Not aspirational. Actual. Some of these stuck right away. Some are still uneven. All of them are small.

1. I’ve gone old school with electronics.

For what feels like forever I checked email before I was even vertical. Now I start the coffee, read a daily devotional, journal, stand at the window and look at the rose bushes for as long as standing at the window and looking at the rose bushes takes. The phone is a room away, charging. It is not a significant distance. But the difference between remembering I have a phone and checking it and forgetting I have a phone and not checking it shapes the next two hours. Actually, it kind of shapes my whole day.

(Some mornings I cave. I’m not writing this from the finish line.)

2. No more to-do lists.

A lifetime of lists. Color-coded, priority-flagged, rolled over to the next day with little arrows. Bullet points all over the pages. I thought the lists were helping me. Now I’m realizing they’re really just habits dressed up as tools in the name of production.

What I do now: every Sunday, I write down three things I want to move forward that week. Not detailed tasks, just some things. “Get the next Mezzanine issue out.” “Call my mom.” “Order compression socks.” (This was yesterday’s actual list and compression socks? Yes — my newfound love!) If a fourth thing matters, it’ll still matter on Monday.

3. I go outside in the middle of the day, on purpose.

Not as a reward for finishing something. Not as a break. Just because it’s two o’clock, the fog has lifted, the light is good, and the rose garden calls. Or doesn’t call. I go anyway. Fresh air, birds, neighbors walking by, chit chat. Nothing I’m doing is so important that I can’t take a break and be a part of life outside the walls of my home.

This is the one I still feel guilty about. I’m working on it!

4. I answer with an unexplained “No.”

A few weekends ago I had a walking date with a friend planned. By Thursday the weekend was stacking up and I was beginning to feel overwhelmed. Old me would have gone anyway, or cancelled with a three-sentence explanation and a guilt spiral. Instead I texted back: “I can’t make it this weekend — can we do one of these instead?” and offered a couple of dates. That was the whole message. She said no problem. It took about four seconds.

No backstory, no apology. People mostly don’t ask follow-up questions. It turns out the explanation was for me, not them.

5. No more pushing through to the bitter end.

Books. Podcasts. A show I stopped enjoying three episodes ago. The conversation that stopped being interesting twenty minutes ago. And, this one almost sent me over the edge: I closed a novel last week on page 84 and put it in the donation pile. Old me would have pushed through to page 320 to get the credit.

There is no credit.

None of this is a program. It’s just what’s working for me right now, in this season, on the Central Coast with coffee going and my dog in his bed to the right of me. I’m curious what’s true for you. What’s one thing you’ve started doing differently?

🌻 Tamara

About the Author:

Hi, I’m Tamara. I spent forty years in a career, and then I jumped. I live on the Central Coast of California, in Morro Bay, where the ocean sets the rhythm of my days. I write about the shift, the slow living on the other side of it, and the quiet work of figuring out what’s actually yours. If you’re in the in-between too — I’m glad you’re here.

Feel free to like or comment on this post so more Substack users can find it!

How to Live Inside a Transition

You’re waiting for this to be over.

It's kind of like sitting in a doctor's office. You're sitting in that plastic chair. Watching the door. Should you pick up a magazine to pass the time? Or just look at your phone? You tell yourself that when things settle, when the next thing comes into focus, or comes through that door, when you feel like yourself again, that's when you're going to start living again. Here’s the thing though, transitions don’t work like that. They’re not on a schedule and sitting around waiting for them to resolve is exhausting.

So here’s the reframe I’ve been working with: what if the mezzanine isn’t something to get through? What if it’s somewhere to actually be?

Not forever. Not as a destination. But right now, today, this is where you actually are. And you can live here, too. There’s plenty of space on the mezzanine!

Three things that have helped me stop fighting it.

For identity: Let yourself be new at something.

I’ve been paddleboarding. I am not good at it. I haven’t fallen off yet, but my turns need some work. It’s been challenging to learn and I’ve made peace with the fact that the bay doesn’t care about my current employment status.

This sounds small but it isn’t.

When you leave a long career, you lose the thing that told you who you were. You were the person who knew things, who got results, who had a track record. That identity was real. It served you. And now it’s not the whole story anymore.

Starting something new, especially something where you’re genuinely a beginner, loosens the grip of the old identity without forcing you to replace it. You get to just be someone learning. Someone who can’t quite nail a turn but keeps going anyway.

Beginner is a valid credential.

Find one small thing you don’t know how to do yet. Do it badly. Do it slowly. Do it again and again and again. And, let it be yours.

For rhythm: Move before you think.

I do P.volve, a low-impact workout, in the morning. I try to move before the day even has a chance to start negotiating with me.

I didn’t design this as a practice. I just noticed that on the days I move first, I feel more like myself and less like I’m scrambling.

Transition messes with your sense of time. When you don’t have an office to anchor the morning or a structure someone else built for you, the day can feel formless. That formlessness is both a gift and a trap.

Movement gives the body a job before the mind takes over. You are here and you are more than capable. You don’t have to earn the day first.

Pick one thing you can do before the noise starts. Something that makes you feel strong, connected, and present in your body.

For self-compassion: Notice the spiral, name it, and keep going.

I wrote about this last week. The stages of leaving: Exhale. Unravel. Spiral. Settle. Flicker. I’m somewhere in there most days. (Sometimes I move through three of them before lunch. Ugh.)

The spiral doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you’re in it.

What helps me is not trying to feel better. It’s just noticing: ok, I’m spiraling a little. And then I do the next small thing anyway. Not the big thing. The next small thing.

Drink the water. Respond to the email. Take the dog on a walk. Trim the roses.

Continuing anyway, without demanding that you feel a certain way first. That’s it. That’s the whole practice.

You’re not behind. You’re not lost. You’re on the mezzanine.

🌻 Tamara

About the Author:

Hi, I’m Tamara. I spent forty years in a career, and then I jumped. I live on the Central Coast of California, in Morro Bay, where the ocean sets the rhythm of my days. I write about the shift, the slow living on the other side of it, and the quiet work of figuring out what’s actually yours. If you’re in the in-between too — I’m glad you’re here.

Feel free to like or comment on this post so more Substack users can find it!

It’s a Tuesday morning. I’m sitting at the car dealership waiting on a routine oil change (which has turned into a 298-point inspection… okay, maybe not 298 points, but you get it – I’m going to be here longer than an hour). I just caught myself thinking about how I never would have been able to do this a year ago. A year ago, everything still felt hard. A year ago, I was actively ignoring all the signs that were telling me in all caps “IT’S TIME TO MAKE A MAJOR LIFE CHANGE!” A year ago, what I’m doing right now would have taken massive amount of coordinating and coverage just to have two hours to take care of necessary maintenance. A year ago, seems like a lifetime ago.

