Tina Sprinkle has been in the health and fitness arena for nearly forty years- starting as an aerobics instructor in the 80’s before expanding her practice to personal training, yoga, pilates, and finally functional nutrition.
She’s managed and owned several businesses in the past including: The Sweat Shop, Creative Body Balance, CrossFit on 18th, and Pilates 1901.
She also established T School, which offers transformational retreats and wellness coaching in Kansas City and abroad.
Tina loves teaching at Pilates 1901, now owned by Lisa Looy and is grateful for the continued opportunity to help others.
Jenn Jeffries is a passionate and experienced yoga teacher with over 15 years of dedicated practice and instruction. (RYT 200)
With a deep love for health, wellness, and holistic healing, Jenn’s classes are a unique fusion of physical vitality and inner peace.
Beyond the mat, Jenn is also a sound healer, offering transformative sound baths that weave seamlessly into her yoga sessions.
By integrating crystal bowls and other vibrational instruments, she enhances her classes with powerful tools to promote emotional release, energetic balance, and deep relaxation.
I’m in Vancouver, BC, celebrating my 60th birthday with two dear friends. It’s the first of several celebrations—not just marking a milestone, but the end of a whirlwind stretch of transition and busyness. Life demanded courage. And I, being a coward, fought it hard—and fruitlessly, of course. Life always gets its way.
One perk of aging? You learn you won’t spontaneously combust when life hurls a big-ass curveball—no matter how certain you are that you will.
Last night, from our Vancouver Island Airbnb, my friends Suba (52) and Gail (69) and I found ourselves deep in conversation about birthdays, aging, and all the gritty, gorgeous realities of growing older.
“Well, it beats the alternative,” I joked. “My dad used to say, ‘No one gets out of this alive.’”
“Aging definitely has its challenges,” said Gail. “As women, we need to talk about it more. These days, I actually have to think about getting out of the bathtub.”
I nodded. “I can’t tell if I’m getting wiser or just more tired. But I’m way more selective with my time. It’s like: yes, yes, no, no, oh hell no.”
“That’s a gift of aging,” Suba offered, ever the optimist.
As the sun slipped behind West Vancouver, we lobbed stories and insights back and forth—“can’t freaking sleep” countered with “hard-won wisdom”—and made our own list of aging’s hazards and benefits:
Hazards:
Grumpiness, resistance to change, know-it-all tendencies, self-absorption, lethargy, loneliness, grief.
Physical Realities:
Saggy skin, urgent bladders, insomnia, fatigue, meno-pots, hot flashes, brittle bones, memory lapses, and the indignity of chin hairs.
“It’s the oppposite of FOMO! The joy of missing out,” she said. “When you finally stop doing things just to avoid missing something. You’re not reacting anymore—you’re choosing.”
“Like curling up with a book instead of hitting the club,” I nodded.
“Exactly.”
“Or maybe we’re just too tired,” Gail laughed.
We all cracked up—fatigue had topped our list, after all.
“It just takes more effort now,” Gail added. “What used to be automatic? Now it’s a damn event.”
“And then there’s the ‘big skin,’” I offered. My friend Linda swears her body’s the same size, but her skin’s too big. “It doesn’t fit anymore—it just sags.”
We went on: dry skin, dry hair, dry… other parts. But we agreed—while inconvenient, the physical stuff isn’t insurmountable. What we eat, how we move, how we think—it all matters.
We don’t get to choose whether we age. But we do get to choose how.
And just in case we needed proof, the next morning we met Elizabeth Robertson.
Exploring our Horseshoe Bay neighborhood, Gail and I stumbled onto a dirt trail—far better than the shoulderless bike path we’d started on. It wound through the woods with wildflowers, stunning views, and blessed quiet.
At a fork in the trail, we asked an older woman walking ahead which way to go.
“You can go right to Whyte Lake,” she said, giving us a quick once-over. “About four kilometers, then another two and a half up to the lake.” Hands on hips. Waiting.
“Or go left—up to the street. My house is down there,” she added, pointing. “I walk this trail every day.”
“Which way are you going?” I asked.
“To the lake. I’ll walk with you.”
That’s how we met Elizabeth Robertson. And let me tell you: Elizabeth was a talker.
We learned a lot in a short time. The wild blackberries would soon be ripe—she’d be back with a bucket around her neck to get the good ones.
And that it rarely snowed in Horseshoe Bay, though it did in nearby Cypress, a ski community.
When she said, “I just hope there’s enough snow to ski this season,” it gave me pause.
“Is this a bike trail too?” Gail asked.
“Nope. Just people. And dogs,” she huffed. “A few weeks ago, four off-leash dogs jumped on an elderly woman—” she stressed the word as if to exclude herself.
“Bowled her right over. I think she broke bones. Idiot owners.”
“I walk this trail every day,” she said as she walked ahead. “You see people. And it keeps me in shape.”
She stops and turns to face us, “Did I mention I’m 84? Look at these!” yanking up her pants to show off calves of steel.
We both nodded approvingly.
She went on, “I went skiing at Cypress last winter. It was the first time in years—My husband had been sick and I couldn’t leave him. After he passed, I called up my girlfriend and said, ‘Let’s go.'”
