Tag: change

What the Garden Keeps

I’ve always thought gardens were about growing things. Tomatoes, roses, strawberries, herbs, flowers. But the older I get, the more I realize gardens grow something else too. They grow memories.

As I walked through my garden recently, I found myself thinking about all the stories tucked between the plants. Not the gardening successes or failures, but the people. The roses remind me of my PawPaw. The climbing trellises holding them up were once Hope’s antique iron dog bed. After we lost her, I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it. It sat in the bedroom for months, too meaningful to throw away but without any real purpose. Eventually, I carried it into the garden and repurposed it as support for the climbing roses planted in memory of my grandfather. If you had told me years ago that a beloved dog’s bed would one day support roses planted for my PawPaw, I would have thought that sounded ridiculous. Now it feels exactly right.

The garden has a way of connecting things that don’t seem connected at all.

This week marks nine years since I lost my first husband, Fred. Nine years. Some days that feels impossible to believe. Other days it feels like several lifetimes ago. Fred was a horticulturist. Plants weren’t simply something he enjoyed; they were part of who he was. He understood things that I am only beginning to appreciate now. He knew that growth takes patience, that seasons matter, and that some things spend years establishing roots before they ever produce blooms worth admiring. Back then, I don’t think I fully appreciated why people garden. I enjoyed flowers and pretty landscapes, but I didn’t understand the deeper pull that draws people outside day after day to tend living things.

I understand it now.

There is something uniquely comforting about caring for living things after you’ve experienced loss. Gardens teach many of the same lessons that grief eventually teaches. Nothing stays the same forever. Seasons come and go whether we’re ready for them or not. Some years bring abundance while others test our patience. Plants die back, appear lifeless for a season, and then surprise us with new growth when we least expect it. The garden never pretends that loss doesn’t exist, but it also never lets loss have the final word.

As the anniversary of Fred’s death approaches, I find myself thinking less about the sharp edges of grief and more about the ways love remains. The truth is that the people we lose don’t disappear simply because time passes. They become part of the landscape of our lives. We find them in recipes we’ve memorized, in stories we tell without realizing it, in habits we’ve picked up from them, and sometimes in places we never expected. A rose can remind me of my PawPaw. An old dog bed can remind me of Hope. An evening spent watering plants can bring memories of Fred rushing back with surprising clarity.

For a long time, I thought healing meant learning how to let go. Now I think healing may be learning how to carry things differently. The people we love become woven into who we are. They influence how we see the world, what we value, and what brings us comfort. Their absence never completely disappears, but over time it begins to exist alongside gratitude instead of only sadness.

Maybe that’s why I love my garden so much. Not because it helps me forget, but because it helps me remember. Every bloom feels like a reminder that beauty and grief are not opposites. They often grow side by side. Every ripe tomato, every strawberry warm from the sun, every rose climbing higher on Hope’s old bed feels like evidence that life continues to create beauty even after loss has left its mark.

The garden has become a gathering place for memories. My PawPaw is there in the roses. Hope is there in the trellises that support them. Fred is there in the lessons I understand now that I was too young to appreciate then. What started as a place to grow plants has quietly become a place where the people I love continue to live on.

Perhaps that’s what gardens keep. Not just flowers and vegetables, but stories. Not just blooms, but memories. Not just beauty, but love itself. And if we’re paying attention, they remind us that while life is fragile and seasons inevitably change, the people who shaped us never truly stop growing in our hearts.

Blessings Y’all – Amy

Twenty-Six Years??

Twenty-six years ago today, I started the first of only three jobs I’ve had in the last twenty-six years.

I arrived in Dallas young, hopeful, and carrying a lot of expectations. I was convinced that moving here might help repair my relationship with my mom. Like so many things in life, that story didn’t unfold the way I imagined it would. We never found the relationship I was hoping for. For a long time, I viewed that as a disappointment. Now, with the perspective that only time can bring, I see that life was busy giving me something else and I’m very much at peace with letting that relationship go.

What Dallas gave me was time with my grandparents.

