Tag: emotional

When Something Wonderful Still Feels Heavy

We leave for Europe soon. A trip I have dreamed about, planned for, saved for, talked about, researched, and looked forward to for what feels like forever. There are incredible things waiting for us on the other side of that flight. Places I have never seen. Food I cannot wait to try. Streets I want to wander. Memories Tim and I have been planning to make together. I know how fortunate I am to be going, and I know this is supposed to be exciting. And yet, right now, excitement is having a hard time finding room to breathe.

I feel raw and numb in the aftermath of saying goodbye to Joy. Somehow those two things can exist together. I can feel like every nerve ending is exposed and, at the same time, like part of me has gone completely quiet. The house feels different without her. Our routines are different without her. Even preparing to leave feels different because there is one little soul missing from the equation. I think grief does that. It quietly changes the shape of everything, even things that seemingly have nothing to do with the loss.

Then there are Lilah and Reba. I watch them and wonder what they understand. I wonder if they are grieving Joy too, or simply confused by another change in their world. And now the suitcases are out, which means they know something else is happening. They know those suitcases mean we leave. Maybe I am projecting some of my own anxiety onto them, but every time I look at them, I worry. Are they okay? Will they be okay while we are gone? Do they feel unsettled? Do they know we are coming back? I wish there were some way to explain all of it to them.

And apparently my brain has decided that worrying about our dogs isn’t enough. There are so many things happening in life around us right now that I cannot control. Situations involving people I love. Decisions that aren’t mine to make. Things that could change while we are thousands of miles away. I keep thinking about how removed I will be if something happens, as though being physically closer somehow gives me control I don’t actually have anyway.

That may be the hardest part for me to admit. I like knowing what is happening. I like being available. I like believing that if something goes sideways, I can step in, make a phone call, solve a problem, help somebody, or at least be present. Europe puts an ocean between me and all of that. Maybe that is part of what my anxiety is really fighting—the reminder that being nearby has never actually made me the one in control.

My body seems determined to remind me of everything my brain is carrying. I am not sleeping. My heart races when I think about leaving. I have a constant nagging feeling that I have forgotten something important. I mentally run through lists: passports, clothes, reservations, medications, dogs, work, family, flights, transfers, excursions, chargers, money—and somehow I still come away convinced there is something I haven’t thought of. It is anxiety’s favorite trick: convincing you there is one more disaster hiding just outside your field of vision if you would only worry hard enough to find it.

So I am trying to talk myself back from the ledge a little at a time. I am reminding myself that this is a dream trip. I am reminding myself how much Tim and I have planned and how excited we have been. I am reminding myself that there are beautiful moments ahead of us that I don’t want to miss because I spent them mentally standing back home in Texas. I want to look up. I want to see Europe instead of staring at my phone waiting for something to go wrong. I want to eat the food, wander the streets, take the pictures, laugh with my husband, stand somewhere impossibly beautiful and realize, We are actually here.

Maybe I don’t have to feel completely okay before I go. Maybe I can board the plane grieving Joy, miss Lilah and Reba before we’ve even left them, worry about the people I love, and still allow myself to experience something wonderful. Maybe gratitude and grief are not opposites. Maybe excitement and anxiety can sit beside each other for a while. Maybe I don’t have to solve every problem, anticipate every possibility, or make sure the entire world is perfectly settled before I allow myself to leave it for sixteen days.

Because the truth is, life will keep happening whether I am standing here trying to supervise it or walking through Rome with Tim. And perhaps part of this trip is going to be learning to let it.

Right now, I am still spiraling a little. I am still waking up with that uneasy feeling that there is something I should be doing. I am still looking at Joy’s absence, Lilah and Reba’s faces, the suitcases on the floor, and the seemingly endless list in my head and wondering how I am supposed to simply walk out the door. But I will. I will double-check the passports. I will probably check them again. I will hug the dogs far too many times. I will worry. I will cry. I will get on the plane anyway.

