Page 108 – Guideposts Articles

Their Son’s Recovery from Drug Addiction Made Them Closer

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Gordon Dobson Sr.

We considered ourselves a normal, middle-class American family, a good family. My wife, Michelle, and I lived in a nice neighborhood with our two sons, Gordon, 15, and his brother, Gavin, 13. The local schools the boys attended were excellent. We were active in our church. We ate our meals together. We did things as a family.

That’s why it was so hard for us to see what was happening to Gordon, even when the warning signs were plainly there. Psychologists call it denial. For a long time we denied that our son was using drugs, and his worsening behavior was ripping apart our household.

It started with Gordon cutting classes. His grades plunged. We were called in for conferences at school. At home he grew uncommunicative, spending hours in his room, the door defiantly locked. He skipped meals. When he did emerge he was often belligerent. He fought with Gavin, to whom he’d always been such a wonderful big brother. Yet it was as if Gordon were becoming a different person, someone we didn’t know or even like. Still, we blindly refused to suspect drugs. Not our son. Not our home.

Michelle and I are both dyslexics. Gordon too is afflicted with this frustrating learning disorder. We became convinced that dyslexia, along with the usual teenage upheavals, was the root of Gordon’s trouble. It had to be that. So we decided to send him away to a private school specializing in dyslexic kids. But Gordon was strangely infuriated by our plan. “I won’t go!” he howled. “You can’t make me!” He stalked off to his room.

I felt bad forcing on him something he didn’t want, but Michelle and I were determined to spare him what we went through as students. “You’re going,” I said angrily through the door and above the roaring music. “And that’s that.”

I practically had to carry Gordon bodily from the house when it came time. He cursed. He kicked out a window. He cried. Eventually we wore him down and convinced him he had to go. Once inside the car he abruptly quieted down and slept quite heavily the whole drive there.

Gordon only did more poorly at private school, despite faculty assurances that he was bright and capable of the work. He was suspended several times. Michelle and I were devastated. What is going wrong? I’d lie awake at night wondering. When Gordon visited home he’d hole up in his room, blasting music and burning incense, while we sat silently in the living room below, burying ourselves in the newspaper, blocking out what was happening above our heads. Hardly ever did he speak a civil word to Gavin. Gavin just couldn’t understand what was happening to his brother.

This was not the good son we’d raised and loved. Where had we gone wrong? Parents make mistakes, but what had we done to cause such alarming behavior in our boy? The more we tried to help, the harder he pushed us away.

One night while I was on a business trip in Europe, I got a panicky call from Michelle. She was tremendously upset about the results of a physical Gordon had taken to attend camp that coming summer. The exam included a drug scan. “He tested positive for marijuana,” she divulged tearfully. “What are we going to do?” I was stunned. Even though the fractured pieces of Gordon’s puzzling behavior began to tumble into place before I hung up the phone, I was still nonplussed. How many times had we warned him against drugs? How many times had Gordon promised us he’d never try them?

There was nothing to tell Michelle but to pray and hang tight till I came home. The rest of that trip is a blur. When I got back I lost no time confronting my son. I was frantic to get this thing out in the open and deal with it.

“You turned up positive for marijuana on your physical, Gordon,” I said, my voice squeezing out the words.

His eyes widened slightly—he’d been caught. Then he smiled. “Okay, Dad.” He took a deep breath. “I…I tried it once. It was still in my system, I guess.”

Silence. I fumbled for what to say next. “I’ll never do it again,” he offered. Our eyes locked. Suddenly I knew he was lying. He knew I knew he was lying. But Gordon stuck to his guns. I could not believe that my own son was lying so effortlessly to my face about using marijuana. Finally he just climbed the stairs to his room and closed the door.

Michelle and I talked with our doctor, then made the decision. We would have Gordon treated in a drug rehabilitation center. We’d been blind for a long time; now we wanted to do everything to stop the problem before it got any worse.

But it was already too late. At the rehab Gordon admitted to taking not only marijuana but uppers, downers, PCP, cocaine, LSD and a slew of other substances we’d never even heard of. Our son was a drug addict.

Suddenly so much made sense: the moodiness and hostility, the grades, the wild rage at going off to a new school away from his drug source, the occasional missing money we couldn’t explain—all of it. It all made terrible, shocking sense.

A counselor forced us to confront the grim statistical reality of our situation, a reality we could no longer deny. “There are thirty-six kids in this unit,” she said carefully. “In five years twelve will be off drugs, twelve will still be using and twelve will be dead.”

Later we sat in our parked car and cried. Please, God, I prayed desperately, please don’t let my child die. Gordon would need six to eight weeks of intensive inpatient therapy, they said, at a cost of nearly $900 a day. Our insurance covered only 30 days.

“How will we ever manage?” I asked Michelle on the way home. She just stared out the car window. Neither of us had an answer.

We consulted a banker friend from church about a second mortgage. It proved unnecessary. Two days before our insurance ran dry Gordon was kicked out of rehab for fighting with the staff. Back home again he retreated to his room, isolating himself more than ever. The company—and the hours—he kept worried us sick. We never knew what he was going to do next.

We read books and joined self-help groups. We prayed. We cried. We got angry. We prayed harder. But Gordon didn’t change. There seemed to be nothing more we could do for him. At Al-Anon and Families Anonymous we heard about “toughlove,” how we had to stop blaming ourselves for Gordon’s problems. We had to think about Gavin and what Gordon was doing to his brother’s home life. We had to stop letting Gordon’s addiction wrench apart our whole family.

Finally Michelle and I had no choice but to go hard on him. We’d reached the end of our fraying rope. We’d tried everything. Looking Gordon straight in the eye, I said, “In one month you’ll be retested for drugs. If you flunk you’ll have the option of going into treatment, or leaving home for good—or until you kick drugs.”

I paused, wondering if my words had hit their mark. Gordon glowered, speechless. “From now on,” I continued, “you’ll be home by curfew or you’ll sleep elsewhere. Same goes for mealtimes. This isn’t a truck stop.”

“We love you,” added Michelle, “but we don’t like who you’re turning into, and we won’t tolerate it in our home.”

A month later, after he’d slept elsewhere many nights and missed many meals, Gordon retested positive. We stuck with the ultimatum. He packed an old knapsack and left, slamming the door. With all my might I resisted running after him. The weeks that followed were painful for our family. Things fell apart. The demands of a new job put pressure on me at a time when I didn’t think I could take any more. To combat the anxiety she felt over Gordon’s leaving, Michelle took up aerobics, only to injure both ankles at class and end up on crutches. She became more depressed than ever. We had no idea where Gordon was but we knew he was suffering.

Then, while riding his bike, Gavin had a dreadful accident. Michelle called me from the hospital; Gavin had been taken there in a coma. I rushed to his side, frantic. The doctors could promise nothing. The only thing to do was wait and see if he came out of it, wait and pray.

“Gordon should know about this,” I said to Michelle grimly. “He may have turned his back on us, but he still has a brother.”

The next day we cruised the streets. We found him hanging out with some druggie friends. He was reluctant to talk so I minced no words. “Your brother’s had a bad accident. He’s in a coma. We don’t know what’ll happen.”

I searched his eyes for a flicker of worry. But “You all right, Mom?” was all he managed to mumble. Michelle nodded. Then he turned and left to be with his friends. We drove home in silence. It’s in Your hands now, Lord.

Early one sunny morning a few days later we heard a faint knock at our door. It was Gordon—deathly thin, weak, bedraggled. His vacant, red-rimmed eyes met ours. “I’m ready,” he barely whispered, “to go where you want. Take me today.”

