life – The Wandering Turtle

Somewhere Between Europe and Real Life

A month ago, Tim and I were wandering through Europe without a care in the world. We were waking up in new places, deciding what we wanted to see that day, eating incredible food, exploring places we had dreamed about visiting, and living in that strange little travel bubble where the rest of life feels very far away. Work still existed somewhere across an ocean, responsibilities were waiting for us at home, and real life certainly hadn’t disappeared, but for a couple of weeks we had the luxury of being removed from most of it. We were together almost constantly, our biggest decisions involved where we wanted to go next or what sounded good for dinner, and there was something wonderfully simple about our days.

It is honestly hard to wrap my brain around the fact that was only a month ago, because life since we came home has felt completely different. Almost immediately I got sick, which meant I never really had that gradual transition back into normal life that you hope for after a big trip. Instead, it felt like we landed, unpacked our suitcases, and walked straight into a season of change. Both of our jobs have shifted dramatically in a very short amount of time, and we have both been trying to adjust to new expectations, new responsibilities, and workplaces that seem to be changing faster than either of us can fully process. There has been a lot of uncertainty, a lot of mental noise, and more than a few days when both of us have gotten home already depleted before the evening even started.

One of the biggest adjustments for me has been Tim going back into an office. The entire time we have been together, he has worked from home, so without me ever really thinking about it, his being there became part of the rhythm of my life. I was the one who left in the morning, and he was the one who was home when I came back. No matter what kind of day I had, I knew that when I pulled into the driveway, he would be inside. There was comfort in that predictability that I never fully appreciated until it changed, and I have discovered that I really, really hate coming home to an empty house.

It isn’t that I can’t be alone or that I need someone there every second of the day. It is simply that after years of one routine, the absence of it feels bigger than I expected. I will walk into the house and immediately notice the quiet. There is no one to tell the ridiculous story from my day to while I am putting my things down, no familiar presence in the next room, and no little transition point between work and home that I had apparently come to rely on far more than I realized. On the days when Tim is dealing with his own work drama and gets home later than usual, that empty stretch of evening feels even longer. I miss him in a way that almost feels silly because he is just at work, but I think what I really miss is the rhythm we had before all of this changed.

At the same time, another part of our everyday life has shifted with my mother-in-law and her twin sister moving closer to us while we were in Europe. We are genuinely glad to have them nearby, but it has still been an adjustment simply because they are now part of the geography of our daily lives in a way they weren’t before. They are settling into new homes, learning a new community, navigating all the little things that come with a move, and we are naturally more involved now because we are close enough to be. There isn’t anything negative about that, but like every other change happening at the moment, it has altered the shape of our routines and added another new layer to a life that already feels like it is being rewritten in real time.

None of these things, taken individually, are necessarily bad. Tim’s job changes come with opportunity. Having family closer is something we wanted. Coming home from an incredible trip is hardly a hardship. Even changes at work are simply part of life sometimes. The problem is that life rarely hands you change one neat piece at a time. It stacks everything together. Add getting sick as soon as we got home, high levels of anxiety, too little sleep, shifting work responsibilities, new routines, and the general whiplash of returning from a long trip, and suddenly even perfectly normal changes can start to feel enormous.

I have felt more anxious than usual lately, and sleep has not been helping. There have been too many mornings when I wake up already tired and too many evenings when I feel like my nervous system has had enough before the day is actually over. There are nights when Tim and I are finally sitting in the same room together and I still feel like I miss him, which sounds ridiculous until I realize I am not necessarily missing the person sitting beside me. I am missing the ease we had before everything got so loud. I am missing the version of our life where I knew exactly what our days looked like, where I knew he would be home when I got there, and where we had enough energy left at the end of the day to actually enjoy each other instead of simply recovering beside each other.

That is probably the strangest part of all of this. Nothing catastrophic happened. There was no single moment when life blew apart. It was more like a hundred small things changed at once, and eventually I looked around and realized that the familiar rhythm we had before Europe was gone. Meanwhile, the pictures on my phone are still full of Rome and Santorini and Barcelona, of the two of us laughing and wandering around beautiful places without thinking much beyond whatever we were doing that day. It feels almost impossible that those photos are only weeks old when the life we came home to feels so far removed from the people in them.

Maybe that is why this season has felt so disorienting. Travel gives you this temporary pause button where you step outside your normal life, and for a little while you get to exist without quite so many of the things that usually pull at you. Then you come home expecting to slide back into the life you left, only to discover that life kept moving while you were gone. Jobs changed. Routines changed. Family dynamics shifted. Your body got tired. Your brain got overwhelmed. Suddenly you are standing in your own kitchen wondering how a month ago you were in another country without a care in the world and now you cannot seem to figure out what day it is or why you are so exhausted.

