Let’s put it out there: I became a mom at 40, and it was the best plot twist of my life.
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Rabecca’s Renaissance:
A 25-Year-Old Fountain Gets Her Glow Back
When your 25-year-old fountain looks like she’s auditioning for a horror movie, you either call a priest… or grab a power washer.
Warning: This post contains graphic scenes of power-washing, caulking, and a whole lot of metallic paint.
DiscoverTwenty-five years ago, my mom and I walked into a shop (long since closed) and came out with a fountain named Rabecca. She’s lived in the same spot for decades — first in front of my parents’ house, now in front of mine — for 90 % of that time she was filled with water, sun, and Seattle weather. She’s part of our family story. But through the decades she had turned black, green, cracked, and sad.
Rabecca waited 25 years for her glow-up. She got cracks filled, lips smoothed, and a gold highlight — and honestly now she looks better than I do.
Let's Be Real
Projects like this are hard - choosing products that stay true to the piece + fit your aesthetic + environmentally friendly + durability is a TALL order. So I went at her in steps...
Step 1: Take Her Apart & Give Her a Bath
Rabecca has four very heavy pieces. We left the base in place (it takes more than two people to move), removed the upper sections, and gave her a proper power-wash spa day. After 24 hours I rinsed her down with white vinegar.
Step 2: Repair the Damage
She wasn’t just cracked — chunks of stone were missing. To fill gaps (over 25 % of her!) I used:
I applied it with a caulking gun and smoothed it by hand with gloves. After two days, everything was sealed and dry.
Step 3: Prime for a Fresh Start
I used RUST-OLEUM Auto Body Filler Primer to create a smooth surface and lock in repairs. She turned a dignified grey while we waited another 24 hours.
Step 4: Paint Drama (a.k.a. Ronald McDonald)
I’d bought two terra-cotta-ish colors, thinking they’d be perfect. Spoiler: they were neon clown and traffic cone orange. 😬
I didn’t even take pictures — I was so disheartened - like REALLY disheartened. I may have shed a few tears in the bathroom over this — but the birds needed their bath, so I pushed forward.
Step 5: Find the Winning Colors
Because she was originally glazed, both the hue and the shine were HUGE factors!
Rust-Oleum American Accents 2X Ultra Cover Satin Spray Paint – Warm Carmel (2 coats over everything)
Nutmeg (only on the high points for depth)
Spa Blue (for the base and top where water sits — pretty and protective)
Step 6: Bring on the Gold
I wanted that glazed shine, so from Home Depot I grabbed:
I covered the whole fountain in glittery gold. The dimension was chef’s kiss.
Step 7: Seal the Deal
Flex Seal Max Clear Aerosol Waterproof Rubberized Coating — two coats for a thick, shiny layer
Rust-Oleum Universal All Surface High Gloss Topcoat Spray Paint (rated for masonry) — final gloss
Step 8: The Longest Wait (and the Blow Torch)
Seattle mist slowed everything down and the finish stayed tacky. Enter my husband with a blow torch. Very lightly, every couple of days, we torched the surface. It hardened the paint and left a beautiful, subtle patina.
TWO WHOLE WEEKS later she was finally rock solid.
Step 9: The Grand Reveal
We filled her with water and she gleamed in the sun like a brand-new (vintage) goddess. Rabecca looks glorious again — ready to host birds, bees, and family memories for another 25 years.
Tips & Lessons Learned
Thin coats > thick coats.
Seattle mist + impatience = tacky finish.
Blow torching lightly can speed up drying and add patina.
Embrace imperfections — they add story.
Restoration projects are slow but so worth it.
Closing Thoughts:
This was truly a labor of love. Rabecca isn’t just a fountain; she’s a family heirloom and a little piece of my mom and me. Restoring her felt like renewing the love and memories we’ve poured into this home for decades. That’s the legacy I want to leave: love that lasts. 💛
Our Family Room Transformation
If I’m being completely honest, this room gave me more grief than any space I’ve decorated. And that’s saying something!
Part of it is this was my parents’ home. Every choice felt heavy with meaning, and I found myself constantly second-guessing. The other issue is this house has a personality all its own. Nothing—truly nothing—is centered. Doorways? Off. Light fixtures? Off. Windows & utilities? It’s like the house was playing a practical joke on me every time I pulled out a hammer.
