I didn't expect to cry in the Whole Foods parking lot.

I didn’t expect to cry in the Whole Foods parking lot.

But there I was, sitting in my car after a completely mundane errand, tears streaming down my face because my daughter texted me: “Can you come over for dinner tomorrow? Just want to hang out.”

For the first time in over ten years, we live in the same city.

For the first time in over ten years, “Can you come over?” doesn’t require a plane ticket, three months of planning, and the guilt of choosing which weekend works best between her life and mine.

She just... wants to hang out. And I can just... go.

This is what nobody tells you about life’s second half: sometimes the biggest gift isn’t something new. It’s something you thought you’d lost coming back around in a different form.

When Family Becomes Community Again

I spent most of my 30s and 40s building community wherever I landed. Boston, LA, then back East, then New Orleans. I got good at making friends, finding my people, creating a life in new cities. I had to; my kids were building their own lives, my career was evolving, and “home” became less about a place and more about the people I chose to surround myself with.

But what I’m learning now: when your adult children circle back into your daily life, it’s not just a family reunion. It’s a whole new kind of community.

My daughter and I are building something we’ve never had before, not a mother-daughter relationship defined by her childhood or my parenting, but a friendship between two women who happen to share DNA and a lot of history. We get coffee. We text about nothing. We chat between our work meetings, while grabbing snacks from the fridge together, and talk about work, relationships, and all the messy, beautiful stuff that makes up a life.

And next year? I’m going to be a grandma.

I cannot even write that sentence without grinning like an idiot.

This wasn’t the plan. Or maybe it was always the plan, but I didn’t know how it would feel. The freedom I’ve fought for, the ability to work from anywhere, to build a creative life on my terms, to say yes to the things that matter, suddenly has a focal point I didn’t see coming.

I get to drop everything. I get to be present. I get to show up for her journey in a way I couldn’t when I was younger, busier, more scattered.

And I want to. Desperately.

What I wish I’d known earlier: adult children want your presence more than your parenting. They want the friendship version of you, not just the mom version. I used to say that when they finished college and were on their own, I moved from a managerial, supervisory role into more of a board-of-directors advisory position. Such a fun new role to tackle, and one that requires letting go of control and trusting that they know how to run their own lives. Sometimes it just requires a LOT of tongue biting!

The Community of Shared Work

My son lives three states and a 10-hour car ride away, but we talk more now than we did when he was in high school.

Because now? We’re colleagues.

He’s a creative, an entrepreneur, a YouTuber, and an author. I’m a writer, a publisher, juggling multiple pen names, businesses, and creative projects that blur the lines between passion and profit. We compare notes. We talk strategy. We commiserate about the trials and tribulations of putting yourself out there, building an audience, dealing with rejection, celebrating small wins.

I never expected this.

When your kids are young, you dream about who they’ll become. You hope they’ll be kind, happy, successful…whatever that means. But you don’t imagine what it’s like when they become peers. When the conversations shift from “How was your day?” to “I’m thinking about pivoting my content strategy, what do you think?”

It’s not that I’m not still his mom. I am. But I’m also someone he calls when he needs to brainstorm, when he’s stuck, when he’s celebrating a milestone. And he’s someone I call for the same reasons.

This is community. The cross-generational, wisdom-meets-elasticity, I-have-lived-experience-and-you-have-fresh-perspective kind of community.

And it’s one of my favorite parts of this chapter.

The Community of Two

Then there’s Mabel.

My partner. My PR agent. My constant cheerleader. My ride-or-die in the truest sense.

She is completely, maddeningly at ease putting herself out there. She doesn’t mind hearing “no.” She rarely takes rejection to heart unless it has to do with her actual heart. She’s the one who pushes me to keep going, keep learning, keep putting my creative work into the world even when I want to retreat into my office and hide.

I am not naturally like this.

I could spend days, weeks, honestly, holed up working on the next project, perfecting something that probably doesn’t need to be perfect, avoiding the vulnerability of actually sharing what I’ve made.

But Mabel doesn’t let me.