I think what I am learning is that there may not be an old normal waiting for us to return to. We may simply be in the process of building a new one. Tim and I are figuring out what his new work schedule looks like for us, how my own work changes fit into our lives, what it means to have family closer, and how to protect some sense of peace when both of us are being pulled in multiple directions. We are learning new rhythms whether we wanted to or not, and I am trying to give myself a little more grace about the fact that I haven’t adjusted to all of it as quickly as I thought I should.

A month ago, our days were filled with new countries, beautiful views, long meals, and the freedom to wander. Today, our lives look a lot more like alarm clocks, work stress, errands, family, responsibilities, and two tired people trying to reconnect at the end of the day. As different as those two versions of our life seem, they are both part of the same story. One is the adventure we dreamed about, and the other is the life we are building together.

I think for now, that is enough. I do not need to force everything to feel settled immediately or pretend that I am handling every change gracefully. I can admit that I miss the way things were, miss the version of us that had nowhere to be except wherever we wanted to wander next, and still trust that eventually this new season will stop feeling quite so unfamiliar. Tim and I have found our rhythm before, through much harder things than this, and I know we will find it again. We are just somewhere in the messy middle right now, trying to remember that not every season is meant to feel comfortable while you are living through it.

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 Pressure of Free Time…

There’s a very specific kind of giddiness that comes with a long weekend as an adult. It starts sometime around Thursday afternoon, when you realize there’s an extra day sitting out there waiting for you. By Friday, it feels full of possibility in a way regular weekends never quite do. One extra day somehow tricks your brain into believing you suddenly have time to become fully rested, productive, creative, organized, and caught up on life, friends, and family all at once.

The mental list starts building almost immediately. You’re going to sew. Clean out a closet. Take a nap. Water the plants. Sit outside with a glass of wine and actually relax for once. Maybe read. Maybe organize. Maybe do absolutely nothing for a little while and not feel guilty about it.

But somewhere between all the possibilities and all the pressure we quietly place on ourselves, the long weekend starts feeling less restful and more overwhelming.

At least it’s that way for me.

Because instead of simply enjoying the extra time, my brain starts trying to carefully distribute it. Even now it’s sitting here whirring trying to figure out what I’m going to jump off this chair and get done. If I spend the afternoon sewing, I probably should’ve been productive. If I spend the day cleaning and organizing, I’ll feel disappointed that I never actually rested. If I sit still too long, I start mentally calculating all the things I “should” be doing instead. If I worked a little Monday somehow my week next week won’t be so bad. And somehow having too many choices leaves me oddly stuck, drifting from one thing to another without ever fully settling into any of them.

Then suddenly it’s Monday evening. The weekend is over. The house still isn’t completely done. Half the projects remain untouched. The rest somehow didn’t feel restful enough. And despite having an extra day off, you’re still tired and somehow emotionally unprepared to go back to work.

I think part of the problem is that many of us have forgotten how to let free time simply exist without turning it into another thing to manage well. 🙋🏻‍♀️ We approach long weekends with such high expectations. Surely this is the weekend we’ll finally catch up, recharge, reset, organize life, and become the version of ourselves who has it all together.

But maybe that’s too much pressure to place on a few open days.

The older I get, the more I think the best weekends are rarely the ones where everything gets done. They’re usually the quieter ones. The ones where you laugh a little, rest a little, wander through a project because you want to instead of because you scheduled it, and maybe sit outside at the end of the day with a glass of wine realizing you didn’t maximize every minute… but you lived in some of them.

Maybe the goal of a long weekend was never to fix our exhaustion in the first place. Maybe it was simply meant to give us a little room to breathe.

Blessings Ya’ll – Amy

Learning to Let It Unfold

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blessings y’all – Amy

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

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

Relics From The Past

Let me preface this by saying: I am not a hoarder. I’m actually deathly afraid of becoming one. But somehow, I’ve ended up with an attic full of memories (read: buckets of stuff), a garage that can’t fit both cars, and a house full of furniture that could probably tell a better life story than I can.

There’s a fine line between “sentimental” and “featured on an episode of Hoarders: Emotional Edition,” and I’m walking it.

There’s a beast of a dresser that’s been with me since the beach house days. It’s roughly 40% wood and 60% pure sentiment. One drawer sticks, another only opens if you bribe it with a candle and a soft song, and the side door swings open on its own like the ghosts of my past are trying to get my attention.

It’s heavy as sin, scuffed to oblivion, and borderline haunted—but it reminds me of a different version of myself. A different season. And no matter how many times I curse its weight while moving it (again), I just can’t bring myself to let it go.

My grandmother’s sewing table matches absolutely nothing in my house. It doesn’t even pretend to go. And I don’t sew on it—I have a modern table with wheels and storage and cupholders and probably Wi-Fi. But every time I think about getting rid of Mom’s table, I get a knot in my stomach the size of a humpback whale.

