04/26/2026
Lately, life has been feeling… full in a way that’s holding both.
The weight of it.
The beauty of it.
And grief… sitting quietly somewhere in the middle.
Not rushed.
Not trying to keep up.
Just… full.
A mocktail across the table in the middle of the day.
Kids reaching for berries straight off the branch.
Family photos that weren’t overplanned, just taken.
Getting dressed because I wanted to, not because I had somewhere to be.
A little self-care in between, just checking in with myself.
Perfume before I walk out the door, even if I’m not going anywhere special.
Little rituals that don’t look like much, but feel like everything.
And I’ve been thinking about where that comes from.
It’s a standard I inherited.
My parents had me at 16. I’m 46 and I’ve never heard them breathe a negative word about each other. Literally the blueprint for what it looks like to protect your peace.
But Grandma Leola (slide 14) taught me the discipline of it.
She showed me that a random Tuesday deserves the same care as a Sunday dinner.
That staying soft isn’t just who you are… it’s something you choose, over and over again.
And then this week, sitting with my dad, watching his grace post-stroke… it all clicked in a different way.
It’s not just about the beauty of the life you build.
It’s about having the capacity to be present for the people who built you.
And maybe that’s the real shift.
I stopped waiting for life to feel good,
and started choosing what already does.
And somehow, that’s the part that feels the most expansive.
Rest well, Grandma. I’ll keep the table set. 🤍