Parents make mistakes, but what had we done to cause such alarming behavior in our boy? We put Gordon in a drug treatment program where he got help in fighting his addiction one day at a time—and where we too learned how to recover as a family. We didn’t expect miracles. The simple realities of addiction had long before taught us not to expect either good or bad, but to accept God’s will in our lives.

Miraculously Gavin pulled out of his coma with no permanent damage. We still don’t know exactly what brought Gordon to our doorstep that bright morning not long after the accident, but we know that somehow a power greater than his addiction drew him home.

The four of us will never be quite the same. Drug addiction unravels the home, not just the addict. But in a way I think that recovery has made us a closer family, a family that was forced to draw on love to keep from coming apart.

This story first appeared in the November 1991 issue of Guideposts magazine.

Their Love Deepened Despite His Early-Onset Alzheimer’s

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Ginny Karel Womack

I have played in many memorable concerts over the years as a professional violinist.

None meant more to me than the one I was about to play at Tabernacle Presbyterian Church in Indianapolis.

The sanctuary hummed with voices that afternoon as concertgoers arrived and took their seats in the pews. To my amazement, the church was nearly full. Ushers had to run to the office to print more programs.

I’m always a little keyed up before performances. That day, I could barely contain my emotions.

I had organized this concert. I’d asked the musicians, sent out invitations and selected the music, a mix of well-known composers (Bach, Brahms) and lesser-known contemporary pieces.

Most important, I had brought the guest of honor, sitting in the front row and looking no less dear to me than the day we married three decades earlier.

Mark and I were no longer married. It had been six years since we divorced, after everything in our once happy household was turned upside down by changes in Mark’s personality that we both struggled to understand.

Yet here was Mark at a concert organized by me, dedicated to him. His name was on the cover of the program, above a picture of one of the violins he had crafted as a luthier, a master string instrument maker. Every string instrument on stage that afternoon had been made by Mark. The musicians all knew and admired him.

How did all of this happen? It’s a love story—our love story. But there’s more. Through heartbreak and healing, Mark and I have learned about the deepest love of all: God’s.

Mark Womack and I were brought together by music.

I was 28 years old, a professional musician playing with an orchestra in Knoxville, Tennessee. It was 1985, and the orchestra’s season had just ended for the summer. I heard the Memphis Symphony had full-time violin openings.

I signed up to audition. A friend in Memphis offered to host me. The evening I arrived, Mark came by my friend’s house to drop off her viola, which he’d repaired. She invited him to stay for dinner.

Over pizza, I told Mark about a strange buzzing I’d heard in my violin. “Let’s take it to my workshop after dinner,” he said. “I’ll take a look.”

Mark quickly diagnosed the problem and made a few adjustments. I couldn’t help noticing how handsome he was, gentle and polite. He treated my violin with the same care he would have given to a world-class instrument.

At the audition the next day, I was surprised—and thrilled—when Mark showed up and invited me to lunch.

He came by my friend’s house the following evening and cooked dinner—he even washed the dishes! We went for a walk, and I didn’t try to conceal the fact that I was head over heels in love.

I won the audition and moved to Memphis. Mark and I married two years later. It seemed like a perfect match: a violinist and a violin maker. Though I’m Jewish and Mark is Christian, we agreed to respect each other’s beliefs and raise our children Jewish. (Children are considered Jewish if their mother is Jewish.)

Soon after marrying, we moved to Indiana, where Mark had been offered a job at a reputable violin shop. I found work teaching at the University of Indianapolis and joined the Indianapolis Chamber Orchestra. I formed a klezmer band to play the folk music of Eastern European Jews.

Mark thrived, earning a reputation as a skilled and meticulous craftsman. While I was pregnant with our daughter, Julie, he made a violin for me. He started his own business, working from a studio in our garage. After one of his violas was played at a prestigious convention, the business took off. Musicians from all over sought out his instruments. Mark won awards, including four silver medals from the Violin Society of America.

Mark was in his workshop by sunrise. Often he worked late into the night. Julie hung out in the workshop after school. Our house was filled with music—me practicing, the klezmer band rehearsing, Julie singing scales. She had her eye on a vocal career.

There was one shadow in our happy family. Mark suffered from clinical depression, but antidepressants kept symptoms at bay. Then, about 20 years after we married, the medication suddenly stopped working. Almost overnight, Mark’s personality changed.

He began going to bed early and sleeping in. Some days, he never made it to his workshop. He stopped playing racquetball and reading books, two favorite pastimes. He grew quiet, moved more slowly. Often he seemed confused. Defeated.

Julie and I fretted and tried to help, but Mark waved us away. He began to lash out. The slightest mistake would set him off. He’d yell at himself or whoever happened to be in range.

Work deadlines came and went. Once, a customer came to pick up an instrument and Mark was forced to admit he’d lost it. Months later, I found the violin wedged between two pieces of furniture.

Our family depended on Mark’s income to pay our bills. Yet every time I tried to bring up the subject, Mark would fly into a rage. I panicked about our finances. I prayed every day for God to heal Mark and look out for us.

I finally persuaded Mark to see our family doctor. The doctor immediately told him to seek psychiatric help, but Mark refused. His behavior toward me became so alarming that I feared for my safety.

I had no choice. Though I loved Mark no less than I did the day I married him, I could not remain in our house with him. We separated, and I filed for divorce.

Julie was at college. I moved into an apartment. I grieved the end of our marriage. “What do I do now, God?” I asked. I implored God for answers. How could two people so in love end up like this? Hadn’t he brought us together?

Mark moved in with his parents in southern Indiana. Partly for Julie’s sake, I kept in touch.

“What I did was wrong,” he said during one of our occasional calls. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’m sorry. For everything.”

“I forgive you,” I said. And I meant it. I still didn’t understand what had happened. But I found it impossible to hold on to negative feelings. There was only compassion. Mark seemed broken. I urged him to seek help.

“Maybe later,” he’d say.

He moved from job to job. Each time, he was let go after missing deadlines, getting lost or not following through with tasks.

Once, in Indianapolis to see Julie, Mark got confused while driving and had an accident. The repairs took a long time because he couldn’t remember insurance information. I let him stay with me.

He went out for coffee one day and didn’t come back. A police officer called me. “Do you know a Mark Womack?”

“Yes,” I said apprehensively.

“He tried to enter a stranger’s apartment,” the officer told me. “He got confused and thought it was your apartment. He gave us your number. We’ll bring him home.”

Another time, I asked Mark to help me cut a piece of wood for a bookcase. I watched as he tried and failed three times to cut a simple six-inch length of wood.

He was 51 years old. What was happening to him?

The answer finally came at Mark’s fourth and final job. He confessed to the shop owner that he had forgotten how to make a violin. In tears, he was taken to the hospital. Doctors diagnosed early-onset Alzheimer’s disease. Further evaluation led to a diagnosis of frontotemporal dementia, or FTD.

At last, everything made sense. FTD is characterized by dramatic changes in personality, typically starting in the patient’s forties. It is often mistaken for severe depression at first. Displays of anger and aggression are common. Mark’s rages weren’t really about me at all. He was frightened and ashamed of changes in his brain he didn’t understand.

I was stricken with guilt. If only we had known! I never would have divorced him.

Mark’s father had passed away by this point, and his mother was unable to take care of him. Julie and I were all Mark had left.

We didn’t know how to care for someone with dementia, but we vowed to try. I barely supported myself as a musician, and Julie was in New York studying to be a cantor—an ordained spiritual leader who chants liturgical prayers and performs other important clergy duties at a synagogue. Friends, colleagues and other family members cautioned us against taking on such a huge responsibility.

I did the only thing I knew to do. I prayed. Julie did too.

