Finding Direction in Detours

The scenic route makes for the best stories

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  • The Horrors of Traveling: My summer Saga

    Watching the news last night, I saw the devastation of Hurricane Melissa and the travelers stranded in Jamaica. It hit me hard. I travel internationally three to four times a year, and while I’ve had my share of delays, I’d never experienced anything truly awful, until that summer….

    I was working remotely to extend a family vacation, alternating weeks off and weeks working abroad. It was a great plan, until my manager casually asked if I’d be in New York on Monday. Turns out, I’d been left off a critical meeting invite. Cue panic. My original ticket was non-refundable, so I had to book a last-minute one-way flight back to New York at the end of July. Prices were outrageous, but I found one with a layover on an Island I had never heard of, and on an airline that I had never heard of before, but I crossed my fingers and purchased it.

    Saturday, I arrived at the airport. All seemed fine… until they announced that the incoming plane had technical issues. They’d send another, but it meant a four-hour delay—exactly the length of my layover. I finally boarded, landed in the layover city just as my New York flight was departing, and sprinted through the terminal. Miraculously, they waited for us. I made it. Phew!

    Five hours later, as we approached New York, the pilot announced a thunderstorm. We’d “hang” until it passed. Three hours later, still circling, we were low on fuel. We detoured to Hartford, CT to refuel. I was now 10pm, I was supposed to land in NY at 7pm to catch an 11 pm flight to Rochester. The airplane refuel line at Hartford was LONG. Two more hours passed before it was out turn.

    Knowing I’d missed my connecting flight to Rochester, I frantically searched for a hotel, rental car, train, bus—everything was sold out. I finally booked a 9 am bus. I get motion sickness on buses, but it was my only option.

    We landed in New York at 1am. No flights, no hotels, no trains, no cars. I spent the night at the bus terminal. It was crowded, noisy, and definitely not sleep-friendly. I made friends with a few fellow stranded travelers. By 5am, they started boarding their buses. I was the last to leave.

    I collapsed into my seat and passed out. A few hours later—BOOM!. The bus broke down. Seriously??!! We limped through the mountains at 35 mph until we reached Binghamton. No replacement buses, of course! We waited five more hours for repairs.

    At 8pm Sunday, I finally arrived in Rochester. I would’ve kissed the ground if it hadn’t been so filthy. I showered, collapsed into bed, and woke up Monday to drive back to Binghamton for a 9am meeting.

    I’m grateful I made it home in one piece. But I’m even more grateful I wasn’t traveling with my kids. I’ve traveled with them many times, and it’s always gone smoothly—but this? I can’t even imagine. And I don’t want to. I hope the hurricane does not cause too much damage. I hope the hurricane passes fast and all the travelers stranded in Jamaica make it home safe. I hope don’t ever have to suffer through a trip like this again!

  • Life´s “What ifs”: The Roads we Choose

    It all started with Sliding Doors. I remember watching Gwyneth Paltrow’s character race to catch a train, and in one version of the story, she makes it. In the other, she misses it. From that single moment, two completely different lives unfold. One decision. One coincidence. One sliding door.

    That movie stayed with me. It planted a seed that’s grown over the years, especially during moments of change, loss, or reflection. Yesterday, I was at Guillermo’s wake, and the “what ifs” came flooding in. What if he hadn’t gone to that job interview? What if he hadn’t been allowed to test drive the Tesla? What if I were still working with all my friends at Avangrid? What if I hadn’t met my husband?

    Where would I be? Who would I be?

    We all carry these questions. They live quietly in the background of our choices. Sometimes they whisper. Sometimes they roar. They show up in quiet moments, like standing in a kitchen alone, or watching someone you love walk away. They show up in grief, in joy, in the spaces between.

    But here’s what I’ve come to believe: what ifs aren’t regrets – they’re reminders. They show us how fragile and beautiful life is. How one moment can change everything. And how every choice we make is a thread in the story we’re weaving.

    And that’s why we have to follow our hearts. Not because we’ll always get it right, but because when we do, we can look back without bitterness. We can say, “That was the path I chose – and I’m glad I did.” I want my what ifs to be filled with curiosity, not sorrow. I want them to reflect the courage it took to choose the life I have.

