo and I once tried to keep up. We couldn’t.
Kathy and Ronnie hosted legendary pool parties. Gary and Vicky hosted Memorial Day, Fourth of July, and Labor Day gatherings.
My parents hosted the annual Fletcher Road Rally — a town-wide scavenger hunt. No spouses paired together. Mileage had to be exact. Speeding cost points. Time mattered.
Alcohol was involved. No one crashed. No one got arrested. And one stop was always the police station to find out who the Officer of the Day was.
Kids were included.
One year, Jackie, Jill, and I were assigned to the playground. Our job: take Polaroids of contestants riding park equipment.
One team tried to chase us down to steal the camera so other teams couldn’t get their shot.
But time saved us. The next team pulled in. They had to choose the clock over the competition.
That was my childhood.
Not private. Public. Watched. Guided. Loved.
What That Village Gave Me
I grew up surrounded by adults who:
• showed up
• created traditions
• modeled loyalty
• competed hard but played fair
• celebrated loudly
• disciplined creatively
• stayed for decades
They didn’t just attend milestones.
They built them.
They were at my first birthday. They were at my graduation. They were at my wedding.
They came to Northern Virginia because they always had.
And that kind of consistency changes a child.
It teaches you: People matter. Showing up matters. Community is not accidental — it is cultivated.
THEN CAME WINDMILL LANE
August 1979.
We moved to Windmill Lane in Hampton, New Hampshire.
That’s when I met Jackie and Jill — the twins who truly lived up the hill.
They were biking down. I was pulling out of the driveway.
Bam.
Jackie and I collided.
From 1979 through 1986, we were inseparable.
The older kids — Missy, Beth, Tracy, Gary, Aimè — watched out for us. Jackie, Jill, Brian and I were the middle. The littles followed behind.
We roamed yard to yard. Everyone’s parents watched everyone’s kids. That was how the ’70s and ’80s worked.
By twelve, I was babysitting the Windmill Lane gang. By fifteen, I was trusted with newborns.
That is trust. That is how we were raised.
In February of 1979, after knowing the twins and their family for five months, we all jumped in Ted’s station wagon. Ted, Joyce, and my Mom in the front. MIssy, Jackie, Jill, and I in the back.
Unfortunately, for Ted, my sarcasm began to flourish. Every toll booth we came to, he chose the wrong lane. And there I was saying “Wrong line, again, Ted” each and every time. I don’t know how he survived with the 6 of us.
One mischievous summer, Jackie, Jill and I were pushing limits. Our mothers — my mom and Joyce — packed our bags and told us we were going to an orphanage in Maine.
It was the quietest car ride of our lives.
An hour later? Aquaboggan Water Park.
Best day ever. Best behavior ever after.
Creative discipline. Wrapped in love.
The Station Wagon Edition
The following February, we were off to Florida again. This time with Dad, cousins Brian and Todd, my Mom, and me in Dad’s station wagon.
Sleeping bags in the back. Gas station snacks. Pine trees flashing past.
Brian got carsick somewhere in the Carolinas. The sleeping bag didn’t survive. Dad tossed it into the woods and kept driving.
On the way home, we had spent every last dollar.
In South Carolina, speeding tickets had to be paid on the spot.
Dad got pulled over.
Mom assessed the situation instantly.
She had Dad pull into an abandoned gas station, shut off the lights, and told us she had dropped quarters on the floor.
Three kids scrambled in the footwell searching for imaginary coins.
The patrol car passed.
Dad didn’t speed the rest of the trip.
Stay calm.
Think fast.
Protect your people.
Adjust behavior.
Florida wasn’t vacation.
It was training.
In Junior High, I was getting my feet steadied. My favorite subject, math often complicates things. Poor Mrs. Paquin tried to get me to understand, I’d stay after school she’d show me again. But at night, with my math book in hand, Dad showed me a different way, and it often made more sense. Wanting to share my wealth of knowledge, Mrs. Paquin often let me teach my Dad’s way to the class. That is how “I’ve got a better way” came to be. In sixth grade, I got one of my most treasured awards. The Most Improved Math Student award.
Dennis came into my life in Junior High, too. He had Cerebral Palsy and was in a wheelchair, but he never let that slow him down. Before he got his electric wheelchair, we were supposed to take turns pushing him around at recess. Many would leave him stranded in places, but I looked forward to my time with him and often volunteered when others didn’t want to. He taught me that it isn’t OK to talk baby talk or slower, or treat him differently, because he was in a wheelchair. This lesson I carried with me and never thought any less of anyone with different abilities. He graduated before our entire class, too! Years later, we’d go to a high school reunion together and dance the night away.
HIGH SCHOOL: THE SLOW SHIFT
From 1979 through 1986, Jackie, Jill, and I were inseparable.
High school didn’t explode our friendship.
As high school unfolded, Jackie and Jill became part of a different crowd. They found their rhythm, their popularity, their path. And I found mine.
Our hearts were still connected, but we were learning an early life lesson — sometimes people grow in different directions, and that doesn’t mean the love disappears.
It widened the map.
We drifted into different circles — not in fracture, just direction.
And into that widening space stepped Marlo.
Marlo was steady. Anchored. Loyal.
