Better

Is your life today what you pictured a year ago?

My life is better today than what I pictured a year ago.

However, the year came with several speed-bumbs, road blocks, delays and detours. But isn’t that what makes our lives better? The learning how to navigate through life when faced with challenges?

I’m just thankful you didn’t ask if I enjoyed this year better than the last. I might’ve had a different answer.

Sleeplessness is…

Insomnia’s sister
Transients  cousin
Fluidities Aunt
Instabilities mom
Anxieties grandmother

….me

A Reflection on Grief

A Reflection on Grief

The Mourning Dove

I remember the first time I noticed a mourning dove was at our backyard feeders. Its coo stood apart from the others. A sound that seemed to linger instead of passing through. I remember thinking how different it was, like a new voice I had not heard before.

I had read that mourning doves sometimes appear after a loved one has died, offering comfort. I wondered briefly whether that was true and whether it was meant for me or someone else. Then I did what I had learned to do over the years, I dismissed the thought. Too many beliefs I once held had not unfolded the way I thought they would, so it felt safer not to attach any meaning to this.

Later that afternoon, my husband called to tell me they found his brother. He had died in his car during the night. It was the end of his quiet battle with addiction.

That mourning dove stayed, reminding us of how fragile life is. And that people are delicate too. Potential and talent do not protect or shield us. My brother-in-law was profoundly gifted, a creator, a man with vision and skill in the horticulture world. But addiction did not care about any of that; it never does.

Now, three years later, a small flock visits our feeders regularly. Like grief, showing up a little here and there and sometimes all at once.

The mourning doves have become a regular presence in our lives, just like grief.

My husband lost his mom when he was 14. We lost my son in 2020, and now his brother. Sadness has a way of settling in quietly, rearranging our lives without permission. But the coo of the Mourning Dove reminds us to pause and notice that calm can exist alongside pain.

The word Mourning carries a lot of weight, yet the Dove itself is gentle. It does not exaggerate loss; it endures it. Instead of feeling like a symbol of sadness, it becomes a symbol of peace and survival. Encouraging us to persist after something irreversible happens, reminding us that love does not disappear when someone is gone.

Now, when I hear their coo at the feeders, I do not dismiss it. I stop, listen, and remember. I take that moment to whisper a prayer for my mother-in-law and husband because I understand that grief can show up at unexpected times, and that peace can make remembering them easier.

Tortured memories

Addicted to forget them

Yet scarred thoughts remain

Enslaved for the fix

Blacked out,

resting thoughts at peace

A soul gone too soon

Addiction and suicides

Fatal kiss

Life After Suicide Loss Is Lived in the Present Moment

Life After Suicide Loss Is Lived in the Present Moment

Lessons From the Tufted Titmouse

This morning, I was noticing the Tufted Titmouse at my feeders. It is a small, alert bird with a soft voice and a steady presence. A symbol of healing, but not in the way people often think. It is not promising closure or answers. It tells us to keep going even when life has permanently changed.

After losing a child, life stops making sense, and grief collapses time. The future feels unreachable, and the past feels too heavy to carry. Most days are not about hope or meaning; they are about surviving the stage you are in. The Tufted Titmouse reminds us to stay present, do what the moment requires, nothing more. It isn’t suggesting that we “move on.” It invites us to survive this moment, then the next.

The bird’s small, persistent movements mirror how we, as bereaved parents, can continue living through each season. Maybe you are just surviving, fragment by fragment. But getting up and feeding yourself is showing up. Saying their name and breathing through waves that come without warning does not weaken us; it is an endurance that strengthens us.

The titmouse is also known for its song, reminding us how important it is to speak our child’s name, tell their story, and to allow our grief to have a voice. Silence can isolate us. Sharing does not mean we are stuck; it means our love did not end. It does not mean “everything happened for a reason.”  But it does imply that life still has purpose, even while we carry this permanent loss.

