It was day five, our longest and hardest day on the Coast to Coast Walk, a multi-day path that spans the width of Northern England, running from St Bess in the west to Robin Hood’s Bay in the east. Walkers usually allow fourteen days to complete the whole thing, but given our time constraints, we chose to walk the first seven days of the route.

Our trek had begun on the edge of the Irish Sea, and we quickly understood why the Lake District is known for its stunning scenery, variable weather and mountains (or fells, as they are called in England). The sea views had been quickly replaced by fields of sheep, steep ascents and hillsides clad in luscious green ferns as far as the eye could see. It was gorgeous, a bit wet and endlessly hilly.

Each day, we walked up and down over uneven ground, criss-crossed running water, and even scrambled on all fours up the steep hills. We opened and closed countless farm gates, said hello to all the sheep, and navigated our way past the high tarns (aka lakes) at the top of each fell. It was gorgeous walking, and I came to understand why this land had inspired so many before me.

When we’d booked this trip, I was a little skeptical of the difficulty promised in England’s mountains. Coming from Canada, we’d hiked in the Rocky Mountains, which are really big and very remote. How hard could the Lake District actually be? Surely they were exaggerating.

This wasn’t my first multi-day walk. Having previously walked The West Highland Way in Scotland and a portion of the Portuguese Camino, I thought I knew what to expect. The Coast to Coast would be my first big challenge after a health scare not quite a year and a half prior, and I’d been working out; my legs were feeling strong, I was rested, and I pictured myself moving along with ease and speed.

Boy was I about to be humbled.

If it was flat or downhill, I kept a decent pace. But walking uphill, I was slow. Like really slow. I huffed and puffed along, pausing frequently to catch my breath. My husband took most of our photos as he patiently waited for me to catch up. For the first few days, my spirits were high. It was magical and energizing. I’d take breaks as I needed, drink my water and start off again.

But, day five was another story. Enter meltdown Sarah.

That day, the guidebook promised 25 km, and some 1200 meters of elevation gain hiking up and over Kidsty Pike before a walk along the shores of the Haweswater Reservoir. We would then continue through the scenic pastures to start the Yorkshire Dales before stopping for the night in the town of Shap.

I knew the day would be long. I knew the first part in particular would be hard with a steep, breathless climb followed by a knee-buckling descent. I thought I was mentally prepared. Turns out, I wasn’t.

We started off at a good pace, and even though I was slow on the uphill, we made it to the top in decent time, breaking to eat lunch and enjoy the breathtaking views. As promised, it was steep on the way down, but we were excited to be near the water and pick up some time on the flatter part of the day’s trail.

In contrast to day one of our walk, it was now uncharacteristically hot and sunny. We’d come to Northern England expecting sideways rain and poor visibility, and instead it was like we were hiking in a sauna with nowhere to hide from the blistering sun. By the time we started walking on the flatter section near the reservoir, we were running low on water. No problem, I remember thinking to myself, we don’t have far to go now, and this should be an easy section.

Except, we weren’t really near the water. We’d been led to believe by the guidebook we’d be walking along the edge of a lake, and instead found ourselves navigating a narrow, rocky path of shoulder-height ferns for 6km. Ferns! I used to love ferns. Now another F-word comes to mind when I think of the green, leafy plant. We could sort of see the water, but it was more like a mirage in the desert that never fulfils its promise of liquid hydration gold.

When we finally exited fern-hell, I was sure we were in the home stretch. The signs showed that we had five miles to go. Miles, Sarah. Five miles. Not kilometres. Miles. In my delirium, I equated a mile with a kilometre. Not cool.

By now we were walking along a creek and through farmer’s fields surrounded by cows and sheep. The air was completely still, and I’m pretty sure every fly that wasn’t feasting on the piles of cow dung was whirring around my head. In a moment of despair, I lay down on the path and declared I wasn’t walking any further. Why did I think this would be remotely fun? My husband, bless him, stood there patiently waiting for me to come to my senses.

27.5km and 1300 meters of elevation gain later, we eventually made it to our accommodation in Shap. After chugging a litre of water, a cold shower, downing a pint, devouring a massive plate of the most delicious chicken curry, and having a chat with the fascinating innkeeper, I started to feel somewhat revived.

I wondered if maybe the day hadn’t been that hard after all?

Over the course of our seven-day walk, we met many wonderful humans. A couple close in age to us walking with their energetic dog. A pair of Aussies from Tasmania that made my belly hurt laughing. A daughter and her very complain-y, dramatic mother. And a guy who looked to be about eighty with his metal-framed backpack that might have dated back to 1970! I was inspired seeing people from all walks of life putting one foot in front of the other each day.

On day two, we had met a couple in their early seventies at the top of a very difficult climb. The path ahead was shrouded by fog, making the cairns hard to see, and the four of us crossed the ridge together, descending on the other side as the visibility returned. It was deeply inspiring to see them on the trail, and when we asked what their secret was, they simply said: “never stop moving”.

Never stop moving.

After my meltdown on day five, I thought about their advice as I walked. It would be so easy to give up. So easy to plant my ass down on a beach, disappear into a book, and check out for a while. So easy to just stop moving. But if I stopped, how hard would it be to start again? What if I never did?

One of the things that has surprised me as I’ve gotten older is looking in the mirror and not recognizing the face staring back at me. My mind thinks I am thirty. My body tells a different story. In a way, it’s been like getting to know myself all over again.

Seeing people older than I walking the same path reminded me that every day is truly a gift. It reminded me to love my body for what it can do. It reminded me that a smile and positive outlook go a long way. It reminded me that even a hard day on the trail is better than a day spent inside.

It was still hot on our final two days of walking, but they were thankfully drama-free as we passed sheep and cows moving through farmers’ fields and across the moors. I wasn’t at my best, but I took inspiration from those I’d met along the way, remembering that for as long as I can, no matter how slow, I’ll keep moving.

Tell me, has something ever humbled you like those few days I experienced on The Coast to Coast in England? How did you handle it? I’d love to know.

With gratitude and curiosity always,

Sarah

Memory Moment:

—> Has there been a time in your life when you’ve been tempted to give up when something is hard? What helped you during that time?

—> Who in your life (or someone you’ve met in passing) has shown you what grace and perseverance look like? What did they teach you?

—> As you’ve gotten older and your body has changed, how have you honoured the changes?

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Sarah Hepburn is a writer who helps curious humans turn their lived experience into meaningful books, chapters and legacy stories. Founder of Turning Pages Studio, author of “Walking Forward” and creator of the newsletter “a midlife moment”, Sarah believes in the transformative power of putting pen to paper and writing our stories and that everyone has a story that matters. Sometimes, it just takes a little space and the right guide to be told in a meaningful way.

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Book: Walking Forward is part memoir, part guidebook on how I’ve used the power of habit to navigate the chaos of life. Have you read it yet?

Write your Story: Have you thought about writing your story? Does it feel too big, too messy, or too overwhelming? Are you not sure where to begin? If you have a story you feel ready to explore, shape, or share, I can help. Find out more here.

I didn’t go to my high school graduation, and looking back, I realize that I never gave my parents a chance to watch me walk across the stage and say goodbye to the high school years. It never occurred to me that graduation was as much for them as it was for me.

I just decided it was over and moved on without looking back.

This week, my youngest son stood on stage, clutching a black folder that held his diploma and smiled awkwardly for the camera. In the blink of an eye, he walked away a newly minted high school grad. It was truly the end of an era.

Watching him, I knew I was graduating, too. I was moving on from a world where teachers knew their students’ names. Where someone cared if you showed up to class or not. Where there were always forms to fill out, dates to add to the calendar and parent-teacher interviews to schedule. It was a place where there was always someone I could call if I had a question. I will never again have the same connection to a place in my kids’ lives as I’ve had throughout their primary and high school years.

As I thought about it, instead of feeling sad, I felt oddly liberated.

No longer do my days and weeks revolve around a school calendar. No longer do I look at the clock and think, I’m late for pick-up. No longer do I need to worry about late slips, holes in the knees of grey flannels or wonder if I forgot to fill out a permission form for a school trip.

This week, I graduated from the in-the-weeds years of parenting.

I know there will be moments in the weeks and months to come where my heart will ache for a full house, for giggles during car rides to school and for a fridge that never stays full. But we are all ready for new beginnings. It’s time.

After he returned his cap and gown, hugged his favourite teachers, and said goodbye to his classmates, we walked out of the school together one last time. For a moment that had been anticipated for so long, there wasn’t any great fanfare. Instead, it was a quiet farewell to a place that had meant so much to all of us.

I might not have gotten a diploma this week, but I got a chance to say goodbye to one chapter and hello to the next. Even though it was my son standing on that stage, I felt like I graduated too.

Tell me, how have you felt when one part of your life ends, and another begins? I’d love to know.

With gratitude and curiosity always,

Sarah

PS - A reflection on being present in a time of change.

Memory Moment:

—> Do you remember your high school graduation? How did you feel? How did your family feel?

—> When you finished high school, what was the style at the time? Big hair? Plaid? Shoulder pads?

—> Write about your high school experience. Who did you hang out with? Who were your favourite teachers? What did you do for fun when you weren’t in school?

