Carried With Her

When Family Keepsakes Become Part of a New Beginning

There are certain things we keep because they belonged to someone we love.

A ring tucked into a jewelry box. A scrap of fabric from a dress. A swatch from an old pair of overalls. A watch face that no longer keeps time.

Individually, they may seem like small things. But memory has a way of changing the value of ordinary objects.

This past Saturday, when my niece walked down the aisle, some of those pieces went with her.

I created a keepsake pin for her wedding bouquet, gathering together jewelry, fabric, charms, and tiny remnants from the people who have been part of her story. Some belonged to family members who were there to celebrate with her. Others belonged to people we can no longer reach out and touch.

This is actually the second bouquet keepsake I have made for one of my nieces.

But a lot has changed since I made the first one.

Two of the women who were still with us when I created that first pin have since passed away. I don't think I fully understood then what these little collections might someday become.

I knew I was preserving memories.

I didn't realize I was also preserving presence.

The Stories Gathered There

Every piece I added to her pin had a reason for being there.

An eagle pendant represents her step-grandfather, Steve.

A bar from her dad's letterman jacket became part of the construction itself, helping hold two particularly meaningful remnants: a swatch from a dress that belonged to his mother and a swatch from a pair of overalls that belonged to his father.

Her paternal grandparents, held together by a piece from their son's own history.

I love the layers within that one small detail: three generations of one family gathered together in a few inches of fabric and metal.

From her Mimi came the letter P, along with a ring featuring a horseshoe design and a mother-of-pearl bead.

Her Nanny gave her an angel charm, and Mimi Perkins contributed a tiny Bible charm, adding another reminder of the women, love, and faith that have surrounded her.

There is also a mother's ring from the mother of the groom, bringing his family into the collection and acknowledging something I love about weddings: it isn't only two people joining their lives. Two family stories begin weaving themselves together, too.

And then there are the pieces that carry the presence of those who are no longer physically here.

A pearl ring from her grandmother.

Her Aunt Kim's blue topaz ring.

A coin pendant from her grandfather Hoyt.

And an old watch face that belonged to her great-grandmother.

I find myself especially drawn to that old watch face.

Something that once measured minutes and hours now represents something much larger to me: the passage of time through a family.

It no longer needs to tell us what time it is.

Its purpose has changed.

Now it tells us who came before.

And nestled among all of those pieces from the past is something representing the life my niece was stepping into that very day: the promise-ring set given to her by the man who would soon become her husband.

Past.

Present.

Future.

All gathered together beneath a wedding bouquet.

When the Things We Save Change

I think one of the reasons this second pin affected me differently is because I know something now that perhaps I understood only intellectually when I made the first.

Life changes.

People leave us.

And sometimes the ordinary things they leave behind become precious in ways we could never have anticipated.

A ring stops being something Grandmother once wore and becomes something we can still hold in our hand.

A coin can bring Grandfather Hoyt back into a family story.

A swatch of fabric becomes a reminder of the woman who once wore that dress.

A piece cut from a pair of well-worn overalls carries the memory of the man who once worked and lived in them.

And an old watch no longer tells time, but somehow carries it.

Maybe that is why I continue to be so drawn to creating with the remnants of our lives.

Not because the objects themselves are necessarily valuable.

But because someone's story is still attached to them.

Keepsakes give memory something tangible to hold onto.

Carried Forward

On Saturday, my niece wasn't simply carrying a bouquet.

She carried generations with her.

A grandfather in a coin.

A great-grandmother in an old watch.

A grandmother and an aunt in their rings.

Her paternal grandparents in swatches of fabric from a dress and a pair of overalls.

Her father in a piece of his letterman jacket.

There were pieces from those who were able to stand beside her and pieces from those whose places in the family now live in memory.

And tucked among all those pieces from the past was a promise from the man waiting for her at the other end of the aisle.

I think that may be one of the beautiful truths hidden inside a wedding.

We don't leave our history behind when we begin a new life.

We carry it with us.

The people who loved us helped shape the person who eventually stands at that threshold. Their hands, their stories, their faith, their ordinary days, and the ways they loved become part of what we bring into whatever comes next.

Sometimes we carry them in ways no one else can see.

And sometimes we can gather a few tiny pieces of those lives together, fasten them beneath a bouquet, and let generations walk down the aisle with us.

Because remembering isn't always about looking backward.

Sometimes remembering is how we carry love forward.

What do you carry forward?

Maybe it’s a ring tucked away in a jewelry box, a piece of fabric you can’t bring yourself to part with, an old photograph, a handwritten recipe, or something so ordinary that no one else would understand why it matters.

Take a moment to think about the keepsakes in your own life and the stories still attached to them. And perhaps instead of simply storing them away, consider how you might bring one of those stories back into the light.

I’d love to hear about the keepsake you treasure most and the person or memory it carries for you. Share your story in the comments below.

Circled in Prayer

A Prayer for a New Home & Family

Sometimes we recognize what someone needs before they ever ask for it.

Yesterday, over lunch with my brother, I could feel the weight he was carrying. This house has been a labor of love… and sometimes a bit of frustration when things take longer than planned… which seems to be a theme of late. It is being built for his daughter, Bria, and his soon-to-be son-in-law, Dawson.

With that love has come responsibility, worry, and the deep desire to get everything right. As I listened to him talk about the inspection ahead, I knew he needed more than reassurance that everything would work out. He needed to know we were standing with him.

And maybe that is one of the great gifts of family and community. We need each other. We need people who notice when the load has gotten heavy and are willing to step close enough to help carry it. And sometimes, when there is nothing left for us to fix, solve, or say, we can do something even more powerful: we can circle the people and places we love in prayer.

So last night, that is exactly what we did.

We circled the property, and then gathered in a circle around a house that isn't quite a home yet.

There are still things to finish, inspections to pass, decisions to make, and work to complete. Today is an important inspection, one my brother has been carrying some worry about. He has poured so much of himself into building this house for his daughter, Bria, and Dawson, and last night, instead of picking up another tool or checking another item off the list, we stopped.

And we prayed... together.

We prayed for the work already done and the work still ahead. We prayed for today's inspection, for favor, wisdom, and peace. We prayed for my brother, for the hands that have built and labored and carried the responsibility of wanting to get it right.

But mostly, we prayed beyond the house.

We prayed for the home.

Because there is a difference.

A house is lumber and nails, measurements and plans, foundations and walls. A home becomes morning coffee and conversations in the kitchen. It becomes laughter from another room, celebrations and ordinary Tuesdays. It becomes the place you return to when the world has been too loud.

Soon, Bria and Dawson will walk through that door carrying groceries instead of building supplies. Furniture will find its place. Pictures will go on the walls. Life will begin filling those empty spaces.

And perhaps they will remember that before any of that happened, people who loved them stood outside those walls and prayed.

Last night reminded me that there is something special in gathering around something while it is still being built.

Maybe that is when we need prayer most.

While the walls are unfinished. While there are still unknowns. While the day may hold an inspection we're nervous about. While we're doing everything we know to do and trusting God with what we cannot control.

Last night, we didn't pray for perfection. We prayed for God's presence.

For peace within these walls. For protection over the people who will live here. For laughter to be plentiful, forgiveness to come easily, and love to be the thing that holds this home together long after the nails and boards have done their job.

And I found myself thinking that maybe this is what family does.

We show up while one another's lives are still under construction.

We stand around the unfinished places. We bring our faith, our hope, and our love.

And we pray.

Long before this house is finished, it has already been surrounded by something stronger than its walls.

It has been surrounded by love.

And last night, it was circled in prayer.

A Moment to Circle What You Love

What in your life needs to be circled in prayer today?

Maybe it is someone you love who is carrying more than they are saying. Maybe it is a home, a relationship, a new beginning, an uncertain next step, or something still very much under construction.

Reach out. Gather close. Pray together if you can. Remind someone that they don't have to carry the weight alone.

And if you are the one carrying it right now, let someone stand in the circle with you.

We were never meant to do all of this alone.

The Only One Who Knows My Heart From the Inside

4 months old

The Only One Who Knows My Heart From the Inside

On August 19, my son will turn thirty-five.

Thirty-five.

His birthday has me thinking about the mother and son bond… not only how it begins, but how it changes as a child becomes a man.

There is something about the birthdays of our children that makes time fold in on itself. I can see the man he has become, standing firmly in his own life, and still remember the child who once fit completely inside my arms. I can hear his grown voice, yet somewhere beneath it lives every version of him I have ever known: the baby, the little boy, the teenager, and the young man learning to make his own way.

He is my only child, which means all my firsts and lasts arrived together.

The first time I felt life move inside me was also the last. The first newborn I held against my chest was the only one whose tiny body would teach mine that particular rhythm. Every milestone was both an opening and a closing: the first word, the first step, the first day of school… and then, just like that, the last time I would experience each of those moments as a mother.

Perhaps that is why one thought has stayed with me through all these years:

He is the only person in this world who knows what my heart sounds like from the inside.

Before He Knew My Face, He Knew My Rhythm

Before he knew my face, he knew my rhythm.

Before I ever whispered his name or sang him a lullaby, my heartbeat was the steady sound accompanying the beginning of his life. For months, he lived beneath it. It was his first drumbeat, his first measure of time, his first assurance that he was not alone.

I imagine that sound reached him through everything… the quiet moments and the busy ones, my laughter and my worry, the ordinary days when I had no idea I was already giving him one of his earliest experiences of safety.

Long before either of us understood love, our bodies were already practicing it.

Researchers have found that mothers and infants can coordinate their heart rhythms during moments of close, attentive interaction. When mother and baby are looking at one another, responding to one another, and fully present, their bodies can begin to answer each other in measurable ways. Studies of people singing together have found another kind of shared rhythm: breathing falls into a common pattern, and heart-rate variability can begin to rise and fall together.

The body seems to know something the mind often forgets.

We are not as separate as we imagine.

Connection is not merely a lovely idea. It is something we experience in breath, pulse, presence, and touch. We can feel another person settle when we enter a room calmly. We can feel tension pass through a household before anyone speaks. We know the comfort of sitting beside someone who does not try to fix us but simply stays.

Our bodies listen to one another.

How a Mother and Son Bond Changes

Maybe motherhood is one long lesson in this kind of listening.

At first, the listening is constant and close. You learn the meaning of different cries. You wake before the baby fully wakes. You place a hand on a small back just to feel it rise and fall. You hold a sleeping child against your chest until your breathing slows together and neither of you seems to know who is calming whom.

Then the distance gradually grows.

The child walks away from your arms and into a classroom. He rides in a car without you. He forms friendships you did not arrange and dreams you did not place inside him. Eventually, he builds an adult life with rooms you do not enter and decisions that belong to him alone.

This is as it should be.

But a mother’s heart must learn a new rhythm each time her child steps farther into his own life. We learn to loosen our hands without loosening our love. We learn that being needed is not the same as being connected. We learn to listen without always answering, to offer without insisting, and to remain near without standing in the way.

The connection changes, but it does not disappear.

