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Welcome

I'm B. Marwo. I write about the unexpected turns life takes, the kind that knock you off course and force you to rebuild. After nearly a decade away from the workforce, I started writing to make sense of that chapter. If you're in a hard season of midlife, work, or family, you're in the right place.

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Use the contact form in the sidebar to send me a message. You can also find all my books on my Amazon author page and share your thoughts on Goodreads.



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Popular posts from this blog

How to Explain a 10-Year Career Gap on Your Resume

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What Do You Put on a Resume After a 10-Year Career Gap? Learn how to explain a career gap, turn caregiving and self-taught skills into resume strengths, and answer 'What have you been doing?' with confidence. After nearly a decade away from the workforce, I started wondering how to explain a 10-year career gap on my resume. How do you reply to the question: “So, what have you been doing?” A ten-year gap can look enormous on a resume. But a gap in employment doesn't mean a gap in life. Life was happening. I was raising children, caring for family, learning, working on my own projects, and figuring out what came next. If you've stepped away from the workforce to raise children, care for a parent, or deal with life's unexpected turns, you may have more experience to talk about than you realize. Stop apologizing for the gap A career gap isn't a confession, and it doesn't require an apology. You don't have to give an employer a long explanation or defend the ...
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Meet B. Marwo

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☆ FINDING MY WAY AROUND MIDLIFE ☆ TIME AND TIDE: REFLECTIONS ☆ FAMILY CARE: NAVIGATING ELDER CARE ☆ STATE OF THE UNION: WORKING AT IT
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River Crossing

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  River Crossing after the manner of Robert Frost I'd like to go by the river way again -  not the highway, all heat and hard-topped haste - but the path that loops through the low, green grass, where the cane bends and the birds keep no clock. To walk with bare toes digging into mud, plastic bag stretched overhead like a flag of surrender to weather and wetness - that was the old route, the early road home. There is a bridge, sure - solid, quarter mile upriver, with its rusting nails and rail - but it never felt like mine. A thing built by others who feared the river’s shifting mood. Better to feel the flood’s cold shiver teasing your ribs, or dragging at your knees, than trust to someone else’s timbers. Water, I find, is more honest than men. I was small when I learned to cross alone, though always with eyes from shore watching me - a brother’s, a cousin’s, a neighbor’s glance, or the old man with the limp who smoked leaves and called us fish children. He had a way of knowin...
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