We did the British Exchange program together. Had first real boyfriends — who were best friends. Double dates. Long debriefs. Late-night drives in the Gram-mobile — the car Grammie trusted me with.
I always liked mixing my worlds.
I tried to set Marlo up with Cousin Brian.
Later, with Cousin Chip.
Chip tried to set me up with his friend Mike.
None of it stuck.
Apparently, much as I wanted to marry Marlo into my famiily. . .it wasn’t meant to be.
But she would stand beside me as maid of honor.
Some people don’t need paperwork to be family.
When Marlo moved to Georgia my senior year, something in me cracked quietly.
Winnacunet without her felt hollow.
I wasn’t rebellious.
I was grieving.
And grief looks like motion.
RANDOLPH-MACON: STRUCTURE AS SURVIVAL
So I ran toward structure.
Randolph-Macon Academy in Virginia.
Uniforms. Cadence. Formation. Expectation.
But it wasn’t sterile.
It was people.
Trinette — my first roommate.
Kelly — my second.
Dorm parents Mr. and Mrs. Fields.
Kristen — who took me home for Easter.
Candace — late-night talks.
Shawn — confidant during a rough season.
I served on yearbook.
Almost earned my pilot’s license.
Was runner-up for Homecoming Queen — not because I was flashy, but because I treated younger cadets with respect.
Leadership isn’t volume.
It’s integrity.
Then Disney.
Our drill team was invited to march at Walt Disney World.
Not visit.
March.
Backstage corridors. Hidden gates.
I broke ranks once to hug a character — then slipped back into formation before the gates opened.
Magic and discipline.
Side by side.
That was always me.
THE BUS
After spring break in Florida with Great Aunt Eleanor and Great Uncle Walter, I decided to take the Greyhound back alone.
It felt brave when I boarded.
It felt very different in Jacksonville.
I got off. Called Dad from a pay phone in tears.
He didn’t hesitate.
Bought a plane ticket.
Called a cab.
Made sure I was safe.
I wasn’t weak.
I was young.
And I learned:
It’s okay to ask for help.
You are never alone if your roots are strong.
Years later, when Grammie and I were stranded in Atlanta, I handled the hotel vouchers.
Symmetry matters.
Next came the big college decision
After high school, I thought I had my path mapped out.
I had dreamed of becoming an Air Force pilot and even prepared to attend Embry-Riddle. It sounded prestigious. Impressive. Like the right next step.
Before college began, I lived for a few months with my Great Auntie Eleanor and Great Uncle Walter in Cape Canaveral. That season gave me something unexpected — stillness.
I spent time with family. I saw my cousins more often. I got to be present with my baby cousin Tara — my goddaughter — who had already quietly shaped my compass more than she realized.
It was Tara who gently reminded me of something important. My whole life I had talked about going to Norwich University, like my dad. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t trendy. But it was mine.
Sometimes clarity doesn’t come from prestige.
It comes from remembering who you’ve always said you were going to be.
I applied to Norwich.
And I chose it.
Living with Auntie Eleanor and Uncle Walter taught me something else too — you don’t need excess to be rich. We played Bingo together, laughed easily, and I probably won more money playing Bingo beside her than I ever made working that season.
They lived simply. But they lived fully.
That lesson stayed with me.
Choosing Norwich wasn’t just about college. It was about legacy. It was about honoring my father’s path while stepping into my own.
It was about choosing substance over “sunshine”.
Choosing Norwich wasn’t just selecting a college.
It was choosing legacy — while making it my own.
I graduated with a BA in Early Childhood and a BS in Elementary Education. Teaching felt natural. I had always loved figuring things out — and helping others do the same. If I didn’t understand something, I wouldn’t give up until I did. That trait started long before college, but Norwich sharpened it.
Norwich also stretched me beyond academics.
It was there I fell in love with Tae Kwon Do. I earned my red belt — discipline, strength, perseverance. Years later, that discipline would show up again when my entire family joined me in New Hampshire.
It was also where Dungeons & Dragons found me.
I formed some incredible friendships there, that carried me through college and beyond. Steve, was the Dungeon Master, and my study buddy. I’d spend hours studying in his room, as he was drafting architecture projects.
Other close gaming friends included Tim, Crystal, and Adam. My gaming friends helped me discover strategy, imagination, storytelling, and community in an entirely different way. I became the Secratary of NUTS — Norwich University Tactical Society — and learned that leadership an live in unexpected places.
During college, I had incredible roommates including Kim, Kimiko, Ananda,and Crystal. Kimiko and I establed Wednesday roommate appreciation nights. Wednesdays were always special growing up. Lunches with Uncle Henry and Grammie and dinners out with my mom. Later, I’d take Wednesdays off work, since I worked Saturdays.
College wasn’t just classes.
It was about meeting people with different backgrounds, beliefs, and hobbies. This is where I met Tim and Paul. Two people who helped me see the world in a different light.
Tim was my first close black friend. Growing up in a small, New Hampshire town, that was new territory for me. I still had questions. Honest ones. And I learned a lot through our realtionship. In college, I had no idea just how much those questions would help me when I later was a nanny, a 3rd grade teacher in SE Washington, DC, and when I adopted two black children.