Thirty-Five Years Later

At thirty-five, my son no longer fits inside my arms, and he certainly does not need me in all the ways he once did. Yet there are moments when I catch something familiar… a look, a laugh, a quiet understanding between us… and time folds again. For one brief second, I can feel the invisible thread that has been there from the beginning.

I know his heart in the way a mother comes to know her child across years of watching, loving, releasing, and welcoming him home.

But he knows mine in a way no one else ever can.

He heard it before the world added all its other noise. He knew its rhythm before he knew language. He lived beneath its steady beat while his own heart was learning how to become a heart.

There is something sacred to me in that.

On August 19, I will celebrate the man my son has become. I will honor the life he has built, the choices that have shaped him, and every version of him that brought us to this day. I will also quietly remember the first home he ever knew… the small, hidden place beneath my heart.

Thirty-five years ago, he entered the world and began the lifelong work of becoming himself.

And I began becoming his mother.

We have both changed many times since then. We have grown through seasons of closeness and distance, joy and worry, holding on and letting go. Yet beneath all that change, I believe some part of us still remembers our first conversation… the one without words, spoken in blood and breath and beating hearts.

He is my only child.

My first and my last.

The one who taught my heart an entirely new rhythm… and the only one who has ever heard that heart from the inside.

An Invitation to Reflect

If this reflection stirred a memory, I would love to hear it: What has motherhood taught your heart about holding on and letting go? Share your story in the comments… or pass this essay along to a mother who may need the reminder that connection changes, but it does not disappear.

The Messy Middle: Learning Patience While the Vision Unfolds

Repurposing an old desk

I wish I could say my studio is becoming the beautiful, welcoming creative space I imagined.

I can say that, but right now, it is still unfinished... ever so close to the finish line.

There are cabinets to complete, lots of sanding... things without homes, projects waiting for my attention, and more work than I know how to fit into the days ahead. Every time I walk into the room, I can see what it could become. I can picture cleared tables, organized supplies, finished pieces, quilts spread out, patterns to cut and enough breathing room for creativity to flow again.

Perhaps that is part of what makes the present reality so difficult. The vision is clear, but the path between here and there has felt crowded... with decisions, deadlines, responsibilities, limited resources, and the limits of my own energy.

It seems everything takes longer than you think it will.

Yet even in the middle of the unfinished room, I feel deeply grateful for the vision behind it.

Millenial expertise!

My son has been able to see possibilities in this space that I could not fully see for myself. He has imagined more than a room that will meet my immediate needs. He has envisioned a space that can grow with me... a place that will support my art, my work, my business, and whatever the future may ask of me.

His vision reaches beyond what I need today... it will support me in the future in ways I cannot even imagine.

He has considered how I create, what I need around me, and how this studio can serve not only the work currently waiting on my table, but the work that has not yet revealed itself. There is love in that kind of vision. There is care in building something with the future in mind, especially when the person building it believes it will make my work and play so much easier.

I know this studio will eventually meet needs I may not even recognize yet. It will hold new ideas, new collections, new opportunities, and new seasons of creativity. It will give me room to make, organize, photograph, gather, and grow. Soon the cabinets will be finished. The tools and materials will have homes. The surfaces will be ready. The vision that currently exists in pieces will become a space I can step into and use.

But that day is not today.

And it will not be tomorrow.

I am living in the messy middle... the space between being able to see the vision and being able to fully live inside it.

And in the midst of it all, life is still happening.

There are appointments to keep, people who need care, work commitments that cannot be ignored, meals to prepare, relationships to nurture, and ordinary responsibilities that continue whether I feel ready for them or not. There are days when I begin with a list of everything I hope to accomplish, only to discover that the day already has plans of its own.

It is easy to look around and think I should be further along.

We should have finished the cabinets by now. We should have created more inventory. We should be better prepared for the events ahead. We should have the room organized, the displays planned, the photographs taken, and every unfinished project neatly checked off my list.

But “should” rarely accounts for the fullness of a real life.

It does not account for caregiving. It does not account for appointments, interruptions, unexpected needs, or the emotional weight of trying to hold many meaningful things at once. It does not account for the fact that I am not simply building a studio or preparing for a show. I am also building an ever-evolving business, creating a body of work, caring for people I love, continuing my education, tending to my own well-being, and trying to listen for what God is asking of me in this season.

This month is beautifully full.

It holds opportunities I am grateful for, work I have chosen, people I love, and creative commitments that matter to me. But beautiful fullness still requires something of me. It requires time, energy, flexibility, discernment, and the willingness to adjust my expectations when the day does not unfold according to my plan.

The reality is that I may need to set up and work somewhere else for a little longer.

I may need to carry my supplies into another room, clear a temporary surface, or create in a space that does not yet look the way I imagined. It may not be convenient. It may not be organized, photographable, or inspiring. But the work can still happen there.

Creating in a temporary place does not mean the larger vision has failed. It simply means I am allowing the needs of this season to shape how I work within it.

I am not struggling because I lack vision or willingness.

I am struggling because the vision is large, the work is real, and I am one person living a full and sometimes complicated life.

Maybe the answer is not to find a way to do everything at once. Maybe the answer is to stop measuring today against the finished room in my imagination.

The studio will not become everything I envision overnight. It only needs to become a little more functional than it was yesterday. One cabinet can be completed. One surface can be cleared. One collection can be gathered. One garment can be finished. One decision can be made.

And while the studio continues becoming, I can continue creating.

I am learning to begin each day with a gentler question:

What can I do today to move myself forward toward my goals?

Not what can I finish forever.

Not how can I catch up with every plan I have made.

Not how can I prove that I am capable of carrying it all.

Only this: What can I do today?

Some days, moving forward may look like hours of focused work in the studio. Other days, it may mean making a phone call, ordering needed supplies, completing part of a project, or writing down the next three steps. Some days, it may mean moving my materials somewhere else and creating what this beautifully full month requires in a temporary workspace.

There will also be days when caring for someone I love is the most important work before me. On those days, progress may be quieter and harder to measure... but that does not mean the day was wasted.

Taking life one day at a time does not mean I have abandoned the larger vision. It means I am learning how to honor that vision without sacrificing myself to it.

One task closer to the finish line!

There is still much to do. The studio is not finished. The work is not finished. I am not finished.

Unfinished is not failure.

It is simply what becoming looks like in progress.

The messy middle may be what I can see most clearly today... the displaced supplies, incomplete cabinets, interrupted work, and plans that keep changing. But it is not the whole story.

The whole story also includes a son who could see what this space might become and cared enough to help envision it for my future. It includes the hands and hearts helping to bring that vision to life. It includes the opportunities already waiting for me, the work I am still called to create, and the certainty that this space will serve me well for many years to come.

That knowing changes how I see what is unfinished.

Instead of looking only at what remains undone, I can be grateful for what is being built. Instead of demanding that the space meet every need today, I can trust that it is being prepared to meet the needs the future holds. Instead of allowing the temporary inconvenience to overshadow the gift, I can remember the love, thought, labor, and belief woven into this room.

For now, I will keep returning to the next faithful thing. One appointment. One responsibility. One cleared surface. One finished cabinet. One creative idea brought into existence, even if it must be created somewhere else.

I may not know exactly how I am going to make all of it happen. But I do not need the strength, time, or answers for every day ahead.

I only need to ask what is mine to do today… and then begin there.

Yes, I am standing in the messy middle.

But I am also standing inside a vision that is slowly taking shape... a vision born from love, built with intention, and designed to hold more than I can see from where I am today.

And when I remember that, the gratitude and the knowing far outweigh the mess.

A Place at the Table

Some weekends fill your camera roll.

Others fill your heart.

As we traveled home from Zanesville, Ohio, I realized this weekend had done both.

Nearly forty women gathered for Made Together, each arriving with excitement, friends, and creative dreams tucked into bags and totes. But somewhere between the first cup of coffee and the last goodbye, it became about so much more than creating art.

It became about creating connection.

As I unpacked my things, I found myself thinking less about what I had made and more about what I had experienced. My mind returned to the conversations, the shared meals, the laughter echoing around the tables, the tears that quietly appeared as stories were told, and the hugs that lingered just a little longer because no one was quite ready to say goodbye.

Those were the things I carried home.

The fabulous Marlene Steele, of Marlene Steele Art

There is something sacred that happens when women gather. Not to compete or impress one another, but simply to come as they are. There is a quiet permission that settles over the room, an understanding that we do not have to perform. We only have to be present.

Throughout the weekend, stories unfolded almost as naturally as the paint flowed across our canvases. There were stories of dreams that had waited years for permission to bloom, businesses taking shape, losses that changed lives forever, healing, hope, and second chances.

Brunch with Abby and Stephanie

There were also stories of courage that did not always look loud or dramatic. Sometimes courage looked like showing up. Sometimes it looked like trying something new, sitting beside someone you did not know, sharing a part of your story, or believing in yourself one more time.

Patience and Dionne

Every story mattered. Every woman mattered. Every conversation left its mark.

It reminded me how deeply we need one another.

We live in a culture that celebrates independence. We are taught to figure it out ourselves, build it ourselves, heal ourselves, and somehow become the best version of ourselves on our own.

But I do not believe that is how we were created.

I think we were made for community. Made for encouragement. Made to remind one another of who we are when we have forgotten. Sometimes another person’s belief becomes the bridge that carries us until we can believe in ourselves again.

I have often noticed that transformation rarely begins with some grand, life-changing moment. More often, it begins quietly.

A few of us from the leadership team

With an invitation.

A conversation over lunch.

Someone saying, “You can do this.”

Someone sharing her own journey honestly enough that another person begins to believe healing is possible.

Someone making room at the table.

Those small moments rarely seem extraordinary while we are living them, yet somehow they become the turning points we remember years later.

This weekend reminded me that creativity has always been about more than making beautiful things. It gives us a reason to gather, a reason to slow down, and a reason to tell our stories.

Sometimes a paintbrush becomes permission.

Sometimes a shared meal becomes the beginning of a friendship.

A few of the ladies from our Monday night prayer group

Sometimes sitting beside someone you have just met opens the door to a conversation your heart did not know it needed.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, we begin becoming.

Not because someone tells us who we should be, but because we are seen, encouraged, loved, and reminded that we are not walking this journey alone.

As we traveled home, I realized I had not simply brought home artwork. I had carried home pieces of nearly forty stories, and in some small way, each woman had carried a piece of mine.

Perhaps that is what community has always been.

We do not leave with less of ourselves. We leave carrying a little of one another.

As we pulled into our driveway, I realized the greatest thing I brought home was not tucked inside a tote bag. It was not a painting or a new technique.

It was gratitude.

Gratitude for every conversation, every laugh, every tear, every shared meal, every hug, and every woman who so generously shared a piece of her story, my own included.

Another Made Together in the books!

Those are the things I carried home.

“Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their labor. For if they fall, one will lift up his companion…” (Ecclesiastes 4:9-10, NKJV).

This weekend reminded me that we were never meant to walk this life alone.

Sometimes what we need most is not another class, another book, or another technique.

Sometimes we simply need a place at the table.

Our last evening together.

A shared meal.

A heartfelt conversation.

A listening ear.

A warm embrace.