    So whether it’s a missed train, a job we didn’t take, or a love we almost overlooked, let’s honor the choices we made. Let’s trust that the version of life we’re living is the one we were meant to shape. And let’s keep walking forward, heart first.

    Because in the end, the only what if that truly matters is: What if I hadn’t listened to myself?

  • An HR Manager’s Reflection on Work Ethic and the Changing Landscape

    I’m starting to wonder if I’m part of a disappearing species, the kind of worker who shows up every day, on time, ready to give their best. The kind who takes pride in their work, stays late when needed, and believes that effort matters. Lately, I’ve been hiring, and it’s felt less like recruiting and more like searching for a unicorn.

    Where are the candidates who care about the job, not just the paycheck? Where are the people who understand that work is a relationship, not a transaction?

    Today, someone came in for an interview wearing stained sweatpants, a dirty sweatshirt, mismatched socks, and bedhead, not the trendy kind, but the “I just rolled off my parents’ couch” kind. No shower. No effort. No sense that this moment mattered.

    I don’t say this to shame anyone. I say it because I’m genuinely asking: What is going on?

    Is it burnout? Is it resentment toward executives and corporate structures? Is it the feeling that hard work no longer leads to opportunity, that the system is rigged, so why bother? I don’t know. But I do know that something has shifted.

    I’ve worked in HR long enough to know that culture matters. That leadership matters. That people want to feel seen, valued, and respected. But I also know that respect goes both ways. Showing up matters. Effort matters. Pride in your work matters.

    I’m not asking for perfection. I’m asking for presence. For people who want to be part of something, not just collect a check. For people who believe that how you show up says something about who you are.

    So yes, I’m tired. But I’m also hopeful. Because I believe there are still people out there who care. Who want to grow. Who want to contribute. Maybe we just need to meet each other halfway, with honesty, dignity, and a little more humanity.

  • When Hard Work Meets Silence: A Reflection from the HR Front Lines

    There’s a unique kind of exhaustion that comes from juggling everything behind the scenes in a small company: HR policies, hiring, onboarding, performance management, terminations, payroll, benefits, and the endless rhythm of compliance. Add to that the general services most people forget someone has to manage: cell phones, fleet, insurance renewals, expenses, cleaning contracts, snacks, and vendor coordination. It’s not glamorous, but it’s essential. And I do it because I care deeply about the people and the organization.

    I show up every day and try to make things smoother for everyone. I listen, I coach, I document, I adjust. I build systems that help others succeed. I solve problems before they become crises. I keep the wheels turning.

    So when the CEO visits from abroad and doesn’t have time to meet with me, no check-in, no curiosity about what’s working or what’s next, it stings. I had hoped for a moment to share the progress, the plans, the challenges. Instead, five minutes before his cab to the airport, he walks into my office and unloads: “You’re doing a terrible job. Everything’s falling apart. You have no control. You’re the first one not setting a good example.”

    I was stunned. Not because I think I’m perfect, but because that kind of feedback, delivered without context, without conversation, without care, felt like a punch to the gut. Is this how leadership is supposed to work? Is this how I’m going to be managed?

    I believe in accountability. I believe in growth. But I also believe in dignity. If we want people to lead well, we have to model it from the top. I’m not asking for praise, I’m asking for the kind of leadership that sees effort, asks questions, and builds trust.

    Because behind every clean office, every working phone, every new hire, and every policy update, there’s someone quietly holding it all together.

  • Everyone’s Fighting a Battle You Can’t See

    I work with a small group of people. We share space, tasks, coffee breaks, and sometimes, when the guard drops, pieces of our lives. Over time, I’ve become the person they come to when things feel heavy. Sometimes it starts with a complaint about a coworker or a frustrating policy. But more often than not, it ends with something deeper.

    A death in the family.
    A divorce that’s unraveling everything.
    A child who’s chronically ill and needs round-the-clock care.
    An ex who was evicted, forcing the kids to move back in.
    A single dad trying to juggle work and custody schedules.
    A father of six, navigating multiple households and endless obligations.
    A couple grieving a miscarriage after years of trying.
    A daughter drowning in financial stress while caring for her aging parent.