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Sarah Hepburn is a writer who helps curious humans turn their lived experience into meaningful books, chapters and legacy stories. Founder of Turning Pages Studio, author of “Walking Forward” and creator of the newsletter “a midlife moment”, Sarah believes in the transformative power of putting pen to paper and writing our stories. That everyone has a story that matters. Sometimes, it just takes a little space and the right guide to be told in a meaningful way.

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Previously …

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Book: Walking Forward is part memoir, part guidebook on how I’ve used the power of habit to navigate the chaos of life. Have you read it yet?

Write your Story: Have you thought about writing your story? Does it feel too big, too messy, or too overwhelming? Are you not sure where to begin? If you have a story you feel ready to explore, shape, or share, I can help. Find out more here.

I find myself in a season of change.

For as long as I can remember, I knew this time was coming. I thought I was ready. But now that it’s here, I find myself feeling overwhelmed, excited, scared and disoriented. My eyes fill easily with tears. My heart bursts with pride.

Two done university. One graduating from high school. Two kids leaving for the summer, then moving across the country to another province. Another navigating the rollercoaster of an ever-changing job market and the uncertainty of not knowing what comes next. Each one is going through their own big transitions, and my mama heart is holding space for all their excitement, stress, and nerves.

It’s a lot all at once. For them. For me.

Their entire lives, I’ve walked with them through new beginnings. The first day of school. Drop off at summer camp. A new sports team. Their first suit. I’ve cheered, I’ve consoled, I’ve laughed. I’ve ranted. I’ve cried. I’ve been there through the highs and lows. All of it. Every last moment.

Now, I find myself honouring their endings. The last day of classes. The last move home from university. Last drives to school. When they were little, I held their chubby hands. I’m still there but now, at a distance. It’s time for them to walk forward into their own magnificent lives.

I’m living a memory moment in real-time.

A few short weeks ago, I was on an emotional rollercoaster. Crying. Exhausted. Stressed. Angry. Constantly annoyed. As I wiped crumbs from the counter for what felt like the millionth time that day, I realized I was making this time about me. About how I was feeling.

My emotions were threatening to overshadow my kids, the very people I wanted to celebrate during this time in our lives. I knew that if I didn’t shift my perspective soon, I would look back on these precious weeks together with regret.

Instead of ranting about messes and chaos at home, I asked myself a simple question: What do I want to remember about this time?

Do I want to remember crying over anything and everything?

Do I want to remember losing my temper because the house was a literal gong show?

Do I want to remember feeling only stress because I was falling behind in my work?

Or, do I want to remember I let go of the little things? The laughter. Hanging out. Embracing the interruptions. Being okay with work slowing for a few weeks.

I want to be able to look back on this season and know I was present.

I want to be that steady hand in the chaos. I want to feel joy as they figure it all out. I want to watch with pride how their lives unfold. I want to let go and love in a whole new way.

Yes, I will be a ball of emotion. Yes, there will be tears. And yes, there will be so many other moments woven in between. I want to be present for it all. That’s what I want to remember about this time.

In the coming weeks, I will watch my beloved humans walk across stages, drive away to new beginnings and figure out what their days look like without the buzz of university life. When they look back, they’ll see me waving and cheering them on as always.

They will feel loved wherever their paths lead.

Tell me, have you ever found yourself in a time of big change? What do you remember? I’d love to know.

With gratitude and curiosity always,

Sarah

Memory Moment:

—> What do you remember about a time of change? When was it? What happened during that time?

—> How did you feel?

—> What do you wish you had done differently?

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Sarah Hepburn is a writer who helps curious humans turn their lived experience into meaningful books, chapters and legacy stories. Founder of Turning Pages Studio, author of “Walking Forward” and creator of the newsletter “a midlife moment”, Sarah believes in the transformative power of putting pen to paper and writing our stories. That everyone has a story that matters. Sometimes, it just takes a little space and the right guide to be told in a meaningful way.

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Previously …

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Book: Walking Forward is part memoir, part guidebook on how I’ve used the power of habit to navigate the chaos of life. Have you read it yet?

Write your Story: Have you thought about writing your story? Does it feel too big, too messy, or too overwhelming? Are you not sure where to begin? If you have a story you feel ready to explore, shape, or share, I can help. Find out more here.

It was a picture I hadn’t seen in a long time. A forgotten memory of laughter, silliness and connection. It was a reminder of a lesson I learned before I became a mum.

Before I had kids, I went with my parents to the wedding of a close family friend just outside of Mexico City.

The wedding was beautiful, and I remember dancing outside surrounded by a canopy of weeping willow trees with the stars twinkling overhead. Mexicans love their weddings, and this was no exception, with the party lasting until the wee hours of the morning.

But my favourite memory of that trip isn’t the wedding, it’s the silly moments with my mum in between the celebrations.

We stayed in an old hacienda that was reminiscent of a world long ago. The gardens were exquisite, and I wondered if I was on the set of a movie. Inside, the floors were covered in rusty coloured terracotta tiles, and the white stone walls were cool to the touch. There were dark furnishings, heavy tapestries, and dimly lit hallways. It felt like we’d been transported back in time.

I don’t think we were the only people staying at the hacienda, but for some reason, I don’t recall seeing anyone else. The house was huge, empty and at times, felt haunted.

Near our bedrooms was a giant dining room. Like, huge. The table must have been twenty feet long. From the moment we arrived, Mum and I were obsessed with this table, wondering who sat there, on what occasion, and, importantly to us in that moment, why were there so many wooden and ceramic serving bowls scattered about?!

In a fit of giggles, we decided to host a giant pretend dinner party. We set out all the bowls, laid just as many platters and placed a dozen goblets all over the table. Wooden spoons and candlesticks found in a cupboard were added to our display. We laughed hysterically and recruited my dad into our game. It was by far the best imaginary meal I’ve ever had!

It was like we were goofy schoolgirls, not a pair of grown-ass women.

Not long after that imaginary dinner party in Mexico, I became a mother. And in the years that followed, my playful and silly personality was buried under the weight and exhaustion of parenting young kids. It was like I had forgotten how to have fun.

As my kids got older, and especially when they were teenagers, I was reminded of what it meant to be fun and silly. Some days their energy exhausted me, but more often than not, their giggles energized me, and you’d find me mucking it up, right in the middle of it all.

Playing in that deserted Mexican hacienda all those years ago reminded me that goofiness doesn’t have an expiration date. That laughter is healing. That so many of our core memories are built around a smile. And, that imaginary salads are the best-tasting kind of salad, ever.

A simple photo transported me back in time. It was a spontaneous moment of joy with my mum. It showed me a younger, carefree Sarah. And it reminded me not to take life so seriously.

Tell me, have you ever come across an old photo and been immediately reminded of a time long since passed? I’d love to know.

With gratitude and curiosity always,

Sarah

Memory Moment:

—> Did you play imaginary games when you were younger? What did you play?

—> What about as an adult? Do you ever allow yourself to be silly?

—> Do you have a memory of being goofy as an adult when, perhaps, you were expected to be serious?

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Sarah Hepburn is a writer who helps curious humans turn their lived experience into meaningful books, chapters and legacy stories. Founder of Turning Pages Studio, author of “Walking Forward” and creator of the newsletter “a midlife moment”, Sarah believes in the transformative power of putting pen to paper and writing our stories. Because everyone has a story that matters. Sometimes, it just takes a little space and the right guide to be told in a meaningful way.

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Previously …

For More …

Book: Walking Forward is part memoir, part guidebook on how I’ve used the power of habit to navigate the chaos of life. Have you read it yet?

Write your Story: Have you thought about writing your story? Does it feel too big, too messy, or too overwhelming? Are you not sure where to begin? If you have a story you feel ready to explore, shape, or share, I can help. Find out more here.

The house I lived in until I was eight years old was recently for sale.

I loved that house. Even though I was young, I remember parts of it vividly.

When I close my eyes, I can see the big tree on the front lawn. I can picture the stairs to the second floor. My bedroom had west-facing windows and was always sunny and warm, even on the coldest of winter days.

There was a door that swung between the kitchen and dining room, and someone always got smacked by it when we chased each other around the main floor.

I remember birthday parties around the dining room table when we ate hot dogs and penny cake. Did anyone else have cake with coins hidden inside?

I broke my arm sliding down the wobbly railing on the back porch after being told not to. I remember talking to my imaginary friend named “Monkey” while my parents drove me to the hospital to get an X-ray and a cast.

It was more than just a house. It was a neighbourhood that felt like home. We weren’t far from a busy street, but somehow it felt like we lived in a quiet, small town.

I remember being devastated when we moved to the other side of the city. In my young mind, we may as well have been moving to the other side of the country!

There was a video of my childhood home in the real estate listing.

The house now has a large addition at the back, and aside from questionable decor choices (hello volumes of hideous wallpaper) and a cheaply renovated kitchen, there’s a lot that hasn’t changed in the forty-plus years since I lived there.

The big tree is still out front, the stairs to the second floor look the same in the centre of the house, and my childhood bedroom seems intact. Even the main bathroom upstairs hasn’t changed.

Maybe my memories are fuzzy. And maybe I’ve romanticized that house a little, but as I watched the video, I wondered how life would have unfolded if we’d stayed in that community. What would have been different? What would have been the same?

Childhood memories blur around the edges. Some details are clear, others faint, more of a feeling. Seeing that video was the best kind of trip down memory lane.

I wonder what my kids will remember about their childhood home?

Tell me, do you have a memory of the home where you grew up? I’d love to know.