Immediately help turned up. People from my synagogue guided me to an elder law attorney. Julie and I filed for guardianship of Mark, which enabled us to access benefits to pay for his care. We found an assisted living facility and got him moved in.

A friend from synagogue even helped me think more clearly about my immense feelings of guilt. “What if this was God’s plan?” she said. “If you had stayed married to Mark, he would not have qualified for the benefits that pay for his care. And you’ve had time to heal from dark days. Now you have the strength to help him.”

I had been wondering whether my prayers for Mark and our family were heard. Now I could see how 9+ were there, even in the midst of darkness.

Mark’s facility specializes in mental health and brain disorders. He receives excellent care, even as his abilities decline and he has become less responsive and started using a wheelchair.

Julie now serves as a cantor at a synagogue outside Chicago and visits Mark twice a month. I visit several times a week. The days of our long conversations are over. Yet that time with him has become a highlight of my week.

To my amazement, I have found myself falling in love with Mark all over again. Maybe I’d never stopped loving him, hoping against hope that the frightening changes he underwent would disappear, that the real Mark would return.

We listen to music, eat chocolate, share hugs and kisses. Mark always smiles when I arrive. So do I. Sometimes he dances in his wheelchair.

The idea for the concert came to me one day while rehearsing with a string quartet at Tabernacle Presbyterian. I suddenly realized that Mark had made all four instruments in the quartet. An idea came to me.

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful to do a concert featuring all Womack instruments?” I said.

“Let’s do it,” said the music director at the church. “We’ll host it.”

So here we were, gathered in this beautiful sanctuary to honor a talented musical craftsman. A wonderful husband and father. A blessing to everyone who knew him.

Thirteen musicians from around the United States had come to play their Womack violins, violas and cellos. The concert was free, but audience members donated $2,000, which would go to the Alzheimer’s Association.

Sitting onstage, gazing at the expectant faces in the pews, I had to stop myself from crying. Mark didn’t understand exactly what was happening. But I knew he was feeling the love in this church.

The music was beautiful. Mark smiled and swayed in his seat. During pieces I didn’t play, I sat beside him and held his hand.

Our daughter concluded the concert with a song called “T’fi lat HaDerech,” which means “traveler’s prayer” in Hebrew. The song is the composer’s interpretation of a Hebrew prayer for a safe journey. She was accompanied by an ensemble of instruments made by her father.

I am comforted by these words from the prayer: “May we be sheltered by the wings of peace. May we be kept in safety and in love. May grace and compassion find their way to every soul.”

I know that grace and compassion have found their way to Mark’s soul. And to mine.

Through Mark, God has shown me a deeper form of love. A love that sees everyone as worthy to be loved. It’s how God loves us. And how I plan to love Mark now and always.

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The Important Stage of Caregiving That No One Talks About

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Jessica Toomer

As a former research scientist and hospice consultant, Melanie P. Merriman felt equipped to care for her aging parents. After all, she knew what to expect better than anyone, having served as a quality measurement contractor to the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services and helping put into place regulations for palliative care.

But that wealth of experience and knowledge could never have readied her for the realities of life once her mother’s health started to decline.

“I was prepared for my mother to die,” Merriman tells Guideposts.org. “I had the whole hospice thing down and my mother and my father had been great about preparing wills. We were prepared for the end, but it was this in between period we weren’t ready for.”

That “in-between” period is what Merriman focuses on in her new book, Holding the Net: Caring for My Mother on the Tightrope of Aging. The book chronicles Merriman and her sister Barbara’s journey tending to their mother’s needs in the final years of her life, a journey that Merriman says began when her father passed away unexpectedly at 80 years old.

“It was an immediate understanding that, ‘Oh, the family is different now and mom is going to need us in ways that she has not needed us before,’” Merriman recalls of that time.

Thankfully, Merriman’s mother didn’t suffer from any illnesses or conditions that often plague senior citizens. After the death of her husband, Merriman’s mother continued her daily life in much the same way she always had – attending book club meetings, playing bridge, and editing her retirement community’s newsletter.

There was no sudden shift in her health, no tangible indicator that she was having trouble, just small things that began to add up. She became unbalanced, falling often, finding it hard to walk for long periods, losing mental stamina, and finding it difficult to concentrate.

“It’s a period of time in life that we don’t really think about very much,” Merriman says. “That period between when an older person is still able to function completely on their own and the period when you would say they’re at the end of their life, with a few months or a year left. But in between, there’s this period of both mental and physical decline.”

That period of uncertainty is what inspired the title of her book.

“Every day became this precarious situation where we just didn’t know how well she was going to be able to manage on her own,” Merriman explains. “That’s why I call it the tight rope of aging, because it’s like walking the tight rope, where you just don’t know how the next step is going to go. You’re always on this edge, where a mistake could be disaster.”

Making it worse was the distance. Merriman lived in Miami, Florida, her mother lived across the state in Tampa, and her sister lived in North Carolina. If that disaster were to happen, the family would be too far away to help. Merriman convinced her mother to move closer to her sister, a decision that was hard for a woman as independent as she was.

“My mother had been adamant, forever, that she never wanted to live with either one of us. Her mantra was, ‘I don’t want to be a burden,’” Merriman says. “In her mind, she didn’t want to disrupt our lives. So we were always really careful to try and make decisions with her and not for her.”

They tackled the sensitive subject of moving by inviting a professional geriatric care manager to do an assessment of the home, hoping an outside, unbiased opinion might sway their mom’s decision. They did the same when it came time to give up driving, asking their mom’s doctor to talk to her about the dangers and difficulties behind the wheel for an older person.

Get practical spiritual advice for everyday challenges in Spiritual Remedies

“I couldn’t just say, ‘Mom, you don’t have any choice, you have to do this,’” Merriman explains. “I really had to ask questions and listen to what was getting in the way of her making a smart choice.”

It’s a trap she sees many other caregivers fall into: parenting their parents in their declining years.

“When your parent acts like that, it feels a little bit like they’re acting like a willful child,” Merriman says of her mother’s resistance to moving. “And so you think that you should act like a parent, but the fact of the matter is, you’re never a parent to your parent. The roles just don’t allow that. If anything maybe you get a little more equal, but the hardest thing was really letting her make decisions that sometimes felt to us like bad choices.”

Merriman found that bringing in professional voices helped, but she also found that just listening to her mother’s concerns made things easier.

“If there’s any way in which I did act sort of like a parent, it was more in trying to comfort and support her through the difficulties,” she explains, saying she would often drive across state to bring her mom comfort foods and spend time with her before the move. “It’s important to not just to know intellectually that there’s all this emotion behind what’s going on, but to ask about it and commiserate. Let them feel bad. There were times I just had to sit there and let my mother cry. I was just so aware of all that she was losing, which is why any time we could, we tried to preserve her independence and the things that really mattered to her.”

Merriman hopes her book can help others going through the same situation she was in by offering them resources and her own personal knowledge of the healthcare system.

“I would like for people to learn from both my successes and my failures,” she says.

She also wants to shine a light on the toll caregiving can take on people, something she didn’t truly understand, despite all of her hospice experience, until she took on the role herself.

“What you don’t see is just the underlying stress that’s there all the time. Every time the phone rang, I thought it was going to be my sister telling me that something awful had happened,” Merriman says. “I would call my mother every single day and I didn’t know what was going to be on the other end of that call. I had a knot in my stomach every time I made that call. I wasn’t giving her a shower. I wasn’t having to dress her or even do those errands that my sister was doing. But every single day there was just that stress of knowing that a person I love was not fully safe and not fully happy and not fully comfortable. You just know that all the time.”

She found ways to manage the stress mostly by carving out time for herself.

