Tag Archives: writing

Claiming my Birthright. 72 My Way!

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My birthday photo today. 72 and I get to choose to not wear make-up!

Another year around the sun, and the emotions are a chaotic, beautiful mess. Joy and weariness co-exist. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? Today, I claim my birthright: unadulterated self-celebration.

Birthdays are a moment of necessary, guilt-free narcissism. We get to hit pause and declare: This is all about me.

But this year’s number – 72 – is different. Seventy-one was the year I finally got clear. I stopped tiptoeing around other people’s visions for my life and stepped fully into my own power. I shed the fear of upsetting someone else’s apple cart and chose to claim ‘the more’ I truly want.

It was a challenging year. We weathered my husband’s health storms, navigating travel with his oxygen and wheelchairs. Yet, I found myself more confident than ever, able to right my own boat in any sea. It was a year of profound firsts: traveling to Europe, (the continent where I spent most of my formative years) with my youngest daughter, discovering Malta (and Maltese hospitality! wow!), and even living on an island.

More than any of those adventures, this past year I finally put down the metaphorical knife I used to fend off intruders to my personal space. I don’t need defense; I need declaration. I claimed my space. Unequivocally.

Here’s to aging, not worrying about whether it’s “graceful” or “fierce.”

Here’s to claiming the right to do it however I damn well please.

Lover, Partner, Caregiver: Balancing Life Now With Life Imagined

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A photo of two friends, a husband and wife, hugging, waist-deep in the Mediterranean sea, flits across my social media page.

My mind immediately trips me up, spitting me out of contentment with the speed of a child emptying a bowl of mushed peas onto the floor. “C.C. and you will never do that again,” the harsh, woebegone critic hisses. I remind him he’s not welcome here, but the critic pays no heed. His niggling at my peace is relentless.

C.C. is my husband. His health has been severely compromised by COPD and a year of on-again, off-again pneumonia. With each passing day, the list of ‘Things we’ll never do together again’ grows.

This struggle, watching his health decline while my attitude eroded, is why Dear Me, I Love You, was born. I saw a harshness creeping into my voice and a lack of care: who cares if the soup is slopping onto the tray? He should be thankful I serve him at all! That negativity required a fast attitude adjustment.

Whether life is getting me down or lifting me up, writing these poems grounds me in the moment. Like the automatic joy of children’s laughter, writing urges me to stop peering into the darkness and look up. I’m learning that the true challenge isn’t a lack of Love — Love flows, always, everywhere. The challenge is my attitude.

Life Now, Life Imagined
by Louise Gallagher

I struggle some days
to balance
life now
with life imagined.

How two words
juxtaposed
jammed together
have the power
to redefine me.

I struggle to contain
the roles I inhabit
Lover,
friend,
partner,
co-conspirator
and in all of it, that word.
Caregiver.

The heavier the struggle
the greater the need
to retreat
and find solace
in the one place
that soothes 
my confusion
my fear
my anger.

Love.
No matter how
battered and torn
my heart
is all I have
to lean into.

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The Petulant Critic and the Mona Lisa Smile

Month 2 – Day 9: The challenge of the caregiver: How to find yourself, and choose love, when the voice of fear keeps asking, “Where did you go?”

She Dares by Louise Gallagher

Oct 10, 2025

4:00 am. My mind drifts into wakefulness, still shaking off a disturbing dream.

In it, I am walking a path across a field. A snake appears on the trail. Mouth spilling letters like jelly beans, he spies me and slithers away. The scattered letters dance a frenzied jig, then fall in scattered sequence into a question I desperately try not want read: “Where did you go?”

Angry, I rush forward to kick their accusatory presence away, but a woman appears on the trail. Her smile, as enigmatic as a Mona Lisa, is her only response. She holds out her hands, and the letters leap up to form a radiant diamond necklace around her neck.

What the feck?