Not the dramatic, movie-worthy moments. The ordinary ones. Family dinners. Holidays. Conversations I don’t fully remember but would give anything to hear again. Time around the dominos table. I got years with them before they left this earth, years I might not have had if life had taken me somewhere else. Looking back, that gift was bigger than the one I thought I was moving here to receive.

The last twenty-six years have been packed with more life than I could have imagined when I unpacked those first boxes. They gave me my children, who somehow transformed from little kids needing rides and reminders into adults building lives of their own. A precious grandchild I never expected to get to watch grow. They gave me a marriage with Fred that shaped me in ways I still recognize today. That chapter brought love, growth, laughter, challenges, and eventually grief. The kind of grief that settles into the corners of your life and quietly changes the person you become.

And then, when I least expected it, life gave me Tim.

Sometimes I think about how strange it is that some of the best things in our lives arrive after we’ve already decided we know how the story is supposed to go. Tim is my safe place, my biggest supporter, and my favorite person to come home to. He watches over me, takes care of me when I need it, celebrates my victories, and somehow still manages to make me laugh when I’m taking life too seriously. After everything we’ve both walked through to get here, I don’t take a single day of it for granted.

Professionally, these years have been just as significant. I’m approaching fifteen years with TLC, which feels impossible to write. Fifteen years. There are memories tucked into those years everywhere I look. People who taught me things, challenged me, frustrated me, encouraged me, and became part of my story. Some have long since moved on. Others are still part of my day-to-day life. Together we’ve navigated growth, change, success, uncertainty, and enough stories that I could probably fill a book.

Lately, though, I’ve become more aware of time. Maybe that’s one of the unexpected parts of getting older. Not because I feel old—I absolutely do not feel old enough to have spent twenty-six years in this industry—but because I can suddenly see the years stacked behind me. Twenty-six years ago doesn’t feel like a lifetime ago. It feels like a few chapters ago. Yet somehow, in that time, I’ve watched grandparents leave this world, children become adults, coworkers come and go, and entire seasons of life pass by before I realized they were ending.

There are days when that realization feels a little heavy. Time moves faster now than it used to. The calendar pages flip quicker. The milestones arrive sooner. The people we love get older. We get older.

But when I look back over these twenty-six years, the feeling that rises above all the others isn’t sadness. It’s gratitude.

Gratitude for the relationship that never became what I hoped, because it led me to relationships that became more than I could have imagined. Gratitude for the grandparents who loved me so well. Gratitude for the children who made me a mother. Gratitude for the years with Fred and the lessons that came from loving and losing. Gratitude for Tim and the joy of discovering that life can still surprise you.

Twenty-six years ago, I arrived in Dallas hoping for one thing.

Instead, I got a life. And while it hasn’t always been easy, I wouldn’t trade a single chapter.

Blessings Y’all – Amy

The Garden of Chaos

Lately I’ve been thinking about the different kinds of chaos that exist in my life. It’s strange because, on the surface, they should feel the same. Chaos is chaos, right? Yet one kind leaves me exhausted, overwhelmed, and searching for an escape, while the other is the very thing I run toward when I need to find peace.

The chaos in my head is relentless. It is made up of unfinished conversations, worries about tomorrow, replayed moments from yesterday, and an endless mental checklist that seems to regenerate faster than I can cross things off. It is the stress of work, the pressure of responsibilities, the fear of making the wrong decision, and the habit of carrying problems long after there is anything I can do about them. Even when I am sitting still, my mind rarely is. It races ahead, circles back, second-guesses, analyzes, and prepares for battles that may never come.

Oddly enough, I notice it most on the weekends.

You would think that after a long week, freedom would feel relaxing. Instead, there are weekends when I wake up with a restless energy I can’t quite explain. The structure of the workweek is gone. No meetings. No deadlines. No urgent emails demanding my attention. The very thing I’ve spent all week wishing for arrives, and suddenly I’m pacing around trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do with myself.

There are projects I could tackle. Books I could read. Quilts I could sew. Naps I could take. Plants I could repot. A dozen possibilities stretch out before me, and somehow all that freedom leaves me feeling unsettled. My mind starts searching for a purpose, for a task, for something that feels productive enough to justify the day. If I’m not careful, I can spend half a Saturday feeling guilty for not accomplishing enough while simultaneously being too overwhelmed by the options to start anything at all.

