High Heels, Higher Vibes – Dying My Way

    • Ghosted by Retail: A Career Obituary

      There are many deaths we experience long before our physical one. Some arrive quietly, without ceremony, and leave us standing in the middle of our lives wondering who we are now that something we loved no longer exists.

      For me, one of those deaths was the slow, almost imperceptible ending of a career I never expected to grieve: retail.

      Brick-and-mortar stores. Fashion and fixtures. Employee discounts, holiday rushes, store visits, and the relationships built along the way. For more than a decade, retail was not simply where I worked. It became part of who I was.

      As an HR leader, I witnessed the best of people and, unfortunately, some of their hardest days. I celebrated promotions, coached leaders through challenges, welcomed new team members, and stood beside associates whose careers were ending because stores were closing, companies were restructuring, or entire organizations were disappearing.

      I have lost count of how many conversations began with hope and ended with uncertainty—not because people had failed, but because industries change, businesses do not always survive, and sometimes life writes a different ending than the one we planned.

      Over time, I came to understand that Human Resources is not only about policies, compliance, employee relations, hiring, or firing. It is about people navigating change. It is about identity. And more often than we acknowledge, it is about grief.

      Human Resources, Not Human Remains

      I handed out tissues during difficult conversations and coached leaders through saying goodbye to teams they genuinely loved. I wrote talking points for conversations that no script could ever make easier. Sometimes the most meaningful part of my job was not what I said, but simply being willing to sit beside someone while their professional world changed forever.

      Looking back, I realize I spent years helping people navigate endings: store closures, layoffs, restructures, career pivots, unexpected retirements, and dreams that suddenly had to be rewritten.

      Retail taught me that grief does not only happen at funerals. Sometimes it happens in conference rooms. Sometimes it happens while cleaning out a desk or driving home after a final shift. Sometimes it arrives when you realize the title you carried for years no longer belongs to you.

      That is professional grief, and it is real.

      A job can provide far more than a paycheck. It can offer routine, community, purpose, recognition, and a sense of identity. When it ends, we may not only mourn the work. We may mourn the version of ourselves who existed within it.

      Welcome to Death Retail™

      Of course, anyone familiar with my writing knows that I often cope with difficult things through humor. So naturally, after years of witnessing grief in corporate America, my imagination decided to create an entirely fictional business empire dedicated to making loss just a little more stylish.

      Welcome to Death Retail™—where grief meets glam, and severance comes with sparkle.

      Griefwear™

      Griefwear™ offers fashion for the emotionally overdressed. Why settle for plain black when your mourning attire could include Elastic Waistbands of Denial, Blouses of Regret, or Silk Scarves of Subtle Revenge, tastefully monogrammed with “WTF”?

      Not something you would ordinarily wear to work—unless, perhaps, you worked in HR.

      Hug Lite™

      Hug Lite™ is designed for the emotionally exhausted. It is a contactless, calorie-free hug for those moments when you care deeply but simply have nothing left to give.

      It is perfect after funerals, breakups, layoffs, or back-to-back HR meetings that leave you spiritually dehydrated.

      AfterLife Coaching™

      AfterLife Coaching™ is for anyone who has outlived the career they thought they were supposed to have. It specializes in reinvention, resilience, and helping people realize that endings are often beginnings wearing very convincing disguises.

      Certified in grief, glam, and exit interviews that feel suspiciously like rebirth.

      Crematinis™

      Crematinis™ are signature cocktails created for moments of emotional whiplash. Featured flavors include Burnt Orange Bitters, Salted Tears & Tonic, and the Lavender Goodbyetini™.

      Each pairs beautifully with casseroles from people you barely know and unsolicited advice about how everything happens for a reason.

      Ash & Sass™

      Ash & Sass™ is a candle line inspired by life’s unfinished conversations. Best sellers include Left Unread, I Told You I Was Sick, and Unsent Texts, Emails & Tobacco.

      No refunds. Only closure.

      What I Know Now

      Humor aside, I have learned something I could not fully see while I was living it. I have not spent  my career simply working in Human Resources. I have spent my career holding space for grief, transition, uncertainty, identity shifts, and reinvention.

      Those moments changed me just as much as they have changed the people sitting across from me.

      Eventually, my own career shifted. The retail chapter closed, and the professional identity I had worn for years no longer fit in quite the same way. For a while, I thought I had lost something. Now I wonder whether I was simply being invited into something new.

      The in-between is uncomfortable. It is where fear lives and doubt becomes especially loud. But it is also where creativity quietly begins to speak.

      Some of the ideas closest to my heart—including The Empowered Crossing and Dying My Way—were born during seasons when I was not entirely sure what came next. Perhaps I did not need another promotion as much as I needed permission to become someone new.