“I usually meditate in the morning and just have some prayer before I go to sleep at night,” Merriman says. “I just made sure that I stuck to those things. Keeping up that practice of the connection both to myself and to something larger than myself that sustains me was important.”

She hopes readers can find comfort in her story and learn to appreciate the positives of caregiving.

“What I’m hoping is, in the same way you immediately recognize that this is a stressful time and it’s difficult, you recognize there are those moments that are really rewarding and really wonderful,” Merriman says. “What I would hope is that through reading the book, people will have more of those kinds of moments.”

The Importance of Warmth—And Staying Connected

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Holly Lebowitz Rossi

There are so many words that describe emotions as well as other things. “Blue” for sadness is a classic example—as is “cold” or “chilly” to describe someone who is socially disconnected.

A new study sheds light on just how apt this description is. According to researchers at the State University of New York and Florida State University, people who feel physically cold are more likely to report feeling emotionally “cold” and seek out connection with others.

“In colder ambient environments,” the authors wrote, “people report greater loneliness, and they pursue both physical warmth and social affiliation (i.e. social warmth).” In other words, the study found that people don’t like to be cold, and they will seek out ways to warm themselves, physically and emotionally.

Warmth, like cold, describes the emotions associated with connection, comfort and mutual appreciation. It makes sense, then, that study participants who wore a battery-powered warm pack on a cold day already felt those feelings in subtle, visceral ways, which the research associated with a lower impulse to seek out social connection and visit friends.

This finding highlighted two things for me. First, it was a new perspective on seasonal sadness, with the findings about the social impact of cold temperatures.

Second, it brought the social challenges of the coronavirus era into stark focus. The warmth we generally seek from friends and loved ones is found indoors, by a cozy fire, sipping warm drinks and sharing laughs and quality time together. As the winter presses on and public health guidelines continue to advise against indoor gatherings, it can feel increasingly difficult to meet our relational needs. “Socially distanced” is an emotional reality as well as a sensible public health practice.

Which makes me turn to what researchers also know about loneliness, which is that it deserves our attention and should be supported with connecting practices. Here are some suggestions:

1) Reach out to your house of worship or other community organizations for Covid-safe programs or volunteer opportunities.

2) Invest your energy in gathering an adequate supply of warm clothing—including tools like rechargeable hand-warmers—so you can safely meet friends for masked walks or visits outdoors.

3) Acknowledge your loneliness and reach out for support from a friend, clergy person or counselor if it feels overwhelming.

4) Bask in the warmth of your own good company, remembering there’s joy to be found in solitude. As the theologian Paul Tillich put it, “Loneliness expresses the pain of being alone, and solitude expresses the glory of being alone.”

How do you stay socially warm during the cold months?

The Importance of Nutrition After a Hospital Stay

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Julie Hayes

Julie Hayes is the Content Manager at Benjamin Rose Institute on Aging.

Your loved one is being discharged from the hospital. You’re relieved, and you’re armed with prescriptions and a lot of details to remember: give these two meds in the morning, another three at night, this one with a meal . . . A meal? With so much to keep track of, it’s possible that the idea of preparing or arranging for balanced meals each day is not at the top of your to-do list. Yet a proper diet is crucial medicine for your loved one’s ongoing health. Nutritious food is vital to the healing process and can be a major factor in keeping him or her from having to go back to the hospital

Lack of nutritious food is the number one cause of poor health in the United States, and for older adults, the health problems caused by an inadequate diet can be even more severe. A poor diet can lead to functional disabilities, increased rates of infection, physical weakness, vulnerability to illness and increased hospital admissions and readmissions (Seligman, H. K., Laraia, B. A., & Kushel, M. B. (2010). Food insecurity is associated with chronic disease among low-income NHANES participants.The Journal of nutrition, 140(2), 304–310.). By seeing to it that your loved one eats well following a hospital stay, you can contribute greatly to his or her successful recovery.

Why does nutrition matter even more after a hospital stay?

One of the most serious obstacles to proper nutrition after a hospital discharge is food insecurity. The US Department of Agriculture (USDA) defines food insecurity as “a household-level and social condition of limited or uncertain access to adequate food.” Among the factors that can lead to food insecurity, are:

· Finances

· Living distance from stores that stock nutritious foods

· A means to travel and shop at these stores

· Ability to prepare meals

· Ability to eat meals without assistance.

A hospitalization, especially a lengthy one, can make it much more difficult for your loved one to leave the house or prepare his or her own meals.

An inadequate diet coupled with food insecurity can result in your loved one being readmitted to the hospital. According to the United Health Foundation, about 14.9 percent of older adults over the age of 65 were readmitted to the hospital within 30 days of their initial hospital discharge in 2019. Readmissions can be due to many things, but two of the leading causes—poor follow-up care and the development of illnesses or infections post-discharge—are connected to nutrition and can oftentimes be prevented by focusing more on diet, in tandem with medication.

How do I make sure my loved one eats right after leaving the hospital?

Rose Centers for Aging Well, a subsidiary of Benjamin Rose Institute on Aging, is currently leading the Nutrition Solution project, which provides home-delivered, medically tailored meals, a weekly check-in call from a volunteer, enhanced nutrition education to low income, food insecure older adults with chronic conditions such as diabetes or heart disease in Ohio’s Cuyahoga County. The project aims to decrease hospital readmissions, reduce food insecurity and mitigate social isolation. Central to the project is the concept of “food as medicine,” which views nutrition as an essential part of a holistic treatment plan to keep a loved one well following a hospital discharge.

The menus for the medically tailored meals of the Nutrition Solution project are designed by Registered Dietitians to meet specific nutritional needs. When considering your loved one’s meals, you should also take a similar approach of choosing foods tailored to his or her needs and medical conditions. To learn more about the kinds of meals that would be appropriate for your loved one, you should talk to his or her doctor, nurse practitioner or their other health care providers about their dietary needs. Some hospitals may have a Registered Dietitian or a Nutritionist on staff who can help with these issues and work with you to create menus tailored to these needs.

What else can I do to help my loved one maintain a proper diet?

Two key contributors to food insecurity are social isolation and a lack of support. Your presence and attention to your loved one’s needs can have a great impact on his or her health. Make it a point to monitor progress, as well as the quality and quantity of meals he or she is eating after leaving the hospital. This is especially important within the first thirty days. If your loved one needs help getting groceries or preparing meals, be ready to assist, or enlist the aid of other family members, friends or service providers in your community. Even if your loved one is able to make meals independently, you should ensure that he or she continues to eat in a healthy, well-balanced way. Many older adults may not have much appetite as a result of their medication or condition. Nonetheless, skipping meals can have an adverse impact on their health and should be avoided.

If finances are preventing your loved one from getting the food he or she needs, don’t hesitate to look into public assistance for support. According to the National Council on Aging, the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP) is underutilized by older adults, and just 42 percent of eligible older adults were enrolled in the program in 2015. However, SNAP can be essential to providing healthy food to low-income older adults, and has contributed to the overall food security, nutritional wellness and positive health outcomes of older adults. To learn more about the application process for your state’s SNAP program, visit the Food and Nutrition Service’s locator. There are also online resources available to find dieticians and Meals on Wheels providers near you.

The Importance of Forming New Friendships in Retirement

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Cindy Connolly

Retirement can be a time of excitement and freedom, allowing you to explore activities you’ve never tried but may have dreamed of. It can also be unsettling. When your daily work life ends, your face-to-face interactions undergo a major shift. Co-workers you’d grown used to seeing each day are no longer part of the landscape. Some may have become close friends, others fond acquaintances. Either way, chances are they were a meaningful part of your life—maybe even more so than you realized. Your newfound free time, however, can be an opportunity to reinforce existing friendships while you consider ideas to form new relationships.