With gratitude and curiosity always,

Sarah

Memory Moment:

—> What do you remember about your childhood home? Where was it located? What was your favourite room?

—> Were there sounds or smells that you remember? A creaky step? The musty basement?

—> What do you remember about your neighbours? What was the neighbourhood like?

—> Did you have a favourite space in the house? Where was it? How did you feel when you were there?

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Sarah Hepburn is a writer who helps curious humans turn their lived experience into meaningful books, chapters and legacy stories. Founder of Turning Pages Studio, author of “Walking Forward” and creator of the newsletter “a midlife moment”, Sarah believes in the transformative power of putting pen to paper and writing our stories. Because everyone has a story that matters. Sometimes, it just takes a little space and the right guide to be told in a meaningful way.

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A Curious Conversation: I’m having chats with other curious and magical humans for the pure joy of connection. No pressure, no agenda. Simply a 20-minute chat about life, work, family, dreams and whatever else comes to mind. Want to join me? I’d love to chat with you!

Book: Walking Forward is part memoir, part guidebook on how I’ve used the power of habit to navigate the chaos of life. Have you read it yet?

We weren’t talking about ourselves. The conversation had been about our kids and what they were doing for the summer. But then someone asked a simple question, and I was reminded of a time I’d long forgotten.

What was your worst summer job?

It was a summer in early high school. You know, the age where you aren’t quite old enough for a proper summer job, but by now, far too old for any camp options that might have occupied some of the weeks in July and August.

At my school, there was a notice board sharing upcoming events and other assorted announcements, and one day I paused to check out the listings. A small piece of paper pinned in the bottom right corner caught my eye: Wanted: Mother’s Helper for the month of July.

Interesting, I thought to myself. Followed quickly by, how hard could that be?

I called the number, made arrangements to meet the family and find out what the job was all about.

It was a family of four, husband, wife and two adorable six-year-old twin girls. It seemed simple enough; the family had rented a home for a month on a barrier island near New York City called Fire Island. We would drive down, I’d have my own room, food was provided, and my job was to play with the girls on the beach every day. The pay seemed reasonable, and I would have two afternoons and one full day off each week. The parents simply wanted an extra pair of hands for the girls so they could relax a little.

I’d never heard of Fire Island, but it sounded pretty cool. And, bonus, it was near New York City, so I presumed it must be fabulous. Somehow, I didn’t put two and two together that I’d be staying in a beach community on an island accessed by ferry with no cars. All I heard was New York City. Thankfully, I’ve since learned to do more research on where I’m going!

After a very long car ride from Toronto to New York, where I’d sat stuffed in the backseat between two very tactile little girls while listening to their parents bicker in the front seat, we emerged at the Fire Island ferry docks. I was tired and disoriented and felt like I’d been transported to another planet. It was a sticky, hot early July day, and, while chasing the girls around waiting to board, I wondered what exactly I’d gotten myself into.

The little cottage they’d rented looked like something out of a movie. White, slightly crooked and remnants of sand from the never-far-away beach all over. It was tiny, and as they hustled around trying to get unpacked, it dawned on me that this was about to be a 24/7 job. The walls were paper-thin, the rooms like closets, and it was suffocatingly hot. There was literally nowhere to go.

Each day, after breakfast, we’d head to the beach where I’d dig endless sandcastles, kiss boo-boos, and splash in the ocean all while the parents sat in their lawnchairs reading their books. Well, they did look up occasionally, but mostly to instruct me to reapply suncream on the girls. We’d go back to the cottage for lunch, followed by quiet time for the girls. The break I thought I might get while they rested never happened. Their version of quiet hour was anything but.

At night, after the girls were asleep, I’d retreat to my bed and try to block out the sounds of the parents arguing. He’d yell at his wife for this and that, and she’d yell right back. I wondered if they would start throwing things or hitting each other. Eventually, I’d fall asleep, often with the pillow covering my ears.

After ten days, I was exhausted and terribly homesick. I was with the girls constantly and never far from their arguing parents. This wasn’t what I signed up for, and as the days went on, things got worse. The girls were wild, and their parents clearly hated each other.

One day on the beach, I was building sandcastles with the girls as they played with two other kids about their age. Their new friend’s mum introduced herself, and I shared that I was working as a mother’s helper. She was really nice, and I was happy to have someone to talk to. For the next few mornings, we would chat while the little girls played. One day, she observed that I was often on my own with the twin girls and asked if I was okay.

Something in me told me I could trust her, and I blurted out: “No. No, I’m not okay. Everything is awful, and I don’t know what to do.”

She told me they were leaving the island the next day and offered to drive me to the airport on their way back to New York City. She offered me a lifeline. An exit strategy. I thought about it (and probably called my mum, too), then said yes. I couldn’t see things getting any better.

When I told the family I was leaving, they were furious. But by then, I didn’t care. I just wanted to go home. We left the next day, my new friend dropped me off at La Guardia, and I flew home from New York City. When my mum met me at the airport, I burst into tears. I was so happy to see her and knew I never wanted to look after little kids again! Especially twins.

I learned a lot about myself and the people around me in my short, never-to-be-repeated stint as a mother’s helper. Lessons that have served me well when I became a parent myself. I haven’t thought about my Fire Island experience in a long time. Maybe I’d blocked it out!

Standing with a group of fifty-somethings as we talked about what our kids were doing for the summer turned into a trip down memory lane for each of us. I heard stories about working as a cleaner at a resort, washing cars, and answering phones at an office. We all had something to share. Jobs that had sucked but that we’d all learned something from.

The question might have been simple, but for all of us, it unleashed a wave of stories and a sea of emotion.

As I shared my tale with the other women, I could smell the ocean and feel the grit of sand between my toes. I could see the twin girls’ blond curly hair and hear the raised voices of their parents. I could see the kind face of the woman who helped me get home and hear the anger in the voice of my employer when I told them I was leaving.

Transformational experiences never leave you; they become part of your DNA to decode in the years to come. Sometimes all it takes is a simple question to shape and share our stories.

And because the Universe has its own sense of humour, years later, I would go on to have energetic, at times wild, twins of my own. Oh, the irony.

Tell me, what was your worst summer job?

With gratitude and curiosity always,

Sarah

Memory Moment:

—> What was your worst summer job? Why was it awful?

—> What was your best summer job? What did you love about it?

—> When you were sixteen, if you could have done any summer job, what would it have been?

Subscribe now

Sarah Hepburn is a writer who helps curious humans turn their lived experience into meaningful books, chapters and legacy stories. Founder of Turning Pages Studio, author of “Walking Forward” and creator of the newsletter “a midlife moment”, Sarah believes in the transformative power of putting pen to paper and writing our stories. Because everyone has a story that matters. Sometimes, it just takes a little space and the right guide to be told in a meaningful way.

Appreciate this post?

This newsletter is free, but if you liked something you read, you can always leave a one-time tip:

Leave A Tip

Previously …

For More …

A Curious Conversation: I’m having chats with other curious and magical humans for the pure joy of connection. No pressure, no agenda. Simply a 20-minute chat about life, work, family, dreams and whatever else comes to mind. Want to join me? I’d love to chat with you!

Book: Walking Forward is part memoir, part guidebook on how I’ve used the power of habit to navigate the chaos of life. Have you read it yet?

Two of my boys are almost finished exams in their final year of university. The fact that they are graduating aside (that’s a whole other topic!), I’ve been having vivid flashbacks to how I was feeling when I finished university.

Spoiler: not good.

I’m pretty sure I spent much of my last year of university in complete denial that it was coming to an end and had exactly zero clue about what I wanted to do once I graduated.

The panic would come in waves. The minute I thought about the future, I’d immediately distract myself with whatever shiny object landed in front of me. This, of course, was before the age of cell phones, where avoidance now sits in the literal palm of your hand, so you might imagine how good I was then at finding ways to do anything but think about the big, hairy, scary topic at hand.

This included activities such as doing all my laundry and folding every item in my dresser. Going through all my floppy discs to see what I could wipe clean. Taking a nap. Partying. Dreaming about where I could go that was anywhere but grown-up-ville. Probably partying again. I re-typed essays. I had naps in the library while supposedly studying. I even made a half-assed attempt to write my LSATs and failed miserably.

All that to say is that I didn’t have a clue what life looked like beyond university and was paralyzed by fear.

It felt like so many of my peers already had jobs, had plans to travel or were headed off for more school. Thankfully, there weren’t the cheesy LinkedIn announcements proclaiming in that auto-bot kind of speak, “I’m thrilled to be joining xyz wanker firm as a slave to the man,” that there are now. But somehow, everyone knew what everyone else was up to.

During those final weeks of school, it felt like I was the only one without a game plan beyond moving my coveted futon bed home and crying into my pillow.

The afternoon of my final exam was one of those sunny April days, and on the short walk to campus, the streets were alive with students. It felt weird knowing this would be my last exam. That all the essay writing, class debates and exam studying were coming to an end. After all, I’d been going to school since I was four years old. What would life look like without the tether of the classroom?

As I entered the massive gym filled with what felt like three thousand desks, I found the tiny section where I would be writing my fourth-year public policy exam. I lined up my pens, a pencil and my student card at the top corner. I ran my hands over the composition paper booklet that I’d shortly fill with answers and waited to begin. I took a deep breath, knowing that I hadn’t prepared as well as I could have, turned the exam over and started writing.