October of 2025 was when I did it. That’s when I gave my notice. Three-week’s notice to be exact. I walked out of my manager’s office with only one thing coursing through my veins: relief. Massive relief. I didn’t really have a plan and I wasn’t scared… yet. The next couple of months I felt like I was reentering. Like I had been on a remote island for years and was finally back among civilization. It was all about getting together with friends for coffee. Walking my dog at all hours of the day (not just pre 7 am and post 6 pm). Going grocery shopping for that day’s dinner, that day. Going to whatever local farmer’s market I could find. I was no longer bound by any time parameters.

Looking back on those first few months I went through stages. I’m going to call them So You Quit, Now What? post-employment stages.

EXHALE: This is the first thing I did. I walked back to my desk and took a deep breath in and ooouuuttt. Oh man, talk about relief. I did it! I had felt trapped for so long. For months (years?) I had been scared to do what I had just done. The relief was real, and it lasted a few days, weeks. After a few weeks though I realized that my job wasn’t just work, it was my calendar, my identity, my reason to get up and get going every morning. About three weeks after giving notice (which also perfectly coincided with my actually walking out the door of my job for the last time) the big exhale began to turn into wait, what now?

UNRAVEL: It wasn’t grief for the job. It was grief for the version of me who knew exactly what she was doing. The competence. Walking into a room and knowing my place in it. That grief was real — and it didn’t mean I made the wrong choice. It just meant I was going to feel strange while I worked my way through the unraveling.

SPIRAL: Uhm… who am I if I’m not that anymore? I went through an imposter spiral where I wondered if everything I had built was the role, not actually me. (It wasn’t. But a big part of this whole process has been convincing myself of this, which honestly, is its own full time job.)

SETTLE: Then one day you realize the noise has stopped. Nothing dramatic. It’s just a regular day and hang on a sec… you’re not bracing for anything. You’re drinking coffee slowly. Something in you unclenches. This is the mezzanine floor. You’re not anywhere yet, but you’re not falling either.

FLICKER: It doesn’t announce itself. It shows up as curiosity, or an idea you can’t stop turning over, or a conversation that lights something up. You don’t know what it is yet. But you recognize it. It’s you — the version that was always there, waiting for some room. For me it showed up this morning as the urge to write this down. To make sense of it out loud, for myself and maybe for you. That’s the flicker. And this is where I’m writing from — a Tuesday morning at a car dealership, of all places. Still sitting here. Not rushing. Not waiting to get back to anything.

About the Author:

Hi, I’m Tamara. I spent forty years in a career, and then I jumped. I live on the Central Coast of California, in Morro Bay, where the ocean sets the rhythm of my days. I write about the shift, the slow living on the other side of it, and the quiet work of figuring out what’s actually yours. If you’re in the in-between too — I’m glad you’re here.

Feel free to like or comment on this post so more Substack users can find it!

I worked for forty years. I’m definitely not complaining. Just stating the facts. I showed up. I was good at it. I worked my way up. I was miserable.

Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just the slow, grinding kind of miserable that gets normalized because you’ve been doing it long enough that you can’t imagine doing anything else.

I know what it feels like to be paralyzed at the edge of a big step. To worry about being aged out. To watch things change again and wonder if you can keep up. To lie awake. To feel your heart race for no reason that anyone around you can see. More blood pressure medicine (keeping it real here). More sleepless nights. A feeling, quiet but persistent, that something inside you is dying.

I was pre-jump for years. Standing at the edge, looking down, stepping back. Standing at the edge again.

And then I jumped.

There was truly no not doing it. I left the job. I took the step. And I landed — not at the bottom, not at some shiny destination — I landed on the Mezzanine.

That in-between floor. Not the ground level of the old life, not the top floor of whatever comes next. The landing where you get to look around. Where the noise fades just enough that you can hear yourself think.

I’m building The Mezzanine for women who did the thing, kept the thing going, and are now standing in a doorway wondering what’s actually theirs. Women who have been proving something for so long they’ve forgotten they were allowed to stop. Women who are pre-jump right now — scared, stuck, and more capable than they know.

That last part matters most to me. You have so much more power than you can imagine. You can make a change. You can figure out the logistics. I know because I was you, right there at the edge, and I took the step.

I write because I’ve been there. I write so you know you’re not alone there. And I write because the Mezzanine — this strange, quiet, in-between place — turned out to be exactly where I needed to land.

🌻 Tamara

About the Author:

Hi, I'm Tamara. I spent forty years in a career, and then I jumped. I live on the Central Coast of California, in Morro Bay, where the ocean sets the rhythm of my days. I write about the shift, the slow living on the other side of it, and the quiet work of figuring out what's actually yours. If you're in the in-between too — I'm glad you're here.

Feel free to like or comment on this post so more Substack users can find it!

Welcome to The Mezzanine.

I’m Tamara. I walked away from a 40-year career and landed here — on this in-between floor, somewhere between the life I left and whatever comes next. It turns out the in-between is worth paying attention to.

This is a place for women who are standing in a doorway. Who did the thing, kept the thing going, and are now not sure what to do with the space that’s left. Whether you’ve already jumped or you’re still standing at the edge — you’re in the right place.

I write about that. The shift. The slow living on the other side of it. And the small, quiet permissions we forget to give ourselves.

If you’re new here, start with: Before I Quit My Job of 40 Years, I Watched Six Movies and Made a Playlist.

I’m glad you found this place.

🌻 Tamara

About the Author:

Hi, I’m Tamara. I live on California’s Central Coast, where the ocean sets the rhythm of my days. After 40 years in one career, I’m figuring out what comes next — tending a rose garden, showing up for my aging parents, cheering on a daughter abroad, and reshaping my work and life in ways that feel more intentional. If you’re in midlife and quietly building your next chapter too, I’m so glad you’re here.

Feel free to like or comment on this post so more Substack users can find it!

Opening scene: The windows are down. There is sand on the floor and the dogs are in the back seat doing what dogs do — noses out, ears back, completely in the moment.

I am driving a BMW 2002. Vintage, a little imperfect, and entirely beautiful.

I am wearing linen. (I know, cliché with my coastal grandma esthetic, but it is what it is.)

I might be heading to meet friends for coffee. Or up the coast to beachcomb for a bit. Maybe it’s a pilates morning. It doesn’t really matter; what matters is that I am unhurried. What matters is that this is just a Monday.

I’ve had this vision since I was a teenager. Not a plan... a vision. Plans have steps. Visions have a feeling. And honestly? This one never left me. Not in forty years of early alarms and deadlines and doing what needed to be done. It just sat quietly in the background, waiting for me to catch up to it.

The details have evolved a little over the years. At eighteen the car was a Volkswagen Bug, and I was heading to the beach to lay out. The 80’s aerobics class has become 2020’s pilates. Linen made its way into the picture. The BMW 2002 replaced the Bug somewhere along the way. But the feeling? Exactly the same. Anything is possible. Hopeful. Exciting. Free. That never changed, not once in forty years.

