emotional

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

The Waiting Room No One Talks About

There is a particular kind of anxiety that lives in the space between symptoms and answers.

It isn’t the sharp panic of a diagnosis. It isn’t even the strange relief that can come when someone finally names the problem and a plan begins. It’s something quieter and more unsettling. It’s the long hallway between “something isn’t right” and “here’s what it is.”

Sometimes that hallway feels endless.

For me, it started small enough that I ignored it.

My foot wouldn’t lift the way it should when I walked. Instead of clearing the floor smoothly, it began slapping the ground. At first I assumed I had stepped wrong or pulled a muscle. Maybe I had been sitting too long. Maybe it would go away in a day or two.

But it didn’t.

Walking suddenly required concentration. Something that had always been automatic now demanded attention. I found myself thinking about every step: lift, move, step. It felt strange to be aware of something my body had done effortlessly for decades.

Then came the numbness.

It started in my foot and slowly crept into my lower leg. It wasn’t quite the pins-and-needles feeling of a limb that had fallen asleep. It was more like a dull, unsettling loss of sensation that didn’t behave the way it should. Sometimes it would fade a little, sometimes it felt stronger, but it never really disappeared.

Just when I had started convincing myself it must be something simple — maybe a pinched nerve in my back — the numbness appeared in my arm too.

That’s when fear really moved in.

I made the appointment confident that modern medicine — with all its scans and tests and specialists — would surely find the cause. I sat in exam rooms while doctors studied images and reports.

I expected the moment when someone would say, “Here’s what we’re seeing.”

Except sometimes that moment doesn’t come.

Instead of answers, what I kept hearing was, “Let’s run one more test.”

Another scan. Another appointment. Another specialist. Each time I walked in hoping this would be the visit where someone finally connected the dots. And each time I left with the same thing — not answers, but the next step in the search.

None of the doctors seemed alarmed, but none of them could quite explain it either. The tests ruled things out, but they didn’t quite explain what was happening.

And so the investigation continued.

One more test. One more scan. One more appointment.

And suddenly my mind started filling in all the blanks medicine could not.

Is this serious? Is it getting worse? Did we miss something? Did I wait too long?

What if this is the beginning of something bigger?

My body suddenly felt like a place I didn’t completely trust anymore. Every sensation became something to analyze. Every twitch, ache, or strange feeling felt like a possible clue. I noticed things I had never noticed before — the way my foot landed when I walked, the way my leg felt climbing stairs, the way my hand tingled if I rested my arm too long.

Because no one had given the story a clear ending yet, my mind kept writing its own versions.

Some of them were frightening.

The hardest part hasn’t always been the symptoms themselves. It has been the uncertainty. Humans are remarkably capable of facing difficult things when we understand them. Give us a diagnosis — even a hard one — and we can begin building a plan. We can research, prepare, adapt, fight.

But uncertainty leaves me suspended.

People around me try to reassure me with the best of intentions. “I’m sure it’s nothing.” “They will find it.” “Try not to worry.”

But worry is exactly what grows in unanswered space.

I find myself reading scan reports like they’re written in a secret language I’m trying to decode. I notice every new sensation in my body. I pay attention to my steps, my balance, the way my limbs feel throughout the day.

Sometimes I even start questioning myself.

Maybe I’m exaggerating.

Maybe it’s stress.

Maybe I should just ignore it.

But my body keeps reminding me that something changed.

So I wait.

I wait for the next appointment, the next test, the next specialist. I wait for the phone call that might finally bring clarity. I wait for the moment when the puzzle pieces come together and someone says, “Here’s what’s happening.”

Waiting can be exhausting.

But there is also something I’m slowly learning in this season: uncertainty does not automatically mean catastrophe. Bodies are complicated. Medicine is complicated. Sometimes the path to answers simply takes time — more imaging, more observation, more pieces of the puzzle.

In the meantime, life keeps moving.

There are still ordinary moments — work never stops, conversations at the dinner table, laughter in the living room, the steady rhythm of daily life. Those small moments become anchors when the bigger questions feel overwhelming.

I’m learning that fear thrives in isolation, but uncertainty becomes more manageable when it’s shared — with my husband, with family, with friends, or even writing about it here.

And slowly, one appointment at a time, the picture will likely become clearer.

Maybe the tests will eventually reveal the cause. Maybe the symptoms will settle and fade. Maybe the doctors will piece together the clues that once seemed scattered.

But for now, I’m living in the waiting room no one talks about — the space between not knowing and understanding.

And even in the middle of unanswered questions, I’m still moving forward.

Sometimes carefully. Sometimes anxiously. Sometimes concentrating on every single step.

