Choosing the Wild Path -- Because Love Is in the Process

Oh, the struggles of being a digital creator.

Apparently, that’s what I am now—although I didn’t learn the role even existed until my 33 year old daughter rebranded me as one when I refused the title “influencer.”

I’m not an influencer.

I’ll be 65 years old on my next birthday. Medicare age.

That’s a milestone.

Yet this morning, I spent two hours trying to figure out why I couldn’t play back my CapCut preview with sound.

It was because my mic was plugged in.

CapCut! Have you ever heard of it? I bet not. It’s a digital creator thing.

This is all very strange for me.

Six months ago, I was laid off from a 40-year corporate career, but instead of polishing my resume, I decided to follow the advice of someone ten years my junior.

You know—Mel Robbins?

She’s the one with that 5-Second Rule, the one who—just “Lets Them.”

Anyway, one morning while I still had a real job—but knew the expiration date on my position was looming—I allowed her to convince me that I could turn my love for meditation and helping others with my wisdom— into a career.

“Wisdom.”

That’s what they call what we know at this age.

It didn’t matter that I had an embarrassing balance in my savings account. She was broke once, too.

It didn’t matter that I couldn’t figure out TicTok or how to post on Instagram. Though, I’ll have you know, I was pretty good at Facebook.

Mel said, “It’s not too late. You’re not too old. You’re not behind.”

For some reason, I believed her.

So, here I am.

Six months in.

A 65-year-old rookie—navigating not only my credit card debt but a digital world that moves faster than my reading glasses can keep up with.

My reels are tucked in between young mom experts whose children haven’t even reached puberty yet (just wait until they see how all their well-meant advice works out for them), and the twenty-somethings doing their ‘5 a.m. morning routine’ with skin so smooth it hasn’t even met gravity yet.

And somewhere in that scroll, I’m sure my daughter shudders when she sees her mom’s face roll by during her morning coffee.

Is she mortified?

Honestly, these posters are genius. Script writing, lighting, directing, IT, graphic design, producing—selling. And they all make it loook so effortless.

You have no idea. 

I tried creating a healthy-drink reel to support my brand, and the ice cubes got stuck when I tried to pour them into my glass. 

All I wanted was to hear that sexy little clinkity-clink.

Then I struggled—with my unmanicured hands—to gently place my garnish into the glass…

Take five…

And when I finally got the rosemary sprig to sit upright, I realized I had forgotten the gentle stir. 

Dang.

The best part.

Take 5 - Upright Rosemary

Digital Creating : )

Somehow, that silly little struggle cracked something open in me, and out rushed my fears.

I talk about—and teach—meditation and inner peace as a tool for growth, but inside, I’m scared of being an imposter. 

An imposter because of all the times I’ve fallen down myself, because of all my own mistakes, and because I’m still learning how to settle myself. 

And I’m scared that I’ve been reckless. 

That I’ve chosen the wild path at 65.

The path that opens me up to financial distress, when I should be thinking retirement. 

The path that opens me up to rejection. 

The path that asks me to look at my aging face on camera.

The path that has me fumbling—as I learn things I never imagined I’d need to know. (Like trying to find a simple “fade-out” in a menu of transitions with names like “Glitch-Vortex” and “Prism Blur.” I just want the screen to go dark, not travel to another dimension.)

But here’s the part that surprises me. 

I’m loving my life more than ever right now. 

Just me and my coffee. Filming a Quiet Hour Talk.

I don’t know if any of this will become a “success” in the traditional sense.  I don’t know if the algorithm will ever notice me, or if my following will grow, or if this path will ever pay the bills. I don't know if maybe one day— I'll look back and think,

“That was bold.  Well done.”

How can I be an imposter if I’m practicing what I preach? 

If I’ve learned from my own attempts, my own successes and mostly, my own failures—and risen after every fall?

How can I be an imposter if I’m living and loving in this very moment? 

If the ordinary feels sacred to me? 

If I’m recognizing that love is in every step of the process?     

I’m alive in this moment—right here, smack in the middle.

Before the summit.

Before the certainty.

Before the outcome is served. 

I’m not the “look, she made it story.” I’m the “look, she’s doing it” story.

It feels dangerous—learning, stretching, fumbling, and rising at my age. 

But dangerously good. 

In a world that’s constantly trying to make us feel insignificant, the most significant thing you can do is refuse to be finished.

Some days, I swear I want to high-five my own reflection in that camera.