The reminder that someone else has walked a similar road and is willing to walk a little farther beside us.

May we be the people who lift one another.

May we make room at our tables and in our hearts.

May we celebrate one another’s beginnings as joyfully as we celebrate each other’s successes.

And may we never underestimate what can happen when ordinary people gather with open hearts, willing hands, shared stories, and the courage to become.

Because sometimes the most beautiful masterpiece created is not the one hanging on the wall.

It is the community we build around the table.

Living an Integrated Life

Every so often, life reaches a moment when scattered pieces begin to recognize one another.

The timing may be sparked by a journal entry, a meaningful conversation, a season of prayer, or even the themes reflected back through a daily reflection or meditation. Whether those insights come through Scripture, quiet contemplation, nature, or another source of reflection, they often do something remarkable. They don't tell us something entirely new. Instead, they illuminate what has quietly been unfolding within us all along.

That happened for me this week.

As I sat with my morning reflections, one simple thought settled into my heart.

Perhaps this is no longer the season of gathering. Perhaps it is the season of weaving.

For years, I have been a collector. Not of things, but of experiences.

I learned massage therapy because I wanted to ease pain. I studied sound therapy after discovering the profound comfort that music brought during one of the hardest chapters of my life. I returned to art because creativity has always been one of the languages my soul speaks most fluently. Along the way, yoga, meditation, restorative practices, writing, stewardship, nature, faith, and the simple rituals of daily living each became another thread woven into my life.

For a long time, those threads seemed unrelated. One belonged to wellness, another to creativity, another to business. Others were shaped by grief, relationships, faith, and years of quiet growth. Looking back now, I realize they were never separate at all.

They were simply waiting for the loom.

The Beautiful Work of Integration

Our culture celebrates accumulation.

More knowledge.

More certifications.

More followers.

More products.

More accomplishments.

We often assume growth is measured by what we continue to add.

Yet there comes a point when growth no longer comes from adding.

It comes from integrating.

Integration asks a different question. Instead of asking, "What should I learn next?" it gently asks, "How do all these pieces belong together?"

I've come to believe this may be one of the most sacred stages of becoming because it requires us to stop chasing the next opportunity long enough to recognize the wisdom that has already been entrusted to us.

I wonder if this is one of the great invitations of midlife.

Not to become someone new, but to finally understand the person we've been becoming all along.

From Seeking to Stewardship

There was a time when I identified primarily as a seeker.

I was seeking healing.

Seeking truth.

Seeking understanding.

Seeking purpose.

That season was necessary. Seeking introduced me to teachers, experiences, friendships, and lessons that shaped who I am today. I don't regret a single thread that was gathered along the way.

But eventually every seeker receives another invitation.

The invitation is stewardship.

Stewardship isn't about possessing wisdom. It's about caring for what has been entrusted to you and offering it generously to others. Perhaps our greatest responsibility isn't discovering something entirely new. Perhaps it is faithfully weaving together everything we've already been given.

When the Weaver Sees the Vines

As I reflected on this season of life, one image continued to return to me.

A weaver.

A basket maker doesn’t create the fibers. The fibers already exist. The maker simply gathers what has been given, discerning what belongs together, and gently places it into a vessel that can hold it all.

That image has stayed with me because it describes exactly how this season feels.

For years I thought I was collecting thread.

Now I realize I was learning how to recognize it.

Every season of joy.

Every heartbreak.

Every unexpected detour.

Every lesson.

Every person who crossed my path.

Every skill that once seemed unrelated.

Every question I carried before God.

None of it was wasted.

Each experience became another strand waiting to find its place in a much larger design.

Perhaps that's why some seasons feel confusing. We spend so much time looking at individual threads that we cannot yet see the tapestry they will become.

Then one day, almost without warning...

the loom comes into view.

Weaving a Life That Makes Sense

Somewhere along the way, I realized my work was quietly changing.

I still pour candles.

I still create art.

I still facilitate sound journeys.

I still write stories.

I still study and learn.

Yet none of those things feel like separate pursuits anymore. They have become different expressions of the same calling.

The candle invites someone to slow down.

The sound journey creates space for stillness.

The artwork awakens wonder.

The story reminds someone they are not alone.

The conversation over a cup of tea becomes an opportunity for connection.

The medium changes.

The purpose does not.

My work is becoming less about creating products and more about creating places where people can reconnect with themselves, with one another, and with our Creator. Whether that place is found through a handmade candle, a sound journey, a story, a retreat, or simply sharing a quiet conversation, the invitation is always the same.

Come as you are.

Leave a little more whole.

When I step back, I no longer see a collection of unrelated interests.

I see one life.

One calling.

One tapestry that continues to unfold.

You Already Have Enough to Begin

One thought has stayed with me above all the others.

For years, I quietly believed I needed one more certification. One more class. One more project completed. One more room organized. One more obstacle removed.

Then I would finally begin.

Perhaps you've whispered some version of that to yourself.

"When life settles down..."

"When I have more confidence..."

"When I know enough..."

"When the timing is right..."

But life gently reminds us that we rarely receive every thread before we begin weaving.

The tapestry is created one thread at a time.

Faith isn't waiting until everything is finished.

Faith is trusting that what has already been placed in our hands is enough for today's work.

An Invitation

Maybe you're standing where I once stood.

Surrounded by experiences that seem unrelated. A career that changed. A loss that reshaped you. A creative gift you've quietly set aside. A dream that refuses to disappear. Lessons gathered over decades that don't seem to fit neatly together.

What if they aren't random?

What if they've been patiently waiting for one another?

What if this isn't your season to gather more?

What if this is your season to weave?

Perhaps your life has never been a collection of disconnected chapters.

Perhaps it has always been one beautifully unfolding story.

The threads are already in your hands.

Maybe today is simply the day you notice the loom.

A Few Questions to Carry With You

• What threads of your life have you been treating as separate that may actually belong to the same story?

• Where are you being invited to move from gathering more to weaving what you already carry?

• If you trusted that your life has already prepared you for this season, what would you begin creating today?

Sometimes the next chapter isn't found by searching for another thread.

Sometimes it's found by finally beginning to weave.

A Sanctuary of Sound

Airport Mesa Sedona AZ July 2025

Some memories don't seem important when they're happening.

Only years later do you realize they were quietly preparing you for something you could never have imagined.

One of those memories takes me back to an anniversary gift.

Before Brian's ALS diagnosis, we treated ourselves to the first and only couples massage we would ever have together. I invited a massage therapist into our home, hoping for a relaxing afternoon to celebrate another year together.

When the massage ended, she quietly packed up her table, gathered her things, and left for the evening.

Yet it wasn't the massage we kept talking about.

It was the music.

Neither of us had ever heard anything quite like it.

The haunting voice of a Native American flute. The steady heartbeat of gentle drums. Horses running across open land. Rain falling. Thunder rolling across the sky.

There was something about those sounds that settled both of us in a way we couldn't explain. We spent the rest of the evening asking each other, "What was that music?" We wanted to hear it again, but we had no idea where to find it.

Life moved on, as it always does.

The memory stayed with us, but the music seemed to disappear.

Then we lived with ALS.

When someone is diagnosed with ALS, the disease doesn't enter one life. It enters an entire family. It reshapes routines, rewrites dreams, changes conversations, and asks every person who loves them to learn a new way of living. Brian carried the diagnosis, but together we carried the journey.

Anyone who has walked beside someone with ALS knows that it asks for everything. It slowly takes away movement, speech, independence, and eventually even the smallest tasks most of us never think twice about. As a caregiver, you spend countless hours trying to make someone you love just a little more comfortable. Sometimes success isn't measured in milestones. Sometimes it's measured in a peaceful breath... or a few precious hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Those moments become treasures.

Years after Brian's diagnosis, we were wandering the streets of Sedona when something familiar reached my ears.

At first, I could hear it only faintly in the distance.

The flute.

The gentle drumming.

Floating on the desert air.

I stopped walking.

Brian brought his wheelchair to a halt.

We looked at each other and smiled. We didn't need to say a word.

We simply followed the sound until it led us to a small shop with its front door standing open, the music drifting gently out onto the sidewalk.

Before we looked at a single thing in the shop, we asked, "What is this music?"

The shopkeeper smiled and pointed us toward a small display of CDs by John Huling.

We gathered all four albums they had and carried them home with us.

You can experience a sample of his music https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FCsNm_-Qnx0,

If you love it you can purchase directly from his website. https://johnhuling.com

Those recordings became part of our evening routine for years to come. I still listen to them even now.

During those years of living with ALS, we discovered something that brought Brian a kind of peace that very little else could. It became something we both looked forward to.

More often than not, it was one of John Huling's recordings quietly filling our home.

And sometimes it wasn't music at all.

Sometimes it was the gentle rhythm of falling rain. The distant rumble of thunder rolling across the sky. The soft conversation of the wind chimes outside our window swaying with the breeze. Nature became part of the soundtrack of those days, and somehow those simple sounds seemed to invite the same quiet peace.

Looking back, I realize our home became a sanctuary of sound. Whether it came from a flute, a guitar, a distant thunderstorm, or the wind dancing through the chimes outside, each sound carried the same quiet invitation.

You can rest now.

We never thought of it as therapy.

We simply knew these sounds brought a peace that nothing else seemed to offer.

Whatever we chose, something shifted.

His body relaxed. His breathing became easier. The tension that had become such a familiar companion seemed to loosen its grip, if only for a little while.

Most importantly, he rested.

In those final years, restful sleep was no small gift.

It became one of the greatest gifts we could hope for.

Years later, while studying sound therapy, I came across the research that explained what we had experienced.

There was something deeply comforting in discovering that what we had witnessed wasn't simply wishful thinking or the desperate hope of someone trying to ease the suffering of a loved one. There was a growing body of research helping explain why sound could gently support the nervous system. Science gave language to something our hearts had already experienced.

The nervous system is deeply responsive to rhythm.

Our brains, our breath, our heartbeat, and even the subtle oscillations within our bodies naturally begin to synchronize with steady external frequencies. Researchers call one aspect of this entrainment. Rather than forcing the body to relax, sound gently invites it toward a more regulated state.

Nothing mystical.

Nothing exaggerated.

Simply the remarkable intelligence of the human nervous system responding to vibration.

Sound never cured Brian's ALS.

It didn't restore the muscles the disease had taken. It couldn't stop the progression. But it gave him something equally meaningful.

Comfort.

Presence.

Relief.

And sometimes enough calm that sleep could finally arrive.

As caregivers, we often feel helpless because we cannot fix what is broken. We want to remove the suffering, yet so often we cannot.

What we can do is create moments. Moments where fear loosens, where pain quiets, where a body that has been fighting all day finally remembers what peace feels like.

Those moments matter more than we sometimes realize.

Looking back, I don't believe this work began when I enrolled in a certification program. I believe it began years earlier, while we were living with ALS. The training simply gave a name to something my heart had already learned beside Brian.

Years later, that same heart led me to Jim, and together we completed our certification in sound therapy. I often think this work really began long before either of us ever opened a textbook. It began in our home, with Native American flute music softly filling the room while the man I loved finally found a little rest.