Two hours later, I walked into the sunshine, final exam done.

After a night of partying with others who were also done that day, I packed up my car and moved back home to my parents’ house. It wasn’t lost on me that I was fortunate to have a safe place to land while I figured out my next move, but after living away from home, it felt odd to be under my parents’ roof again.

Agonizing about what to do next, I did what any responsible newly minted graduate would do: I packed my bag and flew to Australia.

Now, to be clear, Australia wasn’t totally out of the blue. My sister was there on a gap year, and I tagged along for the last part of her travels. It was a convenient escape that came at exactly the right time.

We adventured up the east coast following the well-worn backpacker route, travelling on overnight buses, trains, and ferries while staying in hostels and crashing on remote acquaintances’ couches in between. We hiked, we swam, took surf lessons, ate tropical fruit I’d never heard of and drank bottomless pitchers of beer. Sleep was not high on the priority list, but saying yes to everything else most definitely was.

It wasn’t all sunshine and roses, travel never is, and that’s kind of the point. But it was exactly the space from reality I needed at that time.

As we neared the end of our travels in Australia, we spent five days on a small dive boat on the Great Barrier Reef near Cairns as part of a scuba diving certification group. I wasn’t able to scuba dive, and while the others explored the depths of the sea, I spent my days snorkelling.

Over the next few days, I happily followed a giant sea turtle, wondering when it would pop to the surface for a breath. I had a moment of terror, Jaws theme song in my head, as a harmless reef shark cruised by. And I giggled when I saw Nemo’s (also known as a clown fish!) swim by. My worries melted away as I kicked gently through the water, and for the first time in I don’t know how long, I felt calm.

On the final night, the scuba divers did a series of night dives, and while they were underwater, I sat on the upper deck with the captain. He told stories of his days in the Chinese Sea on fishing boats and pointed out all the different constellations. You could tell it wasn’t the first time he’d told his tales, and I loved every minute.

As I looked at the stars high in the sky, I remember thinking I didn’t want this moment to end. That I wanted to keep travelling. That I had more adventures in me. That I wasn’t ready to return home. It’s funny looking back. One of those sliding doors moments.

When I returned to Canada, there was a call waiting for me from a previous summer employer. They needed someone to cover a maternity leave. Was I available? I said yes without hesitation, the fear of not knowing what came next having immediately resurfaced the minute I returned home.

Life has a funny way of working out. I just had to trust the doors would open when I needed them to.

I’d tell younger, new-grad Sarah something different now, but she wouldn’t have listened then. And, as it turned out, I was exactly where I was meant to be.

Tell me, do you have memories of a big transition in your life? I’d love to know more.

With gratitude and curiosity always,

Sarah

Memory Moment:

—> How did you feel when you found yourself at a transition point in your life, and you had no idea what came next?

—> Do you remember how you felt graduating from high school or university? Did you have a plan? What do you remember about that time?

—> What would you tell your twenty-two-year-old, newly graduated self now?

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Sarah Hepburn is a writer who helps curious humans turn their lived experience into meaningful books, chapters and legacy stories. Founder of Turning Pages Studio, author of “Walking Forward” and creator of the newsletter “a midlife moment”, Sarah believes in the transformative power of putting pen to paper and writing our stories. Because everyone has a story that matters. Sometimes, it just takes a little space and the right guide to be told in a meaningful way.

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A Curious Conversation: I’m having chats with other curious and magical humans for the pure joy of connection. No pressure, no agenda. Simply a 20-minute chat about life, work, family, dreams and whatever else comes to mind. Want to join me? I’d love to chat with you!

Book: Walking Forward is part memoir, part guidebook on how I’ve used the power of habit to navigate the chaos of life. Have you read it yet?

We’d arrived at the Budapest airport after an overnight trans-Atlantic flight, a nearly missed connection and, as we exited the baggage claim area, a random search of our bags by intimidating, stern military-type men.

Feeling a little on edge, I shook the cobwebs out of my sleep-deprived brain and found the taxi stand. When we got to the front of the line, I held up my phone to show the sullen-faced woman in the booth the address of our hotel. She said something in Hungarian, thrust a ticket at me and pointed to where we should wait for a cab.

When the taxi pulled up, a giant Hungarian man who was probably my age got out, wordlessly opened the trunk and helped us with our bags. Once inside the car, he turned to confirm the address by holding up the ticket I’d handed him. At this point, I wasn’t sure if he spoke English, and I nodded yes.

As we exited the airport, merged onto the main highway, and sped toward the central area of Budapest, I leaned forward and asked: “Pay by card?” A simple enough question, but we quickly found out he spoke fluent English as he responded with a thirty-minute sort of soliloquy rant I will never forget.

I’d been inspired to visit Budapest and experience the Széchenyi Thermal Baths, Europe’s largest medicinal baths. In fact, that was the only thing I knew about the city when I booked my travels. And, while the baths are outstanding and definitely worth visiting, what I remember most about my short time in the city was what I learned about its history and how past events continue to influence politics and culture today.

After my seemingly innocent question about how to pay, our cab driver freely shared his thoughts on everything from credit card fees and too-powerful banks to new soccer stadiums and the decline of the formerly dominant Hungarian water polo team. We learned he was a pilot, “small planes only,” and he started to explain how he came to drive an airport taxi, but launched off on another topic before we really understood why.

Somehow, a discussion about the weather, increasingly hot summers and the necessity of air conditioning set off a rant about Hungary as a now landlocked nation without access to the sea (this, might I add, occurred over one hundred years ago when borders were redrawn after the fall of the Austro-Hungarian Empire).

He spoke fondly of his childhood growing up in communist Hungary. “Communism maybe not so good for adults, but for the children much better to grow up then than today”. He accused Ukraine of trying to steal land from Hungary and meddling in the country’s elections. When he found out we were Canadian, he opined that Canada was just a “little version of the United States” and we should just get along with Trump (I bit my tongue hard on that one).

My son and I barely spoke. We were spellbound. He just kept talking. One topic, one opinion, one commentary after another. He barely took a breath, never at a loss for words.

As much as I didn’t see eye to eye with him on politics or understand how a century-old redrawn border continues to be a hot issue today, as our ride continued, we learned that he has a brother, is a father and that he is close with his parents.

As we got closer to our hotel, now weaving through the narrow streets of central Budapest, it dawned on me that we were both fifty-somethings who, at the end of the day, only want what we think is best for our families and our countries.

Maybe we aren’t so different after all.

Travel has challenged and reminded me that maybe the perspective I thought to be “true” was simply one version of history. That there are many sides to a story. That cab driver challenged my Western world perspective and reminded me that, when all is said and done, we are a lot more similar than we think.

When we arrived at our hotel, and as he helped us with our bags, he wished us a good stay in Budapest, assuring us in his thick accent, it was a safe city, “not ruined by immigrants like other places”. Of course, one more opinion, I thought to myself.

I stayed quiet, smiled, said thank you, and watched him drive away.

It was an unexpected, eye-opening start to what would be one of the most memorable travel adventures I’ve had to-date.

Tell me, have you ever experienced a short interaction with someone that left you curious to learn more? That challenged what you thought to be true? I’d love to know.

With gratitude always,

Sarah

Memory Moment:

—> When you’ve travelled, what has been one of your favourite things to experience?

—> Have you ever met someone and had the most unexpected conversation? Where were you? What did you talk about?

—> Think back to a time when someone shared a perspective that was different than yours. How did it feel? What did you learn?

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Sarah Hepburn is a writer who helps curious humans turn their lived experience into meaningful books, chapters and legacy stories. Founder of Turning Pages Studio, author of “Walking Forward” and creator of the newsletter “a midlife moment”, Sarah believes in the transformative power of putting pen to paper and writing our stories. Because everyone has a story that matters. Sometimes, it just takes a little space and the right guide to be told in a meaningful way.

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A Curious Conversation: I’m having chats with other curious and magical humans for the pure joy of connection. No pressure, no agenda. Simply a 20-minute chat about life, work, family, dreams and whatever else comes to mind. Want to join me? I’d love to chat with you!

Book: Walking Forward is part memoir, part guidebook on how I’ve used the power of habit to navigate the chaos of life. Have you read it yet?

I will never, ever, not in a million years, wear a grey suit again.

I decided this as a young girl and have stayed true to that promise ever since. Sarah plus grey suit equals not happening.

Have you ever made up your mind about something as a kid and never looked back?

Maybe it was a type of food? Maybe it was what kind of socks you like? Maybe it’s a disdain for overhead lighting? Something rooted in events or stories from your childhood that to someone else might seem irrational, yet to you makes perfect sense?

Grey suits, heck, even grey blazers, have that effect on me. And, it’s all because of one, once beautiful grey suit I wore as a young girl.

I don’t remember my Mum buying the suit for me. But I remember how proud I was to wear it. I remember the softness of the light pink blouse I wore with it. I remember my shiny patent Mary-Jane style shoes. And the white tights I wore under the knee-length pleated skirt. I remember the suit jacket with the collar that sat just so. I remember that if I kept my upper body still when I walked, I could get the pleats of the skirt swinging back and forth in a rhythmic, wavy motion. I remember dancing and twirling while wearing my grey suit, the slippery soles on my shoes spinning me faster than socks or bare feet ever could.

I loved that suit. Until it let me down. Literally.