And somewhere on the other side of all this heaviness, there is a trip Tim and I have dreamed about waiting for us. I don’t want anxiety to convince me that I have to choose between caring deeply about everything I am leaving behind and being fully present for everything waiting ahead. I think there is room in my heart for both.

Blessings Y’all – Amy

The Price Tag of Love

There is a quote that says, “Grief is the price we pay for love.” I’ve thought about that a lot over the years. The older I get, the more I think grief isn’t a bill you pay once and move on from. It’s a weight you agree to carry for the rest of your life because, at some point, someone or something was worth loving.

People often talk about “getting over” grief, but I don’t think that’s how it works. We don’t get over the people we’ve loved. We don’t wake up one day and realize the ache has disappeared. Instead, we become stronger at carrying it. At first, the weight is crushing. Every memory catches you off guard, every quiet moment reminds you of what is missing, and tears come without permission. Then, little by little, life keeps moving. The world assumes you’ve found your footing again.

But grief doesn’t leave. It simply becomes quieter.

I think that’s the hardest part. In the beginning, grief is loud. Later, it becomes something you carry privately. You smile. You go to work. You answer emails. You laugh at dinner. All while carrying the invisible weight of someone—or in my case this week, someone with four paws—who isn’t there anymore.

Joy has occupied so much of my heart these last few years. Caring for an elderly dog meant slowing down, rearranging routines, lifting her when her legs couldn’t carry her, celebrating small victories, and quietly wondering when love would require the hardest act of kindness. Now the house is quieter. There isn’t a little nose nudging for the cheese tax or tiny paws following me from room to room. Her snoring doesn’t fill the room at night anymore. Those little interruptions that once filled the day have become the loudest reminders of her absence.

And somehow, losing Joy doesn’t just make me miss Joy.

It brings Fred back to my heart. It reminds me of Hope. Of grandparents. Of every goodbye I’ve ever had to say. That’s the strange thing about grief—it never seems to travel alone. Every new loss reaches back and gently touches the old ones, reminding you that your heart has been here before. The weight isn’t just today’s sadness; it’s every goodbye you’ve ever learned to carry. It’s a reminder there are more goodbyes in our future with Lilah, Reba, and aging family.

If I’m honest, I’m tired of saying goodbye.

It feels like so much of my life has been marked by endings. People I wasn’t ready to lose. Pets who gave me every ounce of loyalty they had. Seasons of life that slipped away before I was ready to let them go. Sometimes I wonder how many times one heart can break before it simply grows accustomed to the ache.

But maybe that’s because love doesn’t disappear either.

The heart doesn’t make room for someone new by pushing someone else out. It stretches. Every person, every dog, every season we love leaves fingerprints on who we become. So when we grieve, we aren’t just mourning their absence. We’re carrying the shape they left behind inside us.

If grief really is the price tag of love, then I suppose I wouldn’t ask for a refund. The cost has been unbearably high at times, but so was the privilege of loving them in the first place. The more it hurts the more you know you truly loved them.

Maybe healing isn’t about learning to let go at all. Maybe it’s about learning to carry every goodbye with enough grace that it no longer keeps us from loving again. The weight never disappears. It simply becomes part of who we are—a quiet reminder that a life filled with grief is also a life that has been filled with extraordinary love.

Blessings Y’all – Amy

Loving Her Enough to Let Her Go

I’ve spent the last several months carrying around a weight that I haven’t wanted to name. It’s the kind of weight that sits in the pit of your stomach when you know a decision is coming, but saying it out loud somehow makes it real. We have made the decision to let Joy go next week, and while I know in my heart it is the kindest thing we can do for her, that knowledge hasn’t quieted the anxiety. If anything, it has made it louder.