Friendship appears to be even more essential as you reach retirement age. “The older people get, the more challenging it can be to make friends, and that’s especially true after retirement, as work is one of the most common ways to meet people” the Stanford Center on Longevity reports.

Research published in the journal Personal Relationships shows that the power of friendship gets stronger with age and may even be more important than family relationships. William Chopik, assistant professor of psychology at Michigan State University, found that friendships become increasingly important to one’s happiness and health across the lifespan. For older adults, friendships are an even stronger predictor of health and happiness than are relationships with family members.

Friends can be particularly valuable in helping older adults deal with feelings of isolation that can accompany retirement, illness and the death of loved ones, according to HelpGuide, a nonprofit mental health and wellness website.

As long as you’re around people, the potential exists to make new friends. You may want to consider these ideas to scope out others who are like-minded:

Volunteer

Explore your passions. Paint props or tear tickets at a community theater; save historical places that have fallen into disrepair; give your time to an animal rescue organization or the National Park Service.

Take a class or join a group

Any exercise class, like Zumba or yoga, will get you moving with others. Exercise your artistic side in a group setting with cake decorating, pottery or creative writing. Sierra Club Seniors offers outings, from docent-led museum and gallery tours to challenging hikes.

Work part-time

You may choose to work either for personal enrichment or out of financial necessity. Although working remotely from home is increasingly popular, it can be isolating. Depending on your interests and background, you may want to move into: teaching, office work, real estate or retail sales or management consulting. If you nurture a desire to help others, child care or home care for aging adults are excellent options. Both offer flexible hours and allow you to play a significant role in another person’s life. At one end of the age spectrum, you would care for children’s basic needs while offering important guidance. As a home care aide, you would be trained to help aging adults with daily activities like light housekeeping, shopping and preparing meals, while providing much-needed companionship.

One of the first principles of Dale Carnegie’s book, How to Win Friends & Influence People, is to “become genuinely interested in other people.” This may be a given for you. Retirement can be one of the best times in your life to explore your interests and form new bonds with people who might just become good friends.

The Hope and Healing Behind “The Shack”

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Paul Young

One phone call.

No doubt you’ve heard those overnight success stories–the actor getting the breakthrough part, the struggling musician whose song everyone is suddenly talking about.

The book I’ve written, The Shack, has proved to be hugely successful in ways that I couldn’t possibly have imagined.

But the phone call that got it all started was something that threw my ordered world–what I desperately wanted people to believe was ordered–into pain and chaos long before I ever put pen to paper.

I was an insurance agent, supporting my wife, Kim, and our six kids, the picture-perfect husband and provider. Framed family photos on the desk, the kids stretching from ages one to 14.

I took them on camping trips up the Columbia Gorge and told them bedtime stories. I wanted to give them the safe, secure childhood I’d never had and never talked about.

But the terror of my past was rarely far beneath the surface, no matter how hard I tried to hide it. I was always running from half-buried memories, haunted by doubts, doubts that said if anyone really knew who I was deep inside, no one could possibly love that damaged and frightened person.

January 4, 1994, one phone call changed everything. I was just finishing lunch with a friend and Kim was on the line. “Hi, darling,” I said, waiting to hear some detail about the kids’ soccer games or a meeting with a teacher or a question about dinner–was I going to be home late again?

“I’m here in your office,” she said, her voice like cold steel, “and I’m waiting for you.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I know.” Then she hung up. The air was sucked out of the room. I wanted to keep maintaining the fiction of our perfect marriage because it was all I really had in life.

I wanted to hide, because hiding and lying were what I knew how to do best. I could appear to be the model Christian dad. I was the son of missionary parents, a Bible school graduate, a former seminary student.

Kim and I had actually met at a church when I had a staff position in charge of the college youth group. She walked into a Friday evening meeting with two of her sisters. One look at her raven hair and dark searching eyes and I changed what I had planned.

“Why don’t we split up into groups of two and pray for each other?” I said. Of course, I paired myself with Kim.

She knows, I thought now. I wanted to run away, but that would solve nothing. You can’t run from your own sorry self.

The next thought was ending my life, the ultimate form of self-centered running away.

Perhaps it was a nudge of grace, but I finally decided I had to face Kim, even if the anger in her voice terrified me.

All the secrets had to come out, all those things that had happened to me so long ago yet still seemed so much a part of the present, my behaviors and addictions I could never talk about. It was all or nothing.

The trip to the office was one of the longest of my life. I pulled into the parking lot and slunk out of the car. I pushed open the door.

The place was a shambles. Files thrown on the floor, drawers open, paperclips and pens dumped on the carpet, the trash can knocked over, memos ripped off my bulletin board.

In the middle of it all sat Kim at my computer. She knew I was having an affair with one of her best friends. All the e-mails between us were there for anyone to find. Was I secretly hoping to get caught? The guilty, they say, seek punishment.

“How could you? How could you betray me like this?” Kim shouted.

I couldn’t meet her scorching gaze. I couldn’t bear seeing the pain in those dark eyes. Pathetically, I promised that I would end it right away, that I’d never let it happen again.

“Why should I believe you?”

Why indeed? I didn’t even trust myself. I was in no position to promise anything. But I did make one pledge: “I don’t want to be like this, Kim. I love you. I’ll do anything to keep you.

“I’ll find the best counselor I can and work with him. I want to change, and there’s so much I need to tell you. Secrets have been killing me my whole life and if we are going to do this, I can’t have any more secrets.”

After hours of intense interrogation, laced with fury and grief, Kim was done. “I will never believe another thing that comes out of your mouth the rest of your life,” she declared. I reached out to hug her, just touch her and hold on, but she stood up and pushed her way past, slamming the door in tears.

And there I was, left to myself and the mess in my office, the mess in my life. The mess that was inside me. All my life I’d heard people say God loved us–that God loved me–but I’d never really believed it. How could I? I didn’t love myself. What could God love about me, especially now?

Over the next three days I tried to talk to Kim. Why not tell her the truth? But she didn’t want to hear it. I was terrified I’d lost her already.

In desperation I started seeing a therapist, two to three times a week. For the first time I asked another human being to enter into my life and help me heal. It was the first I’d told anyone what had happened to me as a boy growing up in New Guinea.

My parents were missionaries to a primitive people and in those days missionary children were only allowed to be with their parents until they reached school age. At six I was sent to a boarding school.

Sexual abuse that had already been occurring at the hands of the tribe since I was four now continued at the missionary school. I was terrorized, brutalized, dehumanized.

The deep examination of what I had undergone nauseated me. Shame had become the very air I breathed, just another word for self-hatred. But if I were to change, if I were to heal, I would have to face the worst.

It didn’t excuse my ugly behavior–nothing did–but it helped me to understand the duplicity, the fear, the loneliness–all the defense mechanisms that protected me as an abused child but were destroying me as an adult. I needed to get honest, with myself, with Kim, with God, with everyone.

At night, at home, after the children had gone to bed, I would tell Kim what I had told the therapist: the horrible stuff I had been running away from for over 30 years. She would listen, but barely respond.

My despair grew. I couldn’t heal her any more than I could heal myself. And night after night, I felt I was slowly losing myself–that if I kept up the truth-telling, there would be nothing of me left, the layers peeled back with nothing at the center.

Where were the people who should have protected me as a child? Where was God? Didn’t anyone care at all? For the first time I allowed my anger to surface, and it began to consume me.

One day I went to an old barn and found a pile of fallen wormy apples. I flung them against the barn, watching them smash and explode, until I had no rage left. There I sat, in a cascade of tears amid the pulp and the pungent, fermented odor of rotting apples. I couldn’t dredge up anything more.

