EPISODE 009 | Claire, Pat, and Judy: On Kindness, Sovereignty, and Staying Sharp

In this solo reflection, Lee Currie weaves together the insights and energy of three delightfully distinct Crone Rising guests: Claire Barron-Sluga, Pat Sanagan, and Judy Azzopardi. Each woman offers a unique perspective on relevance, aging, and showing up on her own terms. From fierce kindness to full-bodied boundaries, this episode invites listeners to consider what it means to age awake — and unapologetically.

Which story stirred something in you? Claire’s fierce kindness? Pat’s permission to rest? Judy’s boundary wisdom? I’d love to hear what landed.

KEY TOPICS COVERED

• Feminine leadership as presence, not performance
• Sovereignty and knowing when to step back
• Relevance as a daily decision
• The power of relational infrastructure
• Aging well with grace, clarity, and community
• Letting go during the waning moon

After you listen to the podcast, answer this: Where in your own life are you ready to stop disappearing? And, What boundary, truth, or small gesture might call you back to relevance on your own terms? 

Come share your story with us on Instagram @crone.rising.official -- we'd love to hear what makes YOU still relevant.

Crone Rising is for every woman who’s done being quiet and done being small. We’re not here to fade. We’re here to rise — unapologetic, unmuted, and unmissable.

Connect with Lee Currie

Subscribe, share, and leave a review if Crone Rising resonates. Your voice matters. 