The longer stress hangs around, the louder that chaos becomes. It starts to color everything. Small inconveniences feel bigger than they are. Rest becomes difficult because my brain is constantly convinced there is something more important I should be doing. It is exhausting to carry a mind that rarely knows how to simply be.

And then there is my garden.

If you looked at it objectively, you might call it chaotic too. The cucumbers have a mind of their own. The tomatoes are sprawling beyond their supports. Flowers spill into pathways. Volunteer plants appear in places I never intended. Some things are thriving while others are struggling. There are bugs, weeds, surprises, and imperfections around every corner.

Yet when I walk into that chaos, something inside me settles.

Maybe it’s because the garden gives me purpose without pressure. There is always something to do, but nothing that feels urgent. The tomatoes aren’t judging me if I don’t get to them today. The roses don’t care if the weeds wait another day. The garden doesn’t keep score.

Instead, it invites me to slow down. To notice. To wander.

To be present.

Somewhere between checking on the cucumbers and deadheading a rose, the noise in my head begins to soften. My attention shifts away from what might happen tomorrow and toward what is happening right now. A new bloom I hadn’t noticed before. A single white butterfly weaving through the flowers reminds me lost loved ones are near. The scent of damp soil after watering.

Sometimes it’s something as simple as picking a strawberry and eating it right there in the garden. Or twisting a ripe tomato from the vine and tasting it while it’s still warm from the Texas sun. No grocery store tomato has ever tasted like that. For a moment, all the worries, plans, and endless mental chatter fade into the background. There is only sweetness, sunshine, and gratitude.

The garden reminds me that growth is rarely neat. It twists, sprawls, climbs, and sometimes falls over before finding its footing again. It doesn’t follow a perfect plan. It doesn’t grow according to my timeline. And somehow, despite all that—or maybe because of it—it becomes beautiful.

I wonder if people are the same way.

Maybe the goal isn’t to eliminate every messy thought, every difficult season, or every moment of uncertainty. Maybe the goal is to recognize the difference between the chaos that steals from us and the chaos that gives something back. One kind leaves us drained and disconnected from ourselves. The other reminds us that life is still unfolding, still growing, still producing beauty even when things feel a little wild.

My garden has become a refuge from the noise. Not because it is orderly, but because it isn’t. The imperfections don’t bother me there. The unexpected is welcomed. Things are allowed to take their own shape. There is freedom in that.

On the hardest days, when my thoughts feel loud and my shoulders feel heavy, I find myself wandering outside. I walk among the roses that remind me of my PawPaw, check on the vegetables that seem to grow an inch overnight, and lose track of time in a space that asks nothing from me except my presence.

And every time, I leave with the same realization. The chaos in my head tells me everything is falling apart. The chaos in my garden reminds me that sometimes things are simply growing.

Blessings Y’all – Amy

Putting the Scoreboard Down

I think some of our most exhausting habits begin so early in life that we barely recognize them as habits at all. For me, one of those has always been comparison… or maybe more accurately, keeping mental score.

I think it starts younger than we realize. As kids, we notice who has more chores, who gets away with doing less, who is praised for helping, and who somehow manages to avoid responsibility altogether. In our home as kids the only way to get anything positive was to work harder and wait for a pat on the head like a dog who did something good.

Somewhere along the way, many of us quietly learn to measure fairness through effort. We begin tallying who is contributing more, who is carrying the heavier load, and whether things feel “even.” At the time, it probably seems harmless. Maybe even responsible. But over the years, that mental scoreboard can become so automatic that we carry it into adulthood without even realizing it. The problem is, comparison rarely brings peace. Mostly, it brings exhaustion.

The older I get, the more I notice how much mental space comparison takes up when we allow it to. We compare workloads, responsibilities, energy, effort, marriages, homes, parenting, accomplishments, friendships, appearances… and before long, our minds are constantly evaluating instead of simply living. We become hyper-aware of imbalance. Hyper-aware of fairness. Hyper-aware of who seems to carry more and who seems to carry less. Hyper aware of those who seem to move through life without a care in the world while we’re breaking under the load of trying to be enough.