I couldn’t lie anymore. I was like the pulverized pulp on the ground, rotten to the core. I bent down and picked up a seed. If only I could hold on to some seed of hope, some sign that I would get better. “Are you there anymore?” I asked God. Am I? I wondered.

Later I confessed to a family friend I had lost all hope. What I didn’t tell her was that I was planning to fly to Mexico and rent a room, buy enough prescription drugs to kill myself where my children would not discover my body. I was done, exhausted, finished. She said quietly, “Paul, there is a seed.”

“A seed?” What did that mean? In my despair I could sense the answer: A seed can grow. If there was even one seed then something could grow.

What God could do for a seed he could do for me. In one little seed all my hope came back. I never struggled with suicide again.

Healing is a process, and that was the beginning. It took 11 years for me–and for Kim and me–11 years of hard emotional work building a whole new relationship based on trust, a trust I had learned that started with trusting God with all my pain, all my anger, all my secrets.

I came to understand how God had never abandoned me. I spoke to him more frankly. I didn’t try to hide anymore. The conversations with Kim stretched into some long talks about how God had reached me when I had completely bottomed out.

Then one day she said, “Why don’t you write down what you’ve learned as a gift for the kids?”

I wrote on a pad of paper as I was commuting to and from work, telling the story of a man who met God when he thought he’d lost everything.

Those pages turned into a novel, The Shack, that I photocopied at Office Depot and passed along to family and friends, and then it all got out of hand. Before I knew what had happened, I was a best-selling author. But that’s not why I wrote the book.

The book is true, just not real, like a parable. I may not be exactly like the fictional main character, but what that man learns about the healing power of love and forgiveness, the liberation of the soul through transparency and grace, is a journey I know well.

Watch our videos with Paul Young to find out more details about his book–and his journey.

The Heart-Shaped Leaf: A Sign of Hope and God’s Love

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Diana M. Amadeo

Desiree, my six-year-old daughter, kicked the autumn leaves along the sidewalk into a neat pile as we walked to the school bus that morning. I should have accompanied her in my wheelchair, but opted for my crutches instead. I have multiple sclerosis, and my neuropathy was acting up.

Still, like Desiree, I loved the satisfying crunch of leaves underfoot. Autumn is magical here in New Hampshire. I can’t think of any sight more breathtaking than the mountains cloaked in the blazing yellows, fiery reds and burnished golds of the birch, oak and maple leaves.

My daughter skipped along in the crisp air. I tried to keep pace, but couldn’t. I didn’t want her to see how much pain I was in. She bent down, scooped up an armful of leaves and sent them flying into the air. They cascaded down around us, and Desiree giggled.

“Brown, yellow, orange, green! Red is my favorite. Is it yours too, Mommy?” Her smile faded as she looked into my eyes. “Mommy, are you okay?” She reached out to hug me.

I embraced my baby as best I could. “Your hugs always make me feel better,” I said. It was true: For the first time that morning, I had a brief respite from the pain.

But as soon as we got to the school-bus stop, the spasms resumed. I need to go home and take some pain medication, I told myself. I wouldn’t be able to wait much longer. The pain was intense, like thousands of sharp, thin needles piercing my legs. Desiree played in the leaves. I paced, groaned and prayed for relief. Where is that bus?

I forced myself forward, wondering how I would make it back to the house when my whole body was in spasm. Then I felt myself lurch to one side. I nearly toppled. Damp leaves had attached themselves to the rubber tips of my crutches, making them slick and dangerous.

I picked up one crutch and shook the leaves free. Then I stabilized myself against the clean one so I could shake the leaves off the other crutch. They all fell off except one. The leaf stubbornly held on.

“I’ll get it,” Desiree said. She knelt down and pulled the offending leaf off the crutch. “Mommy, look!” she gasped.

In her hand was a bright crimson maple leaf. Around its center vein was a perfectly shaped, unmistakable heart. The school bus’s brakes screeched. Flashing me a big smile, Desiree handed me the leaf. I bent down and gave her a kiss, then she waved goodbye and got on the bus.

I gingerly held on to the crimson leaf with the perfectly shaped heart as though it were fine porcelain. I hardly remember walking home. I often wonder if I floated back. All I can recall is feeling totally enveloped in God’s love, and in awe of the beauty all around me.

That afternoon I met Desiree at the bus stop. I had the leaf with me. “I have an idea,” I told her. “I never want to forget this wonderful day. Let’s go have the leaf laminated at the copy shop so we can keep it forever.”

Desiree is in high school now, and my MS is in remission. And the maple leaf? It still hangs on the glass door of our breakfast nook, its perfect heart a reminder of that perfect autumn day, and of God’s restorative promise—bright, beautiful, holy.

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The Healing Power of Music

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Edie Melson

But you are holy, you who inhabit the praises of Israel (Psalm 22:3, WEB)

My father was a classically trained musician. He spent years in the Dallas Symphony and as a music professor at our local university. Growing up, I knew the power of music to uplift and inspire. But it wasn’t until I began to walk more closely with God that I experienced it firsthand.

I had been a fan of praise and worship music for several years. I kept my car radio on our local Christian station and even attended a concert or two. But until our son joined the military, I hadn’t actually used it as part of my personal time with God.

After he enlisted, I got a lot more serious about my conversations with God. I spent more time reading the Bible and asking God to watch over him. Then one day—while he was deployed to the Middle East—chaos struck. He had managed to get word to us that he was going to be in a dangerous situation for a few days and might not be able to contact us…and that we shouldn’t worry if we didn’t hear from him.

Yeah, right.

I was glad he let us know because I could pray specifically for him and let our friends and family know how to pray. But I wasn’t glad because my “what-if” worries went into overdrive. I envisioned every possible catastrophe.

Finally, at wit’s end from lack of sleep, I turned on the local Christian station and cranked up the volume. Beyond that, I joined in on the songs I knew. I was familiar with the verse that told me God inhabits the praise of His people, and I needed a big dose of God in the midst of this trial.

Sure enough, God is true to His word. All that day and into the next—whenever I was awake—I kept on the music. The change in my mood and my focus was dramatic. I went from a quivering mass of concern to a woman at peace and certain that God was more than able to keep my son safe.

It was during Walk By Faith by Jeremy Camp that the phone call from our son came, assuring us the danger had passed, and he was fine.

I’ve never forgotten the lessons of that time. Even to this day, when I realize I’m struggling to find God in the midst of a difficult situation, I turn on the music.

The Healing Effects of Holiday Music

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Cindy Connolly

“Music can lift us out of depression or move us to tears – it is a remedy, a tonic, orange juice for the ear,” according to the famed physician and author Oliver Sacks. “But for many of my neurological patients, music is even more – it can provide access, even when no medication can, to movement, to speech, to life. For them, music is not a luxury, but a necessity.”

Music’s unique ability to touch the heart and soul of someone who lives with a challenging condition—from Parkinson’s or Alzheimer’s to the after-effects of stroke—has a special resonance at holiday time. Traditional tunes, whether sacred orchestral arrangements or jazzy nods to the season, can trigger warm and soothing feelings and happy memories that reach back to earlier times. So, if you’re wracking your brain to come up with the perfect gift for the loved one you care for, consider setting aside some dedicated times to simply sit together and flood your senses with music.

