My name is Victoria Cross. I’m a Christian, Wife, Mom, Nana, and a Jesus & Coffee enthusiast who believes that we get better with age. I’m also a cowgirl at heart!
Welcome to Aging Gracefully — or at least trying to. Let’s be honest: some days we’re embracing wisdom and inner peace, and other days we’re wondering why we pull a muscle when we sneeze. This blog is for those of us navigating the middle (or later) chapters with humor, heart, and the occasional hot flash. We’re not chasing perfection — we’re chasing coffee, comfort, and clarity with people who get it. If you believe aging can be equal parts beautiful, weird, hilarious and confusing…then you, my friend, are in the right place!
I came across a post today that said: “If you’re a female and considering joining the military, don’t. They hate us.”
At first, I was saddened. Then I was mad.
When did “I am Woman, hear me roar” get replaced with “I am a woman, therefore you owe me more?” Why would we ever expect anything other than a fair chance—based on ability, not gender?
The real question is this: why isn’t there more outrage that policies lowering standards ever existed in the first place? Do you not believe women are capable? The true insult is the assumption that women need special treatment to succeed. We don’t need training wheels.
Before moving forward, it’s important to clarify the difference between two things:
• General PTtests measure a baseline of physical fitness, acknowledging physiological differences between men, women, and age groups respectively.
• Specialized role-specific tests exist for a reason: to ensure candidates possess the advanced, job-specific strength and skills required for demanding combat or operational tasks.
That distinction matters. And it should be celebrated when the playing field is leveled.
Think about it—would you want a surgeon who only passed her boards because the grading scale was adjusted to accommodate her gender? Or do you want standards to be consistent, so that whoever earns the title is genuinely qualified? Does it matter more in a life or death situation?
I raised three strong, smart, beautiful, fiercely independent kids—and now have seven equally strong and beautiful grandkids. I would never tell them the world owes them anything because of biology. My advice to them is—and always will be—simple: Have a plan. Do your best. Be your best. And give it all to God.
After a career in Human Resources, here’s where I stand on the conversations happening today (and one that should be happening):
• Hiring and promotions should be 100% merit-based. Skills, performance, and results—not gender, not politics.
• Discrimination is immoral, unethical, and illegal. So are drugs. Policy changes don’t stop them—courts do.
• Women are fully capable. Equal pay belongs with equal performance. If at first you don’t succeed, try again. If you’re not at the same level as your competition, level up and earn it. We’re not “lucky to be here” like yellow Starbursts—we’re pink ones, baby! Bold, desired, and proud of it.
• Combat Arms belong to the best of the best. If that’s a woman, I’ll back her all the way. If it’s a man, he earns it the same way. Standards must remain high for everyone.
• Military Religious Affairs Specialists deserve a revamp. They are the bodyguards of those who are not allowed to fight for themselves in war. They should be stronger, sharper, expert marksmen, and proud of their MOS. Chaplain spouses—and all military spouses—should have peace of mind knowing their loved ones are protected, not left vulnerable by watered-down expectations. Personally speaking, if you can’t carry my husband off the battlefield (regardless of gender), then we may have a problem. If society insists on changing rules, then at the very least consider allowing Chaplains to individually choose whether they want to remain non-combatant. Let them decide if they wish to train and defend themselves, as well as others. After all, as quoted in the movie, The Patriot, “A shepherd must tend to his flock, and at times, fight off the wolves.”
Bottom line: Equal opportunity. Equal accountability. Excellence for all—nothing less.
I’ve never been a girly girl. Growing up, I was more at home with scraped knees than painted nails. Pink was never my color of choice—somehow, I decided it was too soft, too fragile, too much of a weakness. And as a tomboy, weakness wasn’t something I was willing to wear.
Now I’m a grandmother of six—three boys and three girls (and one on the way). Each one is unique and wonderful, but one granddaughter in particular has been my teacher in the most unexpected way. She’s the one who comes charging into life like Ramona Quimby herself—equal parts sass, laughter, and determination. She’s the girl who wears her sparkly princess dress with muddy cowboy boots, who can climb a tree with a tiara still perched on her head.
And here’s the lesson she’s given me: pink is not weakness at all.