This dream crystallizes the biggest challenge of my life as a full-time caregiver: To not lose myself in the midst of caring for another. Somewhere in the daily angst and confusion of watching the man I love lose ground to this almost year-long pneumonia that has complicated his COPD even further, I have lost ground against anger, regret, and fear. My disgruntled state of mind has disrupted everything, compromising the very kindness and compassion I strive to live by.

The internal critic hisses the question: Where did I go?

Today’s poem for Month 2: Day 9 of Dear Me, I Love You, my mission to write a love poem a day for a year is the answer. I’m finding myself again, right where I belong, anchored in these words reminding me to Choose Love. Always.

The Sage’s Silence
by Louise Gallagher

With the whine of a petulant child,
the critic within asks,
“Where did you go?”

The Sage holds her silence in grace,
her Mona Lisa smile
her only response.

She knows I am right here
anchored in the Now
which cannot be anywhere else
but where Love is
when I lean into her tender voice
urging me 
with every breath
to Choose Love. Always.

Magic Happens When We Stop Shrinking

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I saw an image on Instagram this morning that really resonated with me. A beautiful butterfly with the caption: “Magic happens when you stop shrinking to fit spaces you’ve outgrown.”

It’s how I look at aging. I’ve outgrown my 50s, 60s, and now, I’m growing and expanding into my 70s, devouring every delicious bite of being this age of empowered living.

Somewhere in my 30s, I realized I was being sold a load of horse-manure by the cosmetic industry. “Anti-aging.” “Anti-vaginal odor.” “Anti-anything” some clever marketer thought women should address in order to stay, reclaim, or feel young again.

It was as if they were whispering (though it often felt like shouting), “Being your age is okay, but looking, smelling, and feeling it? No way! That just means you’re old.”

Well, guess what? I’m in my 70s now. And I have not stopped aging. Shocking, isn’t it? What I have done is stop buying into the anti-aging narrative. There is nothing in it for me to be afraid of aging. Heck, I’ve been doing it every single day of my life. I’m an aging expert. And in my vast repertoire of experience, I’ve learned a thing or two about the anti-aging movement.

  1. Anti-aging is anti-women being themselves. It’s a relentless campaign to convince us that our natural state is a problem to be solved.
  2. Anti-aging is a confidence racket. It’s constructed to make us feel bad about how we look, act, dress, talk, and even smell. The goal isn’t to make us beautiful; it’s to make us insecure.
  3. Anti-aging is a multi-billion dollar industry. I can’t fight the industry, but I can fight back by not buying their horse-manure. My wallet is my weapon.

What about you? Are you done shrinking? Are you ready to claim your right to be your age—with all the grace, sass, and dignity you’ve earned?

Let’s start a revolution. A quiet, powerful, and deeply personal revolution.

Your Call to Action:

Stop playing their game. Look in the mirror today and say, “This is me. This is my magic. Aren’t I magnificent!”

What is one small, rebellious act you’re doing to embrace your age? Maybe it’s ditching the painful heels for a pair of shoes that love your feet. Maybe it’s not hiding the grey or wearing a bold new lipstick that makes you feel powerful or finding your power in opting out of make-up entirely á la Suzanne Sommers. Maybe it’s simply refusing to feel ashamed of a new wrinkle and choosing instead to see each one as a celebration of your life story.

Please do share your story in the comments below. Let’s celebrate our earned wisdom, our hard-won freedom, and the deliciousness of being exactly where we are. Because magic doesn’t happen when we shrink; it happens when we expand.

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Unearthing Creativity: A Journey Back to Morning Pages

Why do I write? Often, it’s a delightful blend of self-inspiration and cosmic detective work: nudging myself into new ventures, finding my footing in this wonderfully chaotic world, unearthing meaning in the mundane (or the magnificent), and generally figuring out why I am the way I am and what truly lights my fire today.