Transcript

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Welcome back to Crone Rising. I'm Lee Curry, and this is episode 9, a solo reflection woven from my conversations with three extraordinary women, Claire Baron's Sluga, Pat Sanigan, and Judy as a party. Each one offered a glimpse into how we live, love, and lead as we age, and how relevance, reinvention, and resilience can look remarkably different from one woman to another. As this episode airs, we're standing in the heat of the third quarter moon in Aries, a fiery threshold in the lunar cycle. This is the moon that burns off what is no longer serving. The moon that asks, where are you leaking energy? What truth can no longer be unspoken? What needs to be released to make space for what's next? Aries energy is bold and unapologetic. It's less about polishing and more about permission, the kind you give yourself. This moon doesn't whisper, it roars. It says cut the cords, speak the thing, move forward. And that's exactly what these conversations offered me. Not more to carry, but more clarity about what I can finally put down. So let's begin. Clara Barron's Sluga lives her values out loud, though not in a flashy way. In fact, that's part of her strength. What struck me most about Claire is how deeply she believes in kindness as an act of practice, not a personality trait. It's not something she pulls out for social media or applause. It's something she does while you're not watching. While you're crying, while you're doubting, while you're wondering whether you still belong. Claire and I go way back. I met her when I entered a new school mid-year in 1973. We were nine years old in Mr. Kent's grade four class. Claire was quiet, kind, and gracious, especially when this fish out of water had no clue how to speak French. I had just moved from the U.S. where French wasn't required. That didn't matter to Claire. She offered me a lifeline when I didn't yet know how to ask for one. She made such an impact that I named my eldest daughter after her. That's how deeply kindness can root itself in a life. We lost touch as childhood friends sometimes do, but serendipity stepped in. Years later, our sons ended up in the same grade seven class. Claire and I reconnected, and even now, with our boys grown and well launched, we're still in each other's lives. There's something beautiful about that full circle moment about women whose presence echoes across decades. Claire doesn't just talk about presence, she embodies it. In a world addicted to urgency and performative productivity, Claire chooses to hold space, to listen with her whole self, to show up when she doesn't have the answers, and to live into the questions. That takes guts. That takes grace. Claire's story reminded me how often we overlook the power of feminine relational energy. She's not interested in dominating a room. She's interested in inviting it to breathe, to soften, to pause. She's the kind of woman who makes you feel like the most important person in the world. Not because she's trying to impress you, but because she's genuinely paying attention. Three things I carry from Claire. Number one, kindness is fierce. It takes courage to meet people exactly where they are without needing to fix or rescue. There is power in not turning away from someone's pain. There's healing in simply being witnessed. Two, leadership is quiet. You can facilitate a room, a relationship, or a ritual without centering yourself. You can lead from the back, you can guide from the margins. That too is leadership. And three, worth is relational. Aging well isn't about independence at all costs. It's about co-regulation, curiosity, and community. We're not meant to do this alone. We never were. Claire reminds me that presence is not just spiritual, it's revolutionary. And as women age in a world that constantly tells us to disappear, her way of being says, I'm still here and I see you too. Her story challenged me to re-examine how I show up when there's nothing to prove. What happens when I let go of the need to impress and instead seek to connect? What happens when our presence becomes a portal for others to come home to themselves? Claire taught me that small gestures can change the trajectory of someone's day, maybe even their life. And in this phase of life where so many of us are reckoning with what remains and what has slipped away, that reminder feels like a gift. Pat Sanigan showed up to our conversation with that unmistakable mix of warmth and wisdom, grounded, gutsy, and gloriously real. She's been a nurse in addictions and mental health field, a mother of four, a fierce family advocate, and a woman who knows exactly how to claim her space, and just as importantly, when to step back from it. When I asked her about relevance, Pat didn't talk about fading into invisibility. She talked about choosing when and how to be visible. She's tall, loud, and always has been. Raised in a big Catholic family, she learned early how to hold her own. But she also learned when to walk away, like from the church, when its treatment of women no longer aligned with her truth. Now in this season of her life, she finds herself leaning more into quiet. Not because the world asked her to shrink, but because she finally gave herself permission to rest. As she put it, quote, I'm okay to withdraw from the situation on my terms, and if anybody has a problem with that, well, that's not my problem. End quote. That's sovereignty. What really struck me was her fierce love for her family and her absolute refusal to be a bystander when her kids needed an advocate. She didn't just show up, she showed up accepting the mission to stay involved while sidestepping the drama. And now, watching her own children raise kids of their own, she's navigating the beautiful, brutal territory of grandparenting, wanting to guide, but knowing when to stay quiet. Three things I carry from Pat. One, relevance is relational. You don't disappear unless you let yourself. Pat chooses her spaces, where to speak up, where to step back, based on connection and care, not obligation. Two, permission is yours to give. You don't need anyone else to say it's okay to rest, to rage, to retreat, or to show up on your own terms. And three, joy is a decision. Even amidst grief, aging, and generational shifts, Pat finds her joy in family, in music, in the sheer chaos and grace of a house full of grandkids. She reminded me that life doesn't get tidier as we age. It gets fuller, louder, more complex, and also somehow more honest. Her philosophy, if it works, it works. No need to push, no need to prove. Pat taught me that resilience isn't about toughing it out. It's about living out loud when you need to, and then going home to shut up when you're done. That's a kind of grace that I want to grow into. Judy as a party is a woman of grit and grace. Her voice is calm but strong, rooted in years of experience working in industries that weren't always designed with women in mind. From the very start of our conversation, I was struck by her clarity. Not the brittle, overpolished clarity we sometimes adopt to defend ourselves, but the grounded kind that comes from a woman who knows who she is and what she values. Judy's story isn't flashy. It's real. It's resonant, it's deeply familiar. One of the most moving threads in our talk was her reflection on relevance. Retirement for Judy wasn't just a milestone. It was a reckoning. After decades of being known for her work ethic, her leadership, and her presence in male-dominated spaces, she stepped away. And suddenly, the phone stopped ringing. The world, it seemed, had moved on. This is a story I've heard from many women. And yet, Judy didn't stay silent or stuck. She made the brave and deliberate choice to define relevance on her own terms. She became more intentional with her time. She doubled down on friendships. She embraced purpose not as productivity, but as participation in life, on her terms. Three things Judy reminded me of. One, relevance is chosen. It doesn't get handed to you. You claim it. Every morning you wake up and decide to be in the game. Even if the game looks different, even if you've stopped keeping score. Two, boundaries are clarity. As Judy shared, the more you understand yourself, the more clearly you see what and who no longer fits. This isn't cruelty, this is curation. And three, friendship is infrastructure. The support systems women build often quietly over decades are the very scaffolding that holds us through life's storms. These networks are powerful, sacred, and deeply underestimated. Judy has that no nonsense energy that feels like a cup of strong tea on a cold day. She's steady, she's warm, and she's utterly uninterested in performance. She's more interested in truth. And she shared her truths with a kind of honesty that made me sit up straighter. One part of our talk that stuck with me was her reflection on the soft yes. That tendency we have to agree out of habit, to show up for others even when we're running on empty, to apologize for needing space. Judy doesn't do that anymore. Her no is clear, not cruel. Her yes is full bodied, not reflexive. She reminded me that boundaries aren't walls, they're doorways. They're choices we make about what kind of energy we're willing to carry, absorb, or be around. And those choices, they shape the texture of our days. Judy also spoke with deep tenderness about her circle of women, friends who have known her through thick and thin, who've shown up with casseroles and car rides, laughter and late night phone calls. It's not that her circle is huge, it's that it's real. She said something I won't forget. Quote, the world might stop calling, but my friends never do. End quote. There's so much in that one sentence, a whole philosophy of how we age, how we stay connected, how we remain visible to each other, even if society forgets. So what connects Claire, Pat, and Judy? They are different women with different lives, different stories, different tones and rhythms and styles, but they are united in one central radiant truth. They have refused to disappear. Each in her own way has chosen to remain awake in a culture that seduces us with numbness. Each one has said yes to depth, to growth, to the beautiful messiness of continued becoming. Claire reminds us to soften. Pat reminds us to choose. Judy reminds us to stay sharp. These women are not playing roles, they are living fully into themselves, and that, in this season of life, is no small thing. They teach us that there is no one way to be relevant, wise, or whole. There's only your way, and your way will likely change again and again as you evolve. In lunar terms, Claire feels like the full moon, luminous, reflective, illuminating others. Pat is the third quarter moon, discerning, grounded, a call to release what no longer fits. Judy is the first quarter moon, resilient, rising, building a new shape from lived experience. We need all of it, all phases, all voices, all ways of aging well. And in this waning moment, as the moon lets go of what's unnecessary, we're reminded that shedding is sacred. That becoming isn't always about adding more. Sometimes it's about burning away the false to reveal the true.