I turn 40 years old this week. 

The idea has not been settling well, and I’m not sure why. I’m an optimist on most matters, but this pivotal birthday has been bothering me. Perhaps it’s because I’m not quite where I want to be professionally or maybe it’s because ever since my mom passed away, mortality feels real and life seems fragile. Whatever the reason, I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching. 

When I was 7 years old, my dad spent hours assembling my Strawberry Shortcake dollhouse, taking time to ensure every plastic, colorful piece clicked in place so his little girl would squeal with delight on Christmas morning.

This is our annual Living Well issue where we offer suggestions and advice on topics related to fitness, nutrition and wellness. It’s always fun to brainstorm ideas and decide what content will benefit our readers or what’s the hot thing right now for consumers. Is it an eating program like the Keto diet? Is it an exercise craze like Crossfit? Or, perhaps it’s a product like CBD. 

As a kid, I took the Blue Ridge Mountains for granted. They were always there in the background, but I never paid much attention. 

Leaving Watami Sushi & Noodles on Main Street in Waynesville, I smiled at the hostess, a girl named Hannah. She responded with an expression of recognition and we chatted. Hannah is a senior at Haywood Early College (HEC). I’d met her the previous week when I taught a session on blogging. Though we’d only been together a short time, we remembered each other. 

Wed., Aug.14, marks the third anniversary of my mom’s passing. During those early weeks and months after she slipped into the great mystery, I wrote a lot about grief. This column and my blog became healing outlets. Kind, compassionate words from friends, readers and even complete strangers held me up during those early days following her death. 

We had plans to take the kids to a remote island outside of Charleston for a summer beach trip. I had visions of cooking big meals, walking on the barren sand, quiet evenings and mornings on a balcony, perhaps some fishing and kayaking off a sound. 

It’s important for us to name that which brings us gratitude. This week, I’m grateful for the fleas that invaded my home like a tiny insane army. 

One of my favorite writers, Gretchen Rubin, often speaks and writes about a concept called outer order inner calm. In the introduction of her book with the same name, she says, “In the context of a happy life, a messy desk or a crowded coat closet is a trivial problem—yet getting control of the stuff of life often makes it easier to feel more in control of our lives generally.” 

Last Friday, as I watched the U.S. women’s soccer team defeat France at the Parc des Princes stadium, I kept thinking how hot everyone looked. I enjoyed watching the game, but couldn’t help noticing the profuse sweating from players and spectators. 

Burlesque dancing may be in my future. 

Some of us gals at The Smoky Mountain News have been invited to attend a burlesque dance class. As we were mulling around the idea recently, I told them I could only do it on a weekend my boys were with their dad. 

The final school bells have rung. 

When I was teaching, the last few weeks of school were grueling and felt never-ending. Once students were finished with end-of-grade testing, they kind of went wild, as if they’d held it together all that time and could no longer maintain their instinctive desire to run, jump and talk nonstop.

Female empowerment is all the rage right now. From school-age programs like Girls on the Run to the #MeToo movement, the advocacy for equal rights and fem-respect is paramount. As a woman, I’m happy to see our gender being supported and heard. 

I was seven years old when my parents first took me to New York. We couldn’t afford to stay in the city so we rented out part of a home in New Jersey and commuted to Manhattan. These were the days before Airbnb and VRBO, so I commend my parents for being resourceful enough to find a way for us to make the trip, despite a tight budget. 

Late in life, my mom created a bucket list. It wasn’t in response to her cancer diagnosis, but once she passed away, the list became serendipitous. 

One item on her list said, “Take a trip to Africa.” 

I’ve learned it’s impossible to make everyone happy. 

This column has been a part of my life for a number of years. I remember my first meeting with Scott McLeod, the publisher of The Smoky Mountain News. We met for coffee to discuss how the column would manifest. There’d been only a handful of female columnists before me and he wanted a woman’s voice included in the Opinion section of the paper. 

I’m sick of looking at a pair of stylish winter boots sitting beside my bedroom door. I have other cold-weather shoes, but these gray boots seem to go with almost every outfit and also stay dry in the wetness that has become the meteorological norm as of late. Each time I pull these boots over socked feet, I’m reminded that spring has still not quite sprung. 