And while some level of awareness is normal, constantly measuring ourselves against other people slowly steals something important from us. It steals contentment. It steals gratitude. It steals the ability to be fully present in our own lives because part of our mind is always glancing sideways into someone else’s lane. Comparison is the thief of joy.

I don’t even think most people who struggle with comparison are shallow or judgmental. In fact, I think it often comes from being conscientious. From caring deeply. From growing up believing that hard work, dependability, and responsibility were tied to our worth and value in life. So when we encounter people who move through life differently, it can quietly (and sometimes loudly) frustrate us more than we’d like to admit.

But lately I’ve started wondering how much peace we lose trying to mentally manage fairness everywhere we go. Because no matter how observant we are, we never fully know another person’s story, capacity, struggles, personality, or burdens. And even when imbalance does exist, carrying resentment over it rarely improves our own lives. Most of the time, it only makes our hearts heavier.

I’m beginning to think peace comes from putting the scoreboard down. Not lowering standards. Not pretending effort doesn’t matter. But choosing to stop making comparison the background noise of our lives. Choosing to focus more on how we want to live than on whether everyone around us is doing things the exact same way. Choosing to focus on what we can do and letting the rest of it go. Letting someone else carry the “enough” weight for a while.

Maybe that starts with catching ourselves when comparison creeps in and gently redirecting our thoughts. Maybe it means practicing gratitude for our own lives instead of constantly evaluating someone else’s. Maybe it means spending less time keeping emotional tallies and more time protecting our peace. Maybe it means learning that we can do our best without needing life to feel perfectly “fair” at all times. Maybe it means turning it over to God in prayer and asking him to take away the weight.

Because the truth is, comparison almost never leaves us feeling lighter. Peace does.

Blessings Y’all – Amy

Finding A Home For The Things We Can’t Let Go Of….

There are pieces of furniture in our home that seem to spend years wandering. We move them from one room to another, tuck them into corners, try them against different walls… searching for the place where they finally feel like they belong. Sometimes it isn’t really about the furniture at all. Sometimes it’s about what it represents.

My grandmother’s sewing table has been one of those pieces for me.

After losing PawPaw, Fred, and Mom, the ache of loss made me hold tightly to the things that still felt connected to the people I loved. That little sewing table became more than wood and drawers and worn edges. It became proof that some things could still stay. Even when life changed in ways I never wanted it to.

My counselor often reminds me that the object isn’t the memory. The memory is the memory. And logically, I know she’s right. But grief is funny like that.

Sometimes we hold onto objects because they feel like anchors. Not because we believe the person lives inside the thing itself, but because touching it somehow quiets the fear that time will slowly erase what mattered. So I couldn’t let it go. Even when I wasn’t sure where it fit anymore. Even when it spent years being moved from one “maybe” spot to another.

I just had this feeling that if we kept trying, eventually we’d find its place. This weekend, we finally did.

Tim and I are in the middle of one of those deep purging phases where you start questioning every corner of your house and every item you’ve carried through different versions of your life. In the process, a wall in our living room unexpectedly opened up. One of those awkward spaces that had never really worked for anything before.

And somehow… it became exactly where the sewing table belonged.

Not only that, but it also gave purpose to a chair I’d been equally stubborn about refusing to part with. With a little rearranging of plants and shifting things around, the whole area suddenly came together into this quiet little nook that feels warm and lived in and meaningful.

Not staged. Not perfect. Just right. And I think that’s true for us sometimes too.

Some things — and some people — take longer to find where they belong after loss reshapes everything. We carry pieces of old lives into new ones and spend years trying to figure out where they fit now. Occasionally, when we least expect it, something shifts. A little space opens up. And suddenly what once felt misplaced feels at home again.

Not because the grief disappeared. But because life finally made room for both the memory and the living.

What things have had many spots in your home due to the memories they carry?