It was Easter, and we were out for a family dinner. Easter used to be a dressier occasion, and I was wearing my favourite grey suit. I remember smoothing the front of my skirt with my hands during the car ride. I remember rubbing away a speck of mud from my patent leather shoes. I remember wondering if it would be a roast beef dinner or if there’d be another option on the dinner menu.

When we arrived, my Dad, ever the gentleman, stopped out front and said, “I’ll drop you guys off while I go park the car.” It was the kind of place where someone greeted you with a smile and a soft hello while holding the heavy brass-handled, dark wooden door as you walked inside. It was fancy.

It was the perfect place for my perfect grey suit.

That day, it was busy. Like, really busy. It felt like everyone had arrived at the same time. After Dad dropped us off, my Mum and sisters started up the stairs just ahead of me. As I followed behind, it suddenly felt like something was grabbing my ankles. I wobbled forward and almost fell.

When I looked down, I was horrified to realize that it was my pleated grey skirt at my feet. My white tights were now completely exposed! I stood on the steps, momentarily paralyzed in front of what felt like an audience of thousands and turned a deep shade of red.

In a panic, I bent down and clumsily pulled up my skirt, all while trying to get my Mum’s attention. The doorman, seeing my slight (read: major) distress, smiled in that kindly, I feel sorry for you way, as I walked awkwardly up the steps and through the front door. By now, Mum was at my side and steered me towards a quiet area to both calm me down and see how the skirt could be fixed. A short time later, using an assortment of safety pins, my skirt was secured in place, and dinner continued as planned. Wardrobe malfunctions be damned!

It was a memorable Easter dinner, that’s for sure. That night, after, as I got ready for bed, I said goodbye to my grey suit. I never wanted to have my skirt fall like that again. The suit I had loved so much was tarnished. It would never be the same. I decided that I’d never wear a grey suit again. Any other colour but never grey.

Years later, in my early twenties and about to enter the working world, my Mum and I shopped for my first grown-up suit. I remember seeing grey jackets, skirts and dress pants. I remember for a brief moment thinking how lovely a grey power suit would look. How professional I’d be. But that moment quickly passed when I had a flashback of little Sarah standing on the steps in a state of horror as my little pleated grey suit-skirt fell to the ground.

That day, I bought a navy suit. Grey suits be dammned.

Tell me, did you ever have an embarrassing wardrobe malfunction when you were young? I’d love to know.

With gratitude always,

Sarah

Memory Moment:

—> Think about a favourite outfit you had when you were young. Describe it in detail. Do you have any pictures of you wearing it? What did you love about it? How did you feel when you wore it?

—> Was there a time in your childhood when you felt embarrassed? How do you remember that moment now as an adult?

—> If you could give your embarrassed childhood self one piece of advice, what would it be?

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Sarah Hepburn is a writer who helps women turn their lived experience into meaningful books, chapters and legacy stories. Founder of Turning Pages Studio, author of “Walking Forward” and creator of the newsletter “a midlife moment”, Sarah believes in the transformative power of putting pen to paper and writing our stories. Everyone has a story that matters. Sometimes, it just takes a little space, curiosity and the right guide to be told in a meaningful way.

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A Curious Conversation: I’m having chats with other curious and magical humans for the pure joy of connection. No pressure, no agenda. Simply a 20-minute chat about life, work, family, dreams and whatever else comes to mind. Want to join me? I’d love to chat with you!

Book: Walking Forward is part memoir, part guidebook on how I’ve used the power of habit to navigate the chaos of life. Have you read it yet?

It’s been three years since Walking Forward, my first book baby, launched into the world. It feels like it was just yesterday.

As I held the book in my hands this week, I recalled that I’ve described Walking Forward to others as a book about how I’ve used the power of habit to navigate chaotic times in life. Which is true! But as I turned the pages and read bits and pieces again, I remembered that, to me, Walking Forward is so much more than just a book about habits.

It’s pieces of my heart and soul forever preserved on the page.

Writing Walking Forward gave me the space to explore stories from my earliest days, times of transition and seemingly everyday moments. The process of writing, the physical act of putting pen to paper and hands on the keyboard, taught me more about myself than I ever thought possible. It became a way to see how the puzzle pieces of life all fit together. Of my life. Of my story.

Walking Forward forever changed me.

Three years since publication, and even longer since many of those stories were penned, I revisit the pages with a curious lens. What still feels true to me today? What has changed? What do I know now that I didn’t before? What questions raised in Walking Forward am I still asking myself?

Walking Forward was a space to reflect on life and find clarity in unexpected ways. It was a place to share my perspective and experience. It’s a legacy that will last forever.

There’s more life, more chapters, more books to be written. Writing my story has taught me to ask questions differently and see the world through a lens of curiosity and wonder. I’ve learned to find the extraordinary in what might seem like an ordinary life.

All of us have stories worth writing. Some will become books and be shared with others, some quiet letters written only to ourselves. Regardless of the form, putting pen to paper reminds us of the wonder of our lives. That how we move through this world matters.

It’s as simple as starting with one blank piece of paper, one word, one story at a time.

If you haven’t read Walking Forward, you can find out more here and read or listen via Amazon. And, if you are local, you can order a signed copy directly through me. I’d be forever grateful.

Have you ever thought about writing stories from your life? I’d love to know.

With gratitude always,

Sarah

PS - I’m working with others to help write their stories as a way to process, reflect and honour the lives they’ve lived. If you are interested in writing your story, I’d love to chat. You can reach me directly at sarah@sarahhepburn.ca.

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Sarah Hepburn is a writer who helps women turn their lived experience into meaningful books, chapters and legacy stories. Founder of Turning Pages Studio, author of “Walking Forward” and creator of the newsletter “a midlife moment”, Sarah believes in the transformative power of putting pen to paper and writing our stories. Everyone has a story that matters. Sometimes, it just takes a little space, curiosity and the right guide to be told in a meaningful way.

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A Curious Conversation: I’m having chats with other curious and magical humans for the pure joy of connection. No pressure, no agenda. Simply a 20-minute chat about life, work, family, dreams and whatever else comes to mind. Want to join me? I’d love to chat with you!

Book: Walking Forward is part memoir, part guidebook on how I’ve used the power of habit to navigate the chaos of life. Have you read it yet?

Previously …

I remember attending my father-in-law’s 50th birthday when I was first dating my husband. The party was held at their home on a steaming hot summer evening. There were boisterous speeches, the pool was filled with balloons, and endless laughter filled the air.

I was in my twenties at the time, and fifty felt like some faraway point in the future. As I enjoyed the festivities (what twenty-something wouldn’t when there’s an open bar?!), I gave exactly zero thought to what my life might be like when I turned fifty.

After all, I had no plans on aging. In my mind, fifty was O-L-D!

A few weeks ago, my extended family gathered to celebrate my dear Aunt’s 80th birthday. It was a wonderful party full of laughter and love. While my aunt is in good health and has always had a lively energy about her, it struck me that my perspective on what turning eighty looks like had changed. Somehow, eighty doesn’t seem as old as I once thought.

In my early twenties, fifty was old, and eighty was ancient. But now, as a fifty-one-year-old, I see things differently.

I see wisdom and gratitude that accompany age.

I see families coming together to celebrate and honour loved ones.

I see a knowing that life is precious and fragile.

But I also see poor health and chronic pain.

I see unspoken regret.

I see sadness and grief for those who have already passed.

I know now what fifty looks like. And, thankfully, it’s not anything like my twenty-three-year-old self thought it was! I’ve also had a glimpse of what eighty, god-willing, could look like.

In my twenties, time seemed limitless. I took life for granted. In my fifties, I know different. But I also know that it’s never too late.

It’s never too late to reconnect with a friend.

It’s never too late to move your body in a way that feels good.

It’s never too late to try something new.

It’s never too late to get out of the house, celebrate and live life.

And, most of all, it’s never too late to tell someone you love them.

As the saying goes …The best time to start was yesterday. The next best time is today. It’s never too late.

There are so many things I want to tell that wild twenty-three-year-old. And I know there are many things my eighty-year-old self wants me to know.

But most of all, whenever the Universe says time’s up on this side of the earth, I want to look back at my life with no regrets and be proud of how I lived and loved and moved through this world.

So tell me, what would you tell your future self? What would your future self tell you? I’d love to know.

With gratitude and wild curiosity always,

Sarah

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Sarah Hepburn is a writer who helps women turn their lived experience into meaningful books, chapters and legacy stories. Founder of Turning Pages Studio, author of “Walking Forward” and creator of the newsletter “a midlife moment”, Sarah believes in the transformative power of putting pen to paper and writing our stories. After all, we all have a story that matters. Sometimes, it just takes a little space, curiosity and the right guide to be told in a meaningful way.

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100 Curious Conversations: I’m having chats with other magical humans for the pure joy of connection. No pressure, no agenda. Simply a 20-minute chat about life, work, family, dreams and whatever else comes to mind. Want to join me? I’d love to chat with you!

My Book: Walking Forward is part memoir, part guidebook on how I’ve used the power of habit to navigate the chaos of life. Have you read it yet?

Curious Conversation Starters: Need a boost for your dinner party? Bringing together a group that doesn’t know each other well? Download some free Curious Conversation Starters and let me know how it goes!

Previously …

This has felt like a long winter. Snow, cold and endless streams of horrible news. In many ways, it is still winter.