But here’s what I want you to understand. The BMW, the linen, the dogs, the coast, those are my details. What matters isn’t the vision itself. It’s how the vision makes me feel. Those four words are what I’d lost somewhere in forty years of living. And those four words are what I was really chasing all along.

The movies and music didn’t create this vision. They thawed it.

But before I could get there, I had to land somewhere first. Think of it as the mezzanine, that in between level that isn’t quite the ground floor and isn’t quite where you’re headed. I didn’t know I needed it until I was already there.

Before I tell you about the morning after I walked away, I needed to tell you about this, the vision that made walking away possible in the first place.

Here is what I did not expect. That the road back to myself would be so literal.

I live where I grew up. The same coastline. The same roads. And one afternoon, driving those roads with The English Beat coming through the speakers, something happened that I can only describe as an a-ha moment. Not a memory exactly... more like a recognition. Like my younger self looked up and said oh, there you are.

I had forgotten what it felt like to feel alive in an ordinary moment. Just driving. Just music. Just the coast over there. And yet there it was, this feeling I hadn’t felt in years, maybe decades, rising up from somewhere underneath forty years of living.

Looking back, that afternoon was the moment I stepped onto the mezzanine. I didn’t know it then. I just knew something had shifted.

I had already been listening to the music. This is when I went back to the movies. But I didn’t watch them the way you revisit an old favorite. I watched them like I was looking for something. Because I was. I kept asking myself: why did I love this the first time? What was it that grabbed me at seventeen and made this movie mine?

The answers changed everything.

I didn’t expect to feel anything new watching these movies. I thought it would be a pleasant trip down memory lane, comfortable and familiar, like running into an old high school friend. What I didn’t expect was to feel, somewhere around the second movie, like 1980’s me again. Not in a wistful way. In a powerful way.

Because here’s what I realized, watching them this time with intention instead of just nostalgia: every single one of these movies is about someone who had power over a big decision in their future. Alex in Flashdance chose to audition anyway. The Breakfast Club chose to be honest about who they really were. Andie in Pretty in Pink chose to show up as herself. Every one of them stood at a crossroads and chose.

And somewhere in my late teens, sitting in a dark movie theater, I felt that. I felt what it was like to choose. To have that kind of power over my own story.

Then life happened. And I got busy. And that feeling went underground for forty years.

But here’s the thing about feelings like that, they don’t disappear. They wait. Those movies had been holding that feeling in safekeeping for me, and all it took was watching them again, this time asking why did I love this?, to get it back.

Reachable and scary turned out to be the same thing.

All of it. The fear of failing. The fear of change. The fear of what people might think. The fear of walking away from something that had defined me for forty years. What would I be without it? Who was I if not this?

And for a while I sat with all that fear and told myself it was just nerves. I was being reasonably cautious, right?

The mezzanine is disorienting that way. You can see where you came from, and you can see where you’re going and neither one feels entirely like yours anymore.

Then I started feeling sick. Not metaphorically, but actually physically sick. Anxious in a way that lived in my body every. single. day. And this gradually became clear: staying had become scarier than leaving.

My body knew before my mind caught up.

That’s when I knew I had to do it anyway.

The mezzanine is not fully behind me yet. But I know what floor I’m headed to. I can see it from here.

Right now, I am somewhere in between. Figuring out practical things, health insurance (ouch – expensive? Yes!), income (I still gotta make some $$), what it looks like to make money without becoming consumed by a new career all over again (i.e.: finding the perfect proving less, living more dream job). The unglamorous logistics of a life in transition.

And at the same time, I am more excited about my future than I have been in decades.

Both of those things are true simultaneously. And I think that’s important to say out loud, because if you are somewhere in this same in between place, I don’t want you to think the fear and the practicalities mean you’re doing it wrong. They mean you’re doing it honestly.

So, if you’re looking for your own mezzanine moment, don’t start with the vision. Start with the feeling. What made you feel like anything was possible the last time you truly dreamed? Find that. The rest will follow.

On the hard days, when the logistics feel heavy, I come back to the vision. Windows down. Sand on the floor. The dogs in the back. The coast by my side, doing its thing. A pilates class, a walk in the rose garden, an afternoon of baking or painting or writing with nowhere else to be.

Linen. Unhurried.

I’m making my way now, and one day soon I’m going to walk right into that life.

I already know how it’s going to feel.

🌻 Tamara

About the Author:

Hi, I’m Tamara. I live on California’s Central Coast, where the ocean sets the rhythm of my days. After 40 years in one career, I’m figuring out what comes next — tending a rose garden, showing up for my aging parents, cheering on a daughter abroad, and reshaping my work and life in ways that feel more intentional. If you’re in midlife and quietly building your next chapter too, I’m so glad you’re here.

Feel free to like or comment on this post so more Substack users can find it!

Forty years is a long time to do anything. Long enough that the person who started the job and the person who finally decided to leave it are practically strangers to each other. I knew I was ready to go. What I didn’t know was how to find the courage to actually do it.

So, I did something that probably sounds strange. I went back to the last time I remembered dreaming about life. Which, for me, was the 1980s — before a career, before obligations, before life landed on me with all its weight. I watched the movies I loved then. I listened to the music. And somewhere in the middle of all of it, I found the person I was before I got busy surviving.

Here’s exactly what I watched and listened to… and I have to admit, this feels a bit vulnerable. I can already see some of you perhaps rolling your eyes with my choices. However, in keeping with my “proving less, living more” ethos, I’m okay with that. I’m not trying to prove my impeccable taste in movies or music. (And, especially in the 80’s when I was a teenager? Forget about it!) These ARE the movies I watched and the music I listened to, to change them would venture into the proving category. So here it goes… what I watched and listened to, and why I think it worked.

THE MOVIES

Flashdance Alex wants to be a real dancer. She works a welding job by day and performs at a bar by night, and the whole world tells her, in ways big and small, that people like her don’t get what she’s after. And near the end, she asks Nick — a man who built something real out of nothing — how he did it. His answer stayed with me the first time I heard it at 16. It stayed with me again at 58. “I took a deep breath and jumped.”

That line is why I’m writing this newsletter.

The Breakfast Club Five people who have nothing in common spend a Saturday discovering they’re all the same person underneath their labels. It’s about the version of yourself that exists before the world tells you who to be. Watching it again reminded me that I had that version of myself once too.

The Big Chill A group of old friends reunite and spend a weekend reckoning with the distance between who they planned to be and who they became. It’s the most honest movie ever made about that gap. I remember crying at 16 watching it. I cried again now, but for completely different reasons.

An Officer and a Gentleman A man escapes the life he was handed and builds one worth having, at considerable cost. It’s about the willingness to become someone new even when everything in your past is pulling you back. That felt personal.