Caregiving prepared me to understand that comfort is not always the same thing as curing.

Sometimes caring for someone means letting go of the need to fix what cannot be fixed and choosing instead to simply be present. To create an environment where the nervous system can soften, where the body can exhale, and where the soul can find a moment of rest.

That understanding has changed the way I view wellness entirely.

We often chase dramatic transformations. We search for the breakthrough, the miracle, the one thing that will make everything different.

Yet some of the most profound moments happen quietly.

A gentle melody begins to play. Rain begins to fall. The wind chimes answer the breeze. A room grows still.

The nervous system remembers a rhythm it had almost forgotten. Not because disease has disappeared. But because, for a little while, peace has entered the room.

You don't need training to offer this to someone you love, or to yourself. You simply need permission to let a sound — any sound that feels like rest — fill the room and stay a while.

If you've ever walked beside someone living with illness... or if you're carrying more than anyone realizes... my hope is that you'll remember this.

Sometimes healing doesn't arrive as a cure.

Sometimes it arrives as a softened breath, a quiet room, the sound of rain against the window, a favorite melody, or simply someone willing to sit beside you while you listen.

Perhaps the greatest gift we can offer one another isn't the answer, but a place where the soul finally feels safe enough to rest.

Sunset at Airport Mesa, Sedona AZ August 2011

We Were Made to Create

A reflection on creativity, healing, and why making things with your hands matters.

Why People Apologize Before They Create

People walk into one of my workshops and almost immediately apologize.

"I'm not artistic."

"I can't even draw a stick figure."

"Mine won't look as good as everyone else's."

And my favorite …“I’m too old to begin again.”

It always makes me smile, because by the end of our time together those same people are holding something they made with their own hands. More importantly, they're holding themselves a little differently. Their shoulders have softened. They're laughing. They're encouraging one another. They've stopped worrying about perfection and started enjoying the process.

That's the real transformation. The painted hat, the piece of jewelry, the journal page, the collage … it's just evidence that something shifted on the inside first.

I’ll have to admit, I too have said those words … and have felt that exact transformation.

Meaning Isn't Found by Searching for It

Have you ever noticed that the harder you search for meaning, the more elusive it becomes? We read another book, listen to another podcast, sign up for another class, hoping that if we just learn one more thing, everything will click into place. But meaning rarely arrives because we chased it down. More often it finds us while we're doing something else entirely … while our hands are busy and our minds finally grow still.

As I look back over my own journey, the moments that shaped me most weren't the ones where I learned something new. They were the moments when I made something. Pouring a candle and blending a fragrance until it felt right. Stitching worn quilts into something new. Writing words I didn't know were waiting inside me. Sitting with a paintbrush, watching colors become a reflection of something I couldn't yet explain.

I wasn't simply making things. Those things were making me.

Creativity Was Never Just for Artists

Somewhere along the way, many of us were taught that creativity belongs to artists … that if we can't paint like a professional or sell our work in a gallery, we're simply "not creative." I don't think creativity is about producing beautiful things nearly as much as it's about becoming more fully ourselves.

We live in a world built for consuming. We scroll through beautiful homes, beautiful artwork, beautiful lives, endless streams of inspiration. There's nothing wrong with learning from others … some of my greatest inspiration has come from people willing to share their gifts. But at some point, we have to stop scrolling and start making. Admiring someone else's creativity leaves you inspired. Discovering your own leaves you transformed.

I think this is why creative expression reaches places ordinary self-care sometimes can't. It asks something of us. It invites us to participate instead of just observe. When we create, the things we've been carrying quietly inside begin to take shape … grief finds color, hope finds texture, joy finds music. Sometimes our hands tell the truth long before our words are ready to.

I've experienced this more times than I can count. There have been seasons when I couldn't explain what I was feeling, but I could sit down with a paintbrush, a sewing needle, a block of clay, or an empty page … and by the time I stood up, something inside me had gotten lighter. The circumstances hadn't changed. I had.

The Deeper Why Behind Making

Psychologists call this "flow" … that place where creative work slows us down, draws us into the present, and quiets the constant chatter of our minds. But for me there's another layer to it.

When I read the opening chapters of Genesis, I'm reminded that before anything else, God created. Humanity was then invited to tend, cultivate, and participate in that creation. I've often wondered if that's why creating feels so satisfying … every time we make something with love, we're reflecting a small part of the One in whose image we were made.

That thought changed the way I see my own work. Years ago, I thought The Silver Bohemian was about making handcrafted goods. I still love creating beautiful things, but I've realized that's only part of the story. What truly fills my heart is creating spaces where other people remember they can create too … whether we're gathered around a table covered in art supplies, settling into the calming vibrations of sound, or simply giving ourselves permission to slow down.

You Don't Need Talent … You Need Willingness

The invitation is always the same: come as you are. You don't need experience. You don't need the right supplies. You don't need permission to call yourself creative. You need only the willingness to begin.

Creativity isn't measured by how many people buy what you've made or how many compliments you receive. Its greatest work happens long before anyone else sees the finished piece … the first heart it changes is the one creating it.

Maybe that's why I believe so strongly in making things with our hands. Not because every project becomes a masterpiece, but because every project has the potential to teach us something about ourselves. The quilt you sew reminds you that broken pieces can become something beautiful. The journal you keep helps you hear your own voice again. The flowers you plant remind you that growth is often slow, quiet, and worth the wait.

Or perhaps you've been carrying a quiet desire to create for years, but you've convinced yourself you're not talented enough, artistic enough, or creative enough to begin. If that's you, let me offer another thought: what if talent was never the invitation? What if participation was?

I don't believe we were made simply to consume the beauty someone else has created. I believe we were made to add our own beauty to the world, however simple it may seem.

Because meaning isn't usually found while we're searching for it. More often, it appears while our hands are busy creating, our hearts are open, and we're fully present to the life unfolding in front of us.

And somewhere in that process, we discover that the most important thing we were making wasn't the candle, the painting, the quilt, or the journal.

It was ourselves.

The Healing Between Us

Spend a few minutes in the wellness world, and it doesn't take long before you're offered another solution. A supplement promising more energy. A morning routine designed to optimize your day. A wearable device to measure your sleep, your stress, your heart. A protocol that promises a longer, healthier life.

There is nothing inherently wrong with any of those things. Many have their place, and I've explored more than a few of them myself over the years. As someone who has spent decades immersed in massage therapy, yoga, sound, creativity, and holistic wellness, I deeply believe our bodies deserve thoughtful care. I've spent years studying ways to help people feel better, move better, breathe deeper, and reconnect with themselves. I believe in nourishing food, restorative sleep, mindful movement, time in nature, creativity, and practices that calm the nervous system.

But lately I've found myself returning to a quieter question.

What if one of the greatest contributors to our well-being isn't something we purchase at all?

What if one of the greatest forms of healing has been available to us all along? What if it's each other?

The more I observe life, the more convinced I become that wellness has never been solely about what we consume. It's also about who surrounds us. It is about belonging. It is about being known. It is about having people who remember your story, who notice when your smile isn't quite as bright, who celebrate your joys without comparison, and who quietly sit beside your grief without trying to hurry it away.

Some of the healthiest people I know aren't necessarily the ones with the most perfect routines. They're the ones who laugh often, gather around tables, and have someone they can call without rehearsing the conversation first. They know what it feels like to be truly seen.

Somewhere along the way, we've been taught that healing is an individual pursuit. Read the book. Take the class. Do the work. Journal. Meditate. Exercise. Optimize. Improve. Repeat.

Those practices matter. I still embrace many of them myself. But none of them were ever intended to replace human connection.

The older I become, the more I recognize that many of my deepest moments of healing have happened in the presence of another person. A conversation that lasted long after the coffee was gone. A hand reaching across the table. A friend who simply listened. Someone who remembered my name during a season when I felt invisible. A hug that quietly reminded my body it was finally safe enough to exhale.

Healing doesn't always arrive with fireworks. More often, it arrives through eye contact, shared silence, unexpected laughter after weeks of carrying something heavy, or someone simply saying, "I'm here."

Our nervous systems were never designed to navigate life entirely alone. From the moment we enter this world, we are wired for connection. Safety isn't simply an idea our minds understand. It is something our bodies experience through relationship. Perhaps that's why loneliness weighs so heavily. It isn't merely emotional. It settles into the body. It changes how we breathe, how we sleep, how we carry tension, and how much energy we have to meet each day. We often search for another answer when what we're truly longing for is someone with whom we don't have to pretend.

I've experienced this truth again and again throughout my own life. The hardest seasons were never made lighter because I discovered the perfect routine. They became bearable because people showed up. Friends who prayed. People who sat quietly beside me. Conversations that reminded me I didn't have to carry every burden by myself. Moments of kindness that seemed small to the giver but became unforgettable to the receiver.

Looking back, those moments weren't interruptions to healing. They were the healing.

Perhaps that's one of the reasons my work has gradually evolved the way it has. On the surface, I host sound experiences, creative workshops, retreats, and gatherings.

Beneath every offering is a deeper hope: that people remember what it feels like to belong. To slow down enough to hear themselves again. To discover they aren't the only one carrying a particular story. To leave feeling less alone than when they arrived.

I've watched complete strangers become friends while creating art together. I've watched women arrive carrying invisible burdens and leave standing a little taller simply because someone finally saw them. I've witnessed tears fall during the quiet resonance of crystal bowls, followed by laughter shared over tea as people realized they didn't need to explain everything they were feeling.

Those moments continually remind me that healing happens in the presence of presence. Not because anyone has all the answers. Not because someone fixes us. But because being witnessed has a way of helping us remember ourselves.

Perhaps wellness has never been about becoming a perfectly optimized version of ourselves. Perhaps it has always been about becoming more fully human.

So maybe the healthiest thing we could do this week isn't adding another habit to our morning routine. Maybe it's sending the text you've been meaning to send. Making the phone call. Inviting someone to lunch. Lingering around the dinner table a little longer. Checking in on the friend who has quietly disappeared. Allowing someone to know the real answer when they ask, "How are you?"

These things may never appear on a wellness checklist, yet I wonder if they're some of the most important practices we'll ever cultivate. Because some of life's greatest medicine has never been found inside a bottle.

It has always lived in the space between us.

A Gentle Invitation

If you're longing for spaces where you can slow down, reconnect with yourself, and be surrounded by kindred spirits, I'd love to welcome you. Through creative workshops, sound experiences, retreats, and soulful gatherings, my hope is always the same: that you leave feeling a little more connected than when you arrived.

Not because I have something to give you that you don't already possess, but because sometimes we remember who we are more clearly when we're surrounded by people who make it safe to simply be ourselves.

Sometimes the greatest healing begins simply by showing up.

My Kind of Longevity

None of us knows how many years we've been given.

No supplement, smartwatch, or wellness routine can promise tomorrow. However, we can care for our bodies wisely. We can make thoughtful choices. We can honor the lives we've been entrusted with. But eventually, every one of us reaches the same truth:

Our time here is finite.

Oddly enough, I find that freeing.

Because if I stop trying to control how long I'll live, I can become far more intentional about how I choose to live today.