Ever had a life-changing book fall into your literal hands? This happened to me recently. 

I order my favorite rare, organic products through an online company called Thrive Market. I’m offered a free gift with each order. About five months ago, I received powdered collagen, which has since become all the rage with folks trying to preserve their skin, hair, bones and joints. Now, I’m hooked on it. 

Both my parents were teachers. My earliest memories are of my dad sitting at our dining room table grading papers or writing grants. Once I started school, my afternoon routine was to hang out in the media center at my mom’s school, munching on snacks from the vending machine, while she wrapped up for the day. 

When my mom was living, she owned a tour company called Southern Comfort Tours. She opened the business in her 60s after retiring from 30 years in education. It was a lifelong dream and she made it happen. 

Along with extensive trips, she offered small day trips around Western North Carolina and other areas of the Southeast. One of her day trips was to Hendersonville where she would take guests to places like Flat Rock Playhouse, Highland Lake Inn and the Carl Sandburg home. She loved talking about her itineraries and chattering about this location or that venue.

“It is a cruel jest to say to a bootless man that he ought to lift himself by his own bootstraps.” 

I recently stumbled upon this quote by Martin Luther King Jr. It was from a video interview he did years ago. Dr. King, of course, was talking about African-Americans and how it was simply wrong and unfair to free them from slavery yet give them no land, no money, no food and no boots and still expect them to create a life for themselves. 

Last week my boys flew on an airplane for the first time without me. I was a nervous wreck to say the least. They went on a trip to Universal Studios with their dad and his girlfriend, so aside from already being sad about not being there to make memories with them, my stress was heightened by the fact they were in the air and I was on the ground. 

The hardest part about divorce is missing out on chunks of your children’s lives. As their mom, it feels disorienting to not be with my children all the time or for them to experience new adventures of which I’m not a part. 

I haven’t always known how to feel grateful or identify the feeling of joy. There are certain lessons in life only learned through experience. No matter how many books are read or classes taken, hard-fought living is our one true teacher. In this season of gratitude, I’m reminded that my ability to feel thankful and happy is a recent revelation. I’ve also realized that through loss, a person can gain everything.

When the winds rage the sea, we look for an anchor. 

As my life continues to unfold, I’m learning there are things over which I have little control. Like any human, I at first try to manhandle situations. Every single time, I try to come up with a solution or fix the issue before I realize God and the universe have other plans. I’m working hard to stop this and rather, approach each day with curious expectation. 

Funny how when you’re living in a moment, you don’t realize how truly special the moment is. Only later in life does the full onslaught of gratitude cover you like a warm nostalgic blanket. That’s how I feel when I reflect upon Thanksgiving days of the past. 

Every Thanksgiving morning, my sister and I would wake up and wander into the kitchen bleary-eyed and still wearing pajamas. As the Asheville Christmas Parade played on WLOS, my mom would be sipping coffee and have already cooked cornbread and biscuits, the beginning ingredients for my great-grandmother’s dressing recipe. 

The night after my mom died, my dad stepped out on the front porch with my brother-in-law, whose father had passed away only a month earlier. As they looked up, two shooting stars, one after the other, flew through the night sky. We were convinced it was our two family members comforting us from afar.

Almost two years ago, I traveled to Iowa with a close friend of mine. We visited her hometown to see her family and attend a concert. One day, we shopped around at a popular store called RAYGUN. It’s one of those quirky stores with cards, magnets, T-shirts, pint glasses and other items adorned with sarcastic, political or satirical sayings and quips. 

My name is Susanna and I am terribly unorganized. 

I’m not a messy person or a hoarder, just disorganized. My desk is a mess of papers and sticky notes. I always have a million tabs open on my laptop. My closets and cabinets and pantry are full of stuff with no thought to rhyme or reason. I have to dig in my purse for three minutes to find lip balm. My shoes are thrown into the bottom of my closet so it takes inordinate amounts of time to find a matching pair. 

I took my first baton lesson when I was 3 years old. My sister had been twirling for a while, so baton practice and competitions were the norm for our family. Four of our baton teachers were Clemson Tiger majorettes and my parents grew up in Greenville, S.C. We frequented many a football game in Death Valley wearing purple and orange and hearing “Tiger Rag.” 