This was the living room when my parents lived here
Look at my babies! Also I wish I had a better picture, but there was green carpet.
This was after we pulled out the carpet and installed wood
See how we got the wood below!
We salvaged the wood eight years ago, it came from our neighbors who were tearing it out of their home! It sat for years before we finally installed it!
To make matters trickier, we had to wait a year before the floors could be refinished. That meant living in a construction zone with a one-year-old. Do you know what’s not fun? Dodging unfinished reclaimed flooring while balancing sippy cups. But we survived, and finally, finally, the room started to come together.
When I say these floors were salvaged - I MEAN it!
The floors were functional and better than the GREEN carpets we pulled out. It was my husbands idea to install them at a 45% and to this day I am obsessed.
The real turning point was the console. Believe it or not, it’s made from kitchen uppers from Lowe’s that we mounted to the wall and custom-painted. Add in crown molding (also from Lowe’s!) to extend the fireplace surround, and suddenly the whole space felt intentional instead of off-balance. We even added a kit to hide all the TV wires, so now the screen floats like a piece of art instead of screaming “electronics!”
Once the structure was right, I got to do my favorite part: layering in the personality. The rug is from Wayfair, the sofa is Restoration Hardware, and the granite around the fireplace is original. The accessories? Pure treasure hunting — a tiger poof, a peacock painting, a side table, even the oversized vase, all from HomeGoods. Every piece feels collected and loved because it IS.
This room took years, buckets of sweat, more than a few tears, and a whole lot of laughter to get here. But now? Now it’s the perfect mix of cat-friendly, kid-happy, and joy-filled — a room where we can cuddle, play, and live.
And because no room is mine without flowers, I went to the garden and made a bouquet as big as my joy — three feet tall and spilling with dogwood, hibiscus, roses, and lavender. It was the crown on a very stubborn queen.
If you’re staring at a space that feels impossible, take heart. Even the most awkward, grief-filled room can become a place of joy. Sometimes it just takes a little patience, a lot of imagination, and the courage to trust your own vision.
And when in doubt? Add roses. 🌹
Keywords: Gen Z fashion, generational trauma, comfort over beauty, beauty standards, women’s clothing, bralettes, feminism, millennial perspective, body positivity, self-love
My Love Letter to the Women Who Said "No" to Pain
My first memory of womanhood was
A bra. A metal structured, soul-crushing bra.
I was 12. My Gamma marched me into a department store, tossed a few white lace contraptions in my hands, and told me this was being a woman. I cried to the saleslady that it hurt. Her response?
"That's how it's supposed to fit."
What. The. F**K.
And just like that, my journey into womanhood began—complete with pinchy toe-bleeding sky light heels, pants so tight I couldn’t breathe, and the literal physical scars from bras that could double as medieval armor.
Sleeping in curlers that gouged into my scalp like they were trying to extract my thoughts? Totally normal. Waxing? Oh darling, everything had to be waxed—eyebrows, upper lip, legs, arms, and private areas so sensitive it felt like getting slapped by Satan.
Let’s not forget the corsets - literal corsets. Gen Z, that was a thing for a brief, horrific time in the early 2000s. My ribs still whisper about it in therapy.
And of course: tanning beds. I would willingly crawl into a glowing hot coffin to roast myself like a rotisserie chicken, just to get a sun-kissed glow that always ended in burns and peeling. I smelled like fried regret.
All of this? This was “beauty.” This was “femininity.”
This was... pain.
Generational Trauma: A Hand-Me-Down of Hurt
Because the generation before us believed something heartbreaking: They had to suffer to be beautiful, so did we.
Boomers thought endurance was a rite of passage. Pain meant effort. Discomfort meant womanhood. My mom did it. So I did it.
But then... something changed.
Millennials looked around and said, “Wait… do we have to?”
And Gen Z came sprinting in like a neon-hued, Croc-wearing goddess army screaming:
“ABSOLUTELY F**KING NOT.”
Gen Z: The Comfy, Confident Revolutionaries
They showed up in their bralettes with no wires, their baggy pants, their sneakers with dresses, their unapologetically cozy vibes—and I swear, I saw heaven.
These brilliant, boundary-shattering babes walked through the fire of generational trauma and emerged wearing sweatshirts, lip balm, and a clear conscience.