“And then?” she grinned. “Halfway down the mountain, my quads seized. I just fell. Couldn’t get up. Had to be sledded down by the ski patrol.”
“Oh no,” said Gail.
“Oh yes,” Elizabeth laughed. “The ski patrol guy was very good-looking.”
She now does wall squats to prep for next season. “I’ve skied since I was three,” she explained. “I guess I took it for granted.”
She told us her life story: born in Newfoundland, she moved to Vancouver after the war. Her father—a physician—was transferred. She grew up to become a nurse, then a teacher, and eventually, the Director of Nursing at the University of Vancouver, BC.
“That must have been interesting.” I said.
“Well, it was,” Elizabeth replied, “but nursing students and teachers, unlike other college departments, worked during the Summer break doing internships at the hospital. I didn’t like it that we had to work while the rest of the teachers were playing ping pong, so I complained about it and eventually I got it changed.”
She kept walking, but didn’t stop talking.
But when a few colleagues and I tried to take three months off to go to Kathmandu, my boss just lost it. ‘You can’t do that!’ he blustered. ‘You can’t just take three months off! That’s preposterous!’
So I went home, wrote my resignation letter, dropped it on his desk the next morning, and booked my trip.”
“Did your coworkers go?”
“Nope. It’s hard to get people to leap. But I did. And I have no regrets.”
How did you decide to go to Kathmandu?” I asked.
“Well, there was a travel department at the University. I went in there, looked at a pamphlet about Kathmandu, and that was it. I went. But you can still book those kinds of trips online! Look it up! You can go!”
She said it with the enthusiasm and authority of any good teacher. I made a mental note of the web address she’d mentioned. Her energy was contagious.
I looked at her then, more closely. Her face was soft and lined, with the faintest mustache above her lip. Her gray hair was cut short, unceremoniously, like a helmet. Her arms were freckled with age spots, her busy hands uneven and overly knuckled. I marveled at her upright posture, her brisk pace, and her ability to tell a story without pausing. She was quick, astute, and funny.
Kathmandu was just the beginning. Since then, she’s trekked and biked her way across Africa, Asia, and Europe. Elizabeth Robertson has lived an adventurous life—entirely of her own choosing.
When we told her we were going “forest bathing” the next day, she stared at us blankly.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a meditative walk in nature. You commune with the forest,” I explained.
She looked around, gesturing, “You’re in a forest now. There’s a tree—go hug it!” she cackled.
Gail shot me a glance—did she really just say that?—but Elizabeth kept on, undeterred.
And honestly? That was fine. She embodied everything we’d celebrated the night before: humor, courage, vitality, and zero apology.
Elizabeth hadn’t shrunk with age—she’d expanded. Bold. Curious. Engaged. Overflowing with stories, unbothered by what anyone thought.
“When I get home,” she announced, “it’ll be 4 o’clock. Time for the BBC British Kennel Dog Show. I watch it every day. I love it.”
I smiled. No FOMO for Elizabeth Robertson. She was thriving in her JOMO era.
We hugged her goodbye, inspired—and slightly winded. She was, if I’m honest, a bit exhausting.
Father’s Day snuck up on me this year—not because it isn’t important, but because life has been full: doctor’s appointments, physical therapy, travel delays, and the general chaos of being human in 2025.
Herb and I are in Colorado, making this the first Father’s Day in years we won’t be with family. It feels strange—and a little hollow. But distance doesn’t diminish love. So instead of sharing coffee or barbecue, I’m writing to honor the fathers who have shaped—and are now shaping—our family.
It feels especially important right now to celebrate the quiet, steady, irreplaceable strength of true fatherhood. The kind that doesn’t posture or pout. The kind that leads without fear or ego.
Because let’s be honest: if all we had to go on what’s in the news—or the behavior of certain “leaders”—we might think manhood had collapsed into a pit of petulance and self-interest. We live in a time when too many powerful men act like overgrown boys: addicted to control, allergic to accountability, and bankrupt of grace.
But that’s not the full story. And it’s definitely not the story of the men I know.
“Any man can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a dad.” – Anne Geddes
I had two fathers—Manuel dela Cruz, the one responsible for my being born, and Ehret Oscar Ramey, the one responsible for me being me.
As an adopted child, I often wondered about my birth father and why he gave me away. But even in the wondering, I knew I’d hit the jackpot. Because I had Ehret Oscar Ramey.
My dad was a gynecologist—he didn’t just care for women; he understood them. He listened deeply. He was compassionate, respectful, and steady, earning the trust of his patients and the unwavering love of his wife and daughter.
He was gentle. Empathetic. A man who believed in the best of people, even when they inevitably let him down.
He was the one person in the world I least wanted to disappoint—not out of fear, but out of reverence. Because he gave so much, so freely—with a quiet gentleness that still shapes the way I try to move through the world.
He’s still the steady light I follow, the example I carry, the compass I trust most in my heart.