Paul was my first close gay friend. When he came out, he worried most about telling me — the Catholic girl. I hugged him and told him nothing changed. We still went line dancing. Still saw movies. Still laughed.
What I learned in those years is something I carry into every community I build:
People are people.
Beliefs may differ. Backgrounds may differ. Lifestyles may differ. But connection is built through presence, curiosity, and respect.
Listening. Learning. Respecting.
And it was realizing that sometimes the people who help you fit in are the ones who quietly shape who you become.
Norwich didn’t just educate me.
It expanded me.
I stayed an extra year at Norwich, earning a second degree — not just because I could, but because I wasn’t ready to leave. I loved the rhythm, the community, the belonging.
Graduated college. . .Stepping Into the Real World
After graduation, I stayed another year in Vermont, sharing my first apartment with Crystal and driving an hour each day to Colchester, where I served as Director of a daycare center. Leadership came quickly — responsibility, parents, staff, children trusting me to guide them.
Two degrees.
Tae Kwon Do tournaments across New England.
Dungeons & Dragons campaigns.
Snow sculptures on the quad.
Line dancing with Paul and Vicky.
Breakfast classes. Study sessions on Steve’s bed while he drafted architecture projects.
Wednesday roommate appreciation nights with Kimiko.
I stayed one extra year after graduation.
Crystal, Adam and I shared an apartment.
I commuted an hour north to Colchester to become Director of a daycare center.
Leadership.
Responsibility.
Snowy morning drives and tiny humans with big emotions.
Six years in Vermont shaped me.
But eventually, it was time to leave the comfort of Vermont and start building a life.
Off to Northern Virginia
Identity Expands
But the train was moving.
Northern Virginia was next.
I moved to McLean, Virginia and became a nanny for a little boy named Steven. He was bright, curious, and full of personality. Together, we explored Washington, D.C. — museums, monuments, fancy lunches. I was young and learning just as much as he was.
On Sundays after church, I would take the Metro across the city to visit my college friend Tim, who lived in Anacostia. The train ride alone was an education. I would board in McLean surrounded by professionals in tailored suits and polished briefcases. As the train moved east, the crowd shifted. By the time I stepped off in Anacostia, I was often the only white girl on the platform.
It was eye-opening. Not frightening — just eye-opening.
One afternoon at the movies, Tim came up behind me and covered my eyes playfully. I laughed instantly, knowing it was him. Others rushed over, assuming something was wrong.
It struck me how perception shapes reaction.
Steven once repeated something he had heard — that Black people were “not as good.” His parents were mortified. They weren’t racist. But children absorb what they hear.
That was the moment I intentionally made sure Tim spent more time with us. By the end of the summer, Steven and Tim were inseparable. Children learn what we model. That lesson stayed with me.
Preparing Steven’s birthday party for twenty of his friends was another turning point. I realized I loved creating experiences — not just teaching lessons. That instinct would show up again years later when planning unforgettable birthday parties for my own children.
Eventually, I knew I needed to use my degree. I interviewed at Naylor Road School in Southeast D.C. Many of the students had been removed from traditional public schools. I walked into that interview confident, saying, “Kids are kids — whether they’re from Vermont farmland or city streets.”
I was wrong.
The realities were different. The challenges were different. The context was different.
But what remained true was this: children still needed structure, belief, and consistency.
That year changed me. It stretched me. It prepared me for seasons I couldn’t yet imagine — including when my own daughter would face teenage pregnancy years later.
From Classroom to Timeshare
The Season of Being the Cool Kid
Then came timeshare sales.
And for nine months, I felt electric.
Stephen.
Frankerelli.
Christi.
We were inseparable.
Stephen was the center. The glue. The leader. Charismatic, driven, optimistic. The one who made it feel like we were building something bigger than sales quotas.
Frankerelli — ironically from Vermont towns where I had competed in Tae Kwon Do — but we met in sales, not competition. Charismatic. Sharp. Deeply embedded in Catholic circles later in life.
Christi — bold. Ambitious. Magnetic. Navigating professional ambition in ways I was still learning to do.
For nine months, I was the cool kid.
We pushed. We sold. We dreamed.
Then Stephen got cancer.
Everything shifted.
Sales floor energy turned into hospital visits.
We visited him.
I was chosen to care for his cat, Punkin.
Eventually, his parents took Punkin home.
The group fractured.
Stephen was the glue — and without him, the structure dissolved.
Years later, I would reconnect with him.
He had survived.
Five children.
Teaching at Florida Virtual School.
At one point, he even taught my daughter.
I missed seeing Punkin one more time by just a month.
Life doesn’t always give you perfect timing.
After Stephen left the timeshare world, I pivoted.
The barter years
After that season, I moved into the barter industry — my first real sales role at Barter Network.
That’s where something clicked.
I was connecting people. Writing newsletters. Helping business owners use barter dollars creatively — restaurants trading for vacations, plumbers remodeling bathrooms, weddings paid for almost entirely through barter.
I did 80% of my own wedding that way.
That was the first time I realized how much I loved bringing people together.
And that’s where I met Christine.
She mentored me. She taught me it was okay to be fully myself. She wouldn’t let me quit — not on a rafting trip, not in life.
She passed recently. But she remains part of my backbone.