But moving forward all the same.

One day, one test, one conversation closer to clarity.

Blessings ya’ll – Amy

Today Is Mom’s Birthday

Today is my grandma’s birthday. We called her Mom.

My mother was 17 when she had me and we lived with my grandparents in my early years. I grew up hearing her be called Mom and it stuck. Somehow, that name fit her perfectly.

Birthdays after someone is gone are strange things. They don’t announce themselves loudly, but they sit with you all day. They show up in quiet moments—when you’re folding laundry, when you smell something familiar, when your hands are busy and your mind wanders back to her without asking permission.

Some of my deepest comforts came from Mom. Sewing, for one. My love of sewing—of fabric, and texture, and making something useful and beautiful with my hands—came straight from her. When I sew now, it feels like a conversation that never really ended. Every stitch carries a little bit of her patience, her practicality, her quiet creativity. It still feels like being close to her, even all these years later.

Then there’s the food. I miss her slumghetti—that wonderfully imperfect, comforting dish that somehow tasted like home no matter how simple it was. No one else makes it quite the same, and maybe that’s the point. It wasn’t just about the meal; it was about the care behind it, the way she made it for me as many times as I asked as an act of love.

Some of the moments I miss most are the smallest ones. When I was little and didn’t want to nap, she’d let me hold her ring finger while she told me to “rest my eyes.” I can still feel it—how safe that felt, how the world quieted down just enough. That tiny gesture held so much comfort. It was her way of saying, I’m here. You’re okay.

Mom had that rare gift of making you feel steady just by being present. Not the dramatic kind of safe—the quiet kind. The kind where the edges of the world soften. Where you don’t have to explain yourself. Where being loved is as natural as breathing.

I think about the lessons she taught without ever formally teaching them. How love looks like showing up. How strength can be gentle. How kindness doesn’t have to be loud to be powerful. How family is built on consistency, not perfection.

There are days I wish I could tell her who I’ve become since she left. About the life I’m building. About the ways her influence still shows up—in my hands, in my kitchen, in the way I care for the people I love. I think she’d smile at that.

Sometimes I catch myself doing something and think, That’s Mom. A habit. A phrase. A moment of patience I didn’t know I had. And when that happens, the ache softens, because it reminds me she’s still here—stitched into who I am.

Today, on her birthday, I miss her deeply. I miss her hands, her food, her quiet reassurances. But I’m also grateful. Grateful for a love so strong that it still shows up in the smallest moments of my life.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

I still hold your hand—just in different ways now.

Blessings Y’all – Amy

The Valentine’s Day Conundrum

Valentine’s Day is one of those holidays that manages to be wildly polarizing. Some people circle it on the calendar with hearts and anticipation, while others would happily fast-forward from February 13th straight to the 15th without so much as a glance at a pink card aisle (used to be me!). Few days stir up as many opinions, eye rolls, expectations, and emotions—all wrapped in red cellophane.

For the people who hate Valentine’s Day, the reasons are usually layered. It can feel commercialized, performative, or painfully loud about something that feels tender and private. It can highlight loneliness, loss, or relationships that didn’t turn out the way they were supposed to. It can remind you of love that you had – and lost. Sometimes it just feels exhausting to be told—by ads, social media, and store displays—what love should look like and how it should be celebrated.

And then there are the people who love it. Not because of the chocolate or the flowers (though those don’t hurt), but because it’s an excuse to pause. To be intentional. To say “I choose you” out loud in a world that moves too fast. For them, Valentine’s Day isn’t pressure—it’s permission. It’s the day you can shout to the rooftops how loved and seen they make you feel.

The truth is, both sides make sense.

Love is complicated. It’s joyful and messy, exhilarating and fragile. Some of us have loved deeply and lost. Some of us waited a long time to find the kind of love that feels safe. Some of us are still learning how to let ourselves be loved at all. Of course a holiday built entirely around love is going to hit differently depending on where you stand.

But here’s where the conundrum softens.

Valentine’s Day doesn’t actually belong to restaurants, greeting card companies, or curated Instagram posts. At its core, it belongs to love itself—the real, lived-in kind. The love that shows up on ordinary Tuesdays. The love that knows your quirks and stays anyway. The love that holds your hand through grief, growth, and grocery store errands. The love that brings you home yet another plant when you didn’t need one just because it makes you smile.

Being in love—real love—isn’t about grand gestures once a year. It’s about choosing each other in small, steady ways. It’s about laughter in the kitchen, quiet understanding, and feeling seen without needing to explain yourself. It’s about sitting in the bed watching TV because the chairs in the living room hurt your back. When you’re in that kind of love, Valentine’s Day becomes less of a performance and more of a gentle nod. A reminder.