Terms of Endearment Life is short and real and full of love and loss and none of it waits for you to feel ready. I needed the reminder. (Side note: I was, and still am, a big Debra Winger fan. Urban Cowboy could have easily made this list.)

Pretty in Pink Andie knows who she is. The whole film is about whether she’ll honor that or compromise it away. Watching it again, I kept asking myself the same question she was asking: when did I stop honoring who I actually was?

THE MUSIC

The English Beat and The Cars Both have that same restless forward energy — kinetic, urgent, going somewhere. You don’t sit still when this music is on. You lean forward. I’d forgotten how much I used to lean forward.

Roxy Music — Avalon If you’ve ever had the feeling that something extraordinary is just out of reach, this album is that feeling made into sound. I must have listened to it a dozen times during this process.

Madonna — The Debut Album Raw, unfiltered, unapologetic ambition. Before the icon, before the reinventions, there was just a young woman who refused to be told no. I needed that energy in the room. In the 80’s this was on repeat on my Walkman. In 2025 it was on repeat on Spotify.

Van Halen — 1984 That opening synthesizer. If you know, you know. It sounds exactly like standing on the edge of something enormous, deciding whether to step off. For at least a month before I turned in my notice I played 1984 en route to work.

WHY THIS WORKED

I’m not a therapist. I’m not a life coach. I’m someone who spent 40 years in a career and then a few months in the 1980s before finding the nerve to leave.

What I found in those movies and that music wasn’t nostalgia exactly — it was a time capsule of my un-lived self. The person I was before I got practical. Before I got careful. That person was still in there, waiting, and all it took to find them was pressing play.

So, here’s what I’d ask you: when was the last time you truly dreamed about your life? What was playing? What were you watching? Go back there. Not to live there, but to remember who you were before life told you to be practical.

Then take a deep breath. And jump.

🌻 Tamara

Next time here at The Rose Cottage Journal: What happens the morning after you walk away.

About the Author:

Hi, I’m Tamara. I live on California’s Central Coast, where the ocean sets the rhythm of my days. After 40 years in one career, I’m figuring out what comes next — tending a rose garden, showing up for my aging parents, cheering on a daughter abroad, and reshaping my work and life in ways that feel more intentional. If you’re in midlife and quietly building your next chapter too, I’m so glad you’re here.

Feel free to like or comment on this post so more Substack users can find it!

So I want to tell you about last winter when I planted bare root roses.

I can see them from my table right now, actually. They’re out there doing their thing, starting to get big and a little wild (it ends up the Evelyn rose is a climber!), and honestly they make me so happy every single time I look at them. When they first arrived via UPS? They looked like someone had handed me a bundle of dead sticks in a paper bag. I stood in my kitchen thinking, what am I supposed to do with this?

Turns out, you just plant them. That’s it.

Let me back up. Last winter was a hard one for me. I won’t get into all the details because I think you probably have your own version of it anyway and you know the kind of season I mean. Where things you thought were solid (like how you felt about your 40-year career) just... aren’t anymore. And you find yourself kind of starting from scratch in ways you didn’t see coming.

Here’s what’s funny though. I didn’t plant those roses because I was trying to cope or heal or any of that. I wasn’t that self-aware about it. Something just nudged me toward that catalog, and for once in my life I actually listened to that nudge instead of talking myself out of it. My subconscious, I think, knew something I didn’t. And it really wanted roses.

I’m glad I listened.

Here is the thing about bare root roses that blew my mind a little. The bare, stripped-down state they arrive in isn’t a bad sign. It’s actually the best way for them to travel. Roses move better without all their leaves because the leaves just demand water the roots can’t provide yet. The whole point is that they’re temporarily simplified. They’re between.

That’s something to think about for a minute.

Because I had spent that whole winter apologizing to others, and to my self, for feeling so reduced. Like I owed all of us the put-together version of me. Like I was failing somehow by not having it all figured out. But I wasn’t failing. I was just in a bare root season. And there is nothing wrong with that.

I planted them on February 22, 2025. You soak the roots overnight, mound the soil up in the hole, drape the roots over it, water well, and then you just... wait.

The waiting is the hard part, honestly. For weeks nothing happened. I’d go outside, stare at these little sticks in the ground, and think, I definitely did something wrong. There was no sign of life anywhere. Just me and my impatience and the cold.

And then one morning in late March I walked outside and there was this tiny little pink bud. Barely anything. And then another one. I just stood there smiling. It worked. They were alive. Of course they were.

So here’s what I want you to take from this, especially if you’re in the middle of your own hard season right now.

The work is happening even when you can’t see it. All that quiet, underground knitting-together is real. Your healing is real even in the weeks that feel like absolutely nothing is happening.

Stripped down is not the same as broken. Sometimes letting go of what’s asking too much of you right now is actually the smartest, most alive thing you can do.

You really just need the basics. Good soil, enough water, a little time. You don’t need to be impressive right now. You just need to rest and let the people who love you do their thing.

And spring comes no matter what. Not because you earned it or did everything right. It just comes.

Those roses are in their second year now. I can see them from my window as I’m typing this and they are absolutely nothing like the sticks I brought home. I’m excited for June when I predict they’ll go a little crazy with blooms. I really love them.

If you’re in a bare root season right now, I just want you to know that this is actually a really good time to plant something. And if something is quietly nudging you in a direction you can’t fully explain yet, maybe just listen to it. Your subconscious might know exactly what it’s doing.

The roots are working even when you can’t see them. I promise.

That's all for now, friend. Go tend your little corner of the world and I'll meet you back here soon.

Tamara

About the Author:

Hi, I'm Tamara. I live on California's Central Coast, where the ocean sets the rhythm of my days. Forty years in one career, and now I'm in the middle of something quieter — a rose garden, aging parents, a daughter making her life abroad, and the slow work of figuring out what enough actually means. If you're in midlife and quietly building your next chapter too, I'm so glad you're here.

Feel free to like or comment on this post so more Substack users can find it!

I didn’t expect confidence to feel like this.

I thought it would be loud and bold. Cue the trumpets and big announcements.

Instead, it feels like opening the windows in the morning and letting the ocean air move through the house. It’s refreshing, like taking a deep, satisfying breath.

Leaving my 40-year career was not a small thing. It was more like rearranging all the furniture in a room I’d lived in for decades. For a while, I kept stubbing my toe into the edges of who I used to be.

But lately, something has shifted.

There’s a softness to these past few months. A steadiness. The kind of confidence that doesn’t need applause. It just quietly says, You can try.

And so I am.

I’m trying watercolors without worrying if it’s “good.” I’m buying the art supplies—all of them. Pens, pencils, watercolors, collage materials, journals… all ready to go. I’m mixing the colors that feel like sea glass, roses, and fog. And I’m letting myself stand at the very beginning without rushing ahead.