Back to church roots + Barter to Yellow pages
Church was another anchor during those years. I became President of the Catholic Singles Group. My Vice President was Pam — older, wiser, and more life coach than peer. She saw something in me I hadn’t fully seen yet. She encouraged me to apply at Verizon. That decision changed everything. From phone sales to outside sales to internet sales training, I stepped into the world just as websites were becoming the future. I helped businesses get connected in a brand-new way. I even earned incentive trips — taking my mom to Cabo San Lucas. The girl who once sold barter dollars was now training others in emerging digital marketing.
And then there was charlie. . .
Engagement, Legacy, and a Wedding That Held Every Chapter
Using Pam’s Love at AOL account, I met Charlie. Here I was the President of the Catholic Singles Group, meeting a Jewish man, on a friend’s Love at AOL account. Life has a sense of humor.
He introduced himself as “Charlie,” not Charles or Chuck. We talked all night. Had a date the next day.
Met in June
Engaged by September.
He drove twelve hours to ask my father for my hand in marriage — after finally getting his driver’s license because I refused to marry a man who didn’t have one.
It took him a few days to have the courage. But the night before my parents, Charlie and I would go back to Vermont for Dad’s and my Norwich University reunion, he stood on my deck, a deck that hosted birthday’s, bridal showers, graduation parties, barbecues, and family gatherings, shaking like a leaf. But he did it, he asked my Dad permission to marry me.
My father’s response, only if you support and root on the Boston Celtics, Boston Bruins, New England Patriots, and Boston Red Sox. Charlie made the right choice. My Mom, who was wondering why I wasn’t out of the porch, but watching through the glass, I had to tell her what Charlie was up to. She finished setting the table and called them in. We sat around our dining room table, where we had endless holidays growing up, and there was my Mom asking my Dad, “Is there anything new?” she was so excited and couldn’t wait to hear what happened in the 15 minutes that Dad and Charlie were sitting on the deck.
We were engaged — and then we left for Vermont with my parents.
It was my college reunion and my dad’s 30th Norwich reunion.
I remember standing there in Vermont, ring on my finger, surrounded by the school that shaped me and the man who shaped me long before I knew it.
Legacy and love braided together.
We married in Northern Virginia in 2000.
A Catholic ceremony. Under a Jewish Huppah. We broke the glasses. We rode off in a horse and buggy.
It was a wedding that reflected exactly who we were — layered, blended, honoring tradition while writing our own.
My bridesmaids were drawn from every stage of my life.
Marlo — my maid of honor, stability and history. Crystal and Kim from Norwich. Christine from my Barter days. My sister-in-law. (Allison was meant to be there, though life didn’t allow it.)
Charlie’s younger brother Matt stood as best man. Alongside his childhood friend Kupchick. And his gaming crew — Joe, Noel, Chuck, and Joel.
Charlie’s cousins stood with us. My cousins’ children served as flower girls, ring bearers, and junior ushers.
Every season of our lives was present in that room.
It wasn’t just a wedding. It was a gathering of the entire map that had shaped us.
The only ones missing were my Great Aunts and Great Uncles.
So after the wedding, before boarding our Disney Cruise honeymoon, we visited Great Uncle Walter and Great Aunt Eleanor.
And after the cruise, we visited Great Uncle Joe and Great Aunt Grace.
Because family is not optional. It is woven in.
That rhythm continued.
When we moved to Florida, visiting Great Uncle Walter and Great Aunt Eleanor became a constant — two to three times a month for rock shrimp and stories.
We brought exchange students. We brought the kids. We visited Great Uncle Joe, Auntie Barb, Auntie Donna, Uncle Andy. Charlie’s grandmother. Eventually cousin Brian, his wife Angela, and their son Jayden.
Family layered forward.
It was the most beautiful blending of faith, family, and tradition.
Shaniece: Auntie To MOmmy
Shaniece was born just a few months after our wedding in October 2000, in Alexandria, Virginia.
I was the second person to hold her.
From the beginning, she was part of our rhythm. She came every weekend so Rachel could rest — even when our friends gathered to play Dungeons & Dragons. She would fall asleep in the middle of the laughter and strategy, completely at home in our world.
Rachel moved in for a bit with Shaniece. Then back with her parents.
In September 2001, we moved to Florida.
For Shaniece’s first birthday, Charlie’s parents brought her to Tampa. I ordered a cake shaped like a giant teddy bear. It felt like celebration layered over uncertainty — the world had just shifted after 9/11, and yet here was life, growing.
Soon Shaniece would come for months at a time. Rachel even moved in with her for a few months, this time while pregnantwith Jamie. But eventually,
Rachel took Shaniece and moved back to Maryland New Year’s Eve 2003.
Life during those years felt layered — corporate growth by day, family by night.
Back in Maryland, my nephew was born prematurely and spent months in the NICU.
By May 2003, we received the call:
Would Shaniece come stay with us?
Kilian, one of our exchange students — who had become family — drove overnight with me to bring her home.
That drive felt familiar in a way I couldn’t name at the time. It echoed something deeper — responsibility arriving before paperwork.
Soon, Auntie Amy quietly became Mom.
Not through legal language first.
Through commitment.
