Sauerkraut

On resistance, good stress, and learning to trust yourself.

And also about the quiet power of doing hard things—long enough for them to become joyful.

I honestly don’t remember the first time I ate sauerkraut. It’s entirely possible I managed to avoid it until I decided to eat it intentionally.

I do remember that in my mom’s rotating, standard dinner fare, one meal included sauerkraut—one I was not made to eat. It may have been Thursdays. Pork chops, mashed potatoes, applesauce, and a small iceberg lettuce salad with Italian Seasons packaged dressing. The kind that came with a carafe marked with lines so you knew exactly how much oil, vinegar, and water to add. It was always my job to make the salad dressing.

Mind you, my parents were both raised during the Depression era, and you ate what you were served. Or else. Perhaps they were wise enough not to serve me sauerkraut. It smelled awful. I was quite happy with the arrangement.

I don’t think I encountered sauerkraut again until I was well into adulthood and had kids of my own. My daughter was in a youth group for girls, and each year they raised funds by running a snack bar at a large, annual model railroad fair—well attended by older, white, middle-aged men who loved hot dogs, potato chips, and sauerkraut.

I may have missed my calling. I’ve been an accountant much longer than I ever planned. Not that I planned it at all. I think I should have been in marketing. I just get ideas. They pop into my head and tumble out of my mouth before I even know what hit me.

The best-selling item at our snack bar was a hot dog smothered in chili and topped with sauerkraut. The menu called it something lame, like Hot Dog with Chili and Sauerkraut. This was a fair attended by train freaks! Why weren’t we calling it a Train Wreck? Right? Genius. I admit it.

At this fair, every year, there was a new girl in the group. It was tradition—believe it or not, not one I inspired—that the “new girl” had to take a bite of sauerkraut. If she didn’t immediately spit it out, but actually swallowed it, well… she was “cool.” Or whatever.

Sounds like hazing, doesn’t it? Now that we’re all trauma-informed, I feel a little guilty about any part I may have played in that. Except for naming the Train Wreck.

Two decades later, I had still managed not to eat sauerkraut.

I knew all the amazing health benefits. I would brew and drink gallons of kombucha. And kefir. I ate tubs of plain, bacteria-rich yogurt. I spent more than I should on my daily probiotic supplement.

Then I read a book.

Actually, I take that back. I followed a new and mildly annoying habit of mine: I bought the book, listened to the audiobook, and then—because it was that good—I read it after listening to it.

Good Stress by Jeff Krasno.

As Jeff would say, I bought a “dusty old scroll,” but I also enjoyed the lilt of his voice. Highly recommend.

There were several “good stressors” in the book that I swore—swore—I would never do. Let me age too fast and die too young! I will never:

• take a cold shower
  
  

• eat sauerkraut for breakfast
  
  

Both of which Jeff does, recommends, and swears by.

Nope.
Not a chance.

So… let me tell you how that’s going.

Two of my favorite parts of my morning routine now include finishing my very hot shower with two minutes of ice-cold water. On the days I skip it, I feel incomplete. Out of sorts. Not quite right.

And the first bite of my breakfast?
A cold, slimy, stinky hunk of sauerkraut.

But it is—
I can’t believe I’m saying this—
delicious.

Of course, I had to experiment. Please note: while cold showers are close to free, quality, organic kraut most definitely is not.

I’ve sampled flavors. Plain cabbage kraut—the one I most associate with my lifelong avoidance—still isn’t my cup of tea. Last week’s jar was golden beet kraut, and it was pretty good. This week, I’m working through a kraut made from seven kinds of carrots, and it’s excellent. Next week, another fifteen-dollar jar of craft kraut awaits.

You may be asking yourself: why?

Well, beyond all the reasons Jeff Krasno lays out so clearly, there’s this:

Sometimes the satisfaction of doing hard things—things you resist, but know are good for you, scientifically proven good for you—and integrating them so fully into your life that things feel off when you don’t do them…

That gives you hope.
And self-efficacy.

I can do things that are good for me that I never thought I would do.

That opens a door.
Maybe several doors.

If I can take a cold shower and eat sauerkraut for breakfast, maybe I can go to the gym twice a week. Maybe I can walk after dinner. Maybe I can do a five-minute mobility routine before lunch.

Maybe I can replace soda with sparkling water. Sugary snacks with fruit. Wine with herbal tea. Cocktails with mocktails.

Maybe I can change the numbers on my midlife lab report. Maybe I can change the numbers on my DEXA scan—or at least keep them stable. Maybe I can live independently, longer.