But then you have a day, just one day, where the sun is shining, where you hear the drip, drip of melting snow and for a moment, you feel the promise of brighter days ahead.

That’s how I felt this week as I walked in the woods at first light. Beams of sunlight filtered through the bare branches. The path, still icy, reminded me of winter’s lingering presence, but the birds were chirping, and the air was no longer bitterly cold. It felt like maybe, just maybe, warmer days lay ahead.

In a world that constantly demands our attention, winter forces us to press pause and turn inwards. Forces us to retreat and reset. Forces us to either endure or embrace what the season has to offer.

Winter is colourblind … an endless sea of black and white and grey.

This winter felt long. I lost track of how many hours I shovelled. I started to wonder if my front lawn would ever be green again. And, as much as I put my head down and got to work, it was hard to ignore the power-hungry, evil men determined to destroy all that is good about humanity.

Those beams of sunlight radiating through the trees reminded me that even in the depths of winter, the light of spring always shines through.

Maybe it’s knowing that, in a world that is scary and angry, I don’t have to squint into the darkness. That, no matter how heavy winter seems, the beams of light always find their way into dark corners. That there is always goodness and good people out there.

Soon, the colourful world of spring will arrive, and my street will be filled with neighbours emerging from our winter hibernation. We’ll lament lawns torn up by the sidewalk plow. Together, we’ll walk to the mailbox on paths now free of ice. We might even share a drink after a day’s yardwork.

The despicable humans of the world would demand we live in a state of endless winter. But even in the hardest of times, the collective good of humanity always shines through. And it starts with one person, one neighbourhood, one ray of sunshine at a time.

Wishing you a light-filled day wherever you are. Spring is close at hand, I promise.

With gratitude and wild curiosity always,

Sarah

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Sarah Hepburn is a writer who helps women turn their lived experience into meaningful books, chapters and legacy stories. Founder of Turning Pages Studio, author of “Walking Forward” and creator of the newsletter “a midlife moment”, Sarah believes in the transformative power of putting pen to paper and writing our stories. After all, we all have a story that matters. Sometimes, it just takes a little space, curiosity and the right guide to be told in a meaningful way.

Appreciate this post?

This newsletter is free, but if you liked something you read, you can always leave a one-time tip:

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100 Curious Conversations: I’m having chats with other magical humans for the pure joy of connection. No pressure, no agenda. Simply a 20-minute chat about life, work, family, dreams and whatever else comes to mind. Want to join me? I’d love to chat with you!

My Book: Walking Forward is part memoir, part guidebook on how I’ve used the power of habit to navigate the chaos of life. Have you read it yet?

Curious Conversation Starters: Need a boost for your dinner party? Bringing together a group that doesn’t know each other well? Download some free Curious Conversation Starters and let me know how it goes!

Previously …

My brain has been clogged lately.

So many thoughts. So many ideas. So many fears. So many questions. I suppose I’d rather have a clogged brain than a vacant one, but lately, it’s been slightly overwhelming and, to be honest, paralyzing.

I sat down to tackle this clogged brain issue by making a list. I’ve been a list lover my entire life. Lists always help! Make a list, Sarah! You always thrive when you have a good list!

As a teenager, I used to write down things like “make my bed” just so I could check off something I’d already done. I often have a list for a list. Some items might be circled, and others starred. Lists have always been a way to dump the ramblings of my brain onto paper and make sense of the daily cadence of life.

Except, this time, as I attempted to write my get-to-do list, I just stared blankly at the page. The only thing I could think to write down was “I don’t know”.

I don’t know? What the heck was I supposed to do with that!? Of course, I don’t know. That was the exact reason I was making a list in the first place!

The longer I stared at the page, the more I realized that the list I needed to make wasn’t a get-to-do list, but a brain dump of the questions taking up precious space in my wildly overactive brain.

I turned the page in my notebook and started a new list: Things I Don’t Know. And, in no particular order, scribbled my thoughts down.

Things I Don’t Know and other assorted musings …

• What’s for dinner?

• What am I going to write about?

• Where will my kids be this time next year?

• Where will I be this time next year?

• Will there be a global war?

• Why do my toenails always fall off?

• Why are groceries so expensive?

• Where will my next client come from?

• Will winter ever end?

• Will anyone read what I write?

• Am I grateful enough?

• Where am I going hiking next?

• What will need to be fixed next in our house?

• Will I stay healthy?

• Do I really need to shovel again?

• Can I run away and join the circus?

• What do I want to be when I grow up?

I paused for a moment and took a sip of my tea. The circus, Sarah? Really? That’s one of the things taking up space in your brain? Good lord.

I chuckled at my honest and, at times, dramatic list and realized that as much as I have questions right now, life has taught me that I actually know more than my spiralling monkey mind would lead me to believe.

So, I flipped the page and wrote another list:

Things I DO Know and other assorted musings …

1. Life has a way of sorting itself out. I just have to take a deep breath, trust and let go of the need to know every single detail.

2. My boys are strong, resourceful and wildly capable. The year ahead will grow and stretch them in brand new ways, and I will always be a steady, loving presence in their lives.

3. Just because I have questions doesn’t mean I stop and wait for the answers. Action reveals the path forward, one step, one decision at a time.

4. I am exactly where I’m meant to be.

5. Life is truly abundant. Even when it feels hard, I always have precisely what I need in that moment.

I read over my new list and smiled. My head felt clearer, my chest lighter. My obsessive spinning thoughts had faded.

The Things I DO Know list is one I’ll return to time and time again. My questions hadn’t gone away, but it reminded me it’s okay not to know the answers.

My brain might crave certainty, but my heart knows life is anything but.

Tell me, how do you walk through uncertain times? I’d love to know.

With gratitude and wild curiosity always,

Sarah

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Sarah Hepburn is a writer who helps women turn their lived experience into meaningful books, chapters and legacy stories. Author of “Walking Forward” and creator of the newsletter “a midlife moment”, Sarah believes in the transformative power of putting pen to paper and writing our stories. We all have a story that matters. Sometimes, it just takes a little space, curiosity and the right guide to be told in a meaningful way.

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My Book: Walking Forward is part memoir, part guidebook on how I’ve used the power of habit to navigate the chaos of life. Have you read it yet?

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Previously …

My hands were cold.

The sun had set in a soft orange-pink glow, fading gently across the sky. It was the kind of sunset you experience after a bone-chilling winter’s day. The full moon had now risen. Any warmth I’d felt earlier was long gone.

The lights had come on, and the night skiing crowd was out in full force. Music pumping. Colourful lights dancing across the hill. I could smell the cologne on some of the skiers as we lined up for the chairlift.

I was ready to call it a day.

As I turned to my husband to tell him I was heading in, I saw a look on his face I didn’t expect. I knew from earlier exchanges that he was also cold, but in that moment, something was keeping him on the hill. He smiled at me and said, “Come on. A couple of more runs. It’s so rare that the five of us are out on a ski hill together these days.”

He knew it. And, I knew it too. All three of our boys are moving on to new beginnings this year. As parents, one chapter of our lives is quickly coming to an end, and in that moment, we both felt it.

But the day hadn’t started so well.

It had been a rare middle-of-the-term weekend when the older boys came home from university. A rare weekend that home for them was more than simply a place to transit through between meet-ups with friends. A rare weekend that we could all say yes to a day together at our local ski hill without the pressure of other commitments.

And on that weekend, the one where you’d think I’d be over the moon with excitement, I was irritated with everyone who crossed my path.

Everything just felt hard. Trying to get my ski equipment together when I hadn’t skied in a year was frustrating. There was no food in our fridge to pack for lunches, and I felt that twang of Mom guilt for not racing out to the grocery store. Everyone moved at their own pace. And not always efficiently! One of my boys even sat and worked on a puzzle instead of getting his ski gear together! It all felt like too much work. And on top of it all, it was a freezing cold day. Why were we going to such lengths?!

We finally arrived at the hill, sorted our gear and headed for the chairlift. I still wasn’t convinced it was worth the bother, but everyone else was excited to ski, so I pulled my googles on and zipped my mouth shut.

I was annoyed I was grumpy. Isn’t this what I’ve said I wanted? Haven’t I dreamed of this day? Time with just the five of us together? Why, why am I so salty when I have exactly what I asked for?!

I pondered those questions on my first few tentative runs on the hill. Turns out, after a brief hiatus, I did indeed remember how to ski, and as I felt the rhythm of my turns and the wind on my cheeks, the grumps began to clear. I realized I’d been so desperate for us all to be together that when it wasn’t precisely as I’d imagined, I couldn’t see that everything I’d wanted was already right in front of me!

As our day came to a close, we stood at the top of the hill, under the full moon and the bright, night skiing lights, and acknowledged it would be our last run. We were all cold and tired, but I sensed that each one of us knew this was a moment to savour. A moment to remember. I snapped a photo, we all had a little cheer, and headed for the car.

After a rough start, it had turned into a spectacular day. One I’ll remember forever.

Tell me, can you sense when change is coming? How do you adapt in seasons of change? I’d love to know.

With gratitude and wild curiosity always,

Sarah

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Sarah Hepburn is a writer who is passionate about helping women write their stories. Author of “Walking Forward” and creator of the newsletter “a midlife moment”,she blends humour, wisdom, and real-world tools to spark honest conversations and foster meaningful change.

