Six Decades Later: Finding My Voice
Reflections on life, voice, and beginning again after sixty.
Today someone wrote the words six decades about my life. Seeing it in black and white made me pause for a moment.
Six decades. Lord, I thank you.
It’s funny how a simple phrase can make you stop and look at your whole life differently.
Growing up, I didn’t always feel like I fit neatly into the mold my family expected. I was the serious one. The quiet observer. The one who noticed things and thought about things long after everyone else had moved on. When I did speak, I was often told I talked too much—not because I truly talked too much, but because sometimes what I said made people feel exposed.
Looking back now, I realize those experiences shaped me more than I understood at the time. When you live long enough, you begin to see your life in chapters instead of moments.
For years I heard that I wasn’t smart enough for college. That I would never amount to much after starting a family at nineteen. But life has a way of revealing the truth over time.
At fifty-one I finished my Bachelor’s degree in Social Science, and at fifty-three I earned my Master of Public Administration. Those accomplishments didn’t just represent degrees on paper—they represented finding my voice and finally having the courage to silence the noise that told me I would never become anything.
When I walked across the stage to receive my master’s degree, the only family members who came were my two children. They arrived late, and for a moment a familiar thought crossed my mind: maybe I’m not really that important.
But life has taught me something since then. Sometimes the person who needs to show up the most for you… is you.
Finding my voice didn’t happen overnight.
At forty-two, I made a decision that many people didn’t understand—I moved to Minnesota, leaving my family behind in Georgia. Atlanta wasn’t far enough from Athens for me to truly become myself. I needed distance. I needed space to breathe.
The transition was difficult at first. Minnesota felt like another world. In the South, you greet people when you walk into a store. You speak when you pass someone on the street. Here, people moved quietly, keeping to themselves. It was culture shock in the truest sense.
But in that quiet space, something unexpected happened.
I began to discover myself.
I explored vegan and raw foods. I returned to sewing. I became what I jokingly call the DIY queen—making my own hair products, mixing oils for aromatherapy, learning the properties of herbs and flowers, even making soap.
Somewhere along the journey, I realized something important: when you step far enough away from the noise around you, you finally have the chance to hear your own voice.
Transition is a powerful word. Or as I like to call it—my Second Act, because I am certainly not done yet.
As I opened my laptop today and reflected on six decades of life, I realized something else: I really have lived. With passport in hand, moving to Minnesota allowed me to execute dreams I once only had while sitting in the library in high school, escaping through books to places I could only imagine.
Somehow life carried me beyond those pages. I didn’t just read about the world—I experienced it.
In June of 2025, I finally started the blog I had been thinking about for years. I had already paid for the website for two years, but like many dreams we hold close, I kept telling myself: next week… next month… maybe next year.
But eventually the question became clear: if not now, when?
So here I am, stepping fully into my Second Act. Leaving behind the constant struggle of time-off requests in my sixties and the exhausting dance of office politics that rarely reflect the work we are actually trying to do.
Instead, I am choosing something different.
Reflection. Creativity. Freedom.
Six decades later, I am finally walking fully in my voice.
And the beautiful thing about a second act is this:
The story isn’t over yet.