    These stories aren’t rare. They’re everywhere. And they’re happening quietly, behind the scenes, while people are clocking in, showing up, and trying their best to hold it together.

    So, when someone snaps at a coworker, forgets a task, or seems distant, it’s easy to judge. It’s easy to say, “They’re being difficult,” or “They’re not a team player.” But what if we paused and asked, “What might they be carrying?”

    Because here’s what I’ve learned:
    Everyone is carrying something.
    And most of the time, it’s not visible. It’s tucked behind tired eyes, short tempers, and quiet sighs in the break room.

    That doesn’t mean we excuse poor behavior. Boundaries matter. Respect matters. But it does mean we lead with empathy. We give people the benefit of the doubt. We ask before assuming. We breathe before reacting.

    I’ve seen coworkers who were at odds come together after sharing their stories. I’ve seen patience grow when people realize they’re not alone in their struggles. And I’ve seen how a simple “Are you okay?” can change the course of someone’s day.

    So this is my reminder, to myself, to my team, and to anyone reading:

    Be patient.
    Be kind.
    Be curious.

    Because the person next to you might be fighting a battle you’ll never see, and your grace might be the one thing that helps them keep going.

  • Life in Pittsford NY


    There’s a rhythm to life in Pittsford that’s hard to explain unless you’ve lived it. It’s the kind of place where the seasons don’t just change, they announce themselves. Where fall arrives with crunchy steps and a burst of color so vivid it feels like the trees are showing off. Where winter wraps the village in a white quietness, and spring feels like a collective exhale and pop of colors.

    Our home sits just outside the town, tucked into a neighborhood where kids ride bikes, people walk their dogs or jog by, and neighbors wave from their front yard like it’s still 1995. It’s the kind of place where you know which bakery has the best sandwiches and cinnamon rolls (Village Bakery), the creamiest ice-creams and butteriest croissants (Pittsford Dairy), which trails are best for walking, jogging, biking while clearing your head (hello, Erie Canal), and which library corner your teenager will curl up in with a stack of books and their cup of Starbucks.

    But Pittsford isn’t just charming, it’s grounding. It’s where I’ve raised four kids in a blended, boisterous household that runs on love, logistics, and laughter. It’s where I’ve mentored city youth through Compeer, hosted exchange students through Educatius, and brainstormed HR ideas that somehow mirror the way I run my home: with structure, compassion, and a touch of chaos.

    The surroundings matter too. A short drive takes you to Mendon Ponds Park, where the trails are wide and the chickadees eat from your hand if you’re patient. Head the other way and you’re in Rochester, where the arts scene hums and the lilacs bloom in May like they’ve been waiting all year to show off.

    There’s Finger Lakes wine, snowy ski trails, and your runs to Wegmans turn into friend reunions.
    But more than anything, Pittsford is where I’ve learned to live with both roots and wings. It’s where I’ve watched my daughters leave for college, one to fly planes, one to heal animals, and where I’ve welcomed new kids into our home, because “What’s one more?” isn’t just a motto, it’s a way of life.

    Pittsford has given me a foundation of community, a rhythm of family, and a reminder that home isn’t just a place. So, whether I’m walking the canal trail with a coffee or ice cream in hand, cheering from the sidelines at a school game, or hosting one more kid at our dinner table, Pittsford continues to be the backdrop for a life filled with purpose, connection, and just the right amount of chaos.

  • Wait, what was I doing?

    This morning, a friend of mine texted me, she was annoyed that she had finally gotten to the office early for once, but somehow, she forgot to bring her laptop…TGIF!!!

    Coincidentally, during my drive into work this morning, I was listening to the Elvis Duran show, and they were talking about those classic “Wait, what was I doing?” moments. Lately there are so many times that I head somewhere with a purpose – maybe to grab my phone, feed the dog, or start laundry – but halfway there, I completely blank. So, I do what any seasoned multitasker does: I backtrack like a confused squirrel until the memory pops back in.

    How many times have I been on a call on my cell, while searching frantically for my cell because I am running late leaving the house… And the keys. Oh, those keys love to play hide and seek with me!