Suddenly, I’m back in her sewing room, small and wide-eyed, watching her whip up curtains, costumes, and magic with just fabric and a foot pedal. And just like that, I find yet another random corner in my house for this table that serves no purpose, clashes with everything, and will—without a doubt—outlive us all.

So why do we keep these things? Because they’re not just things—they’re time capsules. They hold memories, emotions, versions of ourselves we’re not quite ready to let go of. Letting them go feels less like decluttering and more like deleting chapters of a story—or worse, throwing away someone else’s.

And maybe, deep down, I’m clinging to the hopeful (if slightly delusional) idea that these items will mean something to my kids someday… even though, realistically, they’re probably walking through my house right now mentally cataloging what they’ll have to haul to the curb when I’m gone. Or worse—carrying the guilt of tossing it that I can’t stomach now.

I get it. I really do.

But for now—the haunted dresser, the attic full of memories, the sewing table with no purpose—they stay.

Because I remember. And that’s enough.

They remind me where I came from. They make my house feel lived-in and loved—not showroom perfect, but memory-perfect.

Blessings y’all – Amy

Vacation Hangover: A Cautionary Tale of Sunscreen, Mai Tais, and Sad Reality

You know that glorious, giddy feeling when you’re heading out on vacation? That “I’m about to become a new person who doesn’t answer emails and feels completely free of life” kind of energy? Yeah. That person is gone now. She was radiant. She had SPF in her soul. She believed in naps and mid-morning cocktails because it’s always 5 o’clock somewhere.

Now? I am a shell of a human who walks around the house spraying the hotels signature scent hoping all the amenities are in that little bottle.

I have a vacation hangover—and no, I’m not just talking about the lingering effects of drinking obnoxiously strong Mai Tais that came with pineapple on the rim and flowers in the drink. I mean the full-body grief that sets in when you trade paradise for your inbox.

Symptoms include:

Trying to greet your boss in the office with a “mahalo” and a shaka sign.
Checking your suitcase to see if sand and happiness are somehow still in there.
Wondering why no one brought you a piña colada at 10am. Again.

I had big plans, people. I was going to bring vacation-me home. She was going to cook more, stress less, and somehow figure out how to infuse paradise into her everyday life. She was going to Marie Kondo her life. She was going to do all the things on her list and live every day like it was a cruise buffet breakfast.

Instead, I came home and immediately fell face first into month end at work and a folder with 100 invoices to be entered.

The worst part is how fast it happens. One minute you’re floating in a pool with no idea what day it is. The next, you’re in traffic being tailgated and cut off by an idiot who wants to exit from the left lane at 75 mph.

I unpacked my suitcase and found:

Three swimsuits
A full bag of laundry
And my dignity – still on vacation apparently

Here’s the thing: I love traveling. I love escaping. But re-entry into regular life should come with some kind of emotional parachute. Maybe a transitional period where I still get breakfast buffets and someone else makes my bed while I sob softly into a beach towel.

I’ve considered writing a letter to my vacation destination. Something like:

Dear Paradise, I miss you. I miss waking up to the sound of waves instead of construction in my neighborhood. I miss tan lines and fruity drinks. I miss housekeeping. Take me back…please? I can change. But until teleportation becomes a thing, I’ll just be here. Drinking sad weak rum and cokes. Scrolling back through vacation pictures every five minutes looking for that feeling. Searching for flights I can’t afford.

And maybe… just maybe… shaking the sand out of my shoes and smiling a little. Because even though the vacation is over, the stories, and the glow? Those stay with me.

Forever. Or at least until the next trip.

Lesson Learned: Next time, schedule an extra day off after you get back. Or just move to the beach and open a hammock store. Either way.

Blessings Y’all – Amy

Hawaii Stole My Heart

From the sun-kissed sand that sparkles both onshore and beneath the waves, to the breathtaking sunrises and sunsets—and every unforgettable moment in between—I’m pretty sure I left a piece of my soul in Hawaii. I honestly can’t remember ever falling so completely in love with a place. There were a few moments when I think Tim wasn’t entirely sure he’d get me on the plane to come home! Truth be told, I seriously considered finding a local realtor while we were there. I may have just discovered my retirement destination. I’m fairly confident Tim and I could work out a schedule like the whales—summers in Alaska, and the rest of the year in paradise.

We stayed at the Royal Hawaiian in Waikiki, and for our first trip, it was absolutely perfect. Everything was within walking distance, and there was never a shortage of things to do. That said, I think next time we might opt for somewhere a bit more remote—maybe the North Shore—for a different pace and feel. We had intentionally left some gaps in our itinerary so we could go with the flow when the mood struck, but we also made sure to plan a few dedicated beach days, even going so far as to pre-rent umbrellas in the hotel’s reserved beach section.