And maybe that’s the shift worth making.

Instead of asking whether Valentine’s Day is worth celebrating, maybe the better question is whether love is worth acknowledging. Whether we can let the day be soft instead of loud. Honest instead of perfect. Whether we can hold space for both the joy of being in love and the ache of having loved before.

You don’t have to love Valentine’s Day to be in love. And you don’t have to hate it to take it lightly. But if you are in love—deeply, imperfectly, beautifully—there’s something quietly lovely about a day that says, “This matters.”

Not because a calendar told us so.

But because love always has.

Blessings Y’all – Amy

PawPaw’s Birthday

Today is my Pawpaw’s birthday.

Almost twelve years have passed since we lost him, and that number still surprises me. You’d think time would sand the edges down more than it has. It does soften some things—the sharpest ache, the shock of realizing he’s gone—but it never erases him. Not really. Not the way someone like Pawpaw could ever disappear.

There are days when I don’t think about him much at all, and then there are days like today when he feels right there. In the pauses. In the memories that show up uninvited. In the garden when the sun warms my face and it feels like one of his hugs. In the way I still catch myself wishing I could tell him something small and ordinary, just to hear what he’d say.

What I miss most isn’t one single moment or story. It’s the steadiness of him. The feeling that no matter what was going on in the world, Pawpaw was solid and safe and exactly who he’d always been. He didn’t need to be loud to be influential. He didn’t need to say much to say enough. Just being Pawpaw was more than sufficient.

Grief this far out looks different than it used to. It’s quieter. It doesn’t knock the wind out of me the way it once did. But it’s persistent in a gentle way, like a low hum that never fully goes silent. I miss him when something good happens. I miss him when life feels heavy. I miss him when my roses bloom and remind me of him. I miss him when I laugh at something and think, he would’ve loved that.

Birthdays have a way of doing that—of reopening doors you didn’t realize were still unlocked. Today isn’t sad exactly, but it’s tender. It’s a reminder that love doesn’t expire just because someone does. Almost twelve years later, Pawpaw is still part of who I am, still woven into my life in ways time can’t undo.

Happy birthday, Pawpaw. You are still missed. Still loved. Always remembered.

Blessings y’all – Amy

The Power of Getting Healthy

As a nation we spend our time running from one activity to the next – keeping our calendars so full that we never catch our breath – and the consequence of that is shoving every emotion and every thing we need to deal with on a shelf until the shelf, well, breaks. Most often breaks at an inopportune time that blows your life apart. When things erupt that trigger some emotion we find someone or something to blame it on so that we can move on without digging into the feeling. In the narcissistic society we live in it’s always someone else’s fault – even in situations we ourselves created. We cut people from our lives who push our buttons or make us feel more than we want to.

I know because I’ve done it. I learned it from my family and I taught it to mine. We tell ourselves it’s because they will “never” change and we “just can’t” handle them anymore. In reality it’s because we have our own growth to do it and THAT work is simply too hard. That work is uncomfortable. That work may fracture relationships that we shouldn’t have been in to begin with. We tell ourselves it’s the best thing for our family….in actuality we’re perpetuating the cycle. We’re teaching our kids to do the same running from instead of dealing with as we learned.

The thing is? When you do the work…when you find a doctor, counselor, mentor who is actually really qualified to help you…ooohhh let me tell you. That place? That healthy place where you can tell someone right then when they hurt your feelings or have a conflict? THAT is gold. That is a healing place that if we all learned how to find there wouldn’t be these hairline fractures under all our feet that is dividing our country.

The great part is that work also heals relationships. It puts people back in your life that those old voices were keeping away. It allows you to see people for who they are not for who/what all the history told you they were. THAT work takes away all the broken and clogged mental filters and just brings back clarity and sunshine.

It’s not a magic pill. It’s not an overnight change. It’s always a work in progress. As much as I’ve learned about myself in the last two years I still have days I log onto the counseling session in tears because I can’t unravel the complicated threads of my mind. But, you see, those threads don’t get nearly as tangled as they used to. I have tools now that I can use to help me come out of the dark places. I have the power to choose what I allow to rattle me and when I say “so what?”.

That is the best part. The power of getting healthy is that no one else ever has the power over me again. No one else has the power over my feelings. The power to make me feel small or like a bad person. Getting healthy means I know who I am, what my strengths and weaknesses are, and who I will and won’t allow into my healthy space. It allows me to cut through the bullshit games and be great when I know I’m where I need to be.

That’s the place I want to be in this second chapter of my life.

Blessings y’all – Amy