Or maybe—just maybe—like Jeff Krasno dreams in his book, my healthspan and lifespan will end on the same day, at 120 years old, asleep beside the person I love, after a hike and a home-prepared meal… and yes, an exquisite bottle of wine saved for a truly special occasion.

If you’re in a season of life where you’re trying to make small, meaningful changes—without shame, perfection, or punishment—this is the kind of conversation we’re having inside Whole Woman Joy Circle.

We talk about joy not as indulgence, but as a practice. As a form of resilience. As nourishment.

If that feels familiar, you’re welcome to come sit with us

Explore Whole Woman Joy Circle

The Lemon Tree: Limoncello, Lemon Blossoms & Everyday Magic

The lemon tree that outlived barrels, winters, and everything we thought it couldn’t.

A long time ago, a Meyer lemon tree was planted in a half wine barrel in the front yard of the house I grew up in.

I don’t remember exactly when it appeared — sometime after I’d left home and moved to another city about an hour away. The tiny lemon tree filled a space alongside the driveway where there had once been a patch of fussy lawn and a messy tree: never to my dad’s liking (he was all about the perfect lawn), and never to my mom’s liking either, because my mom detested messy trees — no matter how beautiful their fall leaves might be.

The lemon tree was centered in the half wine barrel — a favorite planting container in this household. The barrel was centered in the driveway bed, surrounded by very pedestrian, suburban-chic cedar bark.

And for a long time, I didn’t pay much attention to it.

The tree became part of my life, I suppose, when it began to bear fruit. Plentifully.

Sweet, sunlit Meyer lemons.

Somewhere along the line, with a whole bunch of Meyer lemons on their hands, my mom and dad decided to make limoncello. I don’t remember them having, serving, or even liking limoncello before this. But the tree was prolific, and they already had enough frozen Meyer lemon juice cubes to last years.

I remember their first batch. They used a recipe — Martha Stewart’s, I believe — and it called for 100 proof Everclear, which wasn’t available in California. So my parents drove all the way to Nevada to buy it.

That batch was made, and then for the next year, every time we visited, dessert was ice cream with limoncello poured over it.

The next year, they made it again — but from a new recipe. Giada’s, if I remember correctly. This one didn’t require crossing state lines; it called for ordinary vodka, available by the handle at Costco. Which still required a drive to a neighboring city, but not a neighboring state.

By now the lemon tree had become outrageously prolific, and limoncello became a kind of family currency. Every Christmas, bottles of homemade limoncello appeared in our stockings. And on other occasions, too.

The neighbors received bottles for the holidays. Friends and relatives did too. The gardener my parents hired after my dad was no longer hardy enough to mow all the lawns anymore — he got a bottle. I’m pretty sure the mailman got one. And the banker. And the tax preparer.

There are, in fact, still a couple of bottles of homemade limoncello, carefully labeled in my mom’s cursive handwriting, rattling around in the freezer.

She has been dead for over nine years now.

Winnie’s limoncello: still rattling around in the freezer.

And then there were the lemon bars — with Meyer lemon curd. They were served almost as frequently as the limoncello. Any time my mom needed to bring a dish somewhere, she brought dessert: lemon bars.

My mom was a nurse — she became an R.N. through the Army Corps of Nurses during World War II and graduated just as the war ended. She worked as a nurse for most of my childhood, from grade school on, and she had a remedy for everything. If you had so much as a sniffle or a scratchy throat, her first and fastest line of defense was a hot toddy — a non-alcoholic one during childhood, and a much different one for grown-ups. Hot water, a spoonful of honey, whiskey if you were of age, and most importantly: Meyer lemon juice. Fresh from the tree if it was in season, or an ice cube from the last crop if it wasn’t. To this day, it’s still my first line of defense when anyone in our household is feeling peaked.

Even neighbors who weren’t on the official limoncello list loved the lemon tree. The fruit was incredibly sweet — truly the best Meyer lemons I’d ever tasted. People would walk by and ask if they could pick a few for a recipe. The little girls next door would pick some (with permission) and make lemonade to sell. We got lemonade for free.

There were always too many lemons.

Bushels of them left long after “lemon season.” And they were impossible to reach without thorns tearing at your clothes and leaving you scratched and bloody. Over time, the tree grew so large it became impossible to reach the center even with your arm fully outstretched, even when you thought you were being careful.

My parents cared for that lemon tree the way many people would care for a beloved pet. Or even a child. They pruned it, fertilized it, fed it — and it grew and grew and grew. Much larger than any pet. Or child.

It eventually overtook the entire side of the driveway.