Over the past few years, I've realized I'm no longer trying to build a business simply to sell beautiful things.

I'm building a body of work.

There is a difference.

A business asks, What can I sell?

A body of work asks, What am I here to leave behind?

That shift has changed everything. It has changed the way I create, the way I teach, the way I gather people together, and even the way I care for my own health.

Health is no longer the destination. It's the vessel.

It's what allows me to write another story, paint another canvas, guide another sound journey, encourage another soul, or sit across from someone who simply needs to know they are not alone.

Those moments become the legacy, not because they're famous, and not because they'll be remembered by the world, but because they ripple outward in ways I'll never fully see.

I've come to believe that legacy isn't built in grand accomplishments. It's woven quietly through ordinary days.

A conversation that changes someone's direction.
A workshop where a stranger remembers they are creative.
A handwritten note kept in a drawer for years.
A prayer whispered over a friend.
A meal shared around a table.
A child watching someone choose kindness.
A painting that gives someone permission to hope again.

These are the things that outlive us.

When I imagine the years ahead, I don't dream about simply adding more birthdays to the calendar.

I dream about filling the birthdays I've been given with enough beauty, truth, compassion, creativity, and faith that they continue speaking long after I'm gone.

That's the kind of longevity I'm interested in.

Not merely living longer, but living so intentionally that every season becomes an offering.

Perhaps that's what stewardship really looks like … not clinging to time, but honoring it, one meaningful day at a time.

If there's one thing I hope my work invites you to do, it's this: don't wait for the perfect season to begin living the life your heart is quietly calling you toward.

Follow your inner compass. Create something meaningful. Care for your body, nurture your spirit, gather with people who help you become more fully yourself, and leave the world a little more beautiful than you found it.

We may never know how many years we have.

But we can decide what we fill them with.

And perhaps, in the end, that's what matters most.

When the Light Is Enough

The first sunset of Summer

Following My Inner Compass at Summer Solstice

A few months ago, I found myself sitting quietly with a cup of coffee and a question I couldn't seem to shake. It wasn't a dramatic question or a life-altering revelation. Just a persistent one that kept returning whenever things became quiet enough to hear it.

What if I already have enough?

Not enough money to retire tomorrow. Not enough to stop dreaming or growing. But perhaps enough to stop running.

As we move through the season of the Summer Solstice, I find myself returning to that question. The solstice marks the longest day of the year, the moment when the sun reaches its fullest expression. For generations, people have gathered to celebrate the light, the warmth, and the abundance of the season. Yet there is another truth hidden within the solstice. It is also a turning point.

The light has reached its peak. The sun does not strive to shine brighter. It simply shines.

There is wisdom in that.

For most of my life, I have been a maker. I create art, jewelry, stories, experiences, and spaces where people can gather and remember who they are. Creating has never been the problem. In fact, creating has often been the thing that saved me.

The challenge comes when every gift, every idea, and every opportunity begins asking for a seat at the table. A new class. A new product. A new certification. A new platform. A new way to grow. None of them are wrong, and many of them are wonderful. But eventually I realized something.

A garden can die from neglect. It can also die from overcrowding.

The last year has been teaching me the difference.

I have spent a great deal of time asking what I want my business to become, what I should build next, what I should offer, and what I should focus on. Yet the more honest question has been something entirely different.

What do I want my life to feel like?

That answer came much easier.

I want room. Room to travel with Jim. Room to say yes when adventure knocks. Room to create because I love creating, not because a deadline is chasing me. Room to write books that may take years to finish. Room to paint the images that live inside my Soul Map. Room to sit on a porch somewhere and watch the sun set without feeling guilty for not being productive.

I don't need a private jet. I don't need a million followers. I don't need a seven-figure business.

What I need is enough margin in my life to hear myself think. Enough padding to breathe. Enough freedom to choose.

For a long time, I thought success meant adding. Now I am beginning to think success might look a lot like editing. Removing what no longer fits. Releasing what no longer serves. Decluttering not only closets and workspaces, but expectations. Especially the ones I placed on myself.

The beautiful thing is that none of this feels like giving up.

It feels like coming home.

The work Jim and I are building together still matters deeply to me. The sound experiences, the classes, the gatherings, the conversations, and the things we create that help people reconnect with themselves are not going anywhere. Those things are staying.

What is changing is my relationship with them.

I am no longer asking every idea to become a business. I am no longer asking every gift to generate revenue. Some things are allowed to exist simply because they bring meaning.

My paintings do not need to justify themselves. My writing does not need to justify itself. Soul Map does not need to justify itself.

Some things belong in the world because they are part of who we are, not because they fit neatly into a spreadsheet.

As I approach this next season of life, I find myself less interested in building something bigger and more interested in building something truer. A life with enough. Enough work to feel purposeful. Enough income to feel secure. Enough time to enjoy the people I love. Enough wonder to remain curious. Enough stillness to hear the whisper of what comes next. And enough trust to follow my own Inner Compass, even when the path looks different from the one I imagined.

Perhaps that is the clean slate I have been searching for.

Not a blank page. Not a new destination. Simply the willingness to trust the direction I have been feeling all along.

Like the sun at solstice, maybe there comes a moment when we stop striving for more light and begin learning how to live within the light we already have. A moment when there is finally enough white space around the important things for us to see them again.

And for the first time in a long time, that feels like more than enough.

If this resonates with you, perhaps you are standing in a similar season. A season of simplifying. A season of listening. A season of letting go of what no longer fits so there is room for what truly matters.

For years, I thought my work was about helping people create something beautiful. What I understand now is that it has always been about helping people create space. Space to breathe. Space to heal. Space to create. Space to reflect. Space to hear their own inner wisdom again.

Everything Jim and I offer, whether it is a sound experience, creative workshop, retreat, class, or gathering around a table, is rooted in that intention. Not because we believe anyone needs fixing. Not because we have all the answers. But because we know the value of slowing down long enough to hear your own inner voice, your own wisdom, and the quiet truth of what matters most to you.

If you are longing for a little more room in your life, a little more stillness, and a little more connection, we would be honored to welcome you.

Together, we will create space to listen, reflect, and reconnect with the Inner Compass that has been guiding you all along.

There is a seat waiting for you.

The Butterfly Effect

A few years ago, I read The Butterfly Effect: How your Life Matters by Andy Andrews.

Like many books that find their way into my collection, I read it, appreciated it, placed it on a shelf, and eventually moved on to whatever came next. The lesson stayed somewhere in the background of my mind, but the book itself became one of many lining the shelves of my studio.

Recently, while thinning out my collection of books, I came across it again.

It wasn't a planned rediscovery.

In fact, I was trying to let things go.

As I stood there sorting through titles I had outgrown, books I had already absorbed, and others I knew I would never revisit, I pulled The Butterfly Effect from the shelf and paused.

This time, it felt different.

The words hadn't changed.

I had.

Over the past year, I've spent a great deal of time thinking about what comes next. I've looked closely at my business, my creative work, my teaching, and the legacy I hope to leave behind. I've questioned what is worth keeping, what needs to be released, and where I should invest my energy moving forward.

Like many creators, I've found myself looking at numbers.

Class attendance.

Sales.

Followers.

Subscribers.

Workshop registrations.

Those measurements have their place, but they can also become a very narrow way of defining success.

As I revisited the message of The Butterfly Effect, I was reminded of something I had forgotten.

The most meaningful impact is rarely measurable.

When I look back over my own life, the moments that shaped me were not stadium-sized events or viral moments.

They were conversations.

Teachers.

Mentors.

Writers.

Friends.

A kind word spoken at the right time.

A story that helped me see my own life differently.

Someone who offered encouragement when I was ready to quit.

The people who changed my life probably had no idea they were doing so.

Their influence rippled outward long after the moment had passed.

That realization caused me to look at my own work through a different lens.

What if the class with only two attendees was exactly the class that needed to happen?

What if the person who reads a journal entry carries its message into a difficult season of their life?

What if a conversation at a retreat, a sound journey, a painting, a paperweight, or a passage from a future book becomes part of someone else's story?

The truth is, we rarely get to see where the ripple ends.

We plant seeds.

We share what we have learned.

We create.

We encourage.

We serve.

Then the work leaves our hands.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about growth. Not just growing a business, but growing a meaningful life. There is a difference.

One can be measured on a spreadsheet.

The other is measured in lives touched, hearts encouraged, and stories carried forward.

Perhaps that is why this little book found its way back into my hands at exactly the right moment.

It arrived as a reminder that significance and scale are not always the same thing.

Not every offering has to reach hundreds of people.

Not every class has to sell out.

Not every creative endeavor has to become a bestseller.

Sometimes the greatest impact happens quietly.

One conversation.

One story.

One act of kindness.

One person at a time.

As I continue creating, teaching, writing, and sharing what I have been given, I find myself returning to a simple thought:

I may never know how far the ripple travels.

But that doesn't make it any less real.

And perhaps that is the true lesson of the butterfly effect.

Not that we can see our influence.

But that we can trust it.

I'd love to hear from you. What small moment, conversation, or act of kindness has had a lasting impact on your life? Share your story in the comments or send me a message. Sometimes the moments that seem insignificant become the ones that shape us most.

Holding Memories in the Palm of Your Hand

When I first wrote this chapter of Tattered and Mended, I believed I was writing about paperweights.

Looking back, I can see that the paperweights were simply the vehicle for a much larger story.

This chapter was really about the things we choose to keep.

Not because they are valuable to anyone else, but because they hold meaning for us.

Every home has them. A box tucked away in a closet. A drawer filled with keepsakes. A shelf displaying treasures that may seem ordinary to visitors but carry entire chapters of our lives. A key from a home long since sold. A handwritten recipe card stained from years of use. A button from a grandmother's sewing basket. A pressed flower saved from a special occasion.

To the outside world, they are merely objects.

To us, they are reminders.

They hold stories, memories, and connections to moments we never want to lose.

I have always been fascinated by the things people save. Not because of what the object is, but because of what it represents. A single item can transport us across decades in an instant. We can hear a familiar voice, remember a particular room, or feel the presence of someone we loved. The object itself has no magic, yet it becomes a doorway to something much larger than itself.

That realization is what eventually found its way into my paperweights.

What began as a creative experiment slowly became something more meaningful. I started collecting old keys, vintage buttons, coins, charms, feathers, pressed flowers, fragments of jewelry, and other forgotten treasures. Some came from antique stores. Others were gifts. A few were discovered in unexpected places, waiting patiently for a second life.

As I arranged these pieces beneath glass, I found myself wondering about the stories they carried before they reached my hands. Who once carried that key? What door did it unlock? Who wore that brooch? What celebration did that coin commemorate? Every object seemed to arrive with a history, even if I would never know the details.

Perhaps that is why I have always been drawn to reclaimed materials.

There is something beautiful about an object that has already lived a life. Time leaves its mark on everything. Wood becomes weathered. Fabric softens. Metal develops a patina. The imperfections become part of the story rather than something to hide.

People are much the same.

The older I get, the more I appreciate the evidence of a life fully lived. Our scars, our losses, our triumphs, and our lessons all become part of who we are. None of us arrive at this season of life untouched. We carry memories of people who shaped us, experiences that changed us, and moments that left an imprint on our hearts.