I think the days I spent playing in the water were probably my favorite—though the day our private guide took us to a hidden local beach might top the list. That’s where I sat and watched my beloved sea turtles until Tim finally made us leave because I was burning in the sun. You all know I’ve always been obsessed with sea turtles, but seeing them in their natural habitat was absolutely magical. Watching them effortlessly move with the ocean’s rhythm—their sheer size, their grace—it took my breath away. That moment is forever etched in my memory. Honestly, I think we could all learn a thing or two from sea turtles about how to roll with the waves of life.

I’ve never really been one to spend much time playing in the sand and surf, even with my lifelong love for the ocean. In the back of my mind, I’m always aware that I’m not a strong swimmer—and just how powerful the ocean really is. But the water at our hotel was something else. I could walk way out and still only be in water up to my hips. The ocean was, of course, salty—I told Tim I needed a margarita to go with all that salt while we were splashing around—but it was so incredibly clear. And in the afternoons, when the sand got stirred up, it sparkled beneath the surface like glitter. Absolute magic.

View from the water looking back at our hotel

Of course, we met some truly kind souls at the hotel bar—because you know me, I never go anywhere without picking up a new friend or two. Despite the volume of guests they serve every day, each of the bartenders made us feel genuinely welcome and right at home. I also discovered that Mai Tais aren’t really my thing… but a blended coconut mojito? Absolutely my jam. And definitely a certified nap inducer!

I had some fish tacos that were surprisingly delicious—especially considering how far we were from the South—and I’m pretty sure I ate my weight in pineapple over the course of the week. I’ve never had pineapple that good in my life. It got to the point where I was asking for a plate of it as my breakfast side every morning. And funnily enough, despite eating and drinking whatever I wanted, I came home a few pounds lighter. Tim says it’s because we were so active… but I think it’s more likely my body was just in its happy place. LOL.

Tim’s promised we’ll go back—and soon—but for now, I’m content to channel a little Hawaiian magic into some corner of the house and keep dreaming about the day we return. If you haven’t been yet, do yourself a favor: book the plane ticket. It’s truly a magical place.

Blessings y’all – Amy

At The Intersection of Joy & Grief

I made a decision about a month or so ago that I was slowly going to come off the anti-depressants I’ve been on since PawPaw died. That we maxed out after Fred died and had to change completely during COVID because they weren’t working. I’ve reached a chapter in my life where I have such a strong support system and I’ve done so much work in counseling I felt like it was time.

But it’s that time of year again. The month or so I spend holding my breath each day as I open TimeHop and each time I talk to my kids. The memories of him that are in my oldest daughter’s smile, in my son’s laugh, or in my youngest daughter’s tender heart. The anniversary of Fred’s passing is today and, as this new season of my life progresses, the time of year I am so besieged with emotions I can barely sort them.

Guilt is constant because I have found joy again. I wouldn’t ever want the kids to think I’ve forgotten the life we had with their dad. Yet I made a promise to Fred that I wouldn’t be sad too long and that I would marry again. Grief because no matter what I still miss him. Confusion over missing him when I have a man in my life now that loves me to a depth that is indescribable. Sadness because he’s missing out on momentous occasions in my children’s lives. Our first grandchild will make an appearance in September and I know his presence will be missed even more than it already is.

I know that it’s been long enough since he’s been gone that most days I choose joy. I choose to thank God each morning when I do my prayers for the life I have now and the blessings he’s given me. On days like today I feel like I’m standing at an intersection of joy and grief and while I know I need to choose joy more today than any other day the sadness of grief is so deep it’s hard not to give in to it.

Trying to focus on joy I think back to that last “perfect” Lanford Saturday we shared with Fred. It was May 20, 2017 and Fred had been home from the hospital for about a month. It was one of those days where none of us could sit still and were so joyous from having gotten Fred through rehab and home that we just wanted to be out in the world. It was still spring and the weather was gorgeous. We spend the day doing some of our most favorite things. We went to Grapevine and had wine and snacks on Main Street. It was Main Street days in downtown Grapevine and we wandered around different booths for quite a while. The kids each got to have a cast made of their hand holding their dads. Something we didn’t know how very soon would be an irreplaceable treasure from the day. We finished in Grapevine around 3 pm and by 6 pm were back out headed to go see live music at The Truck Yard. With Tigre in tow.

Those are the days I look back on and remember how very much he lived during his time on earth. Those are the days I hope bring a smile to each of my kids when they are sad. And that is the Fred I remember with a heavy heart on the days I am sad. He was a good man. He gave me my family and for that I will forever be grateful.

If you have a favorite Fred memory I’d love to hear it today.

Blessings – Amy