Blessings Y’all – Amy

The Quilt of Motherhood: Stitches of Love and Loss

Mother’s Day feels different the older I get.

When you’re younger, motherhood feels busy and loud and exhausting in ways you can’t fully explain until you live it. It’s packed lunches and school schedules and sports practices and trying to stretch yourself in a hundred directions at once while secretly wondering if you’re doing any of it right. And being too busy to appreciate it or realize it’s ever going to end.

Then somehow, almost without warning, life shifts.

Your children grow up. The house gets quieter. The chaos changes shape.

And one day you look around and realize you’ve stepped into entirely new roles you once only watched other women carry.

Motherhood Is Patched Together Like a Quilt

The older I get, the more motherhood reminds me of a quilt.

Not the perfectly staged kind folded neatly at the foot of a bed, but the well-loved kind made over time. The kind stitched together from different fabrics, different seasons, different stories, and pieces that don’t always seem like they should fit together until suddenly they do.

Motherhood has layers like that.

There are joyful pieces stitched right beside painful ones. Exhausting seasons stitched beside beautiful memories. Moments of pride stitched beside moments of doubt. Ordinary days that somehow become the pieces you treasure most later.

And much like quilting, motherhood is rarely perfect up close.

Sometimes the seams pull a little. Sometimes the colors clash. Sometimes the plan changes halfway through and you simply keep stitching anyway. Sometimes it feels like it’s coming apart at the seams from being pulled from too many directions.

But over time, all those patched-together pieces become something meaningful. Something warm. Something comforting. Something strong enough to wrap around the people we love.

The Different Kinds of Motherhood

This Mother’s Day, I find myself thinking about all the different layers stitched into my own life.

Being a mother.
Being a stepmother.
Being a Mimi.
Being someone’s daughter.
Being someone’s granddaughter.

Each one carries its own kind of love.

Motherhood itself teaches you sacrifice in ways nothing else can. It teaches you how deeply you can worry about another human being while simultaneously loving them so fiercely it almost hurts sometimes. It teaches you exhaustion, patience, forgiveness, and the strange reality that your heart somehow continues walking around outside your body forever once you have children. Knowing you have to trust this cruel world with them and praying constantly they are ok.

Being a stepmother brings its own layers too. It teaches you that love doesn’t always arrive through biology. Sometimes it arrives through choice, consistency, grace, and simply continuing to show up. It teaches you that families are often stitched together in imperfect but beautiful ways, and that love has room to grow far far beyond traditional definitions.

And then there’s being a Mimi.

Honestly, nobody fully prepares you for how much joy can walk into your life wrapped up in a grandbaby.

There’s something incredibly healing about becoming a grandmother. Maybe it’s because you finally realize how quickly the years move. Maybe it’s because you understand now how precious the little moments truly are. Or maybe it’s because you get a second chance to experience wonder through tiny eyes again — this time with a little more perspective and a little less pressure. You get the chance to play peek-a-boo in the middle of the aisle at Target and not give a damn who’s watching instead of rushing through just trying to get it all done.

Missing the Women Who Came Before Us

But woven into all of those beautiful layers is another feeling that quietly arrives every Mother’s Day too:

Missing the women who helped shape us.

This time of year always makes me miss my grandmother a little extra.

There are certain women in our lives who leave fingerprints on everything long after they’re gone. The way we cook. The way we comfort people. The way we decorate a home. The sayings we still repeat without even realizing it. The traditions we continue because they simply became part of who we are.

Sometimes I catch myself doing or saying something that sounds exactly like her, and for just a second it feels like she’s still here somehow. Making the “mom” face at overwhelming smells or unpleasant flavors.

I think that’s part of the beauty of both quilts and motherhood — pieces live on long after the hands that created them are gone.

The love gets passed down. The lessons get passed down. The comfort gets passed down. And before you know it, you become part of the line of women you once looked up to yourself.

The Beauty of Imperfect Stitching

Mother’s Day used to feel simpler when I was younger. Now it feels layered with gratitude, nostalgia, joy, pride, memories, and sometimes a little ache for the people no longer sitting at the table with us. Especially my children being flung as far and wide as they are….I miss them most on Mother’s Day.