Like the objects we save, we become collections of stories.

As I reflected on this chapter again, I realized that the paperweights themselves mirror much of what Tattered and Mended has always been about. Taking pieces that might otherwise be overlooked and recognizing their value. Seeing beauty where others see wear. Preserving what matters. Honoring the journey rather than hiding the evidence of it.

The paperweights may hold vintage treasures beneath glass, but they also hold a deeper reminder. Life is not made meaningful by the grand milestones alone. More often, it is the small moments that stay with us. The conversations around the kitchen table. The walks with a loved one. The handwritten notes. The shared laughter. The quiet afternoons that seemed ordinary at the time.

Those moments become the treasures.

The objects simply help us remember.

I often tell people that I don't believe the memory actually lives inside the keepsake. The memory lives within us. The keepsake serves as an invitation, a gentle nudge that calls the story forward when we need it most. It reminds us where we have been, whom we have loved, and what has shaped us along the way.

A paperweight sits quietly on a desk, holding loose pages in place. Its purpose appears simple, yet I have often thought memories serve a similar role in our lives. They anchor us. They help us remain connected to the people, experiences, and lessons that matter most. Not so we remain stuck in the past, but so we can better understand the path that brought us to where we stand today.

As life continues to move forward, I find myself less interested in collecting things and more interested in collecting meaning. The older I become, the more I understand that legacy is not measured by what we accumulate. It is measured by the stories we leave behind, the connections we nurture, and the memories we create with those we love.

Perhaps that is why these little paperweights continue to speak to me.

They are not really about preserving objects.

They are about preserving significance.

And in a world that often moves too quickly, there is something sacred about pausing long enough to remember.

A Reflection for This Week

Take a moment to look around your home. Is there an object that carries a story only you know? A keepsake tucked on a shelf, resting in a drawer, or displayed where you can see it every day?

Pick it up.

Consider where it came from, why you kept it, and what memories return when you hold it.

You may discover that what you are really holding is not an object at all, but a piece of your own story.

Who is in Your Orbit?

Friendship, Stories &

Unexpected Connections

“We Are All Made of Stars” was originally inspired by a desk that found its way into my home, and how a friendship found its way into my life.

Who is in your orbit? Who is part of your constellation?

Eighteen months ago, I wrote these words as part of Tattered and Mended. At the time, I was reflecting on a desk. Or at least, I thought I was.

Looking back now, I realize it was never really about the desk at all.

It was about connection.

It was about the curious way our lives intersect with people we might never have met otherwise. A conversation. A purchase. A shared story. A simple exchange that somehow grows into something much larger.

The desk came from a woman named Sherri.

Like many things that find their way into my studio, it arrived with a history already attached. Scratches from use. Evidence of a life lived. Marks left by hands I would never know. I brought it home because I could see possibility in it. I could imagine what it might become.

What I did not expect was that the desk would introduce me to a friend.

Sometimes life unfolds that way.

We think we are collecting objects when, in reality, we are collecting stories.

The older I get, the more I believe that none of us travel through life alone. Every person who crosses our path leaves something behind. A lesson. An idea. A memory. A piece of encouragement. Sometimes a wound. Sometimes a blessing. Often both.

I have met people because of a race track, a quilt, a candle, a piece of jewelry, a class, a blog post, or a simple "hello."

Many of those encounters lasted only a season.

Others became friendships.

A few became family of the heart.

Looking back across the years, I can trace my life through these connections. Like stars scattered across a dark sky, each one may seem separate on its own. Yet when viewed together, they form a constellation.

The pattern reveals itself only after enough time has passed.

When I met Brian, I could not have known how profoundly his life would shape mine.

When I lost him, I could not have known that grief would eventually lead me toward healing work.

When I enrolled in massage therapy school, I could not have known it would introduce me to sound healing, yoga, and a community of people seeking wellness.

When I met a kind gentleman who was living in Murphy, North Carolina, I could not have known that Jim would become the twine to my kite, helping me stay grounded while still encouraging me to fly.

When I bought a desk from Sherri, I certainly did not expect to gain a friendship.

And yet here we are.

Life has carried us both through new chapters since those early conversations. We don't see each other as often as I'd like, and we're long overdue for a visit. As it does for all of us, life has been busy unfolding… bringing joys, challenges, changes, and growth. But some connections have a way of enduring, even when time and distance stretch between visits.

And that friendship remains one of the unexpected gifts that desk brought into my life.

Every one of those moments felt ordinary at the time.

Most stars do.

A single star rarely captures our attention. It is only when we step back and look at the whole sky that we begin to see the pattern.

Perhaps that is why I love old things so much.

Old quilts.

Old photographs.

Old letters.

Old furniture.

Each one reminds me that everything and everyone carries a story.

The desk now serves a different purpose than it once did. Like so many things in my life, it has been repurposed, reimagined, and given a second chapter.

Maybe that is what we do, too.

We gather pieces from those who came before us. We carry forward the wisdom, kindness, creativity, and courage that others have shared with us. We add our own experiences to the mix. Then we pass something meaningful on to the next person who enters our orbit.

A friend.

A student.

A child.

A stranger.

A reader.

A fellow traveler.

The truth is, none of us shine alone.

We are illuminated by those who loved us, encouraged us, challenged us, taught us, and walked beside us. We are stitched together from countless encounters, conversations, and acts of grace. We are connected in ways we rarely recognize while they are happening. And perhaps that is why this story still resonates with me all these months later.

Because a desk became a friendship.

A purchase became a conversation.

A conversation became a connection.

And a connection became part of my constellation.

When I look up these days, I am reminded that the same elements that formed the stars are found within each of us.

Maybe that is why we are so drawn to one another.

Maybe we recognize something familiar.

Maybe we are all carrying little pieces of light.

Maybe we are all made of stars.

Who has become part of your constellation? I'd love to hear about the unexpected friendships, chance meetings, or ordinary moments that changed the direction of your life. Leave a comment below and share your story.

Purposed, Pressed, Preserved, Paused

Some titles arrive before we fully understand them.

Purposed, Pressed, Preserved, Paused was originally written as a chapter title for Tattered & Mended. At the time, it was meant to describe some of the things I have always been drawn toward creating and collecting: pressed flowers tucked between pages, vintage paperweights preserving tiny worlds beneath glass, and the quiet beauty found in objects that hold memory. It spoke of preservation, of keeping beauty safe, of honoring stories that deserved to be carried forward.

Eighteen months later, I find myself returning to those same words and realizing they were quietly speaking about more than objects.

Funny how life does that.

Sometimes we write words believing we understand them, only to discover later they were patiently waiting for us to grow into them. Looking back now, these words feel less like a chapter title and more like breadcrumbs left along a path. Because somewhere along the way, I realized I have lived each of them too. I have known seasons of purpose and seasons of pressure. Seasons of preservation and seasons of pause. And perhaps that is why certain words continue calling us back. Sometimes they are not simply something we wrote. Sometimes they become something we are still becoming.

"To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven..." Ecclesiastes 3:1 NKJV

There are seasons in life that arrive with certainty. They come carrying celebration and movement, and we recognize them immediately for what they are. A wedding day. A graduation. The birth of a child. A long-awaited prayer finally answered. We know how to hold those moments because they announce themselves. They fit neatly into photo albums and family stories. They become milestones we point toward later and say, That was the beginning. But not every season enters our lives that way. Some seasons arrive quietly. They do not announce themselves at all. They slip into our lives gently, almost unnoticed, and before long we realize they have settled beside us, unpacked their bags, and changed the landscape without asking permission.

These are often the seasons that leave us with more questions than answers. Seasons that feel suspended between where we have been and where we thought we were going. Seasons where plans become uncertain and timing no longer makes sense. They are the seasons that seem to stretch endlessly before us, asking us to wait when we would rather move, asking us to trust when we would rather understand. If I am being honest, I think many of us spend a great deal of our lives trying to outrun these seasons. We hurry ourselves forward. We search for clarity. We ask for open doors and visible signs. We become restless in stillness because stillness often feels far too much like being left behind.

Pause can feel uncomfortable. It can feel like standing in a hallway while everyone else seems to know where they are going. It can feel like sitting at a station after the train has already left. We begin comparing our timelines to everyone around us. We wonder if we somehow missed a turn or delayed things ourselves. We ask questions we rarely speak aloud. Did I take the wrong path? Have I somehow fallen behind? Why does it feel like everyone else is moving while I remain standing still?

But life, over time, has been teaching me something different. Something quieter and gentler than striving. Perhaps not every pause is empty. Perhaps not every still season is a delay. Perhaps some pauses are sacred places disguised as interruptions.

I have always been drawn to preserved things. Pressed flowers tucked between book pages. Old photographs whose edges have softened with time. Quilts stitched together by hands no longer here. Letters folded and unfolded so many times they seem to carry fingerprints and memory in equal measure. I have spent much of my life gathering things others may overlook because I have always believed objects can hold stories. Sometimes they become evidence that a moment mattered. Sometimes they become reminders that love lived here once.

Pressed flowers have always fascinated me in particular. Fresh flowers are vibrant and lively. They stretch toward sunlight and dance with every passing breeze. They fill rooms with fragrance and beauty. Yet pressed flowers tell another story entirely. They surrender their original shape. They become quieter somehow. Their colors soften. Their movement disappears. They flatten beneath weight and time. And yet they remain. Not exactly as they were before, but beautiful in an entirely different way. They become less about the bloom itself and more about what they carry forward.

I sometimes wonder if people are not so different.

Life has a way of pressing us too. Grief presses us. Love presses us. Responsibility presses us. Caregiving presses us. Change presses us. Loss presses us. Time itself presses us. And while we are living through those seasons, it rarely feels poetic. It rarely feels meaningful while we are standing in the middle of it. Most of the time it simply feels heavy. We wonder whether life is changing us into someone we no longer recognize. We wonder if we are losing pieces of ourselves. We wonder whether the pressure is flattening us in ways we will never recover from.

Perhaps that is what makes these seasons difficult. We notice what feels different long before we understand what remains.

There have been seasons in my own life that felt suspended in this way. Seasons where I could not understand what God was doing. Places where the road ahead seemed hidden and where life no longer resembled what I had planned. Not because everything was falling apart, but because life was unfolding differently than I expected. And perhaps that carries its own kind of grief. There is grief in plans changing. There is grief in identities shifting. There is grief in becoming someone new before you understand who that person is becoming.

No one really prepares us for the spaces between chapters. Those waiting rooms of life where we are no longer who we once were, but not yet who we are becoming. The world celebrates visible growth and forward movement. It applauds accomplishment and productivity and milestones. But nature has always spoken a quieter truth. Seeds disappear beneath soil before they ever bloom. Roots grow in hidden places. Bread rests before it rises. Winter itself appears still while life quietly prepares beneath the surface. Creation understands rhythms that many of us spend years resisting.

Perhaps we were never meant to bloom continuously.

Perhaps rest was always meant to be part of becoming.

Perhaps preservation itself is holy.