When the temperature threatened to dip below freezing, my parents — well into their eighties — would drag out ladders, old bed sheets, and wooden clothespins to cover the tree. The next day, they’d uncover it so it could get sun. And then cover it again before nightfall if it was going to be cold.

This practice went on for years.

After my dad passed away, my mom — now in her late eighties — struggled to cover the tree on her own. And (perhaps due to the gallons of limoncello shared over the years), a delightful lesbian couple down the street began helping her, covering and uncovering the lemon tree to protect it from frost.

The only trouble was: they’d cover it and leave it covered for days, until the general weather pattern warmed. My mom was incredibly grateful, but she fretted about it. When I visited — which I was doing more often after my dad’s passing — I sometimes had to go uncover it, then cover it again before heading home.

It was quite a chore: ladders and multiple sheets and so many clothespins.

It seemed like a lot of trouble for a few bottles of limoncello. Unless you really, really loved limoncello.

Soon after my dad’s passing, the tree escaped its half wine barrel. The wood had rotted until the barrel was nothing more than a few old slats and metal rings. The root ball sat partially exposed atop the ground, and without stable footing, the tree toppled lazily over — not breaking, not uprooting completely, just listing onto the sidewalk.

The gardener told us, regretfully, that the tree would certainly die.

But again, the neighborhood came to the rescue. The lovely gentleman across the street and his next door neighbor came over and managed to prop it up using a two-by-four carefully placed under a branch at an angle.

The tree never showed any distress. It continued producing sweet lemons as prolifically as ever.

Not long after, I moved back home. My mom was in her nineties and needed someone close. She needed help with the house, and company — and yes, help with the lemon tree.

The neighbor ladies eventually retired and moved away, and no one stepped in to manage frost duty anymore. It became my chore.

And I resisted.

I was convinced the tree would survive the cold, even freezing temperatures — and would outlive us all. I worked full-time and traveled often; it didn’t feel practical to race out with sheets and ladders at sundown.

After everything the tree had survived, I figured: whatever happens, happens.

The tree stayed naked for an entire winter. Freezing temperatures and all.

It was fine.

It continued producing lemons at an overwhelming rate.

By then, I had moved back into my old bedroom in my childhood home — a mid-century house my parents bought brand new in the northern part of the San Francisco Bay Area.

We don’t have air conditioning. We don’t really need it. Many newer houses do, and plenty of remodeled houses have installed it. I could have.

But I passed.

Because when the weather is warm, I open the windows. And what people with air conditioning miss is this: the absolutely magical scent of lemon blossoms riding the gentle evening breeze up and into the house.

I cannot imagine a fragrance more magical than Meyer lemon blossoms.

Lemon blossom magic.

My mom passed away a few years later at the tender age of ninety-two.

I inherited the house, the lemon tree, and the gardener. The gardener makes limoncello every year, and I get a bottle or two to add to my freezer collection. I have more than a lifetime supply by now.

I live here now with my partner, Neil. He works in hospitality and restaurant management, and sometimes he harvests a five-gallon bucket of Meyer lemons to share with the chef and bartender for whatever they dream up.

The neighbors still pick lemons at will. I use at least one lemon a day for various recipes and concoctions.

And one day last year, I was out near the lemon tree when I saw something move quickly in the next door neighbor’s yard. We live along a creek and often have deer and other wildlife browsing in our neighborhood. I assumed it was a deer — but when I stepped around the lemon tree to see, it was a little girl.

Tiny as a fawn. And about as shy.

She was backing away toward her house, clutching lemons like treasure. Then her mom stepped out, smiling sheepishly, and explained that the neighbor between us had given them permission to pick lemons for a cookie recipe.

I greeted them and assured them it was absolutely fine — and that we’d be grateful if they picked as many lemons as they could possibly use.

I did not receive any lemon cookies… but I am not actually keeping score.

This story ran through my mind this morning as I stepped out into the very cold air — near freezing, I believe — and walked out to the massive lemon tree to pick a big, plump, bright yellow lemon for my morning matcha tonic.

This tree is a marvel.

It is a gift.

It is magic.

Spring, loading…

And somehow, it still belongs to my parents… and this house… and this neighborhood… and to everyone who has a bottle of Winnie’s limoncello rattling around in their freezer.

Joy

I grew up an only child. I wished for a sister—I would have accepted a brother—but neither came into my life. My parents had both been married before, divorcing and eventually finding each other. I was a “late-in-life” baby; my mom was thirty-nine when she had me in the early 1960s. Her doctor discouraged her from having another child because of the potential risks to both mother and baby.