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100 Curious Conversations: I’m having chats with other magical humans for the pure joy of connection. No pressure, no agenda. Simply a 20-minute chat about life, work, family, dreams and whatever else comes to mind. Want to join me? I’d love to chat with you!

My Book: Walking Forward is part memoir, part guidebook on how I’ve used the power of habit to navigate the chaos of life. Have you read it yet?

Curious Conversation Starters: Need a boost for your dinner party? Bringing together a group who doesn’t know each other well? Download some free Curious Conversation Starters and let me know how it goes!

Previously …

It had been a while since I experienced the joy of chubby hands, tiny fingers and the squeals of joy that can only come from the mouth of a wee one. Maybe I appreciate it more now. When I was a mother of young children, I was probably too tired and overwhelmed to notice in the moment.

Now I’m wiser (and certainly more rested!), and when the tiniest of toddler humans grabbed my hand at a dinner party and said, “Come,” I abandoned the conversation at the “adult table” without a second glance. My new wee friend wanted me to play, and off we went to drive our toy cars around an imaginary racetrack.

Said racetrack was in fact a chessboard, and we drove our little four-wheeled wonders in and out of the chess pieces in a loosely choreographed way that only the imagination of a small child could orchestrate.

At one point, I looked over at the “adult table” and tilted my head to listen to the conversation. Part of me felt rude for leaving with my new friend, after all, I was a guest at someone’s home for dinner. But there was something about the moment of childlike curiosity that I couldn’t tear myself away from. I live in a world of adults, and that night gifted me the chance to see life through a different lens.

My new wee friend sat on my lap as we played. While I moved a car around the “racetrack,” they ran their little index finger along the distinctive vein on the top of my hand. I could feel the scratch of a tiny fingernail as they traced the edges of my wedding band. My necklace was a point of exploration, as well, when they pointed to it and gently felt the grooves of the engraving.

It was a quiet moment of wonder. I was reminded how simple it is to be curious.

I can’t help but think about what the world would be like if we were just a little bit more curious about one another. If we just took one breath before reacting, to wonder about the human standing in front of us. If we asked just one question that was gentle and kind.

What would the world look like if we pocketed our phones and smiled at our neighbour across the street, waved Hi to a stranger in a store and made eye contact with someone on an elevator?

What if, instead of deciding someone is weird or annoying or a jerk, we reacted with curiosity and instead, quietly asked ourselves, why? Why are they like that? Why am I bothered?

We can feel helpless about the state of the world. We can feel angry. We can retreat. Or we can be curious about what is right in front of us. And trust that curiosity that is kind, just like laughter, is infectious.

As I write, I look at the back of my hands on the keyboard. Just like my toddler friend, I trace my finger along each vein. Instead of wrinkles, I see wisdom. Instead of pale skin, I see a story of winter. Instead of weakness, I see strength.

The simplicity and wonder of the small hands of a child reminded me of the power of curiosity to change how I see the world. One tiny moment at a time.

Tell me, how are you curious about the people around you? I’d love to know.

With gratitude and wild curiosity always,

Sarah

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My Book: Walking Forward is part memoir, part guidebook on how I’ve used the power of habit to navigate the chaos of life. Have you read it yet?

Curious Conversation Starters: Need a boost for your dinner party? Bringing together a group who doesn’t know each other well? Download some free Curious Conversation Starters and let me know how it goes!

Previously …

I read an article this week about a group of women in Kyiv, Ukraine, who have continued to practice pilates together even when they no longer have any heat or power. I marvelled at the images showing women on pilates reformer equipment, bundled up in coats and hats, doing their exercises in a room lit only by the solitary beam of a flashlight set on the windowsill.

At first, I thought, wow, that’s impressive. That’s dedication.

But I’m not living in a country that has been at war for almost four years. I was reading that story while sitting at my kitchen counter, a warm mug of tea in hand and the privilege of knowing I won’t have to run to a bomb shelter in the middle of the night. Of course, I would think it’s impressive to show up to a pilates class in the middle of a war.

As I reflected on the article, I wanted to know more about those women. Why, when it would be so easy to forget about pilates, do they trudge across the city for a one-hour fitness class?

Is it for a moment of normalcy?

Is it to connect with a community that would otherwise be lost?

Is it to still live life even when life is turned upside down?

Is it a deep generational knowing that nothing is guaranteed?

Is it an act of defiance?

Is it all those things, and so much more?

Reading that article reminded me that even in the worst of times, life doesn’t stand still. There are always moments of goodness and glimmers of joy. Babies are born. People fall in love. Children laugh as they play in fresh snow.

Each day we rise, show up and meet life where it’s at. Each day, we remember that the world, no matter how dark it seems, shines in small ways. Each day, we are reminded that, just like the women who practice pilates together in a war-torn city, there’s always something good around us.

We just have to see it. We just have to believe it. Not once, not twice, but over and over and over again.

Tell me, in the face of hard, scary news, what good do you see in your world? I’d love to know.

With gratitude and wild curiosity always,

Sarah

Pause to Reflect

If you find yourself needing a little boost to your day, these reflection questions might help you get started:

Maybe today I’ll start …

Maybe today I’ll experiment with …

Maybe the first step is …

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My Book: Walking Forward is part memoir, part guidebook on how I’ve used the power of habit to navigate the chaos of life. Have you read it yet?

100 Curious Conversations: I’m having chats with other magical humans for the pure joy of connection. No pressure, no agenda. Simply a 20-minute chat about life, work, family, dreams and whatever else comes to mind. Want to join me? I’d love to chat with you!

Curious Conversation Starters: Need a boost for your dinner party? Bringing together a group who doesn’t know each other well? Download some free Curious Conversation Starters and let me know how it goes!

Previously …

We live in a world of visuals.

A world where we walk around with powerful cameras in our pockets and thousands upon thousands of pictures on our phones. Most of the photos we take, we never look at again. Some, we share in a group chat or on social media. We might even print and frame others.

Who out there has actually printed a photo lately?

Have you ever compared how many pictures you have on your phone to someone else? I’ll go first. At the time of writing, I had 31,623. How many do you have?

In the days of film cameras, I was careful about what photos I took so I didn’t “waste” the precious film on my camera. Now, I might take twenty pictures of the same tree, somehow convinced that in that moment, the tree might shift ever so slightly, and photo eighteen will be the perfect shot. Spoiler, usually the first pic is the winner.

As much as there is a larger conversation to be had about a thoughtful approach to picture-taking, what I really want to know is what the story is behind the photo? Why did I take twenty pictures of the same tree? What made the tree or that moment so special?

If a picture is worth a thousand words, tell me more!

There’s a photo of my grandmother that hangs in one of the bedrooms at our family cottage. When I look at it, I see a seemingly strong, young woman with dark hair in her track uniform. She has her hands on her hips and stands confidently for the camera. I know from family stories that she was a nationally ranked sprinter who’d qualified for the 1940 Olympics that were cancelled because of World War II.

I still have so many more questions! What was she thinking in that moment? Who took the picture? Was it hot that day? How had she done in her race? Did she have teammates? Where did she run? How did she get into track? I wish I had asked her more when she was still alive.

When I look through the pictures on my phone, I smile at some of the ones I’ve “hearted” and put in my favourites folder. Some photos get shared in our family group chat, and everyone chimes in with what they remember about that moment. I love those conversations.

Other photos, like the one shared in this newsletter, only tell part of the story.

If you’ve been around for a while, you might remember that in March of 2024, I walked a week on my own from Valença do Minho in Portugal to Santiago de Compostela, Spain, on the Portuguese Camino. To say it was a life-changing experience would be an understatement.

As I walked, using my phone, I recorded voice notes and took pictures to reflect on my journey. The photo you see in this newsletter is one of the few taken of me that is not a selfie. When one of my sons first saw the photo, he commented on how awesome it was that I walked by myself. That’s what he saw when he looked at the picture.

When you look at the picture, you see a woman who is smiling (a little red-faced from exertion!), kneeling beside a mileage marker on the Camino. She holds one hiking pole, wears purple trail shoes and carries all her belongings in an orange backpack with a blue raincover. Lots to see in the picture!

But that’s only part of the story. What I remember is the two Italian guys who took the photo.

Our paths had crossed when we paused at the mileage marker at the same time. Through my (very) limited Italian and some arm waving, I asked them to take a picture of me using my phone. I expected to kneel, smile and move along. Instead, for what felt like an eternity, they gestured to shift this way and that. Turned my phone portrait layout, then landscape. Then back to portrait. They seemed to want to get the photo “just right”. I had to stifle a laugh watching their theatrics.

Afterwards, we each bid each other “Buen Camino” and went on our way. I expected to see forty or fifty pictures, but when I looked, there was just one. One! One photo! I laughed for a good hour afterwards as I continued on my walk. How, after all that, had there only been one photo taken?

That’s the picture worth the (not-quite) thousand words!

I’m not sure I ever shared the full story with my son when he asked about my Camino experience. There were so many other things I wanted to tell him, and my impromptu photoshoot with the Italian pilgrims was a story that faded to a distant memory.

I know I’m not the only one who looks at pictures and remembers more. But how do I share the stories in those photos with those I love? How do I share pieces of my life so my boys know me more than just “Mom” long after I’m gone?