Because preserved does not mean forgotten. Pressed does not mean ruined. Paused does not mean abandoned.

There is a phrase I keep returning to lately: Pressed is not ruined.

Because I think many of us quietly believe otherwise. We believe hardship damaged us. We believe grief changed us beyond recognition. We believe waiting somehow stole time from us. But maybe those seasons gave something too. Maybe they taught us tenderness. Compassion. Strength. Perspective. Maybe they softened places certainty once occupied. Maybe they taught us how to sit beside someone else's sorrow. Maybe they widened our understanding of grace.

Some things cannot be learned while running. Some things can only be discovered while waiting.

And perhaps that is what preservation really is. Not abandonment. Not punishment. Not delay.

Care.

Intention.

Love saying, This still matters enough to keep.

Maybe there are seasons where God quietly places us between pages for safekeeping. Holding us while hidden work unfolds. Holding us while roots deepen. Holding us while healing catches up to us. Holding us while the next chapter slowly prepares to turn.

So if you find yourself in a season that feels pressed or paused, perhaps this week offers a gentle reminder: You are not behind. You are not forgotten. You are not unfinished. Some things are not lost at all. Some things are simply being preserved.

And preserved things often become the stories we carry closest to our hearts.

What if the season that feels like a pause is not holding you back at all... but holding you safely until it is time to bloom again?

As I revisit these words, I realize I no longer see them only through the lens of pressed flowers or paperweights. I see pieces of my own story there too. Maybe that is what time does. It gently returns us to things we thought we understood and offers us a different view.

So this week, I am curious:

Where in your own life have you been purposed, pressed, preserved, or paused?

Which word feels like the season you are living right now?

I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments, or simply carry the question with you this week. Sometimes the answers arrive slowly. Sometimes they unfold like flowers pressed between pages, waiting patiently for us to notice them again.

The Yes I Would Choose Again

There are choices in life we make with confidence. Some arrive with spreadsheets and pros-and-cons lists, practical plans, and neat little timelines.

And then there are choices that arrive more like weather. They sweep in unexpectedly. They rearrange furniture in your soul. They alter landscapes you didn't know existed.

Love has always felt more like weather to me.

Lately, as I continue reflecting on the stories within Tattered & Mended: Soulful Stories of Life, Love and Legacy, I found myself sitting with Brian's chapter again. The chapter The Tattering and Mending I Didn't Choose. Even the title still catches in my throat a little.

Because if I'm being truthful, there were many things in that story I would never have chosen. I would not have chosen illness. I would not have chosen fear. I would not have chosen hospital rooms, hard conversations, or watching someone I loved walk a road I could not walk for him.

No one stands in line asking for heartbreak.

No one says, "Give me the chapter that will split me wide open."

But here's what I keep coming back to:

I chose Brian.

And if given the chance... I still would.

Every time.

Life has a funny way of asking us questions long after a season has passed.

Would you do it again?

Would you choose the person if you knew the ending?

Would you step toward love if you knew it would one day ask everything of you? Those questions feel easy when life is light. Harder when you've lived enough years to understand the cost of loving deeply. Because love always costs something.

Time.

Presence.

Pieces of yourself.

The willingness to be changed.

I think when we're young, we imagine love as arrival. We imagine the wedding photographs, anniversaries, family vacations, and growing old together with matching rocking chairs and inside jokes. But real love? Real love turns out to be built in ordinary Tuesdays.

In showing up.

In staying.

In learning a person's laugh.

In understanding their silences.

In memorizing the shape of their joy and the geography of their pain.

Love becomes thousands of tiny yeses.

Not one.

Thousands.

And looking back now, I realize Brian gave me things that never disappeared when he did. He changed the trajectory of my life. Not all at once. Not with grand speeches. But in small ways that became mountain-sized over time. There are people who enter our lives carrying gifts they don't even realize they hold.

Some hand us courage.

Some hand us perspective.

Some hand us healing.

Some hand us a mirror and quietly show us parts of ourselves we hadn't met yet.

Some leave fingerprints on your soul that no amount of time can erase.

Brian was one of those people.

His story inside Tattered & Mended is, of course, his own. And I won't give away all the pages here because some stories deserve to unfold in their own timing.

But I will say this: The chapter isn't only about loss.

It isn't only about grief.

It isn't only about the mending I never wanted.

It's also about choosing.

And choosing again.

About discovering that some loves become woven into us so deeply they stop feeling separate from who we are. Years later, I can still trace the threads.

I see them in my work.

I see them in the way I care for people.

I see them in the way I sit beside pain rather than run from it.

I see them in my understanding that life is fragile and sacred and wildly beautiful all at once.

The story changed me. But then again, maybe love always does. Perhaps that's the risk we quietly agree to when we say yes to people. We allow ourselves to be altered.

We hand another human being a needle and thread and say:

Here.

Help stitch yourself into my story. And maybe that is what I understand now that I couldn't have understood then. The tattering wasn't the whole story. The mending wasn't either.

Love was.

Still is.

If I had known every twist. Every ache. Every impossible moment. Every goodbye. I still would have said yes.

I would still choose him.

And perhaps that is one of the bravest things our hearts do. Not that we love. But that after being broken open by love, we remain willing to say yes again. Maybe that's where healing begins.

Not in forgetting.

Not in undoing.

But in honoring what was beautiful enough to choose twice. Or a thousand times over.

Some stories leave scars. Some leave gifts. Sometimes they leave both.

And if you're carrying a love that changed you, perhaps today is a good day to ask yourself:

Knowing all you know now...

Would you choose them again?

And perhaps, somewhere in the answer, you'll discover something about who you've become.

If you feel inclined, and have not purchased your copy you can find it here. If you have read this, I would love to hear your take on it. Possibly share if you have had a similar experience?

The Color We Give Away

There are weeks that feel like conferences.
And then there are weeks that feel like mirrors.

ReBloom was not simply an event on a calendar for me. It felt more like stepping into a greenhouse filled with women in different stages of becoming. Some were blooming wildly. Some were dormant after a hard season. Some were cracked open. Some were quietly beginning again.

And somehow, woven through the conversations, the workshops, the laughter, the exhaustion, the creativity, the tears, the nesting, the repotting, and the sacred act of trying again… there were flamingos.

Not in the loud, kitschy way the world often uses them.
Not lawn ornaments or neon vacation postcards.

But as symbols.

Living metaphors.

Little pink messengers standing in the middle of the week, asking many of us the same question:

What happens when we give so much of ourselves away?

Before ReBloom, I had painted a flamingo.

At the time, I honestly did not know much about them. I was simply drawn to the image. The curve of the neck. The elegance. The softness hidden inside such startling color. Something in me understood the bird before my mind did. That happens sometimes with art. Our hands know things our hearts have not caught up to yet.

The painting came from intuition long before understanding.

Then this week happened.

And suddenly the symbolism of flamingos found me all over again.

I learned that flamingos can lose their color while raising their young. The brilliant pink feathers that make them so recognizable begin to fade because so much of their energy and nourishment is being poured into their chicks. Their bodies literally give of themselves during nurturing. Their color drains as they feed, protect, and sustain new life.

I have not stopped thinking about that since.

Because how many women have done the same?

How many mothers?
Caregivers?
Artists?
Healers?
Partners?
Friends?

How many of us have looked in the mirror after years of pouring into everyone else and quietly wondered where our color went?

Not because we failed.
Not because we were weak.
But because we loved deeply.

That realization landed differently at ReBloom because the entire week seemed to revolve around this idea of repotting.

Repotting is uncomfortable. Anyone who gardens knows this.

A plant can outgrow even a beautiful container. The roots begin circling themselves. Growth becomes restricted. Water runs through too quickly. The thing that once protected the plant eventually becomes the very thing limiting it.

And so you loosen the roots.

You disturb the soil.

You move it.

Not because it is dying, but because it deserves room to continue becoming.

I think many of us arrived at ReBloom carrying root-bound versions of ourselves.

Not ruined.
Not broken beyond repair.
Just confined by old containers.

Old expectations.
Old identities.
Old griefs.
Old stories.
Old versions of ourselves we had long since outgrown.

Some of us have spent years being strong for everyone else.

Some of us learned how to survive so well that we forgot how to rest.

Some of us became so focused on keeping others alive that we stopped feeding the parts of ourselves that once danced, painted, dreamed, wandered, laughed, wrote, sang, created, explored, and rested without guilt.

And there, in the middle of a gathering called ReBloom, stood the flamingo.

A creature that loses color while nurturing life. Yet here is the beautiful part no one talks about enough:

The color comes back.

Flamingos are not meant to stay pale forever.

With rest, nourishment, and time, the vibrancy returns.

I think many women need to hear that.

Especially the ones who have spent years believing depletion is simply their permanent address.

It is not.

You are allowed to recover your color.

You are allowed to become vibrant again.

You are allowed to need replenishment too.

That realization changed the way I looked at the painting I had created before the trip.

When I painted that flamingo, I thought I was painting beauty.

Now I think maybe I was painting resilience.

Maybe I was painting the sacred exhaustion that comes from loving fully.

Maybe I was painting the quiet hope that color can return after seasons of giving.

Maybe I was unknowingly painting women.

The older I get, the more I realize that creativity often arrives before comprehension. Sometimes our art introduces us to truths we are not yet ready to speak aloud. The brush becomes a translator for the soul.

That flamingo painting now feels like a breadcrumb left behind by an earlier version of me.

A reminder.

A prophecy.

A mirror.

Because if I am honest, there have been seasons in my life where I have absolutely lost my color.

Grief can do that.

Caregiving can do that.

Survival can do that.

Building a business can do that.

Holding families together can do that.

Trying to remain hopeful through heartbreak can do that.

You keep pouring and pouring and pouring, believing love means constant output. And one day you realize your spirit feels faded around the edges.

Not gone.

Just dimmed.

And perhaps that is why gatherings like ReBloom matter so much. Not because they magically fix our lives in a weekend. But because they remind us we are not alone in the cycle.

They remind us that seasons exist for a reason.

They remind us that repotting is not failure.

They remind us that women gathering together is not frivolous. It is medicine.

Something holy happens when women tell the truth around tables.

When they create together.

When they laugh from the belly instead of the throat.

When they cry without apologizing.

When they say “me too” and mean it.

When they remind each other that exhaustion is not the same thing as purpose.

When they hold space for both grief and possibility at the same time.

There was something else I kept thinking about this week too.

Flamingos are rarely alone.

They gather in colonies.

They move together.

They protect one another collectively.

Even their nesting happens in community.

That part struck me deeply.

Because somewhere along the way, many women were taught that independence meant isolation. That strength meant carrying everything silently. That asking for help somehow diminished capability.

But nature tells a different story. Even flamingos raise life in community.

Maybe we were never meant to do all of this alone.

Maybe reblooming requires witnesses.

Maybe healing accelerates in safe company.

Maybe becoming is easier when someone reminds you that you are still beautiful even in seasons where your feathers look faded.

I think about all the women who came to ReBloom carrying invisible stories.

The ones rebuilding after loss.

The ones navigating transitions.

The ones rediscovering creativity after years of tending everyone else first.