“The men who become fathers by love, not lineage, prove that what matters most is not who you are to a child, but how you love them.” ~ Anonymous
Herb didn’t enter my sons’ lives until they were already grown men. He was never meant to be their father—they have their own. He came into their world because he loved their mother.
But over the years, something quiet and remarkable happened.
With quiet consistency, respect, and care, he showed up. He offered support, encouragement, and a steady presence. Not by claiming a role, but by earning it. He’s helped raise the stakes on what love and manhood look like in a family.
My middle son Cary has also shown up in a profound way for a child that’s not his by birth. His partner Chelsea’s daughter Roen has clearly captured his heart.
Because they met later in life, Chelsea and Cary were intentional about when and how to introduce Roen into their relationship. It wasn’t until they were fully committed—about eight months in—that Roen became part of their shared life.
When Chelsea asked her then 6-year-old daughter what she wanted for Christmas, Roen pointed at the framed picture of Cary that sat upon their mantel.
“I want him. I want Cary” she pointed. She’d meet Cary for the first time soon after.
I admired their foresight then, and even more so now, as I watch the care and protection, they both have to offer her.
At six, she was sweet, cautious, and observant. Now, at nine, she’s one of the kindest, most thoughtful young girls I know. She’s also fierce, funny, and delightfully opinionated—a combination born of feeling safe, loved, and seen.
Cary, tenderhearted like Herb, gets misty-eyed at Roen’s Christmas concerts, guitar solos, and birthday parties. He leans in with his full presence—unhurried and undivided—even during their hours-long Lego games.
The impact of his love is unmistakable, etched into Roen’s joy and confidence—and watching it unfold fills me with awe.
“There is nothing quite like the quiet awe of watching your child become the kind of parent you always hoped you were.” ~ Anonymous
My youngest son, Sean, made me a grandmother at 63—just as he became a father himself. George is his son, my grandson, and everyone’s heart. Now two years old, George is eagerly awaiting the arrival of his little brother, Wyatt, who is due next month, in mid-July.
Watching Sean step into fatherhood has been one of the greatest joys of my life. I love the way he used to hold his sleeping infant across his broad chest while simultaneously disciplining the dogs, clearing dinner plates, or folding laundry—his hands full, his heart even fuller.
He loves George with an easy grace. He is present, tender, and grounded—even in the face of two-year-old tantrums, which he meets with humor and (mostly) patience. He leads with his heart, answers questions with curiosity, and shows George—every single day—that he is loved, safe, and important.
I raised a boy. He became a man. Now I watch him become a father—which also helps me heal and grow alongside him.
When I think about fatherhood—the kind that matters—I think of men like Ehret, Sean, Cary, and Herb.
Ehret, my adoptive father, was a steady and principled man. Gentle, generous, and deeply respectful. His quiet example left a lasting imprint on how I understand love and responsibility.
Sean, my youngest son, became a father just as I became a grandmother. I’ve watched him parent with calm, presence, and a deep sense of care. He meets challenges with humor and leads with heart—qualities that will shape his sons in ways they may not fully grasp for years.
Cary stepped into the life of a young girl named Roen with intention and integrity. He didn’t rush in—he earned her trust. His presence has been thoughtful, consistent, and deeply human. That kind of care has lasting power.
And then there’s Herb. He didn’t take on a formal role in my sons’ lives, but through years of quiet consistency, respect, and attention, he became someone they could count on. Not by obligation—but by choice.
And of course, this is only a short-list. I’m lucky to know many other remarkable men who embody fatherhood in quiet, powerful ways—including George’s grandfathers, G-Pa and Poppy; our wonderful son-in-law, Richard; and the late, great Grandpa LeRoy. Each brings his own strength, humor, and heart to the role.
Fatherhood is presence, patience, and purpose. What passes for manhood in public life is posturing, cruelty, and cowardice dressed up as strength.
So today I honor the men who choose to show up with integrity, humility, and heart. The ones who lead not with noise, but with steadiness. Their influence may not always be loud—but it is lasting.
I’ve been thinking about my dad a lot—not just because today would have been his 100th birthday, but because he lived with integrity, honor, and compassion.
He’d be horrified by this administration and the man masquerading as president. Trump and his enablers are waging war on the most vulnerable, dismantling the democracy my father and so many others fought to protect. It would sicken him—and for that, I’m grateful he’s not here to witness it.
While Trump distanced himself from Project 2025 during his campaign, his administration has wasted no time implementing its recommendations. In just a few weeks, they have eliminated diversity initiatives, frozen federal funding, withdrawn from the Paris Climate Agreement, and laid off thousands of government workers—including over 1,000 staff members at the Department of Veterans Affairs.
We’re told these cuts are about eliminating “waste and fraud.” But who decides what qualifies? The White House’s Department of Government Efficiency—run by an unelected billionaire and crony handpicked by the president?
Are these actions even legal?
Who authorized the DOGE to access the Treasury Department’s payment system, which holds personal data on nearly every American? Musk and his allies are gutting agencies before the courts can even rule.
Trump insists voters gave him a sweeping mandate to bypass the rule of law, seize unchecked power, and fill the government with oligarchs. But there was no mandate. He won with less than 50% of the vote—meaning most Americans rejected him.