Everyone says you’ll know when it’s time, but I don’t think that’s entirely true. There isn’t a flashing sign that suddenly appears or a single moment where everything changes. Instead, it happens so gradually that you find yourself questioning every day. She still gets excited when she sees us. She still demands the cheese tax. She still wants to be as close to Tim and me as she can possibly get. But then there are the other moments. The hesitation to be up on the bed or couch that are happening more often. The hips that no longer wants to cooperate. The accidents that seem to embarrass her more than they inconvenience us. The breathing that has become more labored. The off-putting smell on her fur because she can no longer keep herself as clean as she once did. None of those moments, by themselves, feel like enough. Together, though, they paint a picture that I’ve been trying desperately not to look at.

The hardest part of loving a dog is that we eventually have to decide whether we’re holding on because they’re still living, or because we aren’t ready to imagine life without them. Dogs will endure far more discomfort than we ever realize if it means staying by our side. They don’t complain. They don’t tell us they’re tired. They simply keep choosing us, even when their little bodies are failing them. That means the responsibility falls to us, and I think that’s one of the cruelest gifts they leave behind.

Joy has another layer to her story that makes this goodbye even harder. She wasn’t just my dog. She was Fred’s dog.

When I look through old pictures of her, I’m reminded that she has quietly carried pieces of my entire adult life. One of my favorite photos is from Christmas, with Fred wrapped in strands of colorful lights while Joy sat happily in his lap looking like she had somehow orchestrated the whole thing. It’s such a silly picture, but it captures everything about those years. Joy adored him, and he adored her. She was there for ordinary evenings, Christmas mornings, road trips, and all the little moments that never seemed important enough to photograph because we assumed there would be thousands more.

When Fred died, Joy lost someone too.

She couldn’t understand why he never came home – spent days sitting in his chair with his blanket when he was gone – but somehow she stayed beside me while I learned how to navigate a life I never expected to have. Through every hard day, every new beginning, every tear, and eventually every smile, Joy remained. Somewhere along the way, she learned to love Tim too. He never tried to replace what she had lost. He simply loved her where she was, and she made room for him in that tiny heart. Watching that happen has been one of the sweetest reminders that love doesn’t erase what came before. It simply grows large enough to hold someone new.

As we’ve talked about this decision over the last few days, I keep thinking about our upcoming trip to Europe. For weeks I found myself praying that she wouldn’t leave while we were gone because I couldn’t bear the thought of her final moments happening without us. In some ways, I think she made the decision for us. She has been telling us, gently and faithfully, that she’s getting tired. The clinginess. The falls. The slowing down. The quiet surrender of all the little things that once came so easily. Maybe loving her now means listening instead of asking her to keep trying.

There is something profoundly unfair about the fact that dogs give us every single piece of themselves, yet their lives are so much shorter than ours. Almost sixteen years somehow feels both incredibly long and impossibly short. She’s been here through two marriages, through unimaginable grief, through healing I never thought possible, through new beginnings, new homes, new routines, and all the ordinary Tuesdays in between. She isn’t just losing her life next week. An entire chapter of mine is quietly coming to an end with her.

I know there will be people who say, “She had a good, long life,” and they’re right. She did. But that doesn’t make saying goodbye easier. Gratitude and grief have never canceled each other out. In fact, I think the deeper the gratitude, the deeper the grief becomes. We don’t mourn because we were cheated. We mourn because we were blessed.

So next week, my heart will break a little more. It will be another goodbye to another beloved fur baby. It will stir up memories I haven’t visited in years. It will remind me of the husband who first placed this little dog into my life, and it will remind me how fortunate I have been to have another man willing to love her just as fiercely. Most of all, it will remind me that the greatest promise we make to our pets isn’t that we’ll keep them alive forever. It’s that we’ll protect them, even when protecting them means accepting heartbreak ourselves.

Joy has spent nearly sixteen years giving us everything she had. Next week, our final act of love will be giving her peace. And as impossible as that feels today, I hope that someday, when the ache isn’t quite so sharp, I’ll be able to look back and know that this wasn’t the day we stopped loving her. It was the day we loved her enough to let her go.

