My mother is 62. She is beautiful, funny and has quick wit. She rides horses. And when she rides,  it is the most fascinating, bold, courageous sight to see.

Let me back up for a moment, my mother is Mexican. My mother’s step-father was a horse trainer. Growing up they lived in a trailer on a rich lady’s property; they were the hired help. They were poor. Yet on that farm, in the trailer, helping her step-dad, it is there my mother fell in love with riding horses. She rode the rich lady’s horse with dreams of one day owning her own horse and always took the little white-girls’ hand me downs. She claims her love for horses is what kept her out trouble and especially provided her a dream to pursue college and get out of her hometown.

She went to college as an Equestrian studies major and when her roommate showed up in a pink cadillac and a matching pink cadillac horse trailer, she realized one simple fact when it came to owning a horse; you have to be rich. So therefore the dream faded away and she got married, raised kids and it got tucked away as one of those things that kids just dream about.

Until she turned 55 years old. And my brother took her horse back riding for Mother’s Day. She hadn’t been on a horse in 30 years. And she cried. And realized, it’s time to get back on the horse again. And so she did.

Not only did she get back on the horse. She rode every day and saved up every penny and eventually bought a horse. A gorgeous show horse. An expensive horse. She earned it.

One Christmas I bought my mother a brand spanking new bridle (it was $100) and she got a weepy looking at it. And she said, you know I never thought I deserved new things. Even after all these years, I never thought I was worthy of owning brand new things.

I look at my mother and think; you can achieve your dreams. You can get back on the horse again no matter what your age.

And you know what? I have never seen her more happy, her hair more shiny or her smile quite as white as when she is on that horse.

The only time I’d ever flown first class was on my honeymoon. It was glorious and extravagant, and part of me wanted to reserve that experience solely for my honeymoon. Silly young-girl-in-love thoughts.  

That was until the day my business partner suggested (c’mon she really insisted) we fly first-class because we had just raised a pretty big Series A round of funding. This wasn’t to London or Paris or anything, just a hop down to LAX from SFO, but she wasn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer. This is just the way she rolls and I respect her for that.

Ever since, I have this little practice. When I walk through first class toward coach, I look closely at who’s already been seated. I look for a powerful business woman sitting alone.

And sadly, very sadly, I hardly ever see her.

Maybe you’ve noticed this too. When I look, I see mostly men. Sometimes I see a woman, but she usually looks like she’s sitting next to her partner. I rarely see that badass woman, sitting tall and alone. I want to see her. I want to see her not wearing a big diamond, but wearing fabulous shoes. Yeah, girl, I see you. And you look good. No man bought you those shoes, you bought those shoes. You worked for those shoes. You sit in first class, watching us filing back to our tiny seats in coach, knowing that you worked hard for that seat. Ms Fabulous could have booked a coach seat, but no she sits there sipping her complimentary champagne and I hope it tastes delicious.

Ladies book first class. Just do it.

If men deserve it, you deserve it.

Work your ass off and demand to fly first class. We deserve a seat at the table and we have EARNED first class. When I see you sitting there, know that I’ll high-five you as I walk by, or maybe listen to my own advice and sit down next to you.

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Oh hey loyal fans. Welcome back.

Why do I want to start a blog? (again)

Well, it has been on the to-do list for a long time now.  I had one when I lived in Haiti and I really miss the ritual of getting thoughts out into the world. Remember Kaiti in Haiti? Ah yes, a classic. Apparently I love a good rhyming blog name.

A few things have been happening lately that make me want to write. Well, more than a few. I’ll get into those more once I start click clacking away…

Some of my inspiration comes from what I’ve been reading lately: Love Warrior by Glennon Melton Doyle. OMG I saw her at the airport the other day and was  too nervous to do anything other than stalk her around the terminal. Mission accomplished. I mean, her book is life changing, shattering and beautiful. It made me want to be as self-aware and human-aware as Glennon is.

I’m also inspired to write because of my life coach, Dushka. More on her later because she is freaking amazeballs and helped me realize that I’m amazeballs too. I have a lot to say! I have a lot to share! I have thoughts that are worth reading and most of all, I need to organize my thoughts. Wrestle with them, grapple with them and own them.

Why is writing different than talking or thinking? I guess thoughts somehow become more concrete, more solid, more eloquent on paper. Glennon put it well (of course) in an interview she gave where she said writing is like being a detective. All day long you have no idea how you feel or why you feel, you are clueless! And then when you get the chance to write it all down, you start seeing the clues and patterns. All of a sudden, things start making sense.

And finally, I want to write because, for a long time I have felt not myself  (whatever that means). I think back to the 23-year old Kaitlyn, and think, “I like her. People liked her.”

Yet, I wonder if when I am 40 I will look back and long for my 30-year old self. Goodness, I hope not. I think writing might help me prevent that from happening. Maybe it sounds cliche, but I am writing  to my find myself.

So there’s all these reasons for me to write. And if that wasn’t enough, the universe seems to keep at it. At dinner the other night, a friend said that in your 30’s you know just enough to be fearful. And later, someone asked what would you do if you could do anything for a career. My response — become a blogger, and in my head I thought, so I can overcome that fear of my 30s.

So, here I go…