The ones wondering if it is “too late.”

The ones quietly asking themselves whether they still matter beyond what they produce for others.

And I wish every one of them could understand this:

The fading was never the end of the story.

It was evidence that you loved.

Evidence that you nurtured.

Evidence that you gave life.

But now?

Now it may be time to nourish yourself too.

To rest.

To create.

To laugh.

To make strange beautiful art.

To sit under twinkle lights with women who understand.

To repot your life if necessary.

To loosen the roots around old beliefs.

To step into a larger container.

To allow yourself more room.

To become again… to savor.

I keep returning to the image of that flamingo painting.

What once felt whimsical now feels sacred to me.

Not because flamingos are perfect symbols of femininity or beauty. Honestly, they are awkward creatures in many ways. Long legs. Strange sounds. Gangly movements. A little wild around the edges. Which somehow makes the symbolism even better.

Becoming is awkward too.

Growth is rarely graceful while it is happening.

Repotting gets messy.

Healing gets messy.

Reclaiming your color gets messy.

And still…

The flamingo stands.

Bright against the waterline.

A reminder that what fades can return.

A reminder that nurturing others and nurturing yourself are both sacred acts.

A reminder that beauty is not the absence of exhaustion, but the willingness to bloom again after it.

ReBloom gave many of us more than inspiration this week.

It gave language to things we were already feeling.

It reminded us that we are cyclical beings.

Not machines.

We are allowed to rest after pouring out.

Allowed to evolve.

Allowed to begin again.

Allowed to become more ourselves with age instead of less.

And perhaps that is the real symbolism of the flamingo for me now.

Not simply beauty.

Not simply motherhood.

Not simply color.

But restoration.

The return of vibrancy after a season of giving.

The sacred understanding that what was poured out can also be replenished.

And maybe that is what art has been trying to teach me all along.

Sometimes we paint the lesson before we fully live it.

And maybe that is why I cannot stop thinking about the flamingo painting I created before ReBloom.

At the time, I thought I was simply painting something beautiful.

Now I wonder if I was painting a future understanding of myself.

A reminder waiting patiently for me to catch up to it.

Because after this week, after all the conversations about nesting, repotting, becoming, nurturing, exhaustion, creativity, and growth, I look at that painting differently now. I see layers I did not yet understand when the brush first touched the canvas.

I see the woman who gives deeply.

I see the seasons where color fades.

I see the quiet resilience of continuing to stand in the water anyway.

And maybe that painting is not finished after all.

Maybe it is waiting for new texture.
New color.
New light.

Maybe it needs a few finishing touches now that I understand flamingos better.

And perhaps, if I am being honest…

Now that I understand myself better too.

Because ReBloom reminded me that there are parts of us that do not need to be replaced. They simply need room to breathe again. Room to stretch new roots. Room to recover their color after seasons of pouring into everyone else.

Repotting does not erase what came before.
It honors the growth that made the old container too small.

So maybe I will return to that painting.

Not to repaint her entirely.
Not to cover who she once was.

But to add the wisdom that came later.

A little more depth.
A little more softness.
A little more understanding of what it means to nurture and still return to yourself.

Maybe that is what reblooming really is.

Not becoming someone entirely new…

But finally seeing the beauty, meaning, and sacred survival woven into who you have been all along.

I think she needs her friends :)

When Life Changes Everything

The Tattering and Mending I Didn’t Choose: A reflection from Chapter 5 of Tattered & Mended

There are some chapters in life we step into willingly…
and others that arrive uninvited, settling into our story like a storm we never saw forming.

This one was never on my list.

It wasn’t something I dreamed about, prayed for, or planned into the rhythm of our days. It came quietly at first, then all at once, reshaping everything I thought I knew about love, time, and what it means to stay.

There is a kind of mending that feels creative…
like stitching together scraps of fabric, choosing colors, textures, intention.

And then there is this kind.

The kind where the thread is handed to you
and you don’t get to choose the pattern.

When Love Changes Shape

There is a moment, one you don’t recognize at the time,
when love begins to change form.

It deepens. It stretches. It asks more of you than you knew you could give.

Not in grand gestures…
but in the quiet, daily decisions to remain.

To show up.
To hold steady.
To become something you didn’t know you would have to be.

This chapter of my life wasn’t about fixing what was broken.

It was about learning how to be present inside what couldn’t be fixed.

And that is a different kind of strength altogether.

The Sacred Work of Staying

We don’t talk enough about this kind of work.

The kind that happens behind closed doors…
in long days and longer nights…
in whispered prayers and moments where you have to gather yourself before walking back into the room.

There is no applause here.
No audience.

Just love…
in its most stripped-down, honest form.

The kind that says:

I am here.
Even now.
Especially now.

And somewhere in that space, something begins to shift.

Not the circumstances…
but you.

What Mending Really Means

I used to think mending meant making something whole again…
restoring it to what it once was.

But this chapter taught me something different.

Mending isn’t always about restoration.

Sometimes… it’s about integration.

It’s about carrying what was,
what is,
and what will never be again…
all in the same breath.

It’s about allowing love to remain,
even when the story changes in ways you never would have chosen.

A Quiet Invitation

I won’t tell the whole story here.

That belongs to the pages of Tattered & Mended.
To Chapter 5.
To the places where memory, love, and loss are woven together in a way that can only be fully understood by walking through it.

But I will say this:

If you have ever found yourself in a season you didn’t choose…
If life has ever handed you a thread you didn’t ask to carry…

You are not alone in that.

And there is a kind of beauty… quiet, steady, sacred…
that can still be found there.

Some mending isn’t about fixing what was broken…
but about honoring the love that remains.

If this piece speaks to you, I invite you to sit with it…
and when you’re ready, step a little deeper into the story inside Tattered & Mended.

I would love to hear what parts of it meet you where you are.

Where the Eagles Fly

Some stories feel like they’re written in ink…
steady, grounded, easy to follow.

And then there are stories like Rhonda’s…
the one that feels like they were written in air and light… shifting, lifting, asking you to look again.

There is a reason the eagle shows up in so many of our metaphors, our scriptures, our quiet daydreams.

It lives where most of us only visit in fleeting moments…
above the noise, above the rush, above the weight of everything pulling at us from below.

But what struck me most in Rhonda’s chapter wasn’t just the image of the eagle…

It was the journey it represents.

Where the Eagles Fly isn’t about pretending the valleys don’t exist.

It’s about what happens when you’ve walked through them long enough to recognize their patterns… when you begin to sense that maybe… just maybe… there’s another way to move through life that doesn’t require carrying everything the same way you always have.

There’s a quiet unfolding in this story.

Not rushed.
Not loud.
But deeply intentional.

One that doesn’t announce itself with grand declarations…
but instead reveals itself in small shifts of awareness, in moments where something inside whispers,

“Look again.”

And that’s where this chapter gently holds you.

Right in that space between what you’ve always known…
and what you’re beginning to understand.

There’s a tension there.

A stretching.

It can feel uncomfortable at first, like wings learning their own strength.

What I love about Rhonda’s story is that it doesn’t offer easy answers.

It doesn’t tie things up in a neat, predictable way.

Instead, it invites you into something deeper:

Perspective.

The kind that only comes when you’ve lived enough life to know that not everything needs to be solved… some things need to be seen from a different height.

Eagles don’t flap endlessly to stay in the sky.

They rise on currents that are already there.

They wait.
They watch.
They trust the lift.

And somewhere within these pages, you begin to feel that truth settle in… that maybe strength doesn’t always look like effort.

Maybe sometimes it looks like awareness.
Like timing. Like surrendering to something greater than your own striving.

There’s also a quiet thread of courage woven through this chapter.

Not the kind that demands attention…
but the kind that shows up when no one is watching.

The kind that chooses to keep going, to keep trusting, to keep rising,
even when the path ahead isn’t fully clear.

You may find yourself reading this story and thinking about your own life…

The places where you’ve been circling the same thoughts.
The places where the ground has felt heavy beneath your feet.
The places where you’ve wondered if there’s more, but haven’t quite known how to reach it.

And without saying it outright, this chapter gently reminds you:

There is.

Not by escaping what is.

But by allowing your view to expand.

By recognizing that the very winds that once felt like resistance…
might actually be the thing carrying you higher.

If you’ve been walking through the pages of Tattered & Mended, this is one of those chapters that feels like a turning point.

A quiet exhale.
A subtle lift.
A reminder that becoming doesn’t always happen in the doing.

Sometimes it happens in the rising.

And if you haven’t stepped into these stories yet, this one will meet you right where you are…
without asking you to rush, without asking you to have it all figured out.

Only inviting you to see differently.

I’d love to know when you read it:
what shifted for you?

What did you notice from a higher view?

You don’t have to fight the wind to move forward…
sometimes it’s already trying to lift you.

From Darkness Light Is Found

(A reflection inspired by Emily’s story in Tattered & Mended)

Sometimes a story doesn’t begin where you expect it to.

Not at the start…
not at the moment everything changed…

but somewhere in the middle…
where things feel uncertain,
where the air is heavier than it used to be,
and where you’re not quite sure what comes next.

That’s where Emily’s story meets us.

Not as an introduction,
but as an unfolding.

There are seasons in life that don’t ask for permission.

They arrive…
and suddenly, the landscape looks different.

Familiar things feel distant.
Simple things feel heavy.
And the person you once were feels just out of reach.

Emily found herself in a season like that.

And while I won’t tell you the details of how she got there.
That’s part of what makes her story worth reading.
I will tell you this:

She didn’t turn away from it.

There is a quiet kind of courage
that doesn’t look like strength from the outside.

It doesn’t make noise.
It doesn’t try to prove anything.

It simply stays.

Stays when it would be easier to run.
Stays when the answers aren’t clear.
Stays long enough to begin to understand
what the darkness is asking of you.

Emily chose that kind of courage.

What unfolds in her story isn’t a sudden shift.

There’s no single moment where everything changes.

Instead, there is a slow return.

A noticing.
A softening.
A willingness to believe that something more is possible…
even before there is proof.

And maybe that’s what makes her story feel so close to home.

Because most of us won’t have a dramatic turning point.

Most of us will have moments like these:
where the light doesn’t rush in…
but gently finds its way back.

Through connection.
Through presence.
Through someone sitting beside us
when we don’t have the words.

There is something sacred in that kind of light.

The kind that doesn’t overwhelm,
but steadies.

The kind that reminds you, quietly,
that you are still here.

Still becoming.
Still capable of holding both the weight
and the wonder of your own story.

I won’t tell you how Emily’s story unfolds from here.

Not because it’s being withheld,
but because it deserves to be experienced
in its own time,
in its own rhythm.

But I will say this:

What she walked through did not diminish her.

It revealed something deeper.
Something that could only be seen
once everything unnecessary had fallen away.

If you’ve ever found yourself in a season that felt unclear…
if you’ve ever wondered if the light would return…

her story will meet you there.

You’ll find it in Tattered & Mended: Soulful Stories of Life, Love and Legacy…
held gently within its pages, waiting for the moment you’re ready to turn toward it.

Some stories don’t need to be explained.

They just need to be felt.