Tag: she leaves a little sparkle

Alignment

Kristine Binder

At 60, I would love to tell you I have mastered self-love — that I wake up every day fully confident, fully certain, fully comfortable in my own skin. I don’t.
Many days I am still critical. Many days I still question myself. Many days I slip into old patterns of thinking I should be more, do more, fix more.
But I am finally understanding something I wish I learned decades ago: self-love isn’t a switch that flips on. It’s a pattern you recognize.
So, on Valentine’s day, instead of asking, Do I love myself?
I asked a better question:
Where am I already loving myself?
And suddenly the evidence was everywhere.
I love myself — and my brain — enough to read and learn something new every single day. Growth is not accidental at this age. It is a decision. Curiosity is hope in action, and I am still planning a future I want to be present for.
I love myself — and my body — enough to move it with intention every day. Not as punishment. Not to become smaller. But to stay alive inside this body that has carried me through six decades of joy, heartbreak, birth, grief, laughter, and survival…no matter what it looks like.
I love myself enough to walk slowly. To practice walking meditation. To be still in a world that profits off my distraction. Stillness used to feel unproductive. Now I understand it is repair.
I love myself enough to eat foods that nourish me and foods that delight me — because balance is health too. Deprivation never healed anyone. Peace did.
I love myself enough to love Lucky, my constant companion. His love is unconditional and unspoken. He does not ask me to be younger, thinner, quieter, nicer, easier. He just loves me. And in that loving, he reminds me I am allowed to exist without performing.
I love myself enough to finally stand up for what I know is right. Even when my voice shakes. Even when it disappoints people. Even when it costs me relationships I once tried to preserve at my own expense. Silence is not kindness to yourself.
I love myself enough to allow myself to feel grief. Real grief. Not the rushed, polite version. I have lost people, versions of my life, expectations, and imagined futures. Honoring that pain is not weakness — it is loyalty to my self and my own story.
I love myself enough to surround myself with beauty. Fresh flowers. Music. Words. Reflections of sunlight. The small things that say life is still offering me moments of beauty and I am still allowed to receive them.
And yes — I love myself enough to buy the things that others think frivolous but bring me joy. Joy is not wasteful. Joy is maintenance for the soul.
So no, I don’t fully love myself yet.
But I trust myself more.
I protect my peace more.
I choose myself more.
And maybe that is what self-love actually looks like at 60 — not arrival, but alignment.
Not perfection, but permission.
Yesterday was Valentine’s Day.
I did not wait for love to find me.
I practiced giving it to the one person who has been here for every single moment of my life.
Me.

Peace,
#tutulady
#forwardisapace

Permission

Kristine Binder

“Your hair is gorgeous! Who does your hair? Is she close by?”
That’s how the conversation started in the gym locker room as I was pulling my hair into a ponytail before my workout. I was wearing the same sweatshirt all day—the one with “You are loved” written across the back. And maybe that message was quiet, unspoken permission. Permission to be kind. Permission to notice. Permission to start a conversation.
What followed was one of those easy, ordinary exchanges—hair, products, color, cuts, all the things women talk about when we’re standing in front of mirrors together. We laughed, chatted for a few minutes, and then went our separate ways to get our workouts in.
About an hour later, I walked into the sauna. And there she was again. When one of the other women left it, was just the two of us…..
She then asked how my workout went, and just like that, we picked up where we left off. And then, without warning, her voice cracked. Today was her birthday. A big one. Fifty. And she had no one to celebrate with other than her parents. The tears came quickly, the kind that have been waiting for permission to fall.
So I listened.
She talked about feeling behind, about what she thought her life “should” look like by now, about all those inner comparisons that show up on milestone birthdays. And then she said something that stopped me in my tracks—that she felt I was meant to walk into that locker room that today so she wouldn’t feel so alone on her birthday.
When it was my turn to speak, I gently reframed some of the things she was saying about herself—offering a different lens, one rooted in compassion instead of judgment. At one point she smiled and said, “I never thought about it that way.” And that moment mattered…..to both of us.
Because here’s the thing: people don’t always need answers or advice. What they need is to feel seen. To feel heard. To feel like they matter.
I don’t believe in coincidences. I believe in God-incidences. Moments where paths cross on purpose, even when we don’t realize it at first. And today felt like one of those moments—one quiet reminder that showing up, listening, and letting someone know they matter can make a bigger difference than we’ll ever realize. Life is funny like that.

Yes

Kristine Binder

For most of my life, “yes” came easily — sometimes too easily. I said yes to responsibility, to caregiving, to stepping in, smoothing things over, and holding everything together. I said yes to being strong even when it was quietly breaking me. I said yes to survival because it felt necessary, even when what I really wanted was to live.
That kind of yes kept me moving, but it also kept me stuck.
This year feels different. Not because everything around me has changed, but because I’m willing to respond differently.
This is the year of yes – and yes, most importantly, to myself.
I’m not talking about impulsive decisions or forced optimism. I’m talking about intentional yeses. Yeses to things I’ve never done before. Yeses to invitations I would have declined because they felt uncomfortable or unfamiliar. Yeses to challenges that pull me out of anxiety and into motion.
For a long time, fear made my choices for me. It disguised itself as caution and convinced me that staying where I was kept me safe. But staying where I was didn’t protect me – it just kept me circling the same thoughts and patterns, hoping for change without taking steps toward it.
Saying yes now means choosing experience over imagination. It means allowing myself to try without needing certainty or guarantees. I may not love everything. I may not enjoy every moment. But I am willing to show up and see what happens instead of deciding in advance that something won’t work.
This year of yes is about movement. It’s about curiosity instead of avoidance. It’s about letting action interrupt anxiety. I don’t need every step to feel comfortable –
I just need it to keep moving me forward.
So I’m saying yes – to new experiences, to challenges, to invitations, and to change. Not because I have everything figured out, but because fear doesn’t get to lead anymore.
This is my yes.
And I’m ready to see where it takes me.