This all feels very coastal grandma of me, honestly. Barefoot in the kitchen. A little flour on the counter. A canvas drying by the window.

Less proving.
More living.

I used to think confidence came from mastery. From being the one who knew what she was doing. Now I think it comes from permission.

Permission to change.
Permission to experiment.
Permission to surprise yourself.

What I didn’t expect was this: when we walk through one brave doorway, the courage doesn’t stay there. It follows us into the studio. The garden. The conversations. The quiet mornings.

It spills.

Journal Prompt

Where in your life have you recently been braver than you give yourself credit for?
If you let that courage spill into one small, creative corner, what would you try this week?

From one brave experiment to another,
Less proving. More living.

🌻 Tamara

About the Author:

Hi, I’m Tamara. I live on California’s Central Coast, where the ocean sets the rhythm of my days. After 40 years in one career, I’m exploring what comes next — tending a rose garden, showing up for my aging parents, cheering on a daughter abroad, and experimenting in ways that feel intentional and alive. I’m learning to give myself permission to try new things, to be a beginner again, and to sprinkle courage into every corner of life.

If you’re in midlife and quietly building your next chapter too, I’m so glad you’re here.

Feel free to like or comment on this post so more Substack users can find it!

Last year for Lent, I did something that felt both simple and totally inconvenient.

I went cash only.

No tapping my card. No quick online orders. No absentminded “add to cart.” If I wanted something, I had to plan for it, drive to the bank, hold the money in my hand, and physically hand it over.

It was… hard.

There were moments I stood in a parking lot realizing I didn’t have enough cash for the coffee creamer I had stopped by to purchase. Moments I abandoned clothing in dressing rooms because I didn’t want to break a hundred. Once I was 26 cents short for lunch (I had miscalculated in the cafe line) and the cashier told me not to worry about it. I was a bit embarrassed as I accepted the kind gesture, explaining what was going on with Lent and promising to be better at my math next time. It all added up to many moments that I felt completely out of step with modern life.

And yet, it was one of the most grounding Lenten disciplines I’ve ever kept.

Handling cash made me slow down. It made me intentional. It made me aware of how often convenience pulls the strings of my day.

So this year, I’m keeping the same spirit… but shifting the focus.

This Lent, I’m practicing 40 Days of Less Phone.

Not no phone. I’m not disappearing off the grid or getting a flip phone (although that sounds a little dreamy some days).

Just… less.

Less scrolling.
Less reaching.
Less filling quiet pockets of the day.

Because if I’m being totally honest, my phone has become the modern equivalent of loose change… always in my hand, often spent without thought. I’m curious what happens when I put some of that time back into my actual life.

Just to be 100% transparent, there are two things I’m not giving up:

I’ll still be logging my runs and using my Peleton app for weight workouts — that accountability keeps me consistent and motivated.

And I’ll still be listening to audiobooks when I commute. That time has become one of my favorite rituals. Stories in my ears while the coastline rolls by. (Right now I’m listening to this book which has been an absolute joy! I highly recommend it!)

So this is not about deprivation. It is about attention.

Here are the ten ways I’m planning to use my phone less over the next 40 days:

1. No phone for the first hour of the morning
I want my day to begin with coffee, light, and quiet. No notifications.

2. No scrolling in bed at night
When the lights go low, so does the phone. I miss ending the day with a book or my own thoughts.

3. Social media only from my laptop
If I have to sit down and open it intentionally, I know I’ll use it differently.

4. Leaving my phone in another room while I work
Out of sight really does mean out of mind.

5. Running/walking without my phone connected to earbuds
I want to hear birds, wind, and my own footsteps again. (I will have my phone with me while working out in order to record the activity.)

6. No phone at the table
Meals deserve my full presence, even when I’m eating alone.

7. Using an actual alarm clock
So I’m not reaching for my phone before my feet hit the floor. (This reminds me: I need to pick up some batteries today for my bedside clock which has been set on 6:40 for about 6 months.)

8. One designated “check messages” window early afternoon
Instead of the constant drip of checking. I’m tossing around exactly when this is going to happen, but I think early afternoon will work well with my schedule.

9. Printing directions or writing them down when possible
A small nod to the cash experiment. Planning ahead instead of defaulting to the screen.

10. Replacing scroll time with something tactile
Journaling. Gardening. Pulling a few weeds. Writing for Substack. Anything that uses my hands instead of my thumbs.

I know from last year that the first week will feel the hardest. I’ll reach for my phone and feel that small jolt of inconvenience. I’ll be tempted to make exceptions.

But I also know what waits on the other side of that discomfort — the same thing I found with the cash experiment:

Space.

Slowness.

The feeling of being where my feet actually are.

Lent always invites you to release something that has a little too much hold on you. Not because phones or credit cards or conveniences are bad, but because awareness is good.

So for the next 40 days, if you see me a little quieter online… this is why.

I’m just practicing less phone.

And more life.

Until next time, may your garden, large or small, meet you with something new to notice.

🌻 Tamara

About the Author:

Hi, I’m Tamara. I live on California’s Central Coast, where I’ve traded a professional career for slower days in the rose garden at a small cottage by the sea. I’m here to share the shifts of midlife and the beauty I’m finding along the way. Roses, memory, and salty air — that’s the rhythm of things now.

Feel free to like or comment on this post so more Substack users can find it!

And then there are words that choose you.

At the start of this year, I didn’t sit down with a thesaurus or a vision board (though I had planned to). I wasn’t searching for something bright or aspirational. I was standing in the aftermath of something frightening — my mom’s aortic dissection — a medical phrase that sounded more like a biology experiment than our real life. Two words I had never spoken aloud together, and words I wish I never had to learn.

It arrived without warning. One ordinary evening, and then suddenly everything was divided into before and after.

Sitting for a week in an ICU room has a way of clarifying things. The beeping monitors. The quiet waiting. I found myself noticing the smallest details — the warmth of a my mom’s hand, the sound of a my dad’s voice, the instant relief of one good update from a doctor.

In those hours, nothing trivial survived.

What rose to the surface instead was a single word:

Cherish.

Not in the greeting-card sense. Not as something soft or sentimental. But as a discipline. A way of holding life with both hands because finally I understood, down to my core, how fragile it is.

Cherish looked like sitting beside my mom’s bed and watching her breathe. It looked like gratitude for conversations we’ve had a hundred times before. And yes, I know — everyone talks about each day as a “gift,” but this was different. It wasn’t a platitude. It was a fierce knowing that ordinary days are fragile and worth holding close. They’re the best gift you can be given.

I realized how often I had rushed past the very things I now wanted to linger inside:

Morning coffee.
Phone calls.
Family dinners.
Even the quiet, uneventful afternoons that once felt forgettable.

After the dissection, nothing felt forgettable. Everything felt illuminated.

