thoughts

Sewing My Way to Sanity

Quilting started as a hobby. It has since evolved into emotional regulation… and an entirely unhinged fabric acquisition strategy.

When my brain feels loud and life feels like it’s happening all at once, quilting is the one thing that reliably quiets everything down. Measuring, cutting, piecing, pressing—my thoughts don’t stand a chance against a quarter-inch seam allowance.

Quilting demands just enough focus to keep me out of my own head.

You can’t spiral while trying to line up points. You can’t overthink when the fabric is actively trying to slide away from you. Quilting insists on presence, whether you’re ready for it or not.

And it’s physical in the best way.

The weight of folded fabric. The snick of the rotary cutter. The iron hissing like it’s judging you. The steady hum of the machine. It’s impossible to doom-scroll while quilting—which is unfortunate for my phone, but excellent for my nervous system.

Quilting is different than other crafts.

This isn’t instant gratification. Quilts take time. Weeks. Months. Sometimes years. Quilting teaches patience through mild frustration and repeated seam ripping. It also teaches acceptance—because at some point you decide that seam is close enough and move on with your life.

Other crafts chase perfection. Quilting gently whispers, “No one will see that once it’s quilted.”

And then there’s the fabric.

I do not have a fabric stash. I have a fabric collection. A carefully curated, emotionally significant archive of potential futures. Each piece has a purpose. Not a plan—a purpose. There is a difference.

Fabric hoarding is not about excess. It’s about preparedness.

What if I need it for this quilt? What if I never find it again? What if I don’t use it for five years but then suddenly it’s PERFECT? These are valid concerns and I will not be taking questions at this time.

Quilting humbles you regularly.

You sew something wrong. You seam rip it. You sew it wrong again. You question all your life choices. Then somehow, miraculously, it comes together. Quilting is basically resilience training with cotton.

But here’s the thing—it works.

Some days I quilt for joy.

Some days I quilt because my emotions are doing parkour.

Some days I quilt because keeping a pile of fabric organized feels easier than organizing my thoughts.

Quilting doesn’t fix everything.

But it gives my hands something steady to do while my brain sorts itself out. It reminds me that progress can be slow and still be progress. That messy pieces can become something beautiful. That it’s okay to pause, adjust, and keep going.

I didn’t mean to sew my way to sanity.

But here I am—surrounded by fabric, half-finished quilts, and the quiet comfort of knowing that if nothing else makes sense today, I can always line up another seam.

And honestly?

That—and maybe just one more yard of fabric—is enough.

Blessings y’all – 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

What’s Changed in 19 Years…

Today would have been my 19th wedding anniversary with Fred.

That sentence still lands with weight.

Not because I am stuck there. Not because I want to go back. But because love leaves fingerprints on time, and some dates never become neutral again.

Nineteen years ago, I married a man who shaped me. We