Music has many powerful benefits. Research has shown that it can:

Boost brain connectivity University of Utah researchers scanned brain regions of dementia patients while they listened to music versus silence, and found that music activates the brain, causing whole regions to communicate. Music with personal significance to the patients had the greatest impact. “This is objective evidence from brain imaging that shows personally meaningful music is an alternative route for communicating with patients who have Alzheimer’s disease,” said Norman Foster, M.D., director of U of U’s Health’s Center for Alzheimer’s Care and Imaging Research. “Language and visual memory pathways are damaged early as the disease progresses but personalized music programs can activate the brain, especially for patients who are losing contact with their environment.”
Stimulate emotional memories Neuroscientist Kiminobu Sugaya teamed up with his wife, violinist Ayako Yonetani, to teach a popular course, “Music and the Brain,” at the University of Central Florida. It explored how music impacts brain function and human behavior, including by reducing stress, pain and symptoms of depression and improving cognitive and motor skills, spatial-temporal learning and the brain’s ability to produce neurons. “If you play someone’s favorite music, different parts of the brain light up. That means memories associated with music are emotional memories, which never fade out—even in Alzheimer’s patients,” Sugaya said. “Usually in the late stages, Alzheimer’s patients are unresponsive. But once you put in the headphones that play [their favorite] music, their eyes light up. They start moving and sometimes singing. The effect lasts maybe 10 minutes or so even after you turn off the music.”
Release soothing chemicals Relaxing with music can trigger the release of brain chemicals that regulate mood, reduce aggression and depression and improve sleep, a study at Miami Veterans Administration Medical Center found. Researchers tested the blood of 20 male patients with Alzheimer’s after they participated in a music therapy program for 30 to 40 minutes five times a week for four weeks. The patients’ melatonin, norepinephrine and epinephrine levels had increased significantly at the end of the four weeks.
Improve physical and psychological well-being Acclaimed soprano Renée Fleming has helped launch Sound Health, an NIH-Kennedy Center initiative to study the impact of music on health and healing. In addition to hosting performances, scientific workshop and community activities, Sound Health has supported research into the science of music. An aim is to help researchers conduct rigorous music-based interventions for brain disorders of aging. Four years ago, as part of the initiative, Fleming spent two hours in an MRI scanner that tracked her brain activity as she sang. “Even listening to music, or thinking about music, can have physical and psychological effects,” according to an article in the NIH Record. “Interestingly, when Fleming was in the MRI machine, the scans showed her brain was most active not while singing or talking, but while imagining she was singing.”

If your loved one enjoys singing or playing an instrument, and is still able to do so, providing encouragement can be a wonderful gift in itself. If you want to play or listen to music together, try to set aside regular times when you won’t feel rushed and harried. If you need a helping hand, you may want to consider hiring an in-home care aide to sing with your loved one or act as deejay with a special playlist of favorite recorded songs.

Another very special gift would be to schedule sessions with a music therapist who can sing or play especially meaningful tunes from your loved one’s life. Learn more information on how to find a music therapist.

‘The Happiness Curve’ Proves Life Gets Better After 50

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Jessica Toomer

When author Jonathan Rauch was in his mid-40s, his outlook on life took a strange turn. Instead of waking up energized, ambitious, and optimistic about the future, Rauch was struggling to find a sense of purpose, a motivating reason to get out of bed every day. What was more puzzling is that Rauch had absolutely no reason to feel this way. He was a celebrated journalist, having just won the highest award given to magazine writers. He was in a loving relationship, he had money in the bank, and he wasn’t facing any monumental tests of faith. No cancer threatened his body, there was no loss to grieve. He was as successful as he could hope to be, more so even. Yet, something was missing.

“I wondered if I’d ever be satisfied,” Rauch tells Guideposts.org. “I wondered if there was something wrong with me.”

The journalist in him hungered for answers. He read books, studies, and journals on the effects of aging, looking into the reasons for mid-life malaise and that dreaded of all clichés, the mid-life crisis. It was in his research he stumbled across something surprising, a new way scientists and professionals in the fields of economics, medicine, psychology and so forth were beginning to view aging. It was called “the happiness curve,” a U-shaped model for charting the trajectory of a person’s relative happiness during their lifetime. It changed the game for Rauch.

“We all imagine we’re supposed to be at the peak of our achievement and glory and happiness at midlife and if we’re not it’s a midlife crisis and there’s something the matter with us,” Rauch explains. “So, surprise number one is: that’s totally backwards. The middle of life is a time of transition and vulnerability and, for many people, difficulty.”

Instead of reaching our peak in midlife, the happiness curve shows the exact opposite. Most people begin their lives relatively happy. When you’re in your 20s and 30s, you’re in a time of ambition, a period where you’re fighting to achieve your goals, to start a family, to begin a successful career. It’s a time of opportunity. Once a person reaches their late 40s and early 50s, instead of happiness peaking as we’ve all assumed, the happiness curve shows that the average person will go through a low-point in their life. It’s a dip in the curve, one that can last years but marks a crucial transition period in a person’s life.

For Rauch and those like him – professionally successful people who aren’t facing overwhelming struggle or tragedy during their 40s and 50s – this dip is usually caused by, well, nothing.

“That’s really true, if you’re someone like me and you’re looking around for the problem in your life to blame it on,” Rauch explains. “There is no problem in your life to blame it on. There’s no science behind that and why that would happen to people.”

Still, the data shows it does happen and often. Rauch worked with revered economists like David Blanchflower and Andrew Oswald who study the patterns of human behaviors as part of their work. He also talked to psychologists, neuroscientists, and everyday people experiencing this phenomenon of “the happiness curve.” While his research proved that a midlife dip occurs rather frequently, what alarmed him most was the ideas of why and how a person should handle feeling depressed during that period of transition.

“The problem with the midlife crisis joke is that it’s not completely wrong, but it’s terribly misleading because most people don’t have a crisis at all. They have a gradual, slow sense of dissatisfaction,” Rauch says. “If it gets mishandled it can become a crisis but for most people, they just soldier through it, often in isolation.”

It’s how Rauch dealt with his own midlife slump. Ashamed that he wasn’t happier with his success, feeling ungrateful for all the blessings in his life, Rauch shut down. He didn’t feel comfortable talking about why he was feeling so low because he know he had no rational reason to feel that way.

“People are ashamed or embarrassed, or they hold it in,” Rauch explains. “They think there’s something wrong with them, they think they’re ingrates. That adds to their unhappiness and it becomes a downward spiral. I keep reminding people, just because this happens to first world people doesn’t make it any less of a problem for the people who are stuck in it.”

As Rauch explains, the happiness curve is just the effect of the ticking clock on a person’s life, and that’s not based off privilege.

Because the author experienced midlife malaise himself, and because he met so many people like him who were suffering through the same doldrums of life, Rauch decided to write a book, The Happiness Curve, to explain what happens to people as they age and how others can avoid the emotional and mental pitfalls of time.

The first thing Rauch wants people in their 40s and 50s, who feel pessimistic about the future and unsatisfied with their past, to know is that they’re not alone.

“Understand there’s nothing wrong with you,” Rauch says. “A second thing is don’t let yourself get ashamed or isolated if you can help it. Lots of people go through this, it’s totally natural. It’s normal, it’s not fun but it’s healthy. So, find people you can reach out to, whether its counselors or coaches or friends.”

Another thing to keep in mind as you reach that crucial period of midlife: Impulsiveness is not your friend.

“It’s really hard to know in midlife, if what you’re feeling is a result of time, the effect of aging, or if it’s the effect of other things,” Rauch explains. “I thought there must be something wrong with my career even though technically there was nothing wrong with my career, and I was tempted to just walk in one day and quit, which would’ve been a bad idea. Because of that uncertainty, not what’s going on, we don’t have clear visibility. So sure, change your life, but do it in a rational, calculated, instrumental way that builds on your strengths and your social capital. Don’t do it in a disruptive or impulsive way.”

Most importantly, Rauch wants to shatter the negative stereotype associated with aging. The idea that a person’s life is on the decline once they reach their 40s, that retirement means getting put out to pasture, that happiness can’t be found in a person’s later years, is the worst lie we’ve let ourselves believe according to the writer.

