Chapter 13

Perfectly Imperfect

I am writing my 2nd book. I wanted to share Chapter 13 with my readers:

We don’t talk about survival much anymore.

We talk about plans.

Trips we want to take. Races we want to run. Books I want to write.

New goals that don’t revolve around crisis management.

That feels new.

For a long time, life felt reactive.

Responding, absorbing, and adjusting.

Now it feels intentional.

Not calm; let’s not lie.

But intentional.

We wake up early most days.

No coffee.

Just adrenaline.

The dogs circle us suspiciously, sensing that something athletic and unnecessary is about to occur. They watch us lace up our shoes like we’re heading into battle instead of a 9 a.m. HIIT class.

Keys.

Water bottles.

That determined look people get when they’ve convinced themselves burpees are character-building.

We head out.

She is in full gym baddie mode.

2026 has apparently been declared “Operation Spartan.”

HIIT has taken over our lives.

She studies workouts like they’re blueprints.

Times her macros. Plans her meals.

Uses phrases like, “We need to increase our reps.”

And let me be clear, I am right there with her.

I run Spartan races too.

I love a good HIIT workout.

I love the burn.

The sweat.

The grit.

And if 90’s R&B or hip hop comes on while I’m mid-deadlift?

Oh, I’m dropping it low between reps.

You cannot tell me that lifting heavy to Mary J. Blige isn’t spiritual.

If Juvenile's "Back That Thang Up" comes on, my form improves automatically.

There is something about hip hop bass and barbell plates clanking that makes you feel invincible.

We train hard.

"Finding strength in every step, because every journey, like every workout, is perfectly imperfect."

We debate whether it's a full Burpee or a gorilla burpee.

She pretends not to judge my modifications.

I pretend not to notice when she adds extra reps or heavier weight.

We laugh when one of us hits a personal best.

We tease when someone needs a breather.

This isn’t about being fifty and fabulous anymore.

It’s about being strong and steady.

Longevity.

Mobility.

Being able to say yes to the next adventure without negotiating with our knees.

But here’s where we are beautifully different.

She thrives in physical challenge.

Obstacle courses.

Mud.

Walls to climb.

Ropes to conquer.

She loves the Spartan environment, the grit, the structure, and the measurable win.

I love it too.

But I also love analysis.

I am an aspiring writer.

Which means I study people like they’re case files.

Friends. Family. Strangers. Coworkers.

I speculate about motivations while pretending I’m just casually listening.

I love scripted crime dramas.

Give me suspects.

Give me layered characters.

Give me courtroom tension and a perfectly timed confession.

That’s my cardio.

She loves real crime.

The First 48.

Dateline.

Snapped.

She wants facts.

Evidence.

Actual timelines.

I want plot twists.

She wants transcripts.

She enjoys Bobby Flay.

Will eat almost anything placed in front of her.

Except chittlin’s.

That’s where her bravery draws the line.

We are both adventurous.

Just in different arenas.

She pushes her body to the edge.

I push ideas to the edge.

She builds muscle.

I build narratives.

And sometimes, we do both.

The adult children are living their lives now.

Imperfectly.

Independently.

We cheer from a distance more than we intervene up close.

That shift took discipline.

It took trust.

It took me learning that loving hard does not mean hovering forever.

The house feels different.

Not empty.

Not fragile.

Spacious.

We fill it with music.

With friends.

With evenings that don’t feel like we’re bracing for something.

We cook.

We argue about seasoning.

We debate crime shows, scripted versus real.

We stretch after workouts and compare sore muscles like badges of honor.

There was a time when partnership felt like merging.

Like if we didn’t like the same shows, want the same workouts, choose the same pace, something was off.

Now?

She can prep for her next Spartan.

I can outline my next chapter.

We can both show up to HIIT.

And if the right 90’s track drops mid-set, we’re both liable to add choreography between reps.

We don’t panic about independence anymore.

We respect it.

We understand that two fully formed women choosing each other is stronger than two half-selves clinging to sameness.

Forward in midlife looks different.

It’s less about becoming someone new.

More about becoming more honest.

More about protecting the partnership while protecting the self.

Hope isn’t loud at this stage.

It’s steady.

It looks like early morning workouts.

Late-night writing sessions.

Protein shakes and plot twists.

Spartan runs and manuscript edits.

It looks like knowing we will misjudge something again, a trial, a timetable, or a life phase, and trusting we’ll adjust.

We are not the polished couple.

We are not the cautionary tale either.

We are two women who walked through tension, miscalculation, exhaustion, joy, and near fracture and decided to keep choosing each other.

And ourselves.

Every day.

Perfectly imperfect.

Strong.

Separate.

Together.

And occasionally dropping it low between deadlifts.

Because balance matters.