But maybe that’s what makes it beautiful too. Because a life full of love will almost always leave behind a few tender places.

And what a gift it is to have loved and been loved deeply enough for those places to exist at all.

So this Mother’s Day, I’m grateful for every version of motherhood stitched into my life — the loud years, the complicated years, the beautiful years, the growing years, the grandmother years, and even the missing-someone years.

All of it matters. All of it becomes part of us.

And much like a quilt, motherhood may be patched together from many different pieces… but somehow those imperfect stitches are exactly what make it strong, meaningful, and beautiful in the end.

Blessings Y’all – Amy

The Joy of Being a Certain Age….

There’s a quiet, unspoken club you join at a certain age. No one sends you an invitation. There’s no welcome packet. Just one day you wake up and realize…oh. This is happening.

And suddenly, your body has opinions. Strong ones.

The joy of being “a certain age” is that you finally know yourself—what you like, what you don’t, what you’re willing to tolerate, and what you absolutely are not. The irony, of course, is that just as your confidence settles in, your internal thermostat packs up and leaves town without notice.

One minute you’re perfectly fine. The next, you’re peeling off layers like you’re in the middle of a Texas heatwave…in February. Then five minutes later, you’re reaching for a blanket like you’ve been dropped into a walk-in freezer. There is no rhyme or reason. You are both the sun and the Arctic, sometimes within the same hour.

Sleep? That used to be something you did without thinking. Now it’s a strategic event. You go to bed tired, maybe even exhausted, and still find yourself staring at the ceiling at 2:17 a.m., mentally reorganizing your pantry, replaying conversations from 2004, and wondering if you should repaint the living room. When sleep finally comes, it’s light, unpredictable, and often interrupted by—what else—a sudden need to throw off the covers because your body has decided it’s time for another internal bonfire.

And then there’s the irritability.

It sneaks in quietly at first. Little things. Harmless things. Someone chewing too loudly. A cabinet left open. A text message that simply says “k.” You find yourself thinking, is it me…or is everyone just a little extra lately? The answer, of course, is complicated. You’re not wrong—but you’re also not entirely right. Your tolerance has shifted, your patience has thinned, and your filter? It’s been significantly edited.

But here’s the part no one talks about enough: underneath all of this, there is a strange, steady kind of joy.

Because with the temperature swings and the sleepless nights comes a clarity that wasn’t always there before. You stop pretending. You stop over-explaining. You stop bending yourself into shapes that don’t fit just to keep the peace. You start choosing comfort over expectation, honesty over politeness, and rest over proving something.

You learn to laugh at the absurdity of it all—standing in front of an open freezer at midnight just to cool down, kicking off blankets and then pulling them right back up, apologizing (sometimes) after snapping over something small. You recognize that your body is changing, yes—but so is your perspective.

You become more protective of your time, your energy, your peace. You learn to appreciate your grandbaby’s giggle as the purest sweetest sound on earth.

And maybe that’s the real joy of being a certain age.

It’s not that everything feels easy—because it doesn’t. It’s that you finally understand what matters enough to keep, and what you’re allowed to let go. What you will and won’t tolerate from the youth around you. Even if you’re doing it while fanning yourself with the nearest magazine and wondering if you’ll ever sleep through the night again.

Blessings y’all – Amy

The Sun, the Moon, and the Trap of Comparison

It has become incredibly easy to look at someone else’s life and quietly decide that you are somehow behind. Behind in success, behind in happiness, behind in parenting, behind in health, behind in just about everything. The internet has given us a front row seat to everyone’s highlight reel. We see the vacations, the perfectly decorated homes, the thriving businesses, the glowing smiles in family photos. What we don’t see are the quiet, messy, complicated parts of life that everyone carries behind the scenes. And yet, if we’re not careful, we start measuring our ordinary Tuesday afternoons against someone else’s carefully curated moments.