Lately, my quest has been to forge a morning routine template, a sort of daily superpower, to supercharge my creative process. As one does when seeking wisdom (or procrastination, depending on the day or moment…), I recently dove into the digital archives, specifically searching Facebook for “Morning Pages” groups. Lo and behold, a blog post I penned two and a half years ago popped up.

Reading it was… a punch to the gut. I’d written it during the harrowing time my eldest sister was in ICU, fighting for her life. A fight she ultimately lost. And with her, I lost my big sister, my confidante, my support system, my champion, my cheerleader, my friend.

As I reread those paragraphs, my mind went numb, tears pricked. Grief, it turns out, is a spectacularly messy business. It adheres to no timeline, no polite schedule. It’s less a well-behaved houseguest and more a rogue wave, crashing in when you least expect it. A name, a scent, or in my case, a few written words, can fling open the gates to a memory awash in all the feelings and emotions it contains.

I miss my big sister. I always will.

I’m learning to embrace that “always will,” so that when grief still washes over me, I can simply stop and feel the missing. It’s a quiet acknowledgment that the profound love we shared never truly died; it simply changed course when the river of life, carrying us both, split.

If you’d like to read the original post – which, despite the unexpected emotional detour, was all about reestablishing my habit of “Morning Pages” – you can access it here: https://dareboldly.com/2023/11/18/morning-pages-the-journey-of-self-recovery

Next week, I’ll be sharing a crash course in How to Set a Morning Routine – your personal blueprint for creative consistency. Watch for the announcement!

Dancing with Shadows (a poem)

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I am back home. My suitcase arrived today having decided to stay in Paris a couple of extra days. It was obviously having even more fun than me!

The challenge is, Customs obviously opened it, and, because my daughter had stuffed a few extra things in it and laid on top of it to close it, Customs simply put it in a big plastic bag. Three plastic bags actually, one on top of the other to keep everything together. I’m grateful for their consideration!

It’s nice to have it home. Though now I really do have to unpack and do the laundry!

From almost forgetting my purse when I left (I’d left it at home and didn’t realize it until after my husband dropped me off at the ferry and I was waiting to board. Fortunately, I’d called him right away and he brought it to me before the next ferry left! Losing my bag at the end is just a small end note to an amazing trip. A friend asked me yesterday what was the highlight. I didn’t have to think about it – the time with my daughter. Pure delight. The sights and sounds and experiences were amazing. But… laughing and chatting, sharing meals and talking for hours — so much grace and gratitude.

This morning, Beaumont and I walked along the shoreline, the wind whispered its secrets of far away places into the branches of the trees stretched out above us. The waves lapped along the rocks beguiling them with tales are the depths below and seagulls cawed and cussed as they dive bombed waves lapping against the shore.

And the muse stirred… and I listened.

Dancing with Shadows
by Louise Gallagher

The shadow stretches 
body thrown across 
freshly mown 
lawn, 
shorn short, prickling
its dark expanse 
searching
for separation 
yearning 
for freedom 
beyond 
the tree trunk standing firm
holding it 
close 
to its roots
until night 
stealthily descends
steeling away
the day
separating
light and shadow 
slipping
silently 
into oblivion.

Yes. I am Breathing.

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April is Poetry Month, and while my intention was to write a poem a day, life had other plans! Still, as they say, better late than never.

One poet who consistently captivates me is Mary Oliver. The depth and richness of her writing, her ability to conjure vivid images with such sparse, carefully chosen words, always leaves me in awe.

Her poem, “Have You Ever Tried to Enter the Long Black Branches?”, poses a question that resonates deeply: “Listen, are you breathing, just a little, and calling it a life?”

Thanks to Ali Grimshaw’s Writing Circle, I now use an exercise to deeply connect with poetry: read a poem aloud twice, then write. The initial reading is about experiencing the flow of the words. The second is a deliberate listen for resonating words and ideas that inspire your own writing. (To do this solo, I record my reading, allowing for a focused, eyes-closed second listen to identify calling words and images, which I then underline as my inspiration.)