I didn’t choose Cherish as my word for the year so much as I recognized it was already choosing me. It was shaping my attention, slowing my pace, softening the way I moved through my days.

It is the word I am carrying into 2026.

To cherish my parents while they are here.
To cherish my daughter, even across an ocean.
To cherish this coastal home, these routines, this body that carries me.
To cherish the ordinary moments that, I now know, are anything but ordinary.

If this experience has taught me anything, it’s this:

We don’t need a crisis to grant us permission to cherish our lives. But sometimes a crisis is what wakes us up to it.

So this year, I am practicing the art of cherishing. Deliberately, daily, imperfectly.

Holding close what matters most.

And saying thank you for it while I still can.

Until next time, may your garden, large or small, meet you with something new to notice.

🌻 Tamara

About the Author:

Hi, I’m Tamara. I live on California’s Central Coast, where I have traded a professional career for slower days in the rose garden at a small cottage by the sea. I’m here to share the shifts of midlife and the beauty I’m finding along the way. Roses, memory, and salty air — that’s the rhythm of things now.

Feel free to like or comment on this post so more Substack users can find it!

I’ve been away for a little while.

Not in miles but in a deeper, quieter place. A place that life can sometimes take you. Where everything is laid open, named honestly, and understood in a new way.

I’m calling this return The Dissection.

Partly because over these past months I’ve been separating myself from the life I once lived, gently in some places, more precise in others. Peeling back expectations, roles, schedules that once fit but slowly began to feel like clothing from my 30’s.

And partly because, in the most literal sense, dissection entered our family vocabulary overnight.

My mom’s aortic dissection on December 17, 2025 split time cleanly in two — before and after. One ordinary day, and then suddenly everything fragile, everything precious, everything re-measured. Our family was pruned in ways we never would have chosen, cut back to the essentials of love, fear, and gratitude — all held together in the same breath.

When something like that happens, you realize how small the step is between the life you’re living and the life that’s patiently waiting. The life that’s been patiently waiting.

So this space — The Rose Cottage Journal — is opening again, but differently.

Softer in some ways. Sharper in others.

There has been a dissection of time…
of priorities…
of who I was expected to be versus who I am becoming.

In October, I made changes that had been just outside my grasp for years. I stepped out of the structure that once held my days and into a life that fits the shape of me now, at 58. It was frightening. It reminded me of being in high school, jumping off the pier in Cayucos — that moment of free fall where you trusted the water would meet you. You never knew for certain everything would be okay… but you believed it enough to jump.

I’m writing again from that place.

From the cottage.
From the garden.
From the waiting rooms and the quiet gratitude that follows crisis.
From the tender space that comes when you realize life is both more fragile and more generous than you ever could have thought.

This season of the journal will hold all of that:

Recovery.
Re-rooting.
Family.
Midlife becoming.
And the careful, ongoing work of stitching a life back together, not as it was, but as it wants to be.

Thank you for being here when I left.
Thank you for being here now that I’m back.

More soon,
Tamara

About the Author:

Hi, I’m Tamara. I live on California’s Central Coast, where I have traded a professional career for slower days in the rose garden at a small cottage by the sea. I’m here to share the shifts of midlife and the beauty I’m finding along the way. Roses, memory, and salty air — that’s the rhythm of things now.

Feel free to like or comment on this post so more Substack users can find it!

Friday morning came early, and by 6:45 a.m., I was out the door with a latte from Scout in hand, chasing the promise of roses. The drive was quiet, the kind where fog lingers in the low places while the sky slowly opens into day.

The Rose Story Farm welcomed us in that gentle, in-between season—summer still clinging on while autumn waited just around the corner. A small group of women gathered for the tour, all of us connected by our affection for roses. We wandered through the rows like old friends, swapping favorite varieties, scents, and garden dreams.

What made the morning so memorable wasn’t just the beauty surrounding us but the stories the owner shared. She spoke candidly about the trial and error behind the blooms—the failed attempts, the lessons learned, the small victories along the way. It made everything feel so much more real and relatable, a reminder that even in a place this stunning, growth takes patience (this word was on repeat throughout the tour), persistence, and a willingness to work through challenges.

And then there were the roses themselves. I felt almost starstruck seeing in person the ones I’d only read about: Moonlight in Paris, Julia Child, Claire Austin, The Pilgrim, Medallion. Each rose felt like it had something to say, glowing softly in the morning sun.

Driving home, I kept thinking about the rows of roses and the stories behind each bloom. I could almost see them taking root in my own garden at The Rose Cottage, slowly opening with time and care. The morning reminded me that, like gardening, life is full of small experiments, patience, and moments of quiet joy—and that sometimes the most beautiful things are the ones we nurture ourselves.

Until next time, may your garden, large or small, meet you with something new to notice.

🌻 Tamara

About the Author:

Hi, I’m Tamara. I live on California’s Central Coast, where I’m in the process of trading a professional career for slower days in the rose garden at a small cottage by the sea. I’m here to share the shifts of midlife and the beauty I’m finding along the way. Roses, memory, and salty air — that’s the rhythm of things now.

Feel free to like or comment on this post so more Substack users can find it!

The palms once were heavy with bananas. These days though they lean a little, leaves frayed from the wind that comes in from the coast, the fruit less frequent. Kind of like life—things grow, peak, and then gradually settle into a quieter rhythm.

Spending time here, in this quiet backyard, feels a lot like these midlife years—slower, gentler, and full of steady, meaningful moments. The celebrations are smaller now, found in the ordinary: dinner for two with the evening breeze and twinkle lights above, the wind chime gently ringing, the sky settling into evening over the water. The backyard doesn’t ask for much—maybe a little pruning, maybe a little attention—but it always gives us space to pause and remember what we’ve been given and to simply be present in the rhythms of life, whether we’re celebrating birthdays, reading a new book, or watching our daughter chart her own path out there in the big world.

Like the tide rolling in and out, this little corner of our lives has remained a quiet anchor through the years, even as everything else shifts around it.

Until next time, may your garden, large or small, meet you with something new to notice.

🌻 Tamara

About the Author:

Hi, I’m Tamara. I live on California’s Central Coast, where I’m in the process of trading a professional career for slower days in the rose garden at a small cottage by the sea. I’m here to share the shifts of midlife and the beauty I’m finding along the way. Roses, memory, and salty air — that’s the rhythm of things now.

Feel free to like or comment on this post so more Substack users can find it!

I used to think you had to leave to grow, to find something bigger than the streets you already knew. I wanted the nonstop-ness of a city with horns and sirens heard in the distance in lieu of a foghorn. But midlife has a way of bringing you full circle. Now, I see the beauty in familiarity — the way the same streets can carry you through entirely different seasons of your life. I drive to work every morning down a road that has seen me as a child, a parent, a daughter, a woman standing on the bridge between what has been and what’s still ahead.