Yet we are witnessing a full-scale coup against democracy and the Constitution. Trump has shattered the system of checks and balances, seized congressional powers, and secured a free pass from the Supreme Court. He will bully, defy the law, and lie to get what he wants.
Donald Trump is a narcissist who thinks he’s the king of America. He is the ultimate example of vain entitlement and irresponsibility. He embodies everything we disdain in the old white male archetype.
Yet my father, an old white man himself, exemplified a different legacy. He earned his education on the GI Bill, became a compassionate doctor dedicated to women’s health, and raised a family of adopted children. He loved his wife for over fifty years, served as a scout leader and church deacon, and was a cherished friend to many.
The difference between my father and the president? Ehret Oscar Ramey embodied qualities that Donald Trump simply lacks: courage, empathy, and intelligence.
In honor of his turning 100 today, I am restacking a previous entry about my dad.
the case for daddy's girls
I got lucky—the universe paired me with Ehret Oscar Ramey as my counselor, teacher, mentor, protector, and friend. He was my adopted father, but in every way that mattered, he was simply Dad.
As a child, he had curly hair and grew up in a lower-income family that moved frequently, making him a target for teasing and bullying. He learned to fight at an early age, which, knowing him as I do, must have been difficult. His nature was inherently gentle.
But maybe those fights helped shape him—taught him who he was and who he wasn’t—because he never sought out conflict, but he never backed down from defending what he believed was right.
And when it came to me, what he believed was right usually was.
I wasn’t an easy kid. As his only daughter, I know he worried and, at times, was disappointed by my choices. But he never judged me. He never ignored me. He never made me feel ashamed or unworthy. No matter what, he was always there when I finally came home—offering whatever I needed. A kiss on my forehead. A long, steady embrace. Words of love. Or no words at all.
My dad was my champion, and I always knew it. That kind of love changes a person.
As a kid, I had a habit of running away—not out of fear, but to assert my autonomy and independence. Once, I “ran away” to a Young Life skating party. When my dad picked me up and discovered his 12-year-old daughter was drunk, he didn’t yell or punish me. Instead, he took me to the hospital where he worked, cleaned me up in the doctors’ lounge, and bought me a toothbrush.
“You’d better brush your teeth, stay away from alcohol, and, for God’s sake, don’t tell your mother,” he said.
There were a few things we agreed not to tell Mom.
He met my mother, a diminutive 89-pound southern beauty at Barnes Hospital. Ruth Wylodene Sturdivant worked as a dietitian and he was in his residency.
My parents were married for over 60 years—something I both admire and find astonishing. My father chose a difficult woman to love, and I often wondered how he not only stayed with her but adored her so completely.
To me, my mother was impossible. To him, she was simply her.
He never wavered, never seemed concerned. Looking back, his love for her became something of a wellspring for me—an example I return to when I’m feeling empty myself.
After my parents married, they moved to Kansas City to establish his medical practice and start their family. He became a beloved OB/GYN but multiple miscarriages derailed their plans for children.
That’s how my brothers and I became a family. It wasn’t an easy configuration.
With Dad at the hospital and Mom left to mind us, we fell into the chasm between our parents. He was a stabilizing if often absent force; she was minimally present, chronically overwhelmed, and woefully ill-equipped for child-rearing.
It was often confusing and lonely.
But Dad was a gentle soul. As a parent, he always treated us with respect—even when we were clearly out of line. I can only remember two times he ever truly lost his temper, and both were because my older brother or I had spoken disrespectfully to our mother.
I never saw the slap coming. The sting wasn’t just on my face—it was in my heart. There was no lower place to fall than the one called disappointing my father.
I burst into tears, and he immediately pulled me into his arms. That only made it worse.
I thought my dad was handsome and respected his accomplishments. He was a man of service and integrity—a teacher, a physician, a friend, and a caretaker to all.
He loved to sing, to dance, and to tell terrible jokes. He’d get so tickled telling them that, despite dreading the punchline, you couldn’t help but laugh along with him.
In retirement, he spent hours in his woodshop, making things with his hands—until his stroke took that from him.
After the stroke, it was my turn to give back to him, and though I wanted to, it wasn’t easy. I used to call him “Dr. Magoo” when I was frustrated.
Once, I took him to the movies. At the concession stand, he tried to order a Coke but couldn’t get the words out. He gripped the display cup with all his strength, mumbling in frustration. I knew what he was trying to say and gently pried the cup from his hands as the cashier—who was a jerk—just stared at us.
I wanted to shout, “You don’t know this man! You don’t know how brilliant, kind, and loving he is! You don’t know how many lives he’s touched—how many lives he’s brought into this world!”
But we took our seats and watched the movie. And when my dad laughed it made everything better.
The week of his death, he labors at the breakfast table, so winded from congestive heart failure he can barely breathe.
Between arduous bites of Honey Nut Cheerios, he smiles, reaching for my hand, “So what are we going to do today?”
My heart and eyes sting because there is nothing we can do today, except wait.
“I think we’ll just hang out here, Dad,” I answer. He pats my hand.
My father died four days later.
