At fifty, I’ve stopped apologizing for the space I take up.
Because here’s what I know at 50: you spend the first half building everyone else’s nest. The second half is learning to fly out of it yourself—even if your knees pop when you land. Mom POV Rhonda 50 Year Old With
To be seen. To be a little reckless. To let my kids find their own way without me patching every hole. To remember what my own laugh sounds like when no one needs me for anything. At fifty, I’ve stopped apologizing for the space I take up
People ask, “What’s next for you, Rhonda?” To be seen
This morning, I watched my youngest pack a duffel bag for college. He tossed in a hoodie I’d just washed, not knowing I’d pressed my face into it first, breathing in the last of his boy-smell. I didn’t cry until the driveway was empty. That’s the trick of 50: you feel everything twice as deep but show half as much.
Last week, I bought a pair of red boots. Not sensible ones. Red. My daughter said, “Those are a lot, Mom.” I said, “Good.”