Posted on December 28, 2025
A Birthday Worth Reframing
This birthday was harder than I expected. Milestones have a way of bringing everything forward at once, sometimes with cathartic tears. Gratitude and grief. Pride and longing. What is lost and what remains. Writing this helped me reframe the day not as a judgment on age, but as a moment to pause, reflect, and choose intention. What follows is not just a look back, but a way of moving forward with clarity, purpose, and an open, willing heart. Storytelling has always been a passion of mine. I usually share the stories of others. Today, I share my own.
Humble Beginnings
I was born on December 28, 1955.
Dwight D. Eisenhower was president, and America was optimistic about the future. Lady and the Tramp filled movie theaters, and Disneyland opened its gates for the first time, offering families a shared dream of imagination, optimism, and possibility. Families gathered around black-and-white televisions and imagined a future that felt orderly, even prosperous, whether or not that vision matched reality. As children, we were the remote controls for our parents, bouncing between the sofa and the television, turning dials to change the channel.
My life soundtrack began with vinyl and transistor radios and soon collided with cultural shockwaves. One of the earliest was watching The Ed Sullivan Show when The Beatles appeared on television. Establishment culture branded them rebellious for their long hair, so controversial it brushed the collars of their crisp white shirts. For those of us growing up in that sterile time, the moment felt electric. It was not just music. It was generational defiance and the realization that expression itself, in any form, could disrupt the carefully curated status quo.
Seeking Knowledge Before It Found Us
As a teenager, there were no streaming platforms and no instant access to culture. We were a generation of seekers. Discovery required effort, curiosity, and intention. As a young girl, I was deeply curious about the world around me and about worlds far beyond my reach. That curiosity led me toward eclectic tastes, unconventional adventures, and a lifelong commitment to learning, experiencing, and growing.
I learned about diverse cultures, movements, and music through libraries, books, records, eight-track tapes, cassette players, and eventually VHS tapes passed hand to hand. Learning was intentional. Wisdom came from seeking it out rather than stumbling upon it. There is nothing inherently wrong with stumbling upon knowledge, as modern technology allows, except that information today can be controlled, co-opted, and weaponized by bad actors with alarming ease. That earlier process shaped how I listened, how I learned, and how deeply ideas took root.
A few years later came another defining moment. Although I was forbidden to watch the movie Woodstock, I did anyway. Parents were terrified by what they saw and what it represented. Disorder. Freedom. Youth refusing containment. What frightened them enlightened and inspired me, not because it was counterculture for its own sake, but because it felt organic and inevitable. The post-war optimism that had tried to bind the next generation like a rushed bonsai tree finally broke free. Even from a distance, Woodstock shaped how I understood music as activism, expression, and community, and how collective energy could transform consciousness. Watching Woodstock felt right. It made sense to me.
After high school, I wanted to become a physician. Studying science felt intriguing and purposeful, but the rising cost of education was daunting. Midway through my junior year, I made the difficult decision to take a break from school when I was offered a job with American Airlines. It was a practical choice, but also an education of a different kind. I learned independence, responsibility, and that opportunity sometimes arrives before clarity. That pause did not end my curiosity or my commitment to purpose. It simply rerouted it. Through flying, I developed an enduring confidence in travel and learned that some of life’s greatest teachers are lived experience and giving back. For me, travel dismantled imaginary walls and barriers and placed me directly in the flow of action rather than on the sidelines.
Living, Loving, and Choosing Purpose
Over 70 years, I have witnessed extraordinary change. The Cold War, the Civil Rights Movement, women fighting for equality and bodily autonomy, the moon landing, the fall of the Berlin Wall, and the rise of the digital age. I watched technology evolve from rotary phones to artificial intelligence, and I have always loved being on the cutting edge of change. I embraced technology not for novelty, but for its ability to connect people, amplify voices, and advance purpose-driven work. When applied intentionally, the principles of community organizing can scale from a single bulletin board to global communication.
I married the love of my life, Alan, and lived a great, whole life with him, even if not a complete one. Alan and I climbed Half Dome, skied black diamonds, and ran marathons. Later in life, we decided to have a family. Becoming a mother is my greatest role and most treasured joy. After Alan’s passing, Emily and I embraced travel, especially during the holidays. Hanukkah, Christmas, and my birthday were often too painful to spend quietly at home, so instead we opened the door to adventure, curiosity, and the world beyond our walls. Together, we chose movement over stillness and discovery over retreat. We have shared safaris, gorilla tracking, breathtaking sunsets, and countless memories that belong only to us. Each challenge reaffirmed resilience, curiosity, and the belief that growth comes from pushing beyond what feels safe.
Emily and I met Doug Larkin in 2004 during the introduction of a Senate resolution to ban asbestos, led by Senator Patty Murray. That moment, in the halls of policymaking, felt no different from the organic call of Woodstock. It changed my life and ignited a new flame. After Alan’s mesothelioma diagnosis, life offered a hard education behind the curtain of money, power, and politics. Together, Doug and I co-founded the Asbestos Disease Awareness Organization to turn grief into prevention and truth into policy.
Inexperience was overpowered by persistence, and tenacity guided my early prevention and policy work. When Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid’s office called and said he would champion the first National Asbestos Awareness Day Resolution if I wrote it, I did. By every modern measure, I had no business doing so. And yet that same blend of conviction and humility shaped the founding of our nation. They acted not because they were ready, but because the moment demanded it. That experience affirmed what I was learning in real time: preparation matters, and purpose creates momentum.
I became a widow and single parent at 50 and lost my soulmate, Alan. Grief and determination had to coexist. Loss did not define me. It refined me. It deepened my commitment to purpose and passion and strengthened my resolve to turn love into action. What began as an accidental path became a deliberate one. Advocacy requires structure, strategy, and persistence. I learned to build, negotiate, and architect change rather than simply react to injustice. I did not set out to become an activist. I became one because love demanded it.
Facing Change Head On
From 2020 forward, life shifted in profound and unsettling ways. COVID upended daily routines, exposed deep inequities, and reminded us how fragile and interconnected we are. At the same time, the political climate grew more divisive, volatile, and exhausting. These years tested patience, resilience, and faith in institutions and in one another. Yet they also demanded something essential: that we embrace change rather than resist it.
When the current is strong and the ground feels unstable, we look for the dry stones in the river, one step at a time. We find our internal strength, steady ourselves, and keep moving forward, trusting that crossing is possible even when the path is not obvious. Advocacy is like setting sail across a vast ocean. Standing still is more dangerous than moving forward with preparation, a north star, and the courage to act.
Still Becoming
The most profound change I have witnessed is not technological or political. It is personal. Women of my generation were taught to be polite, patient, and restrained. I learned to be persistent, strategic, and fearless. I also learned that many great men expected nothing less and stood beside us in solidarity. We belong at this table. You belong at this table.
I learned that prevention saves lives, that truth requires defense, and that purpose gives meaning to every chapter.
Turning 70 required reframing. Not as a verdict on age, but as a moment. A vantage point. Seventy years means I am still here. Still curious. Still engaged. Still capable of joy, growth, and impact. My head is full of experience, and my heart remains open.
At the center of everything is my daughter, Emily, my treasure. She turns 33 in January, and she is proof that love outlives loss, that strength carries forward, and that the future remains worth believing in. Her very existence reminds me that our best days still lie ahead.
Alan will always be part of my story, my compass, and my heart. His love lives on in my everyday life.
Seventy years in, I am not slowing down.
I am living with intention.
And enjoying every sunrise and sunset.
Fearlessly Seventy,
Linda