      Like it or not, we grieve jobs. We grieve titles. We grieve companies, routines, communities, and the lives we thought we would have. We grieve the version of ourselves who knew exactly where to go on Monday morning.

      Sometimes we reclaim our power by writing the obituary ourselves.

      Writing My Own Career Obituary

      I have stopped thinking of my retail career as something that failed. It had a beginning, a beautiful and complicated middle, and eventually, an ending. That ending does not diminish its value. It simply creates room for another chapter.

      So here is to the career that shaped me: every store I walked through, every associate I learned from, every leader who trusted me, every difficult conversation, every goodbye, and every lesson.

      Thank you.

      You helped prepare me for work I am only beginning to understand.

      Perhaps that is the point. Sometimes we do not lose ourselves. Sometimes we simply outgrow the version of ourselves we have been living.

      My retail career lived from approximately 1997 to sometime in the 2020-somethings. It is survived by a woman who owns too many shoes, a website, several unfinished stories, and a handful of grief-themed businesses that may or may not deserve a real launch.

      If you have ever grieved a job, a title, a company, or a version of yourself you thought would last forever, please remember this:

      You are not beginning again with nothing. You are beginning with experience.

      And that is a very different thing.

      — Reyna C. De La Cruz

      Until we meet again…keep living your way.

    • Six Years and a Few More Days

      The first reflection in my Dying My Way series

      Some stories take six years to write.

      Not because the words aren’t there.

      Because the person writing them isn’t ready yet.

      This is one of those stories.

      Years ago, I bought a domain called From the Kitchen Table. I imagined it becoming a place where I would gather thoughts the way families gather stories—around something warm and, in my case, probably slightly overcooked—but always made with love.

      For more than six years, I paid for the domain.

      I built the website.

      I launched it.

      I abandoned it.

      Then I rebuilt it.

      And abandoned it again.

      Not because I didn’t have anything to say.

      Quite the opposite.

      I had too much to say, and I wanted every word to be perfect.

      Perfection became analysis paralysis—a pause button that stayed stuck much longer than my wish to fit back into my size‑five jeans.

      The stories never stopped coming.

      I just wasn’t ready to tell them.

      Today, From the Kitchen Table has found its place as my reflections page within The Empowered Crossing, and Dying My Way has become a space where I can write about life, death, grief, purpose, and the strange gift of learning to laugh through all of it.

      Ironically, these reflections may eventually become an AI podcast.

      Apparently, technology was more patient than I was.

      When Death Became My Teacher

      People are often surprised when I tell them I’ve never really been afraid of dying.

      For me, it has never been about what happens.

      It’s always been about how.

      Death has always fascinated me—not because I long for it, but because it is part of life. The one experience that quietly reminds us we are all equals.

      No matter where we live.

      How much money we have.

      What title appears on our business card.

      Eventually, we all arrive at the same destination.

      That curiosity led me to discover end‑of‑life doulas.

      Naturally, I began reading everything I could.

      What I didn’t expect was that learning about death would introduce me to my own grief.

      I realized grief had quietly moved into my life years earlier and had been leaving emotional dishes in my sink ever since.

      There were moments when healing felt harder than dying.

      There were unexpected losses that changed the people I loved forever.

      There were close calls that ended with relief but also left behind one haunting question:

      What if things had turned out differently?

      Before I could ever imagine supporting someone else’s final chapter, I had to begin healing my own.

      One of the first things many end‑of‑life doula programs teach is that this work isn’t meant to begin while you’re actively grieving.

      At first, I resisted that advice.

      Eventually, I understood it.

      You cannot safely hold someone else’s hand if you’re still drowning yourself.

      The Doula Who Never Had a Client

      I completed the training.

      I watched the videos.

      I filled five journals with reflections, questions, ideas, and dreams.

      And then…

      Nothing.

      No clients.

      No bedside conversations.

      No quiet hospice rooms.

      Just silence.

      And me.

      Sitting with it.

      At first, I wondered if I had somehow failed.

      But over time, I realized something.

      Death isn’t always physical.

      Sometimes we grieve the versions of ourselves that never had the chance to exist.

      Sometimes we mourn the dreams we kept postponing.

      Sometimes we say goodbye to identities that no longer fit the people we’re becoming.

      Looking back, I can see that my unfinished blog was its own kind of grief.

      Not because it died.

      Because it hadn’t been allowed to live.

      Today, I don’t see From the Kitchen Table as something unfinished.

      I see it as a faithful companion.

      It quietly protected my stories until I was finally ready to share them.

      In many ways, it became the doula for everything that came afterward.

      Choosing Our Final Chapter

      Although I haven’t yet sat beside someone as they took their final breath, I’ve sat beside many endings.

      The end of jobs.

      The end of expectations.

      The end of relationships.

      The end of loved ones’ lives.

      Every ending has taught me something about beginning again.