So the wish for a sister endured, well past childhood, into adulthood, and even into the years when I helped care for my parents near the end of their lives—a responsibility I carried stoically, without regret, resentment, or anger, and alone. Later still, I understood that a sister might have been someone with whom to share the grief of losing my parents—the inevitable and indelible.

When I was in elementary school, I came across a photograph of a little girl tucked into a shoebox in the garage. It was sepia-toned, and the girl had blond ringlet curls. I was curious and enchanted.

I asked my mom about the picture, and she told me it was my dad’s daughter from his first marriage. Her name was Joy. My mom explained that Joy would be quite a bit older than me, and that my dad didn’t know where she was or what had become of her. He hadn’t seen her since leaving for England to serve in World War II.

I remained curious. There was a sister out there somewhere—someone who shared something deeply personal and uniquely mine. I stayed enchanted and thought of Joy often for the next half century.

As I grew older, my mom shared more of what she knew about Joy’s story. My dad didn’t speak of it at all; he was a quiet, private, reserved, and deeply stoic man. I’ve learned more about him since his passing than I ever did during his life—despite having considered us fairly close as father and daughter.

My dad married young, and Joy was born just as he enlisted in the U.S. Army Air Force as an instrument mechanic on the B-24 Liberator. He served in England, leaving his wife and daughter behind. When he returned, his wife had developed a relationship with my dad’s best friend. In one sweep, the marriage, the friendship, and his fatherhood all ended.

My dad knew that I was aware of Joy and her story. And I knew that he always hoped Joy would want to meet him—to reunite, to talk, to develop some kind of relationship.

Several years before my dad passed away, he received a letter from Joy. She had two grown sons, and one of them had developed cardiovascular disease. Her stepfather had passed away, and she now knew that my father was her biological father. She wanted information—but not a relationship.

They spoke on the phone once, just long enough to fill in some of the details of my father’s health history. She asked whether he had any other children. When he told Joy about me, and my age, she scoffed; I was younger than her own children. She was clear—unmistakably so—about not wanting to meet my dad, her dad, or me.

My dad was heartbroken again. Still. And that was hard for me to witness, to carry, to know. I couldn’t understand not wanting to meet, to connect, to learn, to share.

When my father passed away, we held a small family gathering at the veterans’ memorial cemetery, followed by a meal at a nearby restaurant. My cousins were there—all older than me, and all much closer to Joy’s age than mine. They had actually grown up with Joy in early childhood. For a time, Joy’s mom—my dad’s first wife—lived on the same block as my grandmother, aunts, and cousins. They shared birthday parties together.

At my dad’s memorial service, my oldest cousin, Altha, came up to me. She looked at me solemnly and said, “I hope you’ll find joy.” I smiled and replied, “Oh, Altha, you too.” She gave me a strange look but said nothing more.

Later, when the service was over and my mom and I were in the car heading home, it occurred to me: Altha had meant Joy the person, not joy the feeling. I shared this realization with my mom, but she discouraged the idea. Joy didn’t want to be found—not by my dad, and not by me. I accepted that, and my curiosity and enchantment with the idea of having a sister evaporated.

Still, tongue in cheek, I began taking pictures of the word joy whenever I came across it, announcing to no one in particular, “I found joy today.”

After my dad’s passing, I did find a path toward living a healthier lifestyle. I became more physically active and began paying closer attention to nutrition, mindfulness, and stress management. What followed was a personal health revolution—moving from being fifty pounds overweight and sedentary to feeling healthy, fit, and strong, capable of running marathons and climbing mountains. I felt well physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.

I began reading everything I could about health and wellness, seeking knowledge wherever I could find it. Along the way, I started to notice something else: a sense of ease, calm, warmth, contentment. I felt it when I ran, when I hiked, when I spent time in nature, and when I was with friends and family. Preparing and eating nourishing, beautifully prepared food brought the same feeling. So did spending time with my cat. Gardening. Sitting in my backyard in the sunshine, listening to birds. Watching trees sway in the breeze outside my window.

Soon, I realized what this was. I was feeling joy. Not an overwhelming sense of happiness, but something quieter—subtle, soothing, kind. Joy didn’t announce itself. It whispered. It tip-toed.

I found joy in those quick, quiet moments in the in-between.

After my mom’s passing, I had the opportunity to step back from my long and demanding career in accounting. It was a career that had been good to me—something I was skilled at—but never something I had wanted to do “when I grew up.” I left corporate America.

