Starting Over at 65: What I’m Learning About Change

If you had asked me twenty years ago what life would look like at 65, I probably would’ve said something about stability. Predictability. A tidy little routine. Isn’t that the script we’re handed? By this age, we’re supposed to be “settled”—whatever that means. Settled in our homes, settled in our beliefs, settled in our communities, settled in our identities.

Instead, I’m out here at 65 doing the emotional equivalent of unpacking boxes labeled “Fragile: Handle With Care,” except half of them are mislabeled and the other half contain things I don’t remember owning.

Last fall, James and I packed up our life in West Sacramento and moved to Aberdeen, Washington. New state. New home. New community. New spiritual landscape. Nothing about this season feels “settled” in the traditional sense. It feels more like God picked up the snow globe of my life, gave it a good shake, and said, “Let’s see what happens.”

Why We Really Moved

There was also a quieter, heavier reason behind the move—one that sat in the background like a low hum. We could feel the country shifting in ways that made both of us uneasy. Not in a dramatic, end‑of‑the‑world way, but in a very practical, “we need to be safe… or at least safer” kind of way. I knew my job could disappear with one corporate reorganization, and the idea of being financially exposed in California felt like standing on a cliff edge during an earthquake.

So we made a choice. We looked at the map, took a deep breath, and said, “Let’s find somewhere quieter. Somewhere we can breathe. Somewhere we can hide if we need to.” Not hide in a bunker—just hide from the noise, the pressure, the feeling that the ground was shifting under our feet.

Aberdeen became our safety valve. Our quiet corner. Our “if everything goes sideways, at least we have trees” plan. And honestly, there’s something unintentionally funny about two middle‑aged men fleeing to the woods like we’re starring in a very gentle, very gay reboot of Little House on the Prairie, minus the covered wagons...plus a senior pittie who absolutely hates to walk in the rain.

The Myth of Settling Down

The funny thing is, I thought I was settled. I had routines. I had a church community that held me for 13 years. I had favorite grocery stores (God, I miss Nugget Market) and familiar back roads and a sense of who I was in that place.

Then suddenly I was standing on a Washington hillside, staring at a mid‑century house surrounded by trees so tall they looked like they were judging me. And I remember thinking, “I’m too old to be introducing myself to new neighbors. I barely like introducing myself to myself.”

But maybe that’s the point. Maybe “settling down” isn’t about staying put. Maybe it’s about settling into yourself—into your truth, your values, your voice. Maybe the place matters less than the person you’re becoming.

A Move That Became a Pilgrimage

I thought the move would be a logistical project: boxes, movers, address changes, the usual chaos. But it turned out to be something deeper. A kind of pilgrimage. Not the kind with maps and guidebooks, but the kind where you realize halfway through that you’re not just changing your surroundings—you’re changing your life.

There was excitement, of course. There was also grief. Leaving behind friends, routines, and the familiar ache of a place that had shaped me. And there was disorientation—the kind where you walk into your new grocery store and can’t find the peanut butter, and suddenly you’re questioning every decision you’ve ever made.

And then there was the stretch I jokingly call our “boutique homelessness phase.” We sold our house in West Sacramento before we had anything lined up in Washington, which meant we spent weeks living out of Airbnbs while we hunted for a place to land. It was equal parts adventure and exhaustion. One week we were in a cozy lake house with only one bathroom and ceilings I kept bumping my head on, and the next we were in a rental where the décor looked like my grandmother decorated it in 1955. Still, we were lucky. We found these genuinely lovely spots along the way—little pockets of calm while we tried to figure out where, exactly, our new life was supposed to begin.

But there was possibility, too. A quiet whisper that said, “You’re not done becoming.”

Lessons From the Land

What I didn’t expect was how much the environment here would become a teacher. The trees here are ancient and patient. They don’t rush. They don’t apologize. They just stand there, rooted and unapologetically themselves. I’m trying to learn from that.

The rain falls with a kind of steady insistence, like it’s reminding me that growth often happens in the quiet, unseen places. And the stillness—something I used to resist—has started to feel like an invitation.

One morning, I stepped outside and realized I could hear… nothing. No traffic. No leaf blowers. No neighbors arguing about recycling bins. Just quiet. An occasional crow called out breaking the silence. It was beautiful and unsettling, like the universe had muted itself so I could hear my own thoughts. I’m still deciding whether that was a blessing or a curse.

Becoming at Any Age

So here I am, learning to start over. Learning that change doesn’t stop just because you hit a certain birthday. Learning that “settling down” might actually mean settling into a deeper version of yourself. Learning that moving across states can be a spiritual practice if you let it be.

And maybe that’s the real gift of this season: realizing that it’s never too late to begin again, to reimagine your life, to follow the pull of something new—even when it surprises you.

If you’re in a season of change—whether chosen or forced—I hope you know this: you’re not behind. You’re not late. You’re not off‑script. You’re simply becoming, just like the rest of us.

Life Update from the Rainy Side of Life - 2026

It feels like forever since I last sat down to write, and a lot has happened. Back in September of 2025, James and I packed up our life in West Sacramento and made the big move to Aberdeen, Washington. We landed in this quirky mid‑century house on the outskirts of town—lots of trees, lots of green, lots of space—and we’ve been slowly renovating it into something that feels like “us.” There’s something really grounding about having acreage to wander, even if half the time we’re just staring at the trees trying to figure out what we’re supposed to do with them.