Three of life’s top five stressors are death of a loved one, divorce and moving. Within the past two years, my mom passed away, I got a divorce and bought a house. I say this not for pity but as a fact that’s required for the rest of this column to unfold, and the anniversary of my mom’s death is this week so it’s hard to think of anything else.

Growing up, my family had an abundance of cats running amok. These were the days before spaying and neutering were common occurrences. We all know what happens when there’s no protection against the passions of nature, so inevitably we had a feline family much bigger than our own. 

Each time a litter was born, we would keep a few kittens and give others away to neighbors or friends. I remember my sister and I feeding many a kitten with a medicine dropper, making cozy beds for them out of Avon boxes and towels, and nursing those with parasites back to health. She and I also created a pet cemetery in the woods behind our house where we would hold a memorial service and bury the cats or kittens that passed on. 

Are you a lake person or a beach person? I always thought I was a beach person, but now I’m not so sure. 

I’ve written about my childhood beach trips before and with it being July Fourth week, nostalgia is more paramount than ever. As a little girl, Independence Days were always, always spent at Ocean Lakes Campground in Surfside Beach, just south of Myrtle. 

During a divorce, one person is required to move out of the family home. After months of rigmarole and this and that, I decided that person would be me. No one particularly wants to leave the place where children grew up and memories were made but then again, it’s easier to cope with the emotions when you’re not constantly staring at wedding china or knick-knacks bought on summer vacations. 

It’s high stakes testing week for students and educators in Haywood County. This is my 9-year old’s first year taking an End-of-Grade test and he is very nervous about it. When I was teaching, I remember this time of year looming ahead like an ugly, stressful punctuation mark to a well-constructed, creative sentence. 

Watching my two little boys get excited about summer vacation makes me reflect upon my own childhood summers. Both my parents were teachers, so the countdown to that last day of school was a significant family event. 

Last week, I went to a conference in L.A. with 800 other moms who tell their stories through creative outlets, whether it be blogging, writing, photography, video or social media. Flying out on Wednesday, I was feeling significant mom guilt about leaving my boys and indulging in a conference in sunny California. 

Certain memories or events in life stand out as paramount, like a utopian experience that seems more like a movie than reality. This past weekend was one of those for me. Over 24 hours spent running in the backwoods of Western North Carolina bolstered my faith in humanity.

When life turns upside down, we have options. We can sink into the darkness and find comfort in substances and risky behaviors. Or we can search for the light, wherever that may be. 

Coping with the death of my mom and divorce during the same time period was almost debilitating. My two little boys got me through the first stretch. I had no choice but to wake up every day and put on a smile. Some days I merely went through the motions of being a mom, and that was enough to stay afloat. 

Growing up, we had a little blue and white camper at Ocean Lakes Campground in Surfside Beach, South Carolina. It was our go-to place for every vacation. 

My parents were teachers with second jobs, so we didn’t go on too many extravagant trips during my youngest years. When I got older, we traveled more extensively. We went to New York City a couple of times, took a three-week cross country trip, and went to Hawaii and Europe, among other things. 

Recently, I spent time in the tri-cities of Rutherford County, N.C. Spindale, Forest City and Rutherfordton make up this trifecta of small towns nestled in the foothills.

Our first stop was Copper Penny restaurant in Forest City. While we were waiting on the rest of our group, I noticed the hardwood floors and tin ceiling and felt a familiar pang of nostalgia, a longing for something I never had and that’s now impossible to experience. 

I didn’t go to church growing up, but my parents were the godliest people I knew. They were giving, compassionate, selfless, honest, humble and forgiving. They exemplified the true qualities of “people with faith.” 

I’m not a snob. In fact, I’m more of a bleeding heart. But when it comes to beer and coffee, I’m admittedly a bit of an elitist. 

There’s a road in Waynesville called the homeless highway. It runs from Frog Level to Hazelwood and during any given week, you’ll see folks walking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. The end points of this beaten path are The Open Door and Haywood Pathways Center, two establishments offering physical and spiritual nourishment to weary souls.

While standing atop a black diamond run at Beech Mountain last weekend, several thoughts crossed my mind.

It’s been a really long time since I’ve done this.