Some days, noticing something simple in nature may feel like the only thing that can ground us. It’s a Tufted Titmouse at the feeder, a windchimes melody, a foggy morning of calm. These moments do not minimize our loss; they remind us that we are still here, even when our hearts are broken. The Titmouse teaches us to live with grief rather than resolve it. Strength is not the absence of sorrow; it is learning how to carry it.

Parenting Both Sides of Sibling Sexual Abuse

Parenting Both Sides of Sibling Sexual Abuse

A Message From The Hummingbird

I am the mom on both sides of a complicated story. Loving one child who was sexually abused and loving the one who caused the harm.

There is no road map for navigating something like this. No clean language. No version of the path forward that does not cost something deep and painful. Some days it feels like my entire role is simply to remain standing when I feel like falling and to stay present when everything in me wants to hide. Functioning while absorbing this kind of shock is a challenge in itself.

And yet, here I am. Learning how to love without chasing, how to hold boundaries without disappearing. How to remain myself even when relationships have changed form in ways I would have never imagined.

Lately, I have been thinking about the hummingbird.

A hummingbird migrates thousands of miles relative to its size. It burns enormous energy simply to stay alive. Even hovering in place takes constant effort. It does not rest the way other birds do. It must keep moving its wings just to remain where it is.

That feels familiar.

As parents and humans navigating trauma, we expend energy just to stay standing and emotionally present. We hover. We show up. We pay attention even when everything in us wants to give up. We absorb pain and strain quietly and keep going. Like the hummingbird, we need nourishment, spiritual and emotional, because the work of staying present is exhausting.

The hummingbird symbolizes resilience after hardship. It represents the return of joy and lightness, not because things become easy, but because survival itself requires strength. It reminds us that connection does not require possession, love does not require obligation, and presence does not require control.

We can love deeply and still protect ourselves. We can hold grief and hope at the same time. We can remain connected without losing who we are, and we can stay in place without collapsing.

If you are hovering right now, barely holding yourself together, that is worth remembering! Your quiet strength counts! The energy you put into staying present matters!

Even in the most challenging seasons, strength can exist. You are not failing, you are surviving. And sometimes that is the bravest thing any of us can do.

Scooby Doo

Daily writing prompt
What’s your favorite cartoon?
View all responses

Honestly, I never really watched cartoons. They always felt too loud and silly; I could never connect with the humor. If anything, I felt sorry for the ones everyone else laughed at. Like Elmer Fudd and Wile E. Coyote. Men who tried but failed and kept getting hurt, while the world stood around laughing.

But if I had to pick a favorite, it would be Scooby Doo. Their ghost hunting adventures were the only ones that held my attention. Maybe it was the mystery, or maybe it was the idea of unmasking the thing that scared you. Either way, this one stayed with me when the rest never did.

The Trap of Thinking You Have No Say

The Trap of Thinking You Have No Say

For anyone tired of believing they do not have a choice

Have you stopped trying because you don’t think your choices matter?
Somewhere along the way, you’ve convinced yourself that nothing you do changes anything. Maybe it was the years of fighting for peace that never came. Perhaps it was the abuse that taught you your voice did not matter. Maybe it was the exhaustion that made you numb. So you shut down and coast, letting life hit you.

You tell yourself, “This is just how things are.”

But that belief does not come from truth; it comes from survival. Survival mode does not tell the whole story.

Does staying stuck feel easier than facing yourself?
It is easier to let life drag you down than to stand up and change directions. Change requires you to look at what you tolerate, avoid, and why you keep choosing things that hurt you. This exposes the gap between the life you have and the life you want.

You might pretend you have no control, acting like the script is already written.

Why?

Because if you are powerless, you don’t have to take responsibility; you protect the pain rather than yourself.

You can take the pen back!
Life is not happening to you; you are participating in it.. Even when you are silent and afraid.

You can decide what you will and will not allow. You get to choose one small action step that moves you out of the old patterns.