Though I couldn’t become pregnant myself, motherhood found me in a different way. She spent weekends with us, then eventually came to live with us full time.
Love doesn’t always arrive the way you expect it to — but when it does, it changes everything.
Building a Family the Unconventional Way
During the Tampa years, our home was never quiet.
Exchange students — Kilian, Chrystelle, Jhenya, Victoria, Sergio — became part of our extended family. We cooked meals from around the world, celebrated different traditions, and took them to theme parks as if Florida itself were a classroom.
We weren’t just hosting students.
We were building a global table.
In 2004, we bought our first home in New Port Richey. We knew we were building for something bigger than square footage. We explored international adoption. We began providing respite care for foster children.
That’s how we met Kevin and his little sister, TeeKecia.
They came for two weeks, when we had tickets to the country music festival. We got extra tickets and took Kevin and TeeKecia.
It seemed simple at the time.
A year later, after being moved from another foster placement, Kevin asked to live with “the Rascal Flatts concert family.”
Two weeks later, TeeKecia joined us.
That was the year the homemade annual ice cream cake tradition began — a tradition that would mark not just birthdays, but belonging.
Kevin turned eleven just before Christmas.
Just before finalizing the adoption, we discovered our home was filled with mold. My spleen swelled and had to be removed.
We couldn’t move until the adoption was complete.
So we packed the truck on Thursday. Finalized adoption Friday. Put the kids on a plane to my father Saturday morning — and drove north ourselves.
Sometimes life doesn’t pause for healing.
It demands courage.
The day before Adoption Day, we packed the U-Haul.
Adoption Day came
Signatures, photos, new last names
Three became five.
Then more packing.
On January 27th, we put the kids on a plane to New Hampshire.
five then became seven . . . back to hampton, NH
Charlie and I climbed into the U-Haul and drove north.
Dad waited until the children were in the air before telling my mom.
“They’re coming,” he said.
“For a visit?” she asked.
“Surprise,” he replied. “They’re all moving in.”
Three generations under one roof.
We weren’t just changing addresses.
We were building something permanent.
Getting settled
Kevin had bounced through foster care. He was behind academically. Angry sometimes. Distrustful. Brilliant — but untethered.
So I did what I have always done when something matters.
I figured it out.
Monday through Thursday, Kevin rode with me across Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, and upstate New York while I sold OB-GYN medical supplies. He did “car school” in the passenger seat. Workbooks. Reading out loud. History discussions between sales calls.
Fridays were for Grandpa math sessions.
My dad would sit with him patiently — breaking down fractions the way he once did with me in sixth grade when I refused to quit.
Kevin and I ate lobster rolls between appointments. Discovered hole-in-the-wall diners. Talked about life. Trust built slowly — mile by mile.
It wasn’t conventional. It wasn’t easy. But it worked.
And that season taught me something powerful:
Sometimes education doesn’t happen at a desk. Sometimes stability looks like showing up every single day — even if that day happens in a moving car.
Birthdays, Memories, Learning
The girls filled the house with laughter. Slumber parties nearly every weekend — three, four, five extra girls in sleeping bags across the living room floor.
Charlie built stages for their birthday performances. His mom sewed the curtain. We hosted Cupcake Wars, movie nights, themed holiday parties.
It was my childhood home. But now I was the mother.
And my mom recreated the magic she once gave me: Pink milk for Valentine’s Day. Green milk for St. Patrick’s Day. A house that felt intentional every holiday.
a place for mom — the calling
In December 2010, I found my calling.
I was hired at A Place for Mom.
No more driving across four states selling OB-GYN supplies. Now I was helping families navigate senior care.
Thirty-eight states. Hundreds of families.
It felt aligned.
By day, I helped families navigate one of the hardest seasons of their lives.
By night, I was a Mom — fully present, fully grateful.
I was getting paid to do what I loved: helping people.
Soo nafter, I won my first A Place For Mom top Producer trip, it was to Las Vegas, where I met Joan Lunden. Charlie accompanied me, but after five days in paradise at the Belliagio, it was time to pack up and roll the luggage down the strip to Excalibur.
My Dad boarded a plane with Kevin, TeeKecia, and Shaniece and met us in Las Vegas. We showed them the sites, rented a car and went to see the Grand Canyon and Hoover Dam.
Florida calling again
As time passed, I missed Florida. We took the kids on a Disney Cruise, and in 2011, we rented a 7 bedroom house in Davenport for 2 weeks. My dad, Kecia, Shaniece, and I stayed the whole time, but we invited Charlie’s sister, her sons, Charlie’s parents, Aunt Donna, and cousin Sam for the first week.
2014, the pull to Florida was getting stronger. Charlie wanted to work at Disney, so I transferred to the Florida East team, and in August 2014, we moved back to Florida. Wanting to be between Disney and Cape Canaveral, Shaniece, Charlie, the cat and I drove to Florida to find a church and a house, a week later, Dad and TeeKecia drove the Uhaul to Orlando. Kevin then started his own life, first in New Hampshire, then in Florida, back to New Hampshire, back to Florida, and finally to California.
Missing my Mom, who stayed behind to run her store, when I won a trip to Oahu, she was so excited to come with me.