Peace,
#tutulady
#forwardisapace

Happy

Kristine Binder

“The best gift you can give your children is them seeing you happy.”
Jeremiah Brent

I’ve spent the better part of the last eleven years being angry. At first, I thought anger was what I needed to survive. It felt active, protective, justified. But the truth is, I’m tired of anger. I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired in a way that no amount of rest ever really touches.
What I know now is that beneath the anger has always been sadness.
I’m sad that I lost my immediate family. I’m sad that my children and the people who love me carry anger on my behalf. I’m sad because this is not how I imagined things ending. And I’m sad that people can be cruel in moments when kindness would cost them nothing. My heart has carried all of that for a long time.
The last thirteen months intensified everything. Loss piled on top of loss, and grief was complicated by disappointment, distance, and coldness I wasn’t prepared for. Grief alone is heavy. Grief mixed with betrayal and unkindness settles into the body in ways that change how you move through the world.
I’m tired of living there.
I’ve always been someone who looks for joy. It’s instinctive for me. I’m the helper, the caretaker, the one who holds things together. I know how to create light for others even when I’m running on empty. What I didn’t know how to do – and am learning now – is to choose joy for myself without guilt.
Somewhere along the way, I built walls meant to protect me, but they also kept happiness at arm’s length. I stayed in motion because slowing down felt dangerous. I told myself I was coping, that I was managing, that I was fine. But treading water isn’t the same as swimming, and survival isn’t the same as living.
What shifted for me was realizing how much my kids see.
I don’t want them to see a mother who is always bracing, always exhausted, always carrying the weight of what happened. I don’t want them worrying about me or feeling like they need to protect me. I want them to see what it looks like to choose happiness – not as denial, not as a performance, but as a deliberate act of self-care after years of putting everyone else first.
The gift that keeps on giving isn’t perfection or strength or sacrifice. It’s allowing my children to see me genuinely happy. To see me laugh without restraint. To see me rest without apology. To see me live a life that isn’t defined by grief, even though grief will always be part of my story.
Choosing happiness doesn’t mean the pain disappears. It means it no longer gets to lead. It means I’m allowed to step toward joy even while carrying loss. It means I can honor what I’ve been through without staying stuck there.
I don’t have a dramatic ending or a sudden transformation to offer. What I have is a choice I’m making – again and again – to move toward happiness instead of anger, toward living instead of surviving.
Because Jeremiah Brent is right. The greatest gift I can give my children is letting them see me happy.
I’m still learning how to do that.
But I’m choosing it.
And that choice matters.
For today
and for what comes next
that’s enough.

Peace,
#tutulady
#forwardisapace

Becoming

Kristine Binder

Your past does not define your future. Not the good choices you made, not the decisions you aren’t proud of, not the moments that brought you joy, and not the experiences that tore you apart. All of it happened, all of it shaped you, but none of it gets to decide what comes next unless you allow it to.
For a long time, I carried my past like a verdict. I treated certain choices as proof that I should know better by now or that I had somehow failed myself. I replayed moments that went beautifully and moments that broke me open, trying to figure out what they said about who I was and what I deserved. I gave the past far more authority than it ever earned.
What I’m learning, over and over again, is that the past is information, not destiny. It can teach you. It can inform you. It can offer wisdom if you’re willing to listen. But it does not get to write your future on your behalf.
I’ve also come to understand how deeply belief shapes experience. What we expect, we prepare for. What we fear, we rehearse. What we believe we deserve, we either make room for or quietly push away. The energy we carry, consciously or not, has a way of finding its way back to us. What you believe, you receive.
This is a lesson I am still learning. Some days I catch myself slipping into old narratives, bracing for disappointment, waiting for the other shoe to drop, assuming the next chapter will be harder than the last. Other days, I notice that pattern and choose something different. I remind myself that change doesn’t require perfection — it requires progress. Small shifts. Better questions. A little more trust than yesterday.
Calling in the good doesn’t mean ignoring what hurt or pretending difficult things didn’t happen. It means refusing to let pain have the final word. It means allowing joy to arrive without immediately questioning how long it will last or what it will cost. It means making space for possibility instead of living in constant state of anticipatory grief.
I don’t want my future to be a reaction to my past. I want it to be a response to who I am now. The mistakes I’ve made don’t disqualify me from what’s ahead. The joy I’ve experienced doesn’t trap me in nostalgia. And the grief I’ve carried doesn’t mean more loss is inevitable.
So this is what I’m practicing now: choosing progress over perfection, loosening my grip on the past, and intentionally calling in what I want more of. Not perfectly. Not every day. But with awareness, patience, and intention.
Because the future isn’t something I inherit. It’s something I help create. And I’m learning, one step at a time, to call in the good.

Peace,
#tutulady
#forwardisapace