“Yes Mary Oliver, I am Breathing” is my response, my riff, to the powerful inquiry from Mary’s poem and the question, “Listen, are you breathing, just a little, and calling it a life?”

Yes Mary Oliver, I am Breathing by Louise Gallagher Breathing deep, slow breaths, ripe with potential life overflowing, untroubled by chattering minds, warning bells of danger lurking. Breathing, there is no hunger. Moments ease fluid and smooth, one breath to the next, misty vapours rising into the morning, becoming the ghost of time voiceless drifting softly away. Breathing, there is no thirsting. Questions of ‘What’s next’ cannot dim the bright blossoming of life’s rich bounty, painting the sky full of wonder and awe splashed haphazardly against the sharp, sweet joy of this moment passing – right now. Breathing, there is no yearning. Each breath, a symphony of delight singing in unison wth every leaf and stone, with waves rolling in and birds flying high. Breathing, there is no time to be, but now. Arms flung wide, neck stretched back, wide-eyed receiving life’s bounty savouring each drop doused in anticipation of what’s next, soaking up sun-warmed flesh ripe with possibility spilling over effortlessly into the startling wonder of being here alive in this moment right now.

Why Can’t I Stop Reading the News?

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I read the news, and a weariness settles deep within. Heavy words line the page, black print against stark white, blurring and tumbling into a wave of dismay that roils through my mind.

“You are not equipped to handle this,” a voice whispers from somewhere deep inside.

Who is?

Turmoil. Angst. Anger. Fear. These are the emotions that dominate the day.

Tariff wars. Gun wars. Drug wars.

So many wars distort my view of the sun, so many words barricade my heart, holding it hostage in despair.

“Stop reading,” the voice insists.

My heart flutters. Can I? Should I?

What if, in stopping, I become blind to the suffering? What if I become numb to the pain? What if I succumb to the lie that I am powerless?

I am adrift, devoid of answers that can calm the turbulent seas. Seas that overturn lifeboats of global treaties and trade routes. Seas full of angry waves rolling across the land, drowning reason, flooding communities and destroying communities, families, lives and so much more.

I feel powerless to shift the mindsets that perpetuate the illusion of ‘us’ versus ‘them.’ Them out there, whose ways are different but no less valid. Them who speak a foreign tongue or worship at a different altar. Them whose histories are etched with the struggle to rise from poverty, flee violence, find safety, only to face more barriers. Them who are, simply, different.

Yet, I am not powerless to keep my mind open, my heart soft, and my back strong.

I am not powerless in the face of injustice, cruelty, chaos.

I choose to stand true to the belief that we are all important, all matter on this big, round ball circling the sun, year after year. Our orbit is the same as theirs. Our planet, one.

I must step away from the relentless scroll and focus on what I, one individual, can do to create calm in a world of chaos.

That is my mission for today. To plant seeds of kindness, to offer a hand, to listen with empathy. To find the small acts of love that ripple outwards.

An Experiment in Lists.

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Things Heard in a Grocery Store Line-Up

What a fucking idiot.
Who the hell you think is getting all the money? It ain’t us that’s for gd sure.
You know, socialism is the only answer. Socialism is for the people, not the rich. 
The rich can fuckin’ die for all I care. All I want is to be able to afford to pay my mortgage and eat.
Declined.
I’m sorry. I don’t have enough money. I’ll have to take something out. 
Mommy. Please can I have a bag of Skittles? 
Put it back! I can’t afford it.
Isn’t [that] on sale?
	No ma’am. That brand isn’t.
		Oh. Oh. [pause] I can’t afford it.
Howling, tired cries of a child sitting in a grocery cart.
	Stop it or I’ll give you something to cry about.
Where the hell do you hide the fuckin’ baking soda?
	In the baking aisle, sir. Top shelf. Beside the baking powder.
Your PIN is invalid. 
I don’t remember it.
Ma’am You’re holding up the line.
I'm sorry. I just can't remember it.
Then you'll have to go and come back when you do.
But it's such a long walk.
I'm sorry ma'am. But you're holding up the line.
Hi. Can I help? I don't mind paying for your groceries. It's only cat food and milk.

