about
Hi, I’m Mindy Brown—lover and teller of stories. Welcome to Glow Solo, our little corner of the internet for women who’ve wandered into uncharted territory without so much as a compass.
Me too.
This space is where I braid together candid stories and hard-won lessons with a dash of laughter in search of new answers—because the old ones don’t fit anymore.
Maybe they never did.
Your Journey
Divorced after 30 years, I didn’t drift out of a marriage—I was dropped. My marriage didn’t fade; it snapped. In the seconds after, my chest cinched tight, each breath snagging on sharp edges.
I was the one who moved out of the house I’d designed for joy and community. By then, joy mostly flickered in my kids’ faces—rarer each week as tensions rose; the house itself had gone cold.
So, I left.
The silence in my new place felt like a rebuke, as if I’d misplaced my family through gross negligence. Some nights I’d even catch myself half-standing to check on one of the kids—then remember there was no one to get up for. I was alone.
And honestly? Some things I was glad to drop. Let’s be honest: nobody knows they’re signing up for thirty years of “what’s for dinner?” duty until it’s too late. What I missed was the swarm of kids and teens—the extras who always found our couch. I missed the false certainty of being on a team, the old rhythms of a life built around others. And I missed the punctuation at day’s end—the slide into the sheets beside the person who knew me best.
Then the fog rolled in. My kids lost the intact family they deserved; I lost the life I’d spent decades building. I wasn’t kind to myself at first. Shame ran the same tape on repeat. But that voice wasn’t mine. Neither was the shame. It just took time to learn I could change the message—and choose who gets a mic.
In the end, divorce took the life that only served others—and handed me one thing back: the right to be myself, without shame or apology.
But when so much was stripped away overnight, my hands were suddenly empty enough to pick up a few new things. Some of them I chose—hope, a steadier spine, my own voice. Others arrived uninvited—rage, a lot of cussing, and a deep grief with teeth.
Now, I live with two truths: I’m learning to hold the loss—and to welcome whatever I’m becoming. This version is limitless, rootless, maybe even feckless. Whatever I’m becoming, I’m finally the center of my own story.
If you’re here after a chapter you didn’t choose—divorce, death, distance, or a life that stopped fitting—you might feel broken in places no one can see. I did.
In that first lonely year, I kept looking for people who fit this version of me—the one reinventing on the fly, because some changes don’t allow for planning.
It took time, but I began to stitch together a few new friendships. Hugs returned. So did words of love and acceptance. My pain receded at roughly the same pace those friendships grew.
The wrong people can break us. The right people help us heal—and help us find our way when we’re lost.
Your Why
The darkness is my why.
Because darkness comes for us all in one way or another.
The darkness is why I started. We are why I stayed.
I almost didn’t make it through. It felt like a mortal wound—and instead of receiving care, I was still expected to give it.
I hid the worst of it for my kids and my job. Some days I was bleeding in plain sight while everyone needed me to act fine. Not blame—just the truth from inside my skin. The days dragged; the future was a black hole.
Now, if you ask about my future, I have answers. I can’t return the years that are gone, and I’m done mourning them. I can’t cling to sadness and chase joy at the same time.
Strengthened by the right people, I picked a lane—forward, wherever it leads.
Glow Solo is part of that lane. Nothing would make me happier than knowing this community helped someone feel strong enough to choose joy.
If you saw any part of your own story in mine, good.
I mean, sort of.
I hate that you needed me, but I’m glad we found each other.
If you’re grieving, Glow Solo exists so none of us has to do it alone.
We are my why.
Your Expertise
From Army boots to diamonds to classrooms—no matter the job, I end up teaching.
How we show up changes a room.
I make heavy things lighter and complicated things clear.
I write in human, not jargon.
I design tiny tools that move big boulders.
I teach what I live: rebuilds, boundaries, and micro-wins.
I write stories because our brains are wired for them.
Let’s write the next beautiful chapter together.