We All Have Our Ways
We meet for tea every other Thursday. Four of us, sitting around Gail's kitchen table with mismatched mugs and store-bought pastries we no longer pretend to have baked. We talk about everything and nothing — books, grandkids, what's blooming in the yard, which doctor now has a six-month waitlist.
Over time, we've started to compare notes — not just on medications or recipes, but on how we each care for ourselves now.
Gail gets her hair washed at the salon every week. "It's not about the hair," she shrugs, sipping her tea. "It's those fingers in my scalp. For fifteen minutes, I could be royalty."
Denise swears by water aerobics. "I'm not there for the cardio," she laughs. "I'm there for the feeling of moving without effort. My joints don't argue with me when I'm underwater."
Lorraine? Thai bodywork. "I like that they stretch me without asking me to stretch myself," she says. "It reminds me I still have range."
And me? I book massage.
Not because I'm in pain. Not because I'm stressed. But because it's one of the only places where I feel fully met — with presence, not performance. Where I don't have to explain myself, manage anyone else's comfort, or be anything more than a woman showing up in her own skin.
No apologies. No small talk. No pretending.
I've learned that we all have our ways — small rituals, quiet choices — that bring us back to ourselves. Some are simple. Some are indulgent. All of them matter.
We've earned this. The right to choose care that fits us now — not who we were twenty years ago, not what someone else thinks we need. Just care that listens, honors, and makes space.
That's what I've found. My way.
Maybe yours looks different.
Maybe it's still evolving.
But whatever it is, you're allowed to want it.
And you're allowed to receive it.
We all have our ways.
This one happens to be mine.