growth – The Wandering Turtle

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

Clapping for Myself

For years I’ve been the person who circles birthdays and work anniversaries or sets email reminders for the bosses. I make sure the cards get passed around, that everyone has a chance to sign them, that no one is accidentally overlooked. It’s one of those small, invisible things that helps people feel seen and important to us. Ironically, this past Saturday marked my own fifteen-year anniversary with the company, and while there was a card because that’s what we do, no one actually remembered that it was fifteen years.

I’ll admit, it hurt more than I expected.

Not because I wanted a party or a speech or some grand display of appreciation. Fifteen years just feels significant. It’s not one project or one busy season or one good year. It’s fifteen years of showing up. Fifteen years of solving problems, learning new systems, adapting to new leadership, celebrating victories, surviving disappointments, and quietly carrying responsibilities that rarely fit neatly into a job description. When I stop to think about everything the last fifteen years has held for me it makes me want to weep.

For most of the weekend, I found myself waiting for someone to notice. Someone to say, “Fifteen years…that’s a long time. Congratulations.” When that moment didn’t come until I reminded someone this morning, I realized how easy it is to let other people become the keepers of our accomplishments. We wait for someone else to decide whether what we’ve done was meaningful enough to acknowledge.

But maybe that’s asking other people to do a job that belongs to us.

No one else has lived my fifteen years. No one else knows the mornings I walked into the office carrying burdens no one could see. No one else remembers every challenge, every deadline, every difficult conversation, every time I stayed because leaving wasn’t an option. No one else saw the tears shed in the car on the way home or behind a closed door. I know what those years cost me. I also know what they taught me. If anyone is qualified to decide whether they were worth celebrating, it’s me.

I’ve spent much of my life believing that recognition had to come from somewhere outside myself. A promotion. A compliment. A thank-you. A remembered anniversary. Those things are wonderful when they happen, but they’re unreliable places to build your sense of worth. People get busy. Calendars get full. Good intentions get lost. If I leave my value in someone else’s hands, I’ll spend far too much of my life waiting. I already have spent too much of my life waiting.

So this year I’m choosing something different. I’m choosing to tell myself congratulations. I’m choosing to recognize the woman who kept showing up, even when it was the hardest thing to do. I’m choosing to honor the years of faithfulness, resilience, and perseverance that no one else fully witnessed because I was the one living them. There is something surprisingly freeing about realizing that I don’t need permission to be proud of myself.

Maybe that’s one of the gifts that comes with experience. We eventually learn that while it’s wonderful to be celebrated by others, it’s just as important to become someone who can celebrate herself.

So here’s to fifteen years in one place – through storms and life’s ugly curveballs. Good job!! You built a career one ordinary day at a time. You weathered seasons that would have made other people quit. You kept going when it would have been easier not to. Whether anyone else remembered the milestone or not, it was real.

And that’s worth celebrating.

Blessings y’all – Amy

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

The Sunday Scaries

I’ve spent a lot of time lately thinking about the Sunday scaries and wondering why they seem to hit me harder than they used to. It’s a strange phenomenon because nothing has actually happened yet. The work week hasn’t started. No difficult conversations have occurred. No crises have landed in my inbox. And yet, sometime on Sunday afternoon, I can feel my body begin preparing for battle.

My shoulders tighten first. Then comes the restlessness. I’ll find myself unable to fully enjoy whatever I’m doing because my mind has already left the weekend and started living in Monday. By Sunday evening, my thoughts are racing ahead through the entire week, trying to anticipate every possible problem that could arise. A difficult meeting becomes a catastrophe. A simple conversation becomes a confrontation. A challenge becomes a disaster before it has even had a chance to exist.

What fascinates me is how convincing these fears feel in the moment. As I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep, every worry seems completely reasonable. My brain presents each one as an urgent issue that requires immediate attention. Surely if I think about it long enough, I can solve it before it happens. Surely if I prepare for every possible outcome, I can somehow protect myself from disappointment, stress, or conflict.

The problem is that by the time Monday arrives, I’ve often lived through the week once already. I’ve attended the meetings in my head. I’ve had the arguments. I’ve received the criticism. I’ve rehearsed the failures. My body responds as though these things have already happened, even though they exist only in the stories my mind has created.

I’ve often heard people say that anxiety is worrying about things that will probably never happen. While there is certainly truth in that, I’ve realized that explanation has never fully resonated with me. Part of what makes the Sunday scaries so difficult is that life has taught me that not every fear is irrational.

There have been moments in my life when the thing I was worried about actually happened. There have been phone calls I didn’t want to answer, conversations I dreaded having, and losses I desperately hoped I could somehow avoid. Some of the hardest chapters of my life arrived after periods of knowing they might be coming. When you’ve lived through enough heartbreak, enough uncertainty, and enough grief, your brain begins to believe that its job is to stay one step ahead of pain.

Looking back, I can see how that survival instinct developed. If I can anticipate every possible outcome, maybe I won’t be blindsided. If I can identify every risk, maybe I can prevent disaster. If I stay alert enough, perhaps I can keep the people I love safe and protect myself from being hurt again.

The problem is that a mind trained to watch for genuine threats doesn’t always know the difference between a life-changing crisis and an ordinary Monday morning. It responds to an upcoming meeting with the same vigilance it once reserved for truly difficult seasons. It treats uncertainty as danger. It mistakes worry for preparation and anxiety for control.

What I’ve started to understand is that my Sunday scaries aren’t really about the week ahead. They’re about my relationship with uncertainty. They are the result of a mind that desperately wants guarantees in a world that refuses to provide them.

The irony is that all those hours spent worrying never actually give me what I’m looking for. They don’t make me more prepared. They don’t eliminate risk. They don’t provide certainty. They simply rob me of the one thing I actually possess in that moment, which is the Sunday evening sitting right in front of me.

While anxiety constantly reminds me that difficult things are possible, experience has taught me something equally important. I’ve survived every difficult season that has come my way. I’ve survived grief. I’ve survived loss. I’ve survived disappointment, uncertainty, conflict, and change. Not because I successfully predicted every outcome, but because when life demanded something of me, I found a way through it.

Maybe that’s the lesson I’m slowly learning.

The goal isn’t to convince myself that nothing bad will ever happen. Life has already proven otherwise. The goal is to trust myself enough to know that whatever happens, I will deal with it when it arrives. I don’t need to carry the entire week before it begins. I don’t need to solve Wednesday’s problems on Sunday evening. I don’t need to sacrifice today’s peace in an attempt to purchase tomorrow’s safety.

The truth is that this moment deserves my attention just as much as whatever waits for me tomorrow. The conversation with my husband. The dog curled up nearby. The last few quiet hours of the weekend. The sunset outside the window. These things are real. The disasters my mind is rehearsing are, for the most part, only possibilities.

Monday will come whether I worry about it or not. The week will unfold in ways I can predict and in ways I can’t. What I can control is whether I spend Sunday evening living the life that is actually happening or preparing for one that may never arrive.

And if experience has taught me anything, it’s this: I am far stronger than my anxiety gives me credit for. The same strength that carried me through the hardest days of my life is still here. I don’t need to spend Sunday night rehearsing every possible disaster to be ready for whatever this week brings.

Blessings Y’all – Amy

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