For many years, I wondered about my birth parents – why they gave me up and who they were. I was sixty before I received that blessing in the form of discovering my half-siblings. We share a father whom I finally met via Zoom.
It was good to discover him because he is not my father. He’s just someone who got my birth mother pregnant.
My father, Ehret Oscar Ramey, was a gentleman who loved with great depth. I am so grateful for that fateful connection, my lucky destiny.
What a gift to be a Daddy’s girl—to know, without question, what it means to be loved deeply and completely by a kind and caring man.
Happy 100th birthday, Dad. Thank you. I sure miss you.
I was four years old when JFK was assassinated; my only memory is of my mother crying as she vacuumed. Five years later, I was vaguely aware of the Chicago 7 and the assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy, but I was still too young to fully grasp the battle lines being drawn—the fight for civil rights, the fury of those who felt betrayed by our government.
Today, the speed at which the Trump-Vance-Musk administration is seizing control of the U.S. government is dizzying and crazy-making. Chaos is their strategy. Keeping the entire country off balance is intentional.
Musk and his mini-mes have seized control of the Treasury payments system, Social Security, and Internal Revenue systems. They’ve unilaterally cut off government funding without congressional approval, openly defying court orders to restore it. This is blatantly illegal—yet Congress does nothing.
Where is the outrage? Where is the accountability? Where is the organized, lawful resistance?
Since it doesn’t look like we can rely on our elected officials to lead, what can we do as everyday citizens to protest the damage being inflicted by the Trump-Musk regime?
We can protest. We can speak out. We can boycott. We can unify our voices to be heard through the noise.
Shortly after the election, I put my FOMO aside to delete my Facebook and Instagram accounts. This was not just in protest, but a proactive choice to protect my mental health. A few days later I took the Amazon app off my phone and haven’t placed another order since. I’m not only supporting local businesses, I’m saving money. If I have to go out and buy it, I have time to rethink the impulse purchase.
These steps, though small, seed the greater goal of becoming more intentional in my choices and the impact I can make as one person.
Finding support and connecting with like-minded people has been invaluable.
Without the constant scrolling on Facebook and Instagram, I’ve had more time to explore Substack, where I’ve discovered insightful writers who keep me informed and inspire action. Here are some of my favorites:
The Contrarian A central hub for unbowed, and uncompromising reported opinion and on the opposition to the authoritarian threat.
Robert Reich Growing a community of people committed to spreading the truth and contributing to a better world.
Lexi’s Substack Cyber security and protection in the new age.
Transequality.org To protect the legal and political rights of transgender people.
Protest.net Acclaimed resource by the NYT, joining this national database takes a few steps because it’s not reliant on traditional servers.
Finally, here are some resources I’ve found helpful for staying grounded.
Onbeing Project Curated resources on art, culture, spirituality and growth
Pulling the Thread Elise Loehnen’s focus on culture and why do we do what we do.
Reconstructing Faith Exploring the intersection of ministry, theology, culture, and faith formation with Pastor Kevin Young
Clarity in Chaos An interesting look at faith and politics with Pastor Wendel Hutchins
Protest Music Project Music that grapples with our present world or confronts pressing problems affecting humanity.
A Request…
During my workout this morning, Ball of Confusion by The Temptations came on, and it sparked an idea—to create a public playlist we can share, not just to resist, but to unite through this challenging time.
I’ve kicked things off, but I’d love your help. Here’s the link. Please add songs that inspire and uplift, not just ones that fuel anger.
Despite what some people would have us think, we’re in this together—and together, we have power.
We sit on a park bench on a beautiful fall day. I am crying as Herb strokes my shoulder. I feel like a failure. I’ve been careless with our marriage and caused damage. The grief sits between us, heavy and silent. I don’t know what to do except cry.
Herb taps my hand. “Hey,” he whispers, “check her out,” nodding toward an old woman half dancing, flailing about the trail.
She’s a tiny human meteor dressed in ancient blue culottes, an oversized, stained t-shirt, black socks, and pink clogs. She’s half-singing, half-yelling—something akin to an aria.
“That’s you,” Herb says, “when you stop giving a damn.”
I can’t help it. I laugh, not just because my husband is kind, but because it’s true.
Several years ago, after visiting a group of women in Washington state, I mailed each of them a short-sleeved t-shirt imprinted with “ZERO F$%ks GIVEN.” We’d decided to proudly give fewer f$%ks as we age and I wanted to celebrate that.
I never saw them again. A few months later, I ended my lifelong friendship with the woman who had introduced us. Her legendary misbehavior with men hit a little too close to home. When I found out, I most certainly gave a f$%k.
Inflection points help us remember what matters.
When Herb had a health scare in 2018, I decided it was time to sell my Pilates studio. My former manager bought it right before COVID, (poor dear), but we pulled together to make it through. I feel lucky to still work there. Imagine being able to teach a class, shut the door, and go home!
But without the distraction of running a business, I often feel anxious and unsettled.
Some days all I do is make soup. Others, I bring my coffee to bed and sink back into the pillows. I can babysit on short notice and go hours without checking my email. I’ve given up booze, edibles, and quit Facebook and Instagram, but the pile of packages in my closet is a testament to my latest addiction. I might have to start my own Poshmark store.