    And yet, if you cue up any song from the 90s – “No Scrubs,” “I Will Always Love You,” “Wonderwall,” “Vogue”-I can sing every word like I’m headlining a nostalgia tour. So how is it that I can remember lyrics from decades ago, but forget what I was doing five minutes ago?

    Turns out, memory is an interesting beast. Elvis and the crew were talking about the different types of memory, and I had to laugh at how perfectly they explain my daily chaos. Here’s a breakdown:

    Episodic Memory – Your personal highlight reel.
    Example: I vividly remember slow dancing to “I’ll Make Love to You” at a high school dance and the exact outfit I wore, but ask me to recall the details of a disagreement with my husband? Poof! Gone. Selective memory, or self-preservation?

    Semantic Memory – Facts and general knowledge.
    Example: I know that Destiny’s Child came before Beyoncé’s solo career, that “Waterfalls” is a cautionary tale, and that minivans are banned from my driveway. Forever!!!!

    Procedural Memory – How to do things, like making coffee half-asleep.
    Example: I can still do the Macarena without thinking, and I can fold laundry while singing “Ironic” in perfect harmony.

    Working Memory – Short-term, in-the-moment memory.
    Example: Why I walked into the kitchen. What I was just saying. Where I put my keys. This is the one that likes to ghost me mid-task.

    Emotional Memory – Feelings tied to experiences.
    Example: The ache of losing Guillermo. The joy of watching my daughter fly a plane. The rush of hearing “I Want It That Way” and instantly flashing back to belting it out with your best friends.

    So yes, memory loss at “this age” is real – but it’s also selective, layered, and sometimes hilarious. Our brains prioritize what’s emotionally charged, repeated often, or tied to music (especially the kind we screamed into hairbrushes). And the rest? Well, it might need a little backtracking.

    If you’ve ever walked into a room and forgotten why, just hum a little TLC or Spice Girls. Your brain might not remember your to-do list, but it’ll never forget the rhythm of your youth.

  • In Loving Memory of Guillermo

    Gone too soon but never forgotten.

    Yesterday, our hearts shattered.

    Guillermo, a boy who became part of our family in every way that mattered, died tragically in a sudden car accident. He was only a teenager, but his presence carried the warmth, humor, and depth of someone far beyond his years.

    Guillermo arrived in Rochester at the age of eight, speaking only Spanish, and was placed in my daughter’s class so she could help him translate and adjust. That simple act of kindness sparked a friendship that would last for years. He became a fixture in our home – playing with our kids, running with our dog along the canal, and stopping by after school just to hang out. My youngest son adored him so much he’d ask if we could adopt Guillermo. Our dog adored him too, always ready for another long run or cuddle.

    His family became close to ours. We shared meals, milestones, and laughter. Guillermo wasn’t just a friend; he was woven into the fabric of our lives. He was kind, caring, mischievous in the best way, and always quick with a smile that could light up a room.

    It’s incredible how life can change in a second. One moment, everything is normal. The next, it’s unrecognizable. It’s been said before, and it’s heartbreakingly true: no parent should ever have to bury their child. Guillermo was an only child. His parents lived for him. Every decision they made, including moving to and staying in the U.S., was for his future. And now, that future has been stolen.

    We are grieving. We are shocked. We are holding onto the memories: the laughter, the kindness, the quiet moments, and the chaos. Guillermo, we will miss your company, your humor, your heart. You were loved deeply, and you will be missed fiercely.

    Rest in peace, sweet boy. You will always be part of our family.

  • Halloween Prank Gone Wrong

    It’s finally October, which means I now officially allow all of you to start posting about Halloween and your beloved pumpkin spice everythings. I know some of you start in August, but I’m a firm believer in seasonal boundaries. People, you´ve got to learn to enjoy the present! Stop living in the future! It’s not Back-to-School-Halloween-Thanksgiving-Christmas all mashed into one chaotic retail holiday blur. Breathe. Sip your cider. Light your cinnamon candle. Now it’s spooky time.

    So, a few Halloweens ago, I decided to prank my husband. Our kids were still little, which meant our garage was basically a toy graveyard – bikes, bins, Nerf darts, and mystery items that probably belonged to someone else’s child. Because of that, we couldn’t park inside. My husband would back his car up to the garage, and I’d park right next to him in the driveway.