Through her, I’ve come to see pink as fierce, fearless, and bold. It’s not about fragility—it’s about standing tall in who you are, whether you’re covered in glitter, dirt, or both. Pink is laughter that doesn’t apologize. Pink is courage dressed up as sweetness. Pink is strength with a smile. Pink is continuing to climb even if the tiara slips.
At this stage in life, I realize that being a grandmother isn’t just about passing down wisdom—it’s also about being open to receiving it. Sometimes the greatest lessons come from the smallest teachers. And this little one has taught me that strength can come dressed in sparkles, laughter, and yes—even in pink.
In July, we traveled to Georgia to welcome another precious grandchild into the world. There’s just something magical about grandchildren. Maybe it’s the flood of memories from days gone by, or the joy of watching your own babies holding babies of their own. Whatever it is, it’s an overwhelming, heart-filling kind of love—one that’s hard to put into words, but impossible to forget.
Another thing that is impossible to forget? We’re still in the Army — and miss all of it. We know it every single day, but one morning on our trip, that truth hit especially hard. So, in true southern fashion, we did the only reasonable thing: headed straight to Waffle House to commiserate over coffee and pecan waffles.
Sitting there feeling sorry for ourselves…It hits us — our little tribe has grown their own tribes, built their own villages, and now we’re not the heartbeat of the campfire anymore. We’re the ones standing just outside the circle, peeking in at the glow, wondering when we became the outsiders in a world we helped create.
In that moment—when we were quietly questioning if we had made the right life choices— we experienced a total, undeniable God moment.
A man approached our table and said, “Excuse me, sir…but we served in Iraq together.”
He began to share his story: after leaving the military, he went through a divorce, his life unraveled, and he found himself battling alcohol, drug addiction, and homelessness. But then, he told us, one of Tim’s sermons had stuck with him. That message became a turning point.
Today, he’s sober. He’s drug-free. He’s studying Theology and helping others in recovery from substance abuse.
When he walked away, we just sat there — speechless. One minute, we were questioning everything. The next, it felt like the very hand of God was resting on our backs, whispering, “Stay the course. I’m here.”
Just like that, we felt complete peace. We realized our tribe is no longer just our kids and grandkids— it’s our Army friends who have become family, and the people the Lord so perfectly places along our path…a path He so lovingly has us on.
I often have to remind myself that I’m still their Mom… Even if I’ve been ghosted (especially by my sons.)
Let me just say it:
Parenting adult children is like being demoted… without notice… or severance. But I didn’t sign a contract saying, “Congratulations, you’re now just a backup character in your own story.”
Remember when I used to be their whole world? Their Uber, chef, therapist, personal shopper, and biggest hype woman? Now I’m lucky if they text me back before the next presidential election.
When did that shift happen? Was it when they started dating? Got married? Had kids? Yeah… probably. (Cue dramatic eye roll and tiny violin.)
I miss when my kids were my kids.
Not my daughter-in-law’s husband.
Not my son-in-law’s wife.
Not my grandkids mom or dad.
Just mine.
And yeah, I know that might sound selfish. But I don’t care. I earned my stripes, honey. I was in the trenches—carpool lines, chicken nugget dinners, puberty.
Don’t get me wrong—I LOVE being Nana (and adore my kids spouses). But I haven’t retired from being Mom. I didn’t clock out. Nobody handed me a severance package and said, “Thanks for raising me, we’ll take it from here.”
These days, I feel like an unpaid intern at UsedToBeMom. Inc. No meetings. No memos. No one tells me anything.
I’m still relevant. I’ve still got life advice, killer one-liners, and snacks in my purse at all times. I mean, HELLO—I survived parenting them, I deserve a trophy and maybe a weekly FaceTime!
So just for the record:
I am more than Nana.
I’m still their MOTHER.
Still fabulous. Still funny. Still waiting on that text back.
I’m going to be real…some days it feels more like aging awkwardly while trying to remember why we walked into the kitchen.
We’re the generation sandwiched between hot flashes and group chats. The kids are grown, they know everything, and sometimes it feels like we’re one gray hair away from full invisibility. But we’re still here — laughing, learning, and occasionally, sharing with others from our vast life lessons.
Society may have moved on to influencers half our age, but we’ve still got stories, opinions, experiences and value. We’re not fading—we’re just getting better. We may have lost our metabolisms, but we haven’t lost our minds…yet!
Trying to Age Gracefully….(emphasis on trying!) 
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