It was in Florida, my co-worker, Dixie became my best friend. Like me, she was the mother of an adopted son, Mason, and she had the same passion I had for seniors She worked at A Place For Mom with me.
Then came another Top Producer trip — this time to Maui.
We were co-workers at A Place for Mom, but that trip solidified something deeper. We celebrated success together, walked beaches together, talked about life, motherhood, dreams, faith — everything. I brought Shaniece. She brought her son Mason. It wasn’t just a reward trip. It was the beginning of a lifetime friendship.
And that’s where something shifted.
That’s where Dixie became my sister.
Dixie became my heart-sister. The kind of friend who shows up without being asked. The kind who knows when you’re spiraling before you say a word. The kind who reminds you who you are when you forget.
Dixie understood me like no other. Like me, she was an adoptive mother. Dixie became my heart-sister. The kind of friend who shows up without being asked. The kind who knows when you’re spiraling before you say a word. The kind who reminds you who you are when you forget.
Becoming Oma
I became Oma.
Charlie became Opa.
Not later in life. Not gently.
But in the middle of everything.
Becoming Oma didn’t just add a title.
It shifted my center of gravity.
It started with Lynnae. I remember holding her and realizing something had shifted in me. Motherhood had stretched me. Grandmotherhood deepened me. It wasn’t about starting over — it was about watching the story continue.
And just before everything changed…
car accident and reinvention
In March 2018, everything changed.
A cement hauler rear-ended us. Years of surgeries and therapy followed. I lost my book of business. The years that followed were marked with surgeries, therapies, and hard pivots. Two lower back surgeries, two neck surgeries. Eventually, a spinal cord stimulator.
I had to pivot.
I helped launch Family CareSpace. Wrote articles. Started podcasts. Explored insurance. Tried travel planning. Built Senior Life Publications in Central and South Florida.
Nothing was wasted.
Every pivot sharpened something.
Legacies aren’t built in boardrooms or sales numbers. It’s built in kitchens. It’s built in late night talks. In showing up.
But it didn’t stop there.
Next came Nathaniel. Shaniece had a rough pregnancy. I worked from her hospital room most of her pregnancy. Now I had two grandchildren and thought life just couldn’t get any better, but it did.
Orlando to Clermont
While exploring the many senior living communities Central Florida had to offer, I found Clermont. Clermont had hills, I longed to move there and in 2019, we finally did. We rented a five bedroom house there.
When Family Chooses You Back
Clermont wasn’t just a move.
It was a regrouping.
By then, life had stretched and reshaped all of us.
Robbie — who had started as “the boy my daughter dated” — had long since become something else. I had homeschooled him. I had watched him become a father to Lynnae. I had seen him wrestle with responsibility and rise to it.
When TeeKecia moved to North Carolina with the twins — Anthony and Apollo — and Lynnae’s stability began to wobble, something in me recognized the pattern.
It felt familiar.
Like the overnight drive years earlier when Kilian and I went to bring Shaniece home.
This time, Robbie drove with me.
Through the night. Minimal words. Shared resolve.
I held Anthony briefly. Kissed sleeping Apollo. And Robbie and I brought Lynnae back to Florida.
Not out of drama. Out of protection.
Robbie chose to merge his life back into ours for a season — not because he had to, but because he wanted Lynnae to feel steady ground.
He brought Haley. She brought Tyson. Our house filled again.
Four generations under one roof.
It wasn’t always easy. But it was intentional.
Robbie became the father Lynnae needed. Haley stepped in with quiet strength. Tyson found rhythm among a step-sister and a cousin, Nate And for a while, our home felt like a living organism — stretching to hold whoever needed it.
That season mattered.
Because family is not always who stays. Sometimes it’s who returns.
Our house became four generations under one roof. Loud. Messy. Beautiful.
They took care of me when I spent three months in/out of the hospital with Covid. Soon, Hayley got pregnant, and it was time for them to move on. Aurora was born that fall, so now I had: Lynnae, Nathaniel, Tyson, Aurora, Anthony & Apollo. Four grandkids and 2 bonus grands.
Each one arrived with their own personality, their own laughter, their own way of teaching me something new.
That title? It didn’t just add a name to me. It expanded my heart in a way I didn’t know was possible.
Becoming Oma wasn’t about getting older. It was about becoming rooted.
I wasn’t just a mom anymore. I was a matriarch in the making.
Back to Dungeons and Dragons
But in 2021, Charlie picked up the dice again.
His first game back was at Quan’s house.
I waited in the car for him, and was so jealous. Soon, Quan invited me to play, and now we spend 2-3 nights a week there.
And that house? It’s a gaming mecca. My happy place. Laura painted a dragon mural that looks like it might breathe fire if you stare at it long enough. Quan built a custom gaming table — and in early 2026 he upgraded it with a hydraulic lift so the center raises to reveal a built-in TV for digital maps.
Gaming returned. Quan, Laura, Alex, Jed, Nathan. Community rebuilt through shared tables and shared stories.
It’s brilliant.
But more than that — it’s belonging.
Quan and Laura became family. When Nate turned five, Quan rented a bounce house and dressed up for a Nightmare Before Christmas party — because growing up in Vietnam, he never had birthday parties. He wanted Nate to have what he didn’t.
When EPIC opened, Quan gave us tickets.