On the worst days, I feel like a human pinball, ricocheting about, desperate for a toehold to evade the dreaded gobble hole. Why?
What do I give a f$%k about these days? Medicare?
The Saturday before Thanksgiving, while grilling on the patio with friends, Herb’s leg goes numb. He asks me to fetch his hiking pole—he cannot walk. One of our guests, a doctor, gives Herb a once-over to rule out an aneurysm or stroke. Ignoring suggestions to go to the hospital, Herb insists we go on with the evening, and we have fun.
But the pain is worse the next day, and he can’t walk without the pole. He still can’t.
Timing is everything. And ours sucks.
We vow to go to the ER the next morning. I leave to teach a class to give Herb time to get ready. I call on my way, but he doesn’t answer. Alarmed, I find him in the bedroom, without his phone.
“My hip dislocated again,” he sighs.
“What? How?” I shrill.
“Tying my shoe.”
“I’ll call the ambulance.” We know the drll.
It’s impossible to see a doctor during the holidays unless you go to the emergency room. We go several times, searching for the source of his pain and a solution for his immobility. One doctor says it’s his hip, another his back—neither offers help other than pain meds, but he needs the pain meds.
Between constant pain and my hovering like Aunt Bea, Herb’s Christmas isn’t very merry.
Every time he sits on the commode or attempts laundry, I scream, “Don’t do that! Are you crazy? Don’t bend over! Your hip will pop out!”
He looks at me like he wants to hit me with his hiking pole. I know I’m smothering him but I can’t help it.
He misses his nice wife, but I miss mine, too. Herb took care of everything, and now I have to. I pout.
We watch a lot of television and wonder if this is our new life. When the hell did we get old?
I sulk, and ask the most useless question ever, “Why us, God? Why us?”
More accurately, I’m asking, “Why me, God? Why me?” feeling very sorry for myself. I’m pitiful, and this is bullshit.
My dad comes to me in a dream. He sits next to the bed, smiling and laughing. He is smiling and laughing at me. I know this smile.
“Knock it off,” he whispers. “You know better. So do better.”
I rouse to rebuff him, but he waves me off.
“Life is horrible, messy, and unpredictable,” he reminds me. “So what? Nobody gets out of this alive. Look at what makes your life worth living—who makes your life worth living, and be happy about it.”
Dammit. He’s always right.
I go back to sleep and wake up with a renewed sense of appreciation. Hot dog! I can see past my nose again! Rather than dwelling on the chaos, I choose to be grateful for our family—the ones who show up when we need them, to shovel our drive, carry in wood, and provide a much-needed distraction.
I think of the co-workers who step in to cover my classes at the last minute and the friends who bring flowers, groceries, treats, and home-cooked meals.
I’m grateful for the phone calls, thoughtful texts, well-wishes, and prayers that have been offered for Herb and me. It reminds me that it’s not all about me, and I feel blessed to have such incredible support.
We leave this week for the Mayo Clinic, where Herb will have spine surgery. We’re excited but realistic about what’s ahead.
I’m sorry for being difficult, Herb. Thank you for loving me and making me laugh, even when your back and butt hurt.
Thank you, God, for skilled surgeons and a well-timed oxycodone.
Thank you for reminding me that I always have a choice in how I respond, no matter how crazy, unhinged, or incomprehensible the world may seem.
It’s easy to slip into self-pity, judgment, and cynicism when I feel triggered and overwhelmed. At those times, it makes me want to don some culottes, put on pink clogs, and run people over at the park.
Zero f$%ks given is not a zero-sum game. The losses are devastating and real. We’re seeing that now.
The question is: what can we do? What are we doing?
I can hear my dad’s voice: “Love one another. Treat others as you would have them treat you.”
The Golden Rule is so simple, yet so powerful.
Don’t give up. Give a f$%k about one another, and watch the world change.
What are you doing to stay grounded in difficult times? I think I need to know.
Are you ready for a post-holiday Metabolism Makeover?
Me, too.
Join me for a 10-Day Reset designed to heal and support metabolic health based on the book GOOD ENERGY, written by Dr. Casey Means.
I have been a fan of Dr. Means for several years, having discovered her research/blog when creating and offering my own Blood Sugar and Metabolic Health programs.
In medical school, Dr. Means became disillusioned with medicine’s failure to adequately address the most pressing and pervasive causes of disease in our country. Ultimately she left surgery to practice functional medicine and eventually founded, Levels Health, which uses continuous glucose monitors to help people track their metabolic health.
When I came across Dr. Mean’s book and corresponding video series, I was blown away.
Her ability to distill complex processes into simple, applicable steps towards better metabolic health (aka, “Good Energy”) inspired me to curate a program based on her research and book.
The Metabolic Makeover is your shortcut and support for creating your own “Good Energy” in 2025.
Mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell, converting food energy to cellular energy.
We need healthy mitochondria to break food down into ATP, the cellular “currency” that pays for all the activities inside your 200+ types of cells.