I wasn’t in the headspace when she was alive to ask my grandmother more questions about her track career, and I wish I knew more now. Even if she’d written even a few sentences about her experience, it would answer some of my questions. For example, she could have written, in this photo, it was really hot, and my shoes were borrowed from a friend and far too small ....

The power of writing it down tells the bigger picture. The power of writing it down shares the story of the photo as we experienced it. The memory from the moment.

Maybe it doesn’t need to be so overwhelming. Maybe it’s as simple as looking at what photos are in your favourites folder on your phone and jotting down some notes on the photo. What was happening when you took the picture? What happened afterwards? Make it easy. Bullet points! Who cares about spelling!

Writing down pieces of my story has transformed the lens through which I remember the experience. It has given me the ability to go back and remember the good while still honouring the hard.

And maybe, just maybe, tell my boys a little bit more about their Mom that they might not have known.

Tell me, when you look at a favourite photo, what do you see? Have you ever shared more of the story behind the picture? I’d love to know.

With gratitude and wild curiosity always,

Sarah

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My Book: Walking Forward is part memoir, part guidebook on how I’ve used the power of habit to navigate the chaos of life. Have you read it yet?

100 Curious Conversations: I’m having chats with other magical humans for the pure joy of connection. No pressure, no agenda. Simply a 20-minute chat about life, work, family, dreams and whatever else comes to mind. Want to join me? I’d love to chat with you!

Curious Conversation Starters: Need a boost for your dinner party? Bringing together a group who doesn’t know each other well? Download some free Curious Conversation Starters and let me know how it goes!

Previously …

I’m so Unc.

In case you aren’t in the know, “Unc” is Gen Z speak to describe when a twenty-something “feels old.”.1

The first time I heard it, I laughed. And was kinda confused. How is it possible that a twenty-one-year-old can feel old? If they feel old, where does that leave me?

What does old even mean?

Is it physical? Is it the creaky joints, the grey hair or the sagging skin? Perhaps.

Is it realizing that your kids no longer need you all the time and are out living their own lives? Maybe.

Is it when you use the flashlight on your phone to read a menu at a restaurant? Possibly.

Is it when you delight in going to bed at 9 pm instead of partying until the wee hours of the morning? My favourite!

When I was twenty, I thought someone who was forty was old. Heck, The Golden Girls were old when I was younger, and they were the same age as I am now! I’m not sure what I would call old anymore. Age seems less concrete as the years blur one into another.

As much as age gifts us wisdom, it can shrink us too. We play it safe. We stop dreaming. We hide. Possibility, like the years ahead, can feel limited.

But there’s also a freedom that comes with age. You know yourself better. You’re no longer willing to put up with crap you’ve tolerated in the past. After the intensity of raising a family, you have time for yourself. It’s exciting and unfamiliar and kinda disorienting.

Right now, the Unc generation (yes, that’s the unofficial title I’ve now assigned the twenty somethings) hears things from us midlife humans, like “you’ve got your whole life in front of you!”, “The possibilities are endless!” “The time is now to take chances!” “Yes, it’s scary, but it will be totally worth it!” And it’s all true.

But it doesn’t make it any less intimidating. It’s still that giant, unknown thing called life.

Whether we are in our twenties or fifties, or seventies, do we really know what the future will look like? Does the wisdom of age make it any less murky? Maybe Unc is another way of saying, I don’t know what the future holds, and I’m nervous.

I feel it in my fifties just as my kids are feeling it in their twenties. I don’t know what comes next either. In a way, I guess sometimes I’m “so Unc” too.

Tell me, how has your perspective shifted as you’ve aged? What does old mean to you now? I’d love to know.

With gratitude and wild curiosity always,

Sarah

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My Book: Walking Forward is part memoir, part guidebook on how I’ve used the power of habit to navigate the chaos of life. Have you read it yet?

100 Curious Conversations: I’m having chats with other magical humans for the pure joy of connection. No pressure, no agenda. Simply a 20-minute chat about life, work, family, dreams and whatever else comes to mind. Want to join me? I’d love to chat with you!

Curious Conversation Starters: Need a boost for your dinner party? Bringing together a group who doesn’t know each other well? Download some free Curious Conversation Starters and let me know how it goes!

Previously …

I’ve been thinking about what it means to show up even when it feels hard. Even when it feels impossible. Even when you wonder, why bother?

Like when you’ve just received a shitty health diagnosis and find yourself at a lively lunch with other women, quietly wondering if you’ll ever feel carefree again.

Or, you are in the depths of depression but manage to shower, put makeup on and drive yourself to an evening of parent-teacher interviews, but can’t remember a word that was said.

Maybe you attend a holiday party with your spouse and wonder if anyone noticed you arrived separately and barely acknowledged each other all night.

It’s a season of firsts as you desperately miss the loved one who is no longer there, but you smile and pretend grief isn’t overwhelming every bone in your body.

You could have had a brutal meeting at work and still force yourself to go for drinks with your team at the end of the day.

When we gather with others, we only know what we see and hear. What someone is willing and able to share in the moment. We only know what we know.

At recent social events, I’ve found myself quietly observing how everyone interacts. I hear the chatter. I see the body language. Smell the food and wine, or coffee. I wonder what isn’t being said. What hand gestures hide a painful story. Laughter that might be forced.

Who might be trying to navigate sobriety in a room full of booze? Who feels so overwhelmed in a group of people that they can barely speak a full sentence. Who retreats to the bathroom for a break from putting on a brave face.

For years, I’ve asked myself why show up if socializing feels overwhelming? Why show up if I’m not ready to share what’s going on in my world? Why be around people if I’m not at my best?

Maybe it’s craving a sense of normalcy.

Maybe it’s a reason to shower and get dressed.

Maybe it’s a messy attempt at human connection.

Maybe it’s avoiding the painful reality of life.

Maybe it’s a desperate attempt to laugh for just one night, one hour, one minute.

Maybe it’s all of it. And so much more.

This time of year, I’m reminded of the invisible loads we carry. Some shared, some held deep within. Perhaps there’s a trusted human who knows life feels heavy even though to many, everything seems fine. Appearances can be deceiving.

In a room full of people, sometimes it’s the simple things like a calm presence, a kind smile, a big hug and a giggle or two that can make all the difference. A quiet acknowledgement that, for some, whether we know it or not, just getting out the door today was a win.

Keep showing up. Messy. Imperfect. Present. Trust there’s at least one friendly face when you walk into the room. I needed the reminder recently. Maybe you did too?

Tell me, how are you curious and kind during the holiday season? I’d love to know.

With gratitude and wild curiosity always,

Sarah

PS - Did you get a chance to check out the “Curious Conversation Starters” l’ve shared recently? Let me know how it goes!!

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My Book: Walking Forward is part memoir, part guidebook on how I’ve used the power of habit to navigate the chaos of life. Have you read it yet?

100 Curious Conversations: I’m having chats with other magical humans for the pure joy of connection. No pressure, no agenda. Simply a 20-minute chat about life, work, family, dreams and whatever else comes to mind. Want to join me? I’d love to chat with you!

Previously …

My house is about to fill with humans for the holiday season. The mere thought of everyone being together gets me all tingly with excitement.

But, I’ve learned over time, it’s an adjustment. When everyone is away, the house is calm and tidy. And, when they are home, life is chaotic, and I start asking questions like: Why is it always so loud? Why is my fridge constantly empty? I thought I just washed that frying pan an hour ago? Seriously, woken up, again?

I used to not so kindly remind myself that “I love this!”, “Time is short!” “I’d miss it when it’s gone.” “I’m totally ungrateful to even entertain these thoughts!” And it’s true. A full house is a rarity these days, and I practically count down the minutes until it happens. I would miss it terribly!

I felt like I could never find fault in any of it. I felt like I had to suck it up. This is what I asked for. This is what I said I wanted. I’m an awful human for even daring to feel anything but joy.

As much as gratitude has the power to transform, when I pretended the crappy parts didn’t exist, it was hard for me to feel truly grateful.

To me, gratitude is an acknowledgement that even when life feels hard, there’s always a sliver of good. Gratitude doesn’t ignore the darkness but celebrates the light that is there.

—> “I’m grateful to have a full social calendar, but I’m exhausted, and tonight I need to go to bed early”.

—> “I’m grateful to have this person in my life, but right now, things are tough in our relationship”.

—> “I’m grateful for the times I’ve had with my loved one, but it’s really hard they aren’t here today”.

—> “I’m grateful we are all together and wish I felt well enough to fully enjoy our time”.

All these examples recognize both the good and the hard. I’ve learned there is always something to be grateful for, even if it looks different than what I’d expected.

This holiday season, I’ll be grateful to have a full house. I’ll be grateful for hugs and laughter and meals together. At times, I’ll probably be grumpy about the chaos and messy kitchen, but never not grateful for it either.

Maybe this will be the first holiday season my boys actually replace the beer they drink from the fridge?! I suppose one can only dream.

With gratitude and wild curiosity always,

Sarah

PS - Did you get a chance to check out the “Curious Conversation Starters,” l shared last week? Let me know how it goes!!

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My Book: Walking Forward is part memoir, part guidebook on how I’ve used the power of habit to navigate the chaos of life. Have you read it yet?

100 Curious Conversations: I’m having chats with other magical humans for the pure joy of connection. No pressure, no agenda. Simply a 20-minute chat about life, work, family, dreams and whatever else comes to mind. Want to join me? I’d love to chat with you!

Previously …