The move has stirred up a lot of emotions, especially around the dogs. Over the last four and a half years, we lost two of our three pups—Willow and Norbu. Their absence still hits hard. But our sweet Lucy, now 15, is still going strong. She absolutely loves the new place. Watching her trot around the yard like she owns the forest has been one of the best parts of this transition.

One of the hardest parts, though, has been leaving my Loomis FUMC family. Thirteen years is a long time to be rooted somewhere, and those folks held me with so much love and compassion. I miss them deeply. I’ve been attending Montesano United Methodist for about a month now, and as of today, I’m officially singing in their choir. It feels good to be making music again, even though I’ll be honest—given the political climate right now, I’ve wrestled with whether I even want to be in church. My heart just isn’t in it the way it used to be. There’s so much hate and violence in the air, and if we had the means, I think we’d seriously consider leaving the country until things calm down.

On the practical side of life, I’m grateful I can keep working remotely. It’s been a blessing, even if it means I haven’t met many people yet. I’m keeping my eyes open for new musical opportunities, hoping something will click.

James, meanwhile, has adapted beautifully. We spent Christmas with his stepmom and family, and it was honestly one of the warmest, most joyful holidays we’ve had in a long time.

And somewhere in the middle of all this chaos, I released my very first solo album—a tribute to the one and only Barry Manilow. It’s called Forever Fanilow, and it’s out on Spotify if you want to give it a listen. Creating it was such a labor of love.

I miss my dear friends Ashley and Anne‑Marie. I miss our walks, our diva outings, our spontaneous day trips. I’m really hoping they’ll make their way up here soon so we can pick up right where we left off.

Turning 65 at the end of November was its own kind of surreal. I honestly have no idea how to be this age. It feels strange, especially knowing how many dear friends didn’t get to make it this far with me. I wasn’t sure how to mark the milestone, so I did the only thing that felt right in the moment: I recorded a one‑hour virtual concert. If you want to check it out, you can find it here:

Life in Aberdeen is still new, still unfolding, still finding its rhythm. But I’m here, I’m trying, and I’m grateful for the people who continue to walk with me—near or far.

Been a way for quite a while...

Five years since my last blog entry, and I’m sitting here staring at the blinking cursor, not even sure where to begin.

Almost fourteen years ago, I walked into the pound and met this tiny, furious, terrified chihuahua mix who would end up changing my entire life. We named her Willow—Princess Willow Rosenberg Brave‑Fisher, because of course she needed a full royal title. She had this reddish‑brown fur that reminded me of Willow from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and the moment I saw her, she was in the corner of the pen barking at every dog who dared breathe in her direction. She was shaking so hard I could see it from across the room, and she wouldn’t look at anyone.

I knelt down beside the pen and whispered, “Everything’s going to be alright, little girl.” And somehow, against all odds, she believed me. She walked over, pressed her tiny head against the bars, and let me touch her. That was it. I was done for. Love at first sight isn’t just for movies.

I had to wait ten long days to bring her home. She had a microchip, and the shelter had to try to contact her previous owner. When they finally reached them, the owner said they didn’t want her back. She hadn’t been spayed, so that had to happen too. They estimated she was maybe 12 to 18 months old, and she weighed barely five pounds. I visited her every single day until I could take her home. By the time I finally did, she’d lost almost a pound from stress and not eating.

The day after she came home, she spiked a fever and started coughing up thick phlegm. Pneumonia. I sat up with her for two nights straight, listening to her tiny body struggle to breathe, praying she’d pull through. She did. She got stronger. She gained weight. She became this sturdy, confident little 14‑pound queen who ruled our house with absolute authority.

Eight years later, I was sitting up with her again—this time after she’d been mauled by a much bigger dog. Multiple surgeries. A body cast for four weeks. A recovery that felt endless. But she fought. She always fought.

For thirteen and a half years, she has been glued to me—my shadow, my camping buddy, my bedtime snuggler, my little heartbeat that sleeps pressed against my side every night. I’ve loved every dog I’ve ever had, but Willow… Willow is different. She’s woven into me.

And now she’s dying.

Liver cancer. We’re down to days, maybe hours, and I feel like I’m breaking open. I thought I could prepare myself. I really did. But there’s no preparing for this kind of goodbye.

I’ve lost so many people in my life—my dad, my mom, my brother, all my grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends. I know what grief feels like. I know how it settles into your bones. But this one… this one is hitting differently. Maybe it’s the pandemic stress. Maybe it’s the timing. Maybe it’s just that she’s been my constant in a world that hasn’t felt steady for a long time.

She’s lying a few feet away from me right now, exhausted from last night’s emergency vet visit. Every time she lifts her head and looks at me, my heart cracks a little more. There’s pain in her eyes, and confusion, and trust. Always trust. And all I want is to make her better. To fix it. To trade places with her. But I can’t. And that helplessness is its own kind of grief.

I don’t know why I’m writing this except that I needed to put these feelings somewhere. I needed to say her name. I needed to honor this little soul who walked into my life shaking with fear and somehow became the bravest part of me.

I don’t know how to let her go. I just know I have to love her through it.

Today's blog brought to you by the number 27...

As in the total number of states that now allow same sex couples to marry.  What a difference a week makes.  On this past Sunday, the total was 19 plus the District of Columbia.  On Monday, the Supreme Court refused to hear circuit court appeals for states that had same sex marriage bans in their constitution;  effectively legalizing gay marriage in all 5 of those states AS WELL AS eventually allowing the practice in other states that fall under those circuit courts' jurisdiction.  Most legal experts say we should be up to 32-35 states by the end of the year.  To quote a cigarette commercial from the 70's, "We've come a long way baby!"

Equality rocks!