Women over 60: resilence is our middle name

Plus a little gift for you

I turn 70 on 9/11.

A day etched in the memory of a nation—
and now, a day I choose to claim as my own.
I walk. I breathe. I live.
This is what reinvention looks like.

September 11, 1955

Not the date you first thought of, right?

That’s my birthdate.

For decades, my birthday has shared the date with one of the most tragic events in modern history. I’ve carried that—sometimes quietly, sometimes openly—but I’ve always known that 9/11 means something different for me than it might for you.

I lived in New York City for many years, on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, and on that Tuesday morning in 2001, I was there.

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9/11 in NYC: What I Remember

Yeah, I was there.

(Many of you know this and have read this, as I post it every year. But I’m reposting because I have many new friends.)

As I see and hear the coverage every year, I remind myself that it’s also my birthday—and the birthday of countless others. And I take the time to remember what it was like to live that particular day in Manhattan.

I remember standing on the roof of our apartment building on the Upper West Side, watching the pillars of smoke deface a beautiful blue September sky. I looked down at the street below—normally alive with noise, taxis, dog walkers, school children—and saw nothing. No people. No cars. No movement. Just stillness. An eerie, unnatural quiet.

We couldn’t see the towers from our rooftop—we lived about 4 miles north—so we ran downstairs to turn on the TV. That’s when we saw the second plane hit.

Within three minutes, my (now ex) husband said, “Grab all small suitcases—we’re going to the grocery store.” Because everything—food, water, diapers, dog food—gets trucked into Manhattan. And all the bridges and tunnels were immediately closed.

By the time we got to the stores, nearly 65% of the shelves were empty.

I walked my dog, Sassy, through Riverside Park while F-15 fighter jets patrolled the sky above us. That went on for weeks. You couldn’t always see them, but you could hear them—especially at night when they'd drop altitude. It sometimes felt like a bomb had gone off just outside our window.

I remember my daughter managing to call me just before the second tower was hit—just before all the cell towers were destroyed. After that, I was cut off. Like everyone else in Manhattan.

I remember people gathering on corners—not to protest or panic, but simply to check in with each other. Neighbors who had never spoken before, standing together in shared shock. It became a ritual of sorts. Just being together.

I remember watching the mother and father of my next-door neighbor pack up their daughter’s apartment. She had died in the second tower. They gave me her small wall mirror—the one she used to check her reflection before heading off to meet that day.

I remember the fear of financial ruin. My business relied heavily on contracts inside the Towers. Sixty-six of my longtime colleagues—people I had worked with for years, sent Christmas cards to, attended parties with—were gone.

That part of my life never came back. That business never came back. And even now, there are memories I’d rather not recall. But I share this because I lived it. Because we lived it. And because some things—like our resilience, our humanity, our capacity to begin again—deserve to be remembered, too.

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But This Year Is Different.

This year I turn 70.

This year I’m choosing to honor the grief without letting it lead.
This year, I’m letting the light back in.
This year, I’m owning the fact that my life has completely changed.

Not overnight. Not without its own rubble and ache.
But over time. Through breath. Through reinvention. Through soul-led work that never stopped whispering: “There’s more.”

So this year—for the first time since that tragic day —I’m celebrating my birthday.
Not quietly. Not ashamed. Not through tears.
But by standing fully in my 70 years of life…
and sharing the wisdom those years have taught me.

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My Birthday Gift to You:

7 Guides for $7
(One for each decade I’ve lived.)

If you’ve been walking through your own fog…
If you’ve quietly wondered, “Is it too late for me?”
If you’ve lost a piece of yourself somewhere in the rubble of life and don’t know how to begin again…

This bundle is for you.

🎁 Seven soul-deep, practical, beautiful guides I’ve written to help you:

• Regain your sense of self

• Rebuild your days around what matters

• Reignite your dreams—even the buried ones

Normally $40 in total, today it’s just $7.
Because I turned 70.
And that feels worth celebrating.

👉 Click here to grab all 7 guides for $7

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I’m Still Here.

I remember the silence on the street that day.
I remember the smoke in the sky.
I remember the neighbor’s mirror, the bare shelves, the dog leash in my hand, the jet engines above.

But I also remember the moment I decided I would not live in that kind of fear again.
That I would find a way to write again, paint again, connect again, dream again.

I share this because maybe you’re ready to do the same.
And if so, I hope these guides will be your beginning.

Because you’re still here, too.
And that matters.

Love,
Monica
(Monirose Soul)

PS- Want personal insight, real-time support, and a circle of women who are doing the work right alongside you?

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