You can stop reliving the same chapter and start writing something new. It does not have to be dramatic or perfect; it just has to be yours. That is the moment you’re able to take your life back, rewrite your storyline, and make it yours.

Why Gratitude Feels So Hard When You Are Hurting

Why Gratitude Feels So Hard When You Are Hurting

And why the practice of gratitude cuts deeper for survivors

Gratitude feels impossible when you are still bleeding inside.
People tell you to practice gratitude as if it were a magic cure. They do not understand that when you have lived with someone who tore you down, gratitude is not a natural instinct. Survival is because you learned to scan for danger, not beauty. You learned to brace for the next blow instead of celebrating the wins.

So when someone says, “What are you grateful for?” your mind goes silent. You think you have nothing because, for so long, everything good has come with a price. Gratitude does not bloom in a war zone.

·  Misery becomes familiar, even when it hurts.
There is a strange comfort in what you already know, even if it’s toxic. Misery becomes a routine; you wake up with it every day. You sleep with it, you breathe it in, and it becomes the lens through which you see. Anything that contradicts your story feels wrong.

When people ask you to be grateful, it feels like they are asking you to betray your own truth.

For someone who lives in abuse, admitting there is still good in the world feels contradictory. It feels like letting your guard down.

·  Gratitude exposes the grief you have been avoiding
Finding even one small thing to be grateful for forces you to slow down, breathe, and feel. And feeling is terrifying when you’ve spent years shutting down your own emotions just to survive.

Gratitude is not fake; it’s risky. The moment you acknowledge something good, it feels like you’re ignoring everything you lost, everything you tolerated, and everything that broke you. Gratitude brings the grief to the surface, and most days, you are already carrying more than anyone sees.

·  But the smallest piece of gratitude can crack the prison walls
You do not have to write a list, and you do not have to be grateful for your trauma, the lessons, or the strength it gave you.

Forget all that.

Begin with one tiny thing, one moment where you felt safe or seen. Maybe a time you felt free to breathe. Was it a quiet morning? Or is it the fact that you left?. Maybe it is the way you no longer flinch at sudden movements.

Gratitude is not about pretending everything is fine. It is about recognizing the small signs that you are no longer living under someone else’s control.

One point of light in the dark, just one thing that reminds you that you survived. Something that proves your life is not finished, and once you find that one thing, even if it is small, you are no longer stuck in the same old story.

Positively Divine

What positive events have taken place in your life over the past year?

This year has been one of the most unexpected beautiful years of my life, full of surprises, healing, and quiet miracles I did not always see coming.

It began with the joy of the birth of grandchild number ten and the sweet anticipation of number eleven already on the way. Every new little heartbeat in this family reminds me how wide my world is and how love continues to grow around me whether I am ready or not.

Our third short-term rental went online and stays booked. It amazes me to watch what I dreamed of into existence, and watch it take off and thrive. There is a quiet pride in that, a feeling of finally seeing hard work turn into something real.

Then came Colorado. Two weeks of pure beauty, with every turn revealing something that made me pause and breathe a little deeper. I did not realize how much I needed that trip until I was standing there, surrounded by mountains that made everything inside me feel a little clearer.

But the biggest changes this year happened within me.

After years of gut problems, I finally discovered the physical cause. That alone felt like a breakthrough I had been waiting for far too long. Therapy opened an even deeper door. I began to uncover the emotional weight I had been carrying and the trauma that had settled into my body. I started learning how to set boundaries and how to listen to the parts of myself I had ignored. I connected with my inner child, the version of me who needed comfort and understanding, and I finally began to give her that.

Along the way, I started feeling more comfortable in my own skin. Not the person I thought I was supposed to be, but the person I actually am. This shift feels real, even if it is still unfolding.

And perhaps one of the most meaningful steps I am taking this year is working on my book proposal. I’m not  just dreaming about it, I’m doing it. This alone feels like reclaiming a part of myself I thought I lost.

When I look back, this year was not simply positive. It was transformative. It was a year of returning to myself in ways I never expected.