      One belief has grown stronger with every passing year:

      I believe our final chapter should belong to us.

      Whether that means medical choices, funeral plans, cremation or burial, flowers or no flowers, music or silence—it should reflect the person whose life is being honored.

      Death is deeply personal.

      I believe the way we leave should be too.

      Because Even Death Deserves a Sense of Humor

      If you’ve read my writing before, you’ve probably realized I have an unusual imagination.

      I’ve pictured my ashes being returned to sender because I forgot to update my address with the Neptune Society.

      I’ve imagined spending eternity on someone’s guest room shelf next to a “Live Laugh Love” pillow because nobody could decide where to scatter me—or they were too afraid to open the box.

      Ridiculous?

      Absolutely.

      But humor has become one of my greatest companions through grief.

      Death is hard.

      Grief is strange.

      Sometimes the healthiest thing we can do is laugh in the middle of the tears.

      Preferably with someone thoughtful enough to bring snacks.

      Or, if you’re like me…

      Maybe a little wine.

      Six Years Wasn’t Wasted

      For a long time, I thought those six years represented failure.

      Now I see something different.

      They were preparation.

      The stories needed time.

      More importantly…

      I needed time.

      So if you’re carrying a dream that hasn’t happened yet…

      A book that still lives in your heart…

      A business you haven’t launched…

      Or a story you’ve been afraid to tell…

      Maybe you’re not behind.

      Maybe you’re simply becoming the person who can finally bring it to life.

      Like a beautiful vintage pair of stilettos patiently waiting in their box for exactly the right occasion.

      Or a really good bottle of wine that refuses to be rushed.

      I’ve learned that life isn’t measured by how quickly we begin.

      It’s measured by whether we eventually choose to begin at all.

      And after six years and a few more days…

      I finally have.

      And hey—

      if you were able to find humor in any of this?

      Congratulations.

      You’re still alive.

      And that’s a good thing.

      — Reyna

    • Max Baer – Not The Boxer, But Still A Champion

      Compassion brings us to a stop, and for a moment we rise above ourselves – Mason Cooley

      His name was Max and he was an 8-year-old Malinois that we adopted from the shelter a day before his life ended. We first met Max scrolling through pictures of dogs hoping to find one that would fit in with our family.  As we looked through the different pages and were introduced to puppies and more senior dogs, Max caught our eye, and this is where we stopped to read his profile. 

      He was described as a gentle German Shepard who had lost his family due to a relocation (the recession of 2008 impacted everyone) and he needed a home.  His profile went on to describe how Max sat in front of his cage to protect the other more senior dog who was bunking with him from the sprinkler system that would come on and soak their living space.  We fell in love with his picture and his kind heart without ever meeting him.

      The next day we went to the shelter and when we arrived, we were greeted by an elderly gentleman.  He was retired and spent most of his days volunteering at the shelter. He cleaned cages and desperately tried to find homes for all the animals especially the more senior dogs who are often left behind.  As it turns out he had been moving Max around so that he would not be destroyed and when we told him we were there to meet him he was thrilled.  He immediately took us to him, and the connection was instantaneous.  There was no need to think about it, Max was ours.

      The shelter had misclassified his breed and even his age as he was closer to being 10 years old than he was to being 8, but the one thing they got right was Max’s infinite ability to love.  Max lived with us for a few more years before his health declined and eventually had to make his way to Rainbow Bridge. During our time together we learned that Max slept all day because he spent his nights guarding our back door and walking the perimeter of our back yard ensuring that we were safe.  He always walked closely to my husband and children and would not allow anyone he perceived to be a threat near his family. Even when his hips failed him, and he became partially paralyzed he pushed himself to greet us with the same love and enthusiasm he had the day we brought him home from the shelter.

      Max taught us a lot of lessons, but the biggest lesson he taught us was compassion.  He showed compassion for his cage companion and when his health declined, we had to show him the same compassion and make the very difficult decision to say goodbye because we could not allow him to suffer.  Adopting Max was a privilege and in this experience, we learned further lessons about the circle of life.  An elderly man caring for elderly dogs, desperately trying to find them homes was something I will never forget.  I remember turning to my husband and asking him if he thought this gentleman worked this hard because to a certain degree he could relate.

      Life is very short, and, in the time, we have on earth we get to experience many things some great and others not so great, but if we are lucky, we will experience unconditional love.  I have been very fortunate in my life to know love not just through my family and friends, but also through my beautiful pets.  

      As I reflect on my experiences one of the biggest lessons on compassion was taught to me by a beautiful dog who shared his life with us for almost three years.  He taught me the beauty of seeing and being present.  Max was able to have compassion for another dog and chose to protect him as best as he could.  The elderly man did the same for Max.  I hope that when my time comes someone will be as generous with me.