Neighbors lent me an electric scooter so I could keep up.
Alex comes most Thursdays — I cook, he does laundry, we play games.
That’s who our friends are.
Our circle ranges from 23 to 63 years old. Age doesn’t matter at that table.
Story does.
Vista Del Lago
Where Reinvention Found Structure
By 2023, after a long legal battle finally settled, we bought our home in Vista Del Lago.
This time, it felt different.
Quieter.
Intentional.
Grounded.
Most days it was just Dad, Charlie, and me.
Grandkids visiting.
Mom coming down when she could.
Dad rediscovering church in a way he never had before.
At Vista, it’s like stepping back in time, when neighbors meant something and community existed. We first met Darna and Herb. I even went to BINGO with her a few times, reminding me of days long ago with Auntie Eleanor playing BINGO.
Then came Pastor Sumer.
I did not expect a female pastor to move me.
But her sermons cut straight to the heart of Scripture — no performance, no noise, just truth. It echoed Mrs. Jacobs years earlier.
Neighbors in Vista care about one another. When Harry and Frank got into a severe motorcycle crash, all of the Sunshine Christian Church and all of VIsta Del Lago came together to help and pray. They both survived. Turns out, Harry was Herb and Darna’s nephew.
Dad runs the camera at church, Charlie and I pick up donations on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and we help set the ballroom back from church to ballroom. We are involved and feel like we belong.
I started a Christmas Cookie swap, and turned a Vista Facebook page into a Sell and Share, a place to borrow things for visiting family, borrow yard equipment, ladders, and help each other with little tasks. Yes, Vista is a community who cares for one another.
And then into our lives comrs Dave.
Dave didn’t arrive as a project.
He arrived as presence. A father to another neighbor.
What began as dinner became routine. Four or five nights a week, he would sit at our table. He and Dad would watch ballgames, movies, TV series together. Debate strategy. Talk leadership. Talk legacy.
Dave moved back to Maine in November 2025, but it was wit his encouragement, I started Amplify with Amy K. Where I help
I launched Senior Life Publications in Florida. Then in 2024 became Publisher of Clermont Neighbors through Best Version Media — integrating print, digital, and online presence ecosystems.
Like my Grampa built roads, I build visibility. I build connection. I build infrastructure for small businesses to thrive locally.
In 2025, I created the Clermont Neighbors Olympics — dozens of creative, intellectual, and athletic events for adults 55+ across Central Florida.
Charlie and I began leading the Fireproof Your Marriage class — the same one we once took in Hampton. We picked up Publix donations at 5:45 a.m. Set up fellowship halls. Served again.
Pastor Sumer and Vista Del Lago deepened our faith in new ways.
Church became welcoming again. Honest. Human. Alive.
My dad — the man who had always been a Christmas-and-Easter-only churchgoer — now helps run the camera and reset the ballroom after service.
Charlie and I led “Fireproof Your Marriage” during Lent last year.
This year, we’re walking through another Lenten study together.
Twice a week, we pick up donations from Publix.
We help with fellowship after service.
We show up.
And I’ve gained sisters in faith — women from Bible studies, neighbors who check in, pray hard, and show up when life gets heavy.
We lost Patti, one of my sisters in Christ in September of 2025, but through her friendship came Jeanne and Tony.
Darna and Herb’s daughter, Sarah, her husband Tyler, and her boys have become part of my church life, and they even supported me in my Clermont Neighbors magazine and the Clermont Neighbots Olymplics.
Family Grows Again. . .Jericho
In 2025, Shaniece married Jericho — and watching her walk toward a man who loves her deeply and leads with strength and gentleness healed parts of my heart I didn’t even know were still tender.
Jericho didn’t just marry Shaniece.
He chose Nathaniel fully.
And now they live just fifteen minutes from my office in Clermont — which means coffee dates, lunch breaks, quick “Oma, can you watch Nate?” calls, and spontaneous family dinners. The kind of proximity that makes everyday life sacred.
And then — life took a hard turn.
Because Christine gave me the courage to ask for help, lifelong friends came out of the woodwork when we needed them most. As I moved in and out of hospitals and we waited for Charlie’s disability decision, people from every chapter of my life stepped forward.
Childhood friends.
College roommates.
Barter network connections.
Family near and far.
They reminded me of something I have always believed:
Friends never really leave your life. They just wait for the moment you need them again.
And in Vista, something unexpected happened.
And here in Florida, new friendships became anchors.
It surprised me.
But it felt right.
Vista wasn’t just a move.
It was restoration.
The Chapter That Changed Everything
In 2024 and 2025, I was rebuilding.
Health.
Finances.
Identity.
And in that rebuilding season, Dave stepped into my life in a way I didn’t expect.
He slowly became family — an “Uncle Dave” to me and my Dad’s best friend. He would come over to watch movies with Dad. I’d cook. We’d talk — strategy, leadership, nonprofit structure, board-level thinking.
He saw something in me that I had almost forgotten was there.
He didn’t see the surgeries.
He didn’t see the hospital stays.
He didn’t see the struggle.
He saw the strategist.
The connector.
The operator.
The woman who could build something meaningful.
He trusted me with real responsibility. Real conversations. Real impact.