My parents live in the house my dad built in 1973. A five minute drive from The Rose Cottage, and having gone through two major remodels; it’s where holiday dinners happen and where the same front door has welcomed every version of me. From hair in pigtails to showing flecks of gray. My mom still goes to the same church we attended when I was growing up, its familiar pews and parishioners a quiet link to our shared past. To live close to them now feels like a rare gift — a reminder that roots and wings don’t have to be opposites.

Sometimes I’ll pass by my old elementary school, its playground still echoing with the sounds of tetherball chains clinking and sneakers skidding on blacktop. Right behind the school was the local grocery store where my mom used to shop (now a dollar store). I can still picture my small hand in hers as we crossed the parking lot. The same parking lot I walked through in the 90’s holding my own daughter’s hand to rent videos, and in the early 2000’s to workout at the gym, and now to buy auto supplies at Auto Zone. Even the cracks in the sidewalk outside the post office look the same. It’s funny how these small, ordinary places can hold entire chapters of who you’ve been.

These days, I find myself noticing the drastic way the shoreline changes between tides, and how the early morning air smells of salt and seaweed carried in from the bay. I still buy one-of-a-kind house items and plants at the little Embarcadero store, The Garden Gallery, that gave me my first high school job, its shelves rearranged over the years (and no longer having the ice cream shop where I worked) but with the same brick floors worn smooth by the years of use. I’ve learned which neighbors wave from their front yard and which ones leave baskets of lemons by the mailbox for anyone to take. Even after decades here, I’m still discovering new walking paths, tucked-away benches with perfect views of the bay, and conversations that feel like finding old friends in unexpected places. The map of my town hasn’t changed much, but I keep uncovering little details that make it feel endlessly new.

From my little spot at The Rose Cottage, I sometimes hear the foghorn I remember from childhood nights. The roses climb and curl along the fence, blooming against a coastline I’ve always known, yet still manages to surprise me with new shades and light. I’m learning in midlife that home isn’t just where you live — it’s where you grow alongside the years. Even in the streets of the town that raised me, I’m still noticing corners I’d never really seen before, and discovering little pieces of myself along the way.

From my garden by the sea,

🌼 Tamara

About the Author:

Hi, I’m Tamara. I live on California’s Central Coast, where I’m in the process of trading a professional career for slower days in the rose garden at a small cottage by the sea. I’m here to share the shifts of midlife and the beauty I’m finding along the way. Roses, memory, and salty air — that’s the rhythm of things now.

Feel free to like or comment on this post so more Substack users can find it!

When I first spotted it (as the lone plant at a gift shop of all places, and not a nursery), it was barely hanging on: dried out, roots curling in on themselves, the kind of plant you’re not entirely sure will make it. The few yellow flowers were so cheerful and bright though that I brought it home anyway with more hope than certainty, tucking it into fresh soil and giving it the steady care it had been missing. Now, watching it spill and climb, you’d never know how close it came to not being here at all.

Meanwhile, the roses are taking a well-earned pause. Their stems are dotted with the faded sepals of the last bloom cycle, a gentle reminder of the importance of rest. In a few weeks, they’ll surprise me again, sharing their blooms as if they’d never left. But for now, they’re storing up their strength, letting the Black-eyed Susans have the spotlight and giving me a chance to admire the bougainvillea we’ve started training up the side of the house.

In this slower garden week, I’ve been happily curled up with Monty Don’s Nigel: My Family and Other Dogs. I’ve been a big Monty Don fan for years, but only recently realized the vast number of books he has authored. Monty writes about his gardens (and his beloved dogs) with such warmth and ease that I find myself reading in that same meandering pace you take when strolling along the seashore. I can almost imagine him here, leaning on the fence to talk with me about the Black-eyed Susan’s comeback, or pausing to approve the roses’ quiet rest.

Soon, I’ll be taking a scheduled rose garden tour in Southern California — one that might come with its own story. I have a feeling the owner could be my husband’s cousin, which makes me wonder if my rose notes will end up sharing space with a bit of family history.

I’ve already started thinking ahead to next year’s rose garden: which varieties might join the family, where I might tuck in a climber, whether I’ll add a bolder colored bloom (which has never been on my radar — you’ve got a light pink, apricot lover here). Right now top contenders are Tess of the d’Urbervilles and Darcey Bussell, but stay tuned as this changes on the daily.

Gardens are never really finished. They shift and change, resting in some places while bursting with life in others. And in these in-between weeks, I’m reminded how lovely it is to have a garden full of voices — some loud and bright, some quiet and patient — all telling the story together.

Until next time, may your garden, large or small, meet you with something new to notice.

🌻 Tamara

About the Author:

Hi, I’m Tamara. I live on California’s Central Coast, where I’m in the process of trading a professional career for slower days in the rose garden at a small cottage by the sea. I’m here to share the shifts of midlife and the beauty I’m finding along the way. Roses, memory, and salty air — that’s the rhythm of things now.

Feel free to like or comment on this post so more Substack users can find it!

Sitting here writing this makes me smile as my mind wanders back to this time in my life. Like so many, I was captivated by the movie Flashdance — the raw energy, the sweat, and the unforgettable beat of “What a Feeling.” Off-the-shoulder sweatshirts, leg warmers, and bold dance moves were fashion, and a declaration of strength and freedom. The movie ignited a passion in me for movement as expression, sparking a love for fitness that goes beyond endurance and embraces spirit and intensity. For years, I chased that intensity (a 12 mile run before work, anyone? anyone?), believing strength meant pushing harder, running farther, and feeling the burn was the only way forward.

But recently, a glute injury forced me to slow down and listen differently. The discipline that once defined me now needed balance, care, and patience. And that internal voice that worried about “getting out of shape” and “losing all the strength I’ve worked so hard for” needed to be turned down. I needed to give myself some grace.

As I recover, I’ve found unexpected parallels between healing my body in midlife and tending my garden. Both require time, attention, and a gentler touch. Just as roses don’t bloom overnight, rebuilding strength at 57 takes nurturing — steady, mindful movement rather than relentless effort. The garden teaches me that growth is a process, sometimes slow, always evolving.

Recovering has been a humbling journey, moving from all out 110% effort to a much quieter and mindful movement. It’s a new rhythm, one that honors my mother’s lessons and the dance-inspired passion of my youth, while embracing a gentler, sustainable strength, and just like scaling a business, I’m learning to scale my fitness for midlife—remembering the raw energy and sweat of Flashdance, but now moving at a steadier, wiser pace, still carrying that unforgettable beat of ‘What a Feeling’ in my heart.

In the ’80s, the call was to feel the burn; now, in my 50s, I’ve learned to feel the flow—cultivating a resilience that folds grit into grace. In that balance, I’ve uncovered a strength and freedom I never dreamed of. And in the spirit of my Flashdance days, when leg warmers chased big dreams, what a feeling to be moving to my own rhythm.