The Songs That Hit Deep

A few weekends ago, I was on a girls’ trip in the Texas Hill Country. We were driving down a two-lane highway, the kind that stretches out in front of you with no particular urgency, and Cody Johnson was blasting through the speakers. My best friend and I were singing at the top of our lungs, laughing, missing half the words, and completely unconcerned with how ridiculous we sounded. It was one of those simple moments that doesn’t feel significant at the time, yet somehow you know you’ll remember it forever.

As the miles rolled by, I found myself paying attention to two songs in particular: ‘Til You Can’t and The Fall. Not because they were new to me, but because certain songs seem to evolve as we do. They mean one thing when we’re young and convinced we have all the time in the world, and something entirely different after life has taught us otherwise.

If you got a chance, take it, take it while you got a chance
If you got a dream, chase it, ’cause a dream won’t chase you back
If you’re gonna love somebody
Hold ’em as long and as strong and as close as you can
‘Til you can’t

Loss has a way of changing the lens through which you see everything. Before grief, songs about taking chances, loving deeply, and embracing life can feel inspiring. After grief, they feel urgent. They become reminders that none of us know how much time we have with the people we love or how quickly the life we know can change. For those of us who have buried someone we never wanted to lose, those messages aren’t theoretical. They’re lived experience.

There was a time in my life when I would have given almost anything to avoid the storm that was coming. If someone had offered me a glimpse into the future and shown me the heartbreak, the fear, the sleepless nights, and the years of learning how to carry grief, I would have begged for a different path. I would have chosen certainty over pain every single time.

But somewhere between then and now, something shifted.

Sitting in that truck, singing those songs with the windows down, I realized that knowing everything I know today, I would still do it all again.

The ride was worth the fall
The fall was worth the smiles
The smiles were worth the tears
Tears were worth the miles
Miles were worth the pain
Pain was worth it all
It’s all worth this life
Life is worth the ride
The ride is worth the fall

That may sound strange to anyone who hasn’t experienced profound loss, but I suspect those who have will understand immediately. I wouldn’t choose the pain because the pain itself has value. I would choose it because the love was worth it. I would choose it because every beautiful thing that came before the loss mattered. And I would choose it because surviving that storm shaped the person I became afterward.

If I hadn’t lived through those years, I wouldn’t have the life I have today. I wouldn’t be Tim’s wife. I wouldn’t be the mother I am. I wouldn’t be a Mimi, experiencing a kind of joy that my younger self couldn’t even imagine. I wouldn’t have learned that people can break into a thousand pieces and somehow still find a way to rebuild. I wouldn’t understand how grief and gratitude can occupy the same space, each making the other more visible.

The truth is that so much of who I am today was forged in circumstances I never would have chosen. That’s one of life’s great paradoxes. We spend so much time wishing away the hard chapters, only to discover later that they became part of the foundation for some of the most meaningful things in our lives.

Maybe that’s why those songs lingered with me long after the trip ended. They aren’t really about loss. They’re about life. They’re about recognizing that every day is an opportunity to show up fully, to love people well, to take the trip, make the call, say the words, and stop assuming there will always be another chance. They remind me that while none of us can avoid the falls, we can decide what we do with them.

As we continued down that highway, in the pouring rain, friendship, and music, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. Not gratitude for the storms themselves, but gratitude for what waited on the other side of them. Because while I would never wish those experiences on anyone, I can honestly say that the life I have today—the people I love, the perspective I’ve gained, and the joy I now recognize in ordinary moments—exists because I survived them.

Sometimes a song is just a song. And sometimes it’s a reminder that the hardest chapters of our lives don’t get the final word. Sometimes it’s a reminder that while we may not get to choose every storm, we do get to choose what we do with the life that’s waiting for us after the clouds finally clear.

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

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