The Problem: Modern life has caused big problems in how our bodies produce ATP, resulting in mitochondrial dysfunction.
In the US, 88% of adults have some type of metabolic dysfunction. Overtaxed and damaged mitochondria produce less ATP production, more fat stored inside cells, which inhibits normal cellular function throughout the body.
Oxidative stress When our mitochondria aren’t working properly, they sputter out reactive molecules called reactive oxygen species, otherwise known as free radicals, which causes damage to our cells, leading to further dysfunction.
Chronic inflammation Mitochondrial dysfunction in the body is perceived as a threat, triggering an inflammatory response. This defensive response becomes chronic because the perceived threat doesn’t go away. And it won’t go away unless the environment changes.
Dr. Mean’s “Good Energy” book outlines strategies to optimize our metabolic function via “Good” vs. “Bad” energy.
What is “Good Energy?” Good energy is having a good metabolism. It means your mitochondria work well and your body can use, make, and process cellular energy effectively.
Metabolism refers to the set of cellular mechanisms that transform food into energy that can power every single cell in the body.
When we are metabolically optimized, we have:
Sustained energy and stamina
Increased brain acuity and focus
Better hormone balance and moods
Restful, restorative sleep
“Bad Energy” is poor metabolism and all the choices and choices that lead to metabolic dysfunction.
In this course, you’ll learn practical, actionable strategies to leverage good energy for better health, beginning at its source: the cells.
Are you experiencing any of these symptoms?
This program is for you …
If You’re suffering from any of these issues
If you’ve wandered off your health path the past few weeks
If you can more easily commit to change when you understand the WHY behind the process, and
If you get better results with structure and group support.
What can you expect?
The Makeover includes:
The Good Energy Book by Dr. Casey Means (shipped to you upon sign up)
8 Segment Video Corresponding Video Series ~
(2) Group Coaching Calls via Zoom
Kick Off & Follow Up
Thursdays @ 7 pm Jan 16 & 30
20% Off Optional Support Supplements
Pendulum GLP-1 Products
Recommended Blood Sugar & Metabolism Supplements
15% Off Specialized Services
3 1/2 hour sessions $175(reg. $210)
Metabolic Panel Lab Order and Functional Review$329 (reg. $389)
Labs don’t lie. Keep track of your metabolic health via comprehensive blood lab testing and a functional review. Learn what OPTIMAL vs NORMAL ranges have to say about your health.
Customized and personal. Contact Tina for more information,
I turn sixty-five this month, which is weird and amazing. I look in the mirror and see me, only me, 2.0. It turns out that doing less has provided more. And not all of those “mores” have been easy to accept.
But if we are lucky, we get to keep learning. And for that, I am grateful for being a crone.
Let me get more specific. I like being older, wiser, and more comfortable in my skin. I’m not as fond of hip replacements, sagging parts, and sun damage, but that’s the compromise we make. It’s all in the way we look at it.
In folklore, a crone is an ugly old woman, (think Hansel and Gretel, or the Wicked Witch of the East.) In youth-obsessed America, she’s often dismissed and forgotten.
But, indigenous cultures around the world hold post-menopausal women in high esteem.
They are the wisdom keepers, healers, and teachers. Experience has taught them the secrets of life and death and the mysteries beyond this world.
Age is not a liability, it’s a gift. I can get on board with that.
Sixty-five has brought rich opportunities for both reviewing my life and dreaming the next chapters into being. Stepping out of the momentum tunnel of the past has allowed me to discern the thread of a new destiny. As old stories die, the future pulls me forward.
This isn’t a rewrite, it’s a rebirth.
Life is a series of small deaths and births. If I’d had more trust, I could have suffered less in the dying. But that had to die, too.
I became a Grandmother at sixty-three. I am 100% in love with my grandson.
The freedom that comes from not being the primary caregiver opens endless possibilities. I’m able to give George the love I was unable to give my sons.
I had it. I just didn’t know how to access it.
My grandmothers knew how to love and they poured it into me. Mamaw taught me how to cook and Rose Nell how to sew. Both taught me about God, faith, and responsibility. They weren’t educated, but they were wise. They were unassuming, but not passive.
It wasn’t what they said; it was what they did.
With the strength of mountains, my grandmothers helped plant the seeds of my becoming. I knew who I was with them and who I could grow up to be. Their steadfast tether gave me the courage to fly. They were my home.
I want to be that force for George. I can do that by showing up, listening, and being a fun but grounding influence.
The hardest part is knowing he’s going to get hurt facing the challenges in life. Part of me wants to protect him; the other part wants to initiate him. But since neither is my responsibility I’ve come up with a list of lessons I hope help him see the doorways within life’s distress.
I’m not sure when I will give it to him. I guess I’ll wait until he can read.
Like George, I am young and still growing. I used to need to know where I was going. I don’t anymore.
Many years ago, I was given the name Hummingbird at a spiritual healing retreat in Belize. I assumed it was because I was overly busy, anxious, and flighty. Only recently have I learned about Hummingbird’s medicine.
These tiny creatures fly from Brazil to Canada each year and need a huge amount of nectar to survive. They don’t worry about where they’re going to get this nectar, they trust an inner conviction that all will be well.