    One night, I decided to be funny. Yes, I do find time to be funny because what is life without a little mischief? Instead of parking beside him, I parked in front of his car, so our vehicles were facing each other. Then I grabbed one of our yard skeletons and sat it in my driver’s seat. My plan? When he started his car the next morning, the headlights would flash onto my car and BAM, skeleton surprise! Cue evil witch laugh.

    Except… I have a Dory memory. I forgot about it five minutes after setting it up.

    The next morning, my husband left for work like nothing happened. No scream. No startled jump. No text saying, “Nice try.” Just silence. Meanwhile, I was running late, juggling my laptop bag (which, by the way, needs more pockets), my lunch bag, water bottle, coffee, phone, and keys. I unlocked my car, opened the door, and guess who got the crap scared out of her?

    Yep. Me.

    Coffee everywhere. Loud scream. Skeleton still sitting there like, “Gotcha.” I had to laugh. Who pranks themselves? This girl.

    So let this be a lesson: if you’re going to prank someone, maybe leave yourself a sticky note. Or better yet, don’t use props that look like they crawled out of a Tim Burton movie. But hey, at least I know my reflexes still work.

    Happy October, friends. May your pranks land better than mine, and may your pumpkin spice stay in your cup.

  • What´s one more?

    My husband and I have a running joke: “What’s one more?” It started when we had four kids and kept finding ourselves saying yes to more…more snacks, more chaos, more love, more humans in our home. We’re a blended family, happily married with four kids: two older daughters from my first marriage who are now off chasing their dreams in college, and two younger ones (a girl and a boy) from my current marriage who are still in elementary school, keeping us grounded and slightly sleep-deprived.

    Last year, my oldest daughter flew the nest – literally. She’s studying to become a commercial pilot at BGSU, and yes, I cry every time I see a plane overhead. This year, my second daughter packed up for UB, where she’s training to become a veterinary doctor, and has taken independency to a whole new level (I barely hear from her). So now I’m officially a half-empty nester. Two gone, two to go. Working on my second batch as I say. I thought I’d finally get a moment to breathe, maybe even reclaim a corner of the house for myself. But before I could enjoy the silence, I was taking in more kids.

    Why do I do this to myself, you ask? Because we love it. My husband would have had a dozen kids if I hadn’t closed the baby factory. And no, it wasn’t because pregnancy was hard, I had beautiful pregnancies and births. But my body? My body is a mess. Don’t even get me started…. That’s a blog post for another day. I was mostly worried about having babies after 40. But if adoption were easier and more affordable, our house would be bursting at the seams. I can’t watch the news or see those ads about kids suffering without wanting to scoop them all up and give them a better life.

    Now, those who know me know how I am with money. I’m not sending checks to anyone, but I would adopt them in a heartbeat. So in retrospect, thank God adoption isn’t that simple, or I’d be running a full-blown orphanage with a snack budget that rivals Costco’s.

    We’ve also volunteered with Compeer, a program where you mentor a child from the city whose family may not have the means to take them places. During weekends or family outings, they come along and become part of the crew. We’ve mentored two kids through Compeer, and while they’re now adults living their own lives, we still hear from them occasionally and keep up through Instagram. They were part of our family for a season, and we carry those memories with us. I would highly recommend volunteering with Compeer. So many young kids, who live right around the block from us, could benefit from spending time with your family.

    And just when the house started to feel a little too quiet, our youngest, who’s been surrounded by girls for years, put in a request. Last year, we hosted an exchange student, and she was (you guessed it) another girl. So, this time, he demanded we host a boy. Fair enough. We welcomed a 10th grader from Cambodia, and within weeks, we got a text from the international student agency asking if we’d consider hosting another 10th grade boy who couldn’t find a family. And of course, we said yes. Because what’s one more?

    So now I’m back to four kids in the house. It’s fun, loud, and crazy – just the way we like it. Never a dull moment. The laundry pile is taller, the fridge empties faster (OMG! these boys eat like grizzly bears), and the SUV is packed. But our hearts? They’re full.