She’s the one who says, “You finished the book. Now publish it.” She’s the one who reminds me that progress beats perfection every single time. She’s the one who celebrates the small wins with me when I’m too busy fixating on what’s not working yet.

The community of two is a special thing. It’s not your family of origin. It’s not your ‘middle-of-the-night’ friends. It’s the person who sees you at your most vulnerable, your most ambitious, your most terrified, and stays. Not just stays, but champions you.

That’s Mabel.

She is my community when the wider world feels too loud, too judgmental, too exhausting. She’s the one who makes me brave enough to show up everywhere else.

The Responsibility of the Inner Circle

What I’m realizing, as I look at these three relationships, my daughter, my son, Mabel, is that the inner circle isn’t just comfort. It’s responsibility.

My daughter needs me to show up, not as the mom with all the answers, but as someone who’s walked through some shit and lived to tell about it. My son needs me to respect his process while sharing hard-won lessons so he doesn’t have to learn everything the hard way. Mabel needs me to be brave enough to receive her support, to not shrink when she believes in me more than I believe in myself.

And I need them right back.

My daughter teaches me presence. My son teaches me fearlessness. Mabel teaches me that rejection is just data, not death.

This is what makes family-as-community different: the stakes are higher, but so is the payoff. You’re building something that spans decades, weathers changes, and doesn’t end when you move cities or pivot careers.

It’s not transactional. It’s foundational.

Starting New, Not Starting Over

I used to think about this phase of life as “starting over.” New city, new career focus, new creative projects, new ways of making a living.

But that’s not what this is.

I’m not starting over. I’m starting new—with a mountain of life lived behind me. With my daughter nearby for the first time in a decade. With my son as a creative peer. With Mabel as my constant. With decades of mistakes and victories and messy beautiful lessons supporting every step forward.

That mountain? It’s not baggage. It’s foundation. Every mistake, every pivot, every hard lesson, they’re not things I’m recovering from. They’re things that make me who I am right now. And right now is pretty damn interesting.

Integration doesn’t mean doing it all at once. Some weeks, the writer gets priority. Some weeks, the grandma-to-be. Some weeks, I’m just trying to keep the business afloat, and that’s enough. The versions of me don’t compete anymore. They take turns.

Even though I make a conscious decision to integrate and pivot where needed, I still feel torn and pulled from time to time. I’m learning to let that go and rearrange. Sometimes I get up early to write, which feels like a great way to start the day. I’ve already accomplished something I love and need to do, before the rest of the world wakes up. It’s not perfect. But it’s working; besides, age means you sleep less, for better or worse.

The inner circle isn’t static. It shifts, it evolves, it surprises you.

Ten years ago, I didn’t know my daughter and I would get to build this kind of friendship. I didn’t know my son and I would talk about work the way we do now. I didn’t know Mabel would become my person.

And I definitely didn’t know I’d be crying in a Whole Foods parking lot because my kid wants to have dinner.

But here we are.

The inner circle is where it all begins. It’s where you learn what community really means, not just the comfort of being known, but the responsibility of showing up. The gift of being seen. The work of staying present.

And it’s where I’m learning, again and again, that starting new isn’t about reinvention. It’s about integration.

All the versions of me, the mom, the partner, the writer, the entrepreneur, the friend, the soon-to-be-grandma, they’re all here. They all have a place. They all get to show up.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m not trying to choose which one matters most.

They all do.

If you’re reading this and thinking about your own inner circle—the people who know your whole story, who’ve seen you at your best and worst, you’re further along than you think. Maybe it’s one person. Maybe it’s three. Maybe it’s a partner who champions you, a kid who calls for advice, a friend who knows when you’re not okay even when you say you’re fine. That’s community. That’s foundation. And that’s enough to build on.

If you’re reading this and thinking, “I want that kind of community but I don’t know where to start,” you’re already starting. Wanting it matters. Noticing what’s missing matters. Tomorrow we’ll talk about the friends who become family—and why building that crew is harder (and more worth it) than anyone admits.