From my garden by the sea,

Tamara 🌼

About the Author:

Hi, I’m Tamara. I live on California’s Central Coast, where I’m in the process of trading a professional career for slower days in the rose garden at a small cottage by the sea. I’m here to share the shifts of midlife and the beauty I’m finding along the way. Roses, memory, and salty air — that’s the rhythm of things now.

Feel free to like or comment on this post so more Substack users can find it!

Seasonal shift:
The last of the sunflowers are hanging on—heads heavy with seeds that the birds (and early morning wild turkeys) are enjoying. Their golden faces have dulled a bit, but they still sway in the afternoon breeze drifting in from the sea, a reminder that every season in the garden has its work to do. Soon, their tall stalks will be cleared, making way for something new.

Flower of the week:
The yellow Michelangelo rose has stolen the show. It’s covered in layer upon layer of buttery petals, so many blooms that the plant almost seems to be showing off! Against the softer coastal light of late summer, they look like little suns holding on just a bit longer. This rose bush was a late addition, having been found earlier in the year at the local hardware store. It was the end of bare root season, and picked out by Jon. Yellow isn’t a rose color I usually gravitate toward, but he seemed enthusiastic about the addition and I decided to give it a chance. Perfect location, perfect amount of water, perfect feeding schedule—I’m not sure which of these can be credited for its amazing growth and flowering, but it’s definitely the star right now.

Garden challenge:
One of my lavender plants has started dying back in the center, so I gave it a hard prune. It’s planted in a raised bed, and the nursery warned me lavender can struggle there because the soil retains more moisture than it likes and the roots need a lot of space, more than a raised bed or pot can provide. I’m hoping the salty air and the drier days ahead will encourage fresh growth along the edges where green still remains. Time will tell.

Looking ahead:
With the sunflowers finishing, I’m thinking about what to plant in their place—something that will carry the color into fall and stand up to our brisk coastal winds. Maybe a hardy dahlia, maybe ornamental grasses for movement. Cosmos are always a favorite with a ready supply available right now. If you have a favorite late-season bloomer for a seaside garden, I’d love to hear your suggestions. I’ll also be watching the lavender closely, and giving the roses a light feed this weekend to keep their golden show going into September.

Until next time, may your garden, large or small, meet you with something new to notice.

🌻 Tamara

About the Author:

Hi, I’m Tamara. I live on California’s Central Coast, where I’m in the process of trading a professional career for slower days in the rose garden at a small cottage by the sea. I’m here to share the shifts of midlife and the beauty I’m finding along the way. Roses, memory, and salty air — that’s the rhythm of things now.

Feel free to like or comment on this post so more Substack users can find it!

This journal is where I’ll share what’s growing here, in the garden, in our lives, and in the quiet, coastal space we now call our own.

Our Beginning
Every story needs a setting. Ours begins in Morro Bay, a place I’ve called home since I was one when my parents moved here to attend college. This coastal town, with its fog-softened mornings and salt-kissed air, shaped my sense of pace, place, and what it means to belong.

Years later, when we first found our cottage we thought we were buying a rental. A practical decision. But life quickly changed. Our daughter grew up and left for college and 750 square feet ended up being the perfect size for two of us, plus our little dog. So we made the leap and traded a big house with a pool and plenty of space for something smaller, simpler, and closer to what matters. Condensing this major decision into a small paragraph makes it sound so simple, but in real time, it was anything but. It meant sifting through many layers of life before we could begin building one that felt slower, smaller, and more rooted in who we truly are.

About the Cottage
The Rose Cottage is small and a little weathered, just like Morro Bay, but full of heart. A place where the windows are always cracked for the breeze, and the garden is slowly coming to life. When we added a front patio framed by a white picket fence, dotted with potted plants and a carefully chosen potted rose (Princess Charlene de Monaco), that’s when the cottage really began to take shape. We’re learning to tend it season by season, planting memories alongside heirloom roses and morning light.

This journal is where I’ll share what grows here, inside and out. Notes from the garden. Reflections on midlife. Moments from our coastal days.

Meet the Crew
You’ll get to know us all in time, but for now, a quick introduction:

Jon – Steady, good-humored, always happiest with a surfboard nearby or a tool in hand. He’s the builder, fixer, and calm at the center of our days. Outside the cottage, Jon is a passionate car enthusiast who owns two Corvettes, including a classic 1969 Stingray—that reflect his love for craftsmanship and timeless design.
Ari – Our little Shih Tzu and loyal beach companion. Don’t let the small stature fool you, he’s got a BIG personality, especially when his favorite ball is involved. (You can spot him in the video below, chasing joy down the shoreline.)
Olivia – Our daughter, currently living in Nice, France with her partner. She’s a thoughtful soul, learning the French language and navigating life abroad with grace. She also writes on Substack at , where she shares her own reflections from across the sea. She returns to the cottage when she can, bringing stories, laughter, and the best kind of presence.
My Parents – Still nearby after all these years, and always part of the story. You might see them pop in from time to time, offering advice in the garden (my dad is an expert gardener with a wisteria that’s all things amazing), sharing memories, or simply showing up with a plate of something warm.

Looking Ahead
In the weeks to come, you’ll find posts from the garden, midlife musings, seasonal rhythms, and quiet coastal scenes, plus introductions to more of our crew, both human and botanical.

Thank you for being here at the beginning.

Warmly,
Tamara
🌸 From the Garden, With Love

About the Author:

Hi, I’m Tamara. I live on California’s Central Coast, where I’m in the process of trading a professional career for slower days in the rose garden at a small cottage by the sea. I’m here to share the shifts of midlife and the beauty I’m finding along the way. Roses, memory, and salty air — that’s the rhythm of things now.

Feel free to like or comment on this post so more Substack users can find it!

Not a fanfare, but a quiet unfolding—like the first light on water, or the way roses open just a little more each morning.

This journal begins that way.

No rush, no noise. Just me, here at the edge of midlife, planting something new with both hands in the dirt.

I know now that good things don’t bloom overnight. They need tending. Watering. Pruning. Time.

The same goes for writing. And for becoming.

So this space will grow slowly—anchored in coastal air and garden rhythms. It will hold reflections from The Rose Cottage, where life feels both tender and true: aging parents, shifting tides, salt-blown days, and the beauty of staying with something long enough to watch it change you.

If you're drawn to slow roots and sea-worn truths, welcome.

We’re just beginning.

Tamara 🌸

About the Author:

Hi, I’m Tamara. I live on California’s Central Coast, where I’m in the process of trading a professional career for slower days in the rose garden at a small cottage by the sea. I’m here to share the shifts of midlife and the beauty I’m finding along the way. Roses, memory, and salty air — that’s the rhythm of things now.

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