Things Seen in a Grocery Store

	Overburdened cart abandoned at checkout.
	Half eaten apple on canned soup shelf.
	Footprints in trail of flour from broken bag on floor in baking aisle.
Couple making out in produce aisle.
	Child sitting on floor crying. 
		Mother yanking at child’s arm.
	Child sitting on floor crying.
		Mother sitting on floor beside child, soothing them.
	Man eating unwashed, and unpaid for, grapes from bag in basket as he shops.
	Broken jar of jam on the floor of the Coffee. Jam and Sundries aisle.
Woman touching and firmly squeezing every tomato before choosing one.
	Child running, slipping on spilt milk and skinning their knee.
		Father angrily yelling at them to get up or else...
	Two young siblings fighting over who gets to push the cart.
	Two young siblings racing two empty carts down frozen foods aisle.
The ‘a’ missing in the B_kery sign.
No twist ties in produce section.
People who smile at the cashier.
People who don’t acknowledge the cashier.
People who leave their groceries mid-way through checkout while they go search for that one forgotten thing while everyone waits, and waits, for their return.
 
Things Felt in the Grocery Store

Frustration.
Anger.
Worry.
Fear.
Joy.
YES! They have the spice I’m looking for.
Impatience.
Judgement.
Consternation.
Intimidation.
Relief.
Frozen pizza’s on sale!
Bewilderment.
Confusion.
Hopelessness.
Anxiety.
Hopefulness. 
There’s fresh bread.

On The Move….

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Sundays Are Not For The Blues

Here, where I sit on the deck of our friends’ home in Todos Santos, beauty surrounds me like a warm velvety blanket. The soft, ocean air wraps around me like a gentle embrace; there is no where I need be, nothing I need do but be, here, now.

High above, white wisps of clouds, like angels’ wings, streak across the vast blue expanse. In the distance, the surf pounds against the shore, a rolling rumble beckoning me to come watch the sunset. The scent of salt air mingles with the sweet fragrance of the garden in full bloom. I stay here. For now. Sunset is an hour away.

Bird song fills the air with the cooing of doves and the rhythmic hammering of a woodpecker. In the distance, a rooster crows. But how can that be? It’s late afternoon.

Dr. Google has the answer. Yes. They can crow any time of the day, or night.

This morning, standing in line waiting to enter the best coffee shop in town, I chatted with a man whose dog was hit by a car yesterday. “The driver couldn’t avoid him,” he told me…

To read more click HERE.

____________________________________________

On The Move.

Dearest Dare Boldly readers, my heart is calling me to a new space, a quieter corner of the internet where we can connect more deeply. I’m moving my writing to Substack!

For years, I’ve wrestled with the very act of writing. Is it hubris to believe my words matter? Yet, if not to be read, why write at all? This move is about releasing those doubts, about embracing the simple joy of sharing stories and reflections that stir my soul.

Substack feels like coming home. Imagine a cozy room filled with sunlight, the scent of fresh coffee, and the gentle hum of conversation. That’s the feeling I hope to create in my new online home. It’s a place to escape the noise, to find inspiration, and to remember the beauty that surrounds us and our capacity to create joy, harmony, hope and Love in the world around us.

Substack is simple and inviting, like a handwritten note passed between friends. It allows me to share my writing freely, with no barriers between us. (Though, if you’d like to support my work and receive occasional gifts, there’s an option for that too – but truly, your presence is the greatest gift of all.)

Come, gather with me. Let’s share stories, explore dreams, and celebrate the everyday miracles that make life so extraordinary. I can’t wait to welcome you!

__________________

To read the completed Sundays Are Not For The Blues – click HERE.