Around that time, my daughter was exploring online college degree programs and stumbled upon a bachelor’s degree in health sciences through Arizona State University. She thought I’d enjoy it. I enrolled immediately. Because I already held a bachelor’s degree, I needed only the upper-division coursework to complete the program.

A few years later, I graduated summa cum laude and passed the national board certification for health and wellness coaches. I was finally doing something I felt deeply engaged with—something I was passionate about. Something that helped me better understand joy.

During college, to offset expenses, I started a small bookkeeping practice, putting my accounting skills to work until I could graduate and pursue a career in something I was truly passionate about: health and wellness. Juggling school, my business, and life was stressful.

I had no time for fitness—no time to work out at the gym, to run, to hike, to meditate, or to prepare nourishing meals. My sleep suffered. My mood suffered. My body suffered. Around this same time, perimenopause became impossible to ignore. Hot flashes, weight gain, and weight redistribution followed; I began carrying weight in places I never had before. My strength declined, and my balance was compromised.

And yet, I was still adventurous. I fell while roller skating and broke my elbow in two places. I fell while hiking and sprained my ankle. I fell while snowboarding and broke my other ankle. These weren’t accidents born of passivity—I was living fully, moving boldly, playing hard.

After multiple fractures, my doctor ordered a DEXA scan and diagnosed osteopenia. It was the first clear signal that I had entered a different chapter—one where pushing harder and powering through were no longer sustainable strategies.

Midlife was asking something different of me. Not less movement, but wiser movement. Not less ambition, but deeper alignment. Not less joy—but more of it, practiced intentionally.

And still, underneath it all, joy was there. Quieter now, perhaps—but steady. A calming, soothing undercurrent I could return to if I paused long enough to notice it. And I did.

But the years kept passing, and I kept on bookkeeping. It was what I did to make money. And I hated it. Hate is a strong word; I resented it. I felt trapped, and I didn’t know how to escape.

I worked longer hours for myself in a business I had created as a way out of the time and location constraints of corporate America. Instead, I found myself more constrained than ever. I was as trapped as I had been before—perhaps more so.

And somewhere along the way, joy began to slip away.

A couple of years ago, a few things came into focus at once.

I realized that I was sacrificing nearly everything I believed in: work–life balance, health, well-being, and the opportunity to build a career that aligned with my values. Freedom. Joy. Connection. Integrity.

So I decided to rescue myself. I made a plan to downsize my bookkeeping business and simplify my workload and responsibilities. I committed to building a new business centered on health and wellness coaching—and to reclaiming my health, my well-being, and my joy along the way.

I started at the beginning and reexamined everything—my values, my strengths, my personality, and the ways I move through the world. I began, again, to pay attention to my body and what it required to feel well and supported: sleep, stress management, mindfulness, creativity, joyful movement, play, nourishment, connection, and relationships, all held within an environment that could sustain them.

And once more, I began to notice the small joys woven into everyday life. I learned to linger a little longer—to relish, to savor, to recognize those moments and let them matter.

And so I keep returning to joy—not as something to chase or achieve, but as something to notice. Still quick. Still quiet. Still living in the in-between.

What else happened?

I received a letter in the mail—hand addressed, from a name I didn’t recognize. Inside was a note and a tiny bracelet. The bracelet was blue and white, small and worn with time. On the white beads, in black letters, was my last name: Fleury.

The letter was from a man who explained that he was Joy’s son—my nephew—and that Joy, my half-sister, had recently passed away. While going through her belongings, he had found the bracelet and felt I should have it. He knew the story too, though with a few variations—told from another point of view, shaped by another life. He offered to answer any questions if I wanted to reach out.

Of course I did. We connected. We shared stories. We became family. He is four years older than me. Through him, I learned more about Joy—the person—and more about joy itself.

Joy is simple. And joy is complicated. Joy lives and breathes in every moment, yet it can be elusive if we don’t give it the space it requires.

When we open ourselves to the joy around us, something shifts. Time softens. A single moment separates itself from the rest of the day and nourishes us, fuels us, reminds us that we are alive. And when we share those moments with others, they multiply—creating connection, meaning, and compassion.

Joy isn’t a cure. It isn’t something we achieve or accomplish. It isn’t the end, or even the means to an end. Though it’s often mistaken for happiness, cheer, or glee, joy is something else entirely. It doesn’t erase pain, loss, or grief—it lives alongside them. It lives alongside everything else in our lives.

This is how I have come to know joy: quick and quiet, steady and kind, waiting for us in the in-between. Especially in midlife, and beyond, joy becomes a practice—one that helps us live our messy, complicated lives with greater wholeness, presence, care, and grace.

Joy goes on. This story will too.