“What’s going on is a value transition,” Rauch says. “It takes a number of years to get through it. But when you do, you’re in a better place because your values have shifted away from ambitions and the social competition treadmill and towards social connection, cooperation, love, friendship — much better sources of happiness.”

It’s why the happiness curve is U-shaped. Once a person gets through the low point of their midlife, happiness increases to surprisingly high levels, a direct result of that value transition when people learn to place things like relationships, family, friendships, and community ahead of more self-centered desires.

“Adult development continues right to the last decades of life and in a very positive way,” Rauch says. “So, busting that negative stereotype of old age will help people in midlife understand how much they have to look forward to.”

The Great Spirit Moved Him to Help House the Nation’s Elders

Posted on March 11, 2026April 10, 2026 by Robert Young

Ten years ago, if you told me I’d give up the business I spent my life putting together to go build houses on Indian reservations instead, I’d have said you were nuts. The Seattle-based loungewear company I started with a partner was cranking out a profit. At 33, I’d just married my longtime sweetheart Anita. I wanted to slow down, have a family, savor life and the rewards of success.

Then I saw that headline.

I was in New Mexico on business and picked up a local paper called Indian Country. There it was on the front page, like an epitaph: “Elders Freeze to Death.” How could such a thing happen here in America, the richest country in the world? I tore out the article and stuck it in my pocket.

That night in my hotel room, meetings done, I read the story again. It seemed so tragic. Somebody—the government, the tribal council—would no doubt do something to make sure it did not happen again. Still, I tucked the clipping into my briefcase instead of throwing it away. Why, I had no idea.

Two weeks later, another business trip. Another headline staring at me from the local paper. “Taos Woman Starts Adopt-A-Grandparent Program for Aging Native Americans.” According to the article, on reservations across the country, thousands of elderly Native Americans struggled not just to make ends meet but simply to stay alive. At the end of the piece there was a number for people interested in volunteering to call. I didn’t stop to think. I just picked up the phone and dialed.

Soon I was matched with a “grandparent”—Katherine Red Feather, of South Dakota’s Pine Ridge Reservation. I dropped her a note introducing myself. “I am seventy-eight years old,” Katherine wrote back, “and blessed with 13 children and seven grandchildren. I am so happy to learn I now have another grandchild! Do you have a wife and children of your own? I hope so, as they are one of the most wonderful gifts the Great Spirit can give a person in this life.”

I told her about Anita, and how she was indeed a godsend. Then I asked Katherine if there was anything I could send her. “Yes,” she wrote. “If it’s not too much trouble, I would very much appreciate a bottle of shampoo and some aspirin. Thank you for your generosity, Grandson.”

Grandson… Katherine was really taking this program seriously. But shampoo? Aspirin? Why wouldn’t she have such basic items? I decided to visit the reservation after my next business trip and look in on Katherine.

Pine Ridge Reservation encompasses the two poorest counties in the United States. So the letter from the Adopt-A-Grandparent program had informed me. But I was not prepared for the reality of that poverty. Rutted dirt roads, dilapidated shacks, rusted-out automobiles with entire families living in them… The dwellings I passed wouldn’t keep a person warm on a chill fall night like this. In the Dakota winter, temperatures sometimes plunged to 60 degrees below zero. How could people freeze to death on a reservation? The answer was right before my eyes.

Katherine’s “house” was a small, busted-up trailer pushed against the body of an old school bus. The trailer door opened and a delicate-looking woman wearing slacks and a simple patterned sweater emerged.

“Grandson! Come in out of the cold.”

The trailer was dark and barely big enough to turn around in, but the three people sitting by the wood stove stood when Katherine led me inside. “This is Robert,” she announced. “My new grandson. Robert, these are my children. They are your family now too.”

Katherine must have seen my confusion. “The Great Spirit has chosen you to be a part of my life,” she told me. “We are one family in his eyes.” We sat down to a simple meal of white bread and beans heated on a propane stove.

There was no running water, so Katherine needed to carry it from a well out back. It was next to an outhouse with a black flag flying overhead. “To scare away the rattlesnakes,” she explained. “They think it’s a hawk.” Katherine took such pains to make me feel at home that it was only at the end of my visit two days later that I could bring myself to ask her, “Isn’t it hard for you to have to fetch wood and water every day?”

Katherine took my hands in hers. “I know how my life must look to you, Grandson, but all of us here live this way. I’m no different than anyone else.”

I couldn’t stop thinking about Katherine once I got home to Seattle. The days grew shorter and colder. I looked out the window of my cozy apartment and imagined my new grandmother in that tiny trailer, huddled over her smoky little stove.

“She needs to be in a place that will keep her warm,” I told Anita one night. “A place where the wind doesn’t blow through the chinks in the walls. Katherine needs a real house.”

A real house. The moment those words left my lips, I knew what I had to do.

At the end of that summer I took two weeks off and went back to Pine Ridge. Anita and a handful of friends came with me. We were going to build Katherine a house. None of us had built so much as a doghouse before, but I figured that with a simple floor plan and plenty of enthusiasm, we could get the job done.

Word got around the reservation. Dozens of Katherine’s neighbors and family members pitched in. Toward the end we worked round the clock, my car headlights trained on the site. Finally the last nail was driven. Katherine’s tribal chairman said a prayer of thanks, and there was a big celebration. It was the first time Katherine had all her relatives together since the Red Feather clan had been divided and made to live on two different reservations years back. She welcomed them all into her house, her eyes brimming with tears of joy.

Anita squeezed my hand, and I knew what we’d done here was bigger than anything I could ever hope to achieve with my business. At last I understood what Katherine meant about all of us being one family.

Back in Seattle, I tried to concentrate on my work. Katherine would be safe and warm this winter. But what about all the neighbors who’d pitched in to build Katherine’s house, only to go home to ramshackle trailers? America has about two million tribal members, and some 300,000 of them are without proper homes. What about all those people?

Building frame houses like we’d done for Katherine was impossible. Too expensive and labor-intensive. I had to come up with a design that was warm, inexpensive and easy to build. A little research and I came across straw bale houses. Built from blocks of straw covered with stucco, they’re ideal for reservations. The straw is plentiful on the Great Plains, and provides extremely effective insulation.

Getting these straw bale houses built on a large scale, though, would take organization. A huge investment of time and energy. Time and energy I wouldn’t have if I kept my day job. I sold my half of the business and started a new venture, the Red Feather Development Group, to help Native Americans get decent housing. Eventually Anita and I moved to Bozeman, Montana, in the vicinity of half a dozen reservations.

To think, none of this would have happened if I hadn’t seen those headlines 10 years ago. Even then I’d known someone would look after elders like my grandmother Katherine. I just never expected that person to be me. But that is how the Great Spirit works.

* * *

The House You Built

Meeting Rob Young at the 2003 Volvo for Life Awards for heroes, I knew his story would be perfect for Guideposts. But even I was surprised at the response from our readers.

“There were sacks of mail from people who’d read my story in Guideposts,” Rob told us. “The Red Feather website was swamped.”

Readers donated more than $100,000 to help build warm homes for Native Americans. They volunteered their services—plumbing, roofing, carpentry. Rob was most moved by folks who donated one dollar and said they had to give something and wished they could give more. In September 2006, readers traveled to the Hopi Reservation in Arizona, to work side by side with Rob on a house for a little boy recovering from leukemia.

“When I saw that story, I just knew I had to get involved,” they said. More volunteers came to Red Feather through Guideposts than any other source. A great example of how Guideposts is and always will be more than a magazine.

—Celeste McCauley

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