They said: “If it hurts, we’re not wearing it.”
They said: “We dress for us.”
They said: “You can keep your pain and your push-up bras. We’re reclaiming comfort.”
And I cried. Real tears.
Because it had never even occurred to me that I could say no. That I could be feminine and comfortable. That I didn’t have to earn my beauty through suffering. That I didn’t have to pluck, peel, pinch, or roast myself to deserve softness, joy, or love.
(Pictured is the actual gown I wore to my first dance - it is velvet and I wore a corset under it! I saved it and it's for sale on my shop! But please, if you buy her, skip the corset!)
To Gen Z: Thank You, From a Liberated Millennial
So this post—this glitter-covered manifesto—is a thank you letter to Gen Z.
You fierce, fabulous, rule-rewriting icons. Thank you for giving me and so many others permission to be free. Thank you for making cozy cool, for making comfort fashion-forward, and for showing up in the world exactly as you are.
You are joy. You are liberation. You are my style heroes.
And if you need me… I’ll be the one in a bralette, elastic waistband, Crocs… and absolutely no regrets.
Blog series: Why I Love Gen Z
Part One: The End of Painful Pretty
Stay tuned for more glittery, heartfelt, and hilariously honest love letters to the generation that’s changing everything.
A love letter to motherhood on your own terms.
My 20s Were for Being Wild and Glorious
My 20s were for the crazy, wild, free life everyone should have a chance to dance through. I wore sequins like armor, lived out of a suitcase, danced until sunrise, drank the cocktails, and kissed the strangers (sorry, Mom). I met my husband on an elevator in a hotel we were separately staying in on New Year’s Eve—I mean, could the universe be more dramatic?
We partied, we traveled, we lived. And because of all that, I have zero fear of missing out now. I've done the wild. I’ve been the wild. And now I get to bring that same adventurous, unapologetic energy into motherhood—without a hint of regret.
I Know Who I Am—and I Like Her...
After the glitter of my 20s and the grit of my 30s, I hit my 40s with clarity. I know what matters, I know what doesn’t, and I’m not afraid to say no to things that drain me (except sugar, that still wins every time).
I’m not parenting from a place of fear or comparison—I’m parenting from a place of joy, gratitude, and “let’s make this weird and wonderful.”
Patience Isn’t a Virtue, It’s a Survival Skill
You don’t get through military deployments, house renovations, or toddler meltdowns without a truckload of patience. And by now? My truck is full.
When my son wants to explain the workings of a Halloween animatronic for 37 straight minutes, I listen. When he spills juice for the fifth time in an hour, I mop it up and crack a joke. I don’t have the energy to overreact—which, oddly enough, makes everything a lot calmer and a lot more fun.
I’m Financially and Emotionally Ready
Do I still have anxiety? Of course. I’m human. But I’m not scrambling in the same way I would have been a decade or two ago. I’ve built a foundation—in my marriage, my career, and myself—and now I get to enjoy the incredible gift of sharing it with a little person who calls me “Mama.”
Celebrate the Chaos
There’s something deliciously freeing about being an “older” mom. I show up to Kindergarten pickup in leopard print and red lipstick. I do dance routines in the living room. I make up songs about broccoli. I’m not worried about looking cool— because I don’t care.
Motherhood isn’t a performance—it’s a playground. And I’m on the swings.
Also, my son? Completely obsessed with Halloween.
His favorite movie is The Nightmare Before Christmas, and
We did. Twelve feet big.
Gratitude is My Superpower
When you’ve been through true loss — you don’t take a single second for granted.
Every giggle, every sleepy cuddle, every marker-streaked drawing of our family is a treasure. I know how fragile life is. I know how sacred this role is. And I hold it close, even on the hard days.
So here’s to the late bloomers.
To the mamas who thought it might never happen.
To the Dog Mommas and cat Mommas - I see you too, and yes you absolutely count!
To the ones who came to motherhood with laugh lines and lived-in hearts.
Being a mom later in life isn’t just good—it’s glorious.
Because I’ve been through enough to know what matters. And this? This right here—sticky hands, tiny socks, bedtime stories, and all—is the good stuff.
With love, glitter, and a side of pumpkin spice,
Gina Joy 🎃✨