I came across a quote recently that stopped me long enough to really think about it: “Don’t compare your life to others. There’s no comparison between the sun and the moon. They shine when it’s their time.” It’s such a simple image, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. The sun and the moon were never meant to compete with each other. The sun doesn’t look at the moon lighting up the night sky and think it’s somehow falling behind. It doesn’t rush the horizon trying to prove it can shine brighter. And the moon doesn’t apologize for not lighting up the middle of the day. They simply show up when it’s their time.

Life has seasons that feel like bright sunshine. Things move forward easily. Plans fall into place. You feel productive, hopeful, and confident that everything is working the way it should. But life also has seasons that feel more like moonlight. Those are the quieter seasons. The slower ones. Sometimes they’re the seasons where you’re healing from something, learning something hard, facing uncertainty, or just trying to make it through the day without letting worry take over. Those seasons can feel uncomfortable, especially when everyone else seems to be standing in the sunlight.

But the truth is, the moon is just as necessary as the sun. The world needs both. We tend to celebrate the bright seasons in people’s lives — the accomplishments, the milestones, the moments when everything seems to be going right. What we rarely see are the quieter seasons where people are rebuilding, recovering, grieving, growing, or simply learning how to keep moving forward. Some of the most important growth in life happens in those darker skies. When things slow down enough for us to listen to ourselves. When life forces us to reevaluate what actually matters. When we learn patience, resilience, and grace in ways that sunny days never quite teach us.

Comparison assumes that everyone is living on the same timeline, but that has never really been true. Some people are standing in their sunrise years. Others are in the bright middle of the day when everything seems clear and certain. And some of us are walking through a quieter stretch where the light looks different. None of those seasons mean someone else is ahead. They simply mean it is their time to shine in a different way.

The sun and the moon never rush each other. They never compete for the same sky. They simply take their turn lighting it up. Maybe life works a little like that too. Maybe your season right now looks different from someone else’s, and maybe that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be. It doesn’t mean you’re behind or that you’ve somehow missed the moment when everything was supposed to happen. It might simply mean that right now you’re walking in the softer light of the moon, and there is still something beautiful about that kind of glow.

Eventually the sky shifts again. It always does. The sun rises, the moon returns, and both continue doing exactly what they were meant to do — shining when it’s their time.

Blessings y’all – Amy

Learning to Let It Unfold

I read something the other day that stopped me mid-scroll in a way that only the right words at the right time can do: “The universe has the most beautiful plan for you. Allow it to unfold in divine timing. You can not rush magic.” And I’ll be honest with you… my first reaction wasn’t peace. It was resistance.

Because if there is anything I have tried to do in this life, it is hurry things along. Fix it faster. Heal it quicker. Figure it out now so I don’t have to sit in the uncomfortable middle of it all. I am not, by nature, a “let it unfold” kind of person. I am a Google it, plan it, fix it, solve it before bedtime kind of person. But life—if it has taught me anything lately—does not operate on my timeline. Not the hard things, not the healing things, and definitely not the meaningful things.

The parts of life that matter most seem to take their time. They stretch out longer than we want. They sit in that space where there are more questions than answers, more waiting than movement, more uncertainty than clarity. And that space is uncomfortable. Because waiting feels like doing nothing, and doing nothing feels like losing control. But maybe that’s where I’ve been getting it wrong. Maybe not everything is meant to be managed and mastered and pushed forward by sheer willpower. Maybe some things are meant to be allowed.

Allowed to grow. Allowed to heal. Allowed to become what they’re meant to be without me overworking every step of the process. That word—allowed—requires a kind of trust I’m still learning. Trust that even when I can’t see progress, something is happening. Trust that even when it feels slow, it’s still moving. Trust that just because it isn’t happening on my timeline doesn’t mean it isn’t happening at all.

When I look back, I can see it more clearly. The things I once tried to rush, the answers I demanded too soon, the outcomes I thought I needed immediately… so many of them unfolded better because they didn’t happen when I wanted them to. The delay wasn’t denial. It was preparation. Things were shifting behind the scenes in ways I couldn’t see at the time, shaping me into someone who could actually hold what I was asking for.