The hummingbird signifies healing, perseverance, freedom, and joy. In some cultures it is regarded as a spiritual messenger, linking our head to our hearts, the physical and spiritual worlds.
With her magical ability to fly in all four directions as well as in stillness, this small but powerful totem calls us to destiny, daring us to embark on our own epic journey.
With three-quarters of Americans obese or overweight, interest in weight-loss treatments is at an all-time high.
Three injectable medications have dominated the spotlight of late: Wegovy, Ozempic, and Mounjaro. These once-a-week, injectable drugs are so popular in fact, that pharmacies routinely run out of stock.
Wegovy is FDA-approved for obesity. Ozempic and Mounjaro are FDA-approved for diabetes.
These medications known as GLP-1 agonists are designed to manage blood sugar levels and help reduce hunger and food intake, thus potentially supporting weight loss.
They function in a variety of ways to help curb hunger, increase feelings of satiety, increase insulin sensitivity, balance blood sugar, and support weight loss.
Recently, Oprah Winfrey hosted a prime- time special on these medications and the criticism that providers prescribe it too liberally off-label for weight loss.
Weight Watchers, and Noom, long advocates of lifestyle change focusing on diet and exercise have added prescription weight loss drugs approved to treat obesity, such as Wegovy and Ozempic.
Offering the medications within a structured program of diet and exercise, advocates say, increases the chance of long-term success, and acknowledges that obesity is a chronic disease that requires chronic treatment.
While drugs like Wegovy and Ozempic might seem like a miracle to those with diabetes and obesity, the truth is the effects only last while you are taking the medication.
A study published in the Journal for Diabetes, Obesity, and Metabolism in April 2022, which examined changes in body weight and cardiometabolic risk factors upon the termination of the drug, found that after a year people had regained two-thirds of the weight they had lost.
The positive changes they had seen in cardiometabolic risk factors like blood pressure, blood lipids, HbA1c, and C-reactive protein had similarly reversed.
How do these drugs work?
Semiglutide weight loss drugs work via complex metabolic processes to mimic a hormone called GLP-1 (Glucagon-like peptide-1).
GLP-1 is a hormone (a natural chemical in the body) produced in the small intestine. It stimulates insulin secretion (which then allows cells to take up glucose) and inhibits glucagon secretion (which prevents more glucose from going into the bloodstream) to lower blood sugar levels.
GLP-1 helps to reduce food intake, appetite and hunger and promotes fullness and satiety with the ultimate result of promoting weight loss.
Research suggests that people with obesity may have problems with GLP-1 production. As such, it has become a key focus in obesity, diabetes, and weight loss medications that function by mimicking it’s function.
Is there a natural way to stimulate GLP-1 production without expensive monthly injections?
According to science, the answer is YES! And it all comes back to supporting our gut health, balancing our blood sugar with the help of a select combination of powerful probiotics.
What all of these programs had in common was the knowledge that our body is one system that works interdependently. The brain is not separate from the body. Our emotional health is not separate from our digestion. Our sleep hygiene is not separate from our brain function.
All health is interconnected and it all starts in our gut.
That's why I'm excited about the scienCE BEHIND glp-1 probiotics.
They both know and support the research and dedication of Pendulum CEO, Colleen Cutcliffe, Ph.D. in Biochemistry and Microbiology from Johns Hopkins University.
Colleen and her two co-founders, John and Jim, began this company because they saw a unique opportunity to apply next-generation DNA sequencing technologies and microbiological assays to the emerging microbiome science space.
Together, they have built the first and only facility in the U.S. that enables commercial-scale production of live Akkermansia and other next-generation strains.
Pendulum products are high quality curated live probiotic strains designed to improve gut health, hormone balance and GLP-1 production to support your healthy weight.
They are a viable alternative to weight loss medications as they address the underlying issues that lead to metabolic dysfunction in the first place.
If you’re going to take something for the rest of your life to support your health, why not choose a product that is affordable, sustainable, and safe.
which product is best for you?
Pendulum probiotics come in different combinations to address different issues. It is important to understand which formula will best support you in your health journey.
Learn more about the formulations by clicking the button below.
I’m also available to meet with you to discuss how to begin if that is something you’d prefer to do.
You may purchase Pendulum products directly from the Pendulum website or you can get them for lower pricing via my Fullscript Practitioners Dispensary.
Fullscript is an online dispensary supporting your wellness by connecting the two people who know your health best — you and your practitioner. Accounts are $0/month.
Sign up and save 15% off the already lower priced Pendulum Pro products offered via my FullScript Dispensary.
Once you sign up, I’ll add an automatic 15% discount to all of your orders. FullScript offers a huge catalogue of superior-quality nutraceuticals and supplements.
TAKE A DEEPER DIVE
This is a recording of the recent webinar I attended featuring Pendulum Founder Colleen Cutcliffe and Dr. Kara Fitzgerald on the science and mechanics behind these weight loss drug alternatives.
They explain the science behind GLP-1 and how select LIVE probiotics are effective in addressing our gut health and healthy weight.