And in those conversations, something in me woke back up.
I wasn’t just surviving anymore.
I was capable of scaling.
In November 2025, Dave moved back to Maine. But before he left, he left me with clarity.
“Stop playing small.”
Amplify With Amy K. was born out of that clarity.
Not as a reaction.
Not as desperation.
But as alignment.
Ask Amy About Aging is my heart.
Clermont Neighbors is my platform.
The Clermont Neighbors Olympics is my movement.
Amplify With Amy K. is my elevation.
It’s where I help leaders, organizations, and businesses clarify who they are and expand their impact — because I know what it feels like to lose everything and rebuild.
Dave didn’t create me.
But he reminded me who I already was.
Life is more than work
Charlie and I still game.
We still laugh loudly.
We still gather people around a table.
After years away from gaming while raising the kids, Charlie returned in 2021. His first game back was at Quan’s house. And from that moment, something in him came alive again.
Quan’s home is a gaming mecca — a custom table he built himself, upgraded with a hydraulic lift for digital maps, Laura’s stunning dragon mural stretching across the wall, shelves lined with adventure.
It’s my happy place.
Our group spans ages 23 to 63. We play Dungeons & Dragons, Shadows of Brimstone, Catan. We cook. We talk. We show up for one another.
When our cat, Juniper, got sick, and the vet was too much, Quan sent money while he was on vacation to make sure Juniper didn’t suffer.
He rented a bounce house for Nathaniel’s fifth birthday because growing up in Vietnam, he never had birthday parties of his own.
That party? Nightmare Before Christmas themed. Quan dressed as Jack. Church friends showed up as Santa and Mrs. Claus. My worlds blending again.
Alex comes most Thursdays. Dinner. Laundry. Board games. Laughter.
Friends don’t have to live next door to stay part of your story.
Time and distance don’t erase impact.
As we struggled our way through 2025, in and out of the hospital and waiting for Charlie’s disability, it was Christine who told me to ask for help. Two weeks later, she got cancer. But that last gift she gave me, was realizing that when I stepped out and asked for help, lifelong friends stepped forward without hesitation and helped.
Community isn’t accidental.
It’s built.
And keeps building. Charlie’s disability finally got approved early 2026, and we can finally take a breath, as we continue to figure out my health issues.
We began gaming more, too. Expanding our gaming friends to include a second group: Ahern, Mark, JJ, George and Nate.
Alex comes most Thursdays — I cook, he does laundry, we play games.
We are at Quan’s weekends and sometimes during the week, not only for Dungeons and Dragons, but board games. We eat, enjoy each other’s company and conquer worlds.
Our circle ranges from 23 to 63 years old. Age doesn’t matter at that table.
Story does.
Life kept circling back.
Family. Community. Structure. Reinvention.
In late February 2026 , another neighbor asked if anyone was willing to rent a room out for his 85 year old brother-in-law, Rich, who recently lost his wife. After losing Aunt Alice and working with seniors, Dad, Charlie and I decided to once again open up our home. I can’t wait to see what the next chapter at VIsta will bring. Rich knows more people in Vista than we do, he lived here 22 years ago!
What happens next. . .who knows, but I am excited, not alone. . .and my train is puttering along.
Building Community — On Purpose
In late 2025, I launched the Clermont Neighbors Olympics.
What started as a way to bring together Kings Ridge, Heritage Hills, and Summit Greens has grown into a Central Florida 55+ inter-community league.
Creative events.
Intellectual challenges.
Athletic competitions.
Storytelling.
Art.
Dance.
Connection.
It isn’t about medals.
It’s about purpose.
Because aging well isn’t accidental.
It’s intentional.
And when my neighbors heard about it — they entered.
That’s when I knew I was exactly where I was meant to be.
Every person we meet.
Every question we ask.
Every seat filled beside us.
It matters.
The Train
One of my favorite poems is The Train of Life.
Another favorite is Trees by Joyce Kilmer, Grammie and I would say it before she tucked me in.
Life, to her, was about roots.
Faith.
Strength.
But the train…
The train reminds me that people step on and off at different stations.
Some stay for decades.
Some for seasons.
Some return unexpectedly.
From the twins and their family from Windmill Lane, answering my plea for help in 2025.
Like Stephen — who survived cancer and reappeared in my life years later, only to move again.
Like Christine — who stepped off sooner than we hoped, but never left my heart.
Like my grandparents.
My mentors.
My children.
My grandchildren.
My friends.
If I have learned anything, it is this:
Success is not about titles.
Or accolades.
Or platforms.
It is about how well we love the passengers on our train.
When i step on or off other people’s trains . . .
I hope I leave behind beautiful memories for those who continue the journey.
That’s the train of life.
Passengers get on.
Some step off.
Some come back around.
But the love remains.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from every person who shaped me — grandparents, parents, cousins, friends, mentors, children, gaming companions, neighbors — it’s this:
We are not meant to travel alone.
Every person you meet matters.
Every question you ask matters.
Every seat on the train is sacred.
And when it’s our turn to step off, I hope the people who shared the journey remember that I loved well.
Because aging isn’t something to fear.
It’s something we walk through — together.
What happens next. . .who knows, but I am excited, not alone. . .and my train is puttering along.