That doesn’t mean the waiting suddenly becomes easy. I still catch myself trying to rush outcomes, trying to force clarity, trying to skip ahead to the part where everything makes sense. But I’m learning, slowly and imperfectly, that not everything is meant to be rushed into understanding. Some things are meant to be lived through first. And maybe there is something beautiful happening in the unfolding, even when it feels messy or unclear or painfully slow.

So today I’m reminding myself that I don’t have to have it all figured out right now. I don’t have to force the timeline or push what isn’t ready. I can take the next step, show up where I am, and trust—just a little more than I did yesterday—that something meaningful is still in motion. Because you really can’t rush magic, and maybe the most beautiful parts of life are the ones that take their time getting to us.

Blessings y’all – Amy

Learning to Live With the Weather

For a long time I thought depression and anxiety were problems to solve. Something broken in me that I needed to fix or snap back together.

Like a puzzle with the right pieces hidden somewhere. If I just worked hard enough, prayed enough, exercised enough, organized enough, went through enough counseling, or “thought positively” enough, eventually I would arrive at the finish line where they no longer existed.

But that’s not really how it works.

Depression and anxiety aren’t always dragons to be slain. They’re more like weather patterns that move through your life. Sometimes the skies are clear and bright and everything feels easy. And sometimes the clouds roll in without warning and the air gets heavy and dark.

For a long time I kept trying to conquer the storm.

I thought if I could just be stronger, or more disciplined, or somehow “fix” myself, the clouds would disappear for good. When they didn’t, I felt like I was failing some invisible test everyone else seemed to be passing.

But somewhere along the way I realized something important.

This isn’t something I conquer. It’s something I learn to live with.

Some days the sky is blue and the sun is warm and I move through life easily. I laugh, I create, I plan, I feel hopeful. Those days remind me that the storm isn’t permanent. But other days the clouds roll in again. Anxiety hums quietly in the background of everything. Depression makes even small things feel heavy. Getting through the day can feel like walking through deep water. Dealing with other humans, especially at work, can feel insurmountable.

And those are the days when I have to remind myself that storms are not personal failures.

They are just weather.

I’ve learned that living with depression and anxiety isn’t about eliminating the storms. It’s about learning how to ride them out without believing they will last forever.

Some days that means doing the smallest things and counting them as victories.

Getting out of bed.

Taking a walk.

Answering one email.

Not yelling at someone who probably deserves it and more importantly not taking it out on someone who definitely doesn’t deserve it.

Small things that other people might not even notice can feel like climbing mountains on the hard days.

And that’s okay.

One of the greatest gifts through these storms has been having someone who loves me through it. Someone who doesn’t expect me to always be sunny and easy and carefree. Someone who understands that sometimes the weather in my mind changes without warning.

Someone who stays anyway. Tim is amazing that way.

There is a quiet kind of grace in being loved through your storms. Not fixed. Not judged. Not told to simply “snap out of it.” Just loved — patiently and steadily — while the clouds pass through.

That kind of love doesn’t erase depression or anxiety.

But it makes the storms easier to weather.

Over time I’ve stopped measuring my life by how often the clouds appear. Instead, I’m learning to measure it by how I move through them. By the resilience that grows quietly inside the hard seasons. By the compassion I’ve learned for myself and for others who are fighting battles no one else can see. I’ve also learned it’s ok to cry and feel the things I feel – no one else has to understand the storm raging inside me.

The truth is, many people are walking through storms we know nothing about. Depression and anxiety are invisible companions for millions of people. Some days they whisper. Some days they roar. But they do not define the whole landscape of a life.

They are just part of the weather.

And like all weather, they change.

The sun returns eventually.

The air clears.

The world feels lighter again.

Living with depression and anxiety has taught me something I might never have learned otherwise: strength isn’t always loud or heroic.

Sometimes strength is simply surviving.

Staying in the middle of the storm.

Staying in the middle of the uncertainty.

Staying long enough to see the sky clear again.

And if you’re someone who walks through these storms too, I hope you know this:

You are not broken.

You are not weak.

You are simply learning how to live with the weather.

And that is a kind of courage the world doesn’t talk about nearly enough. And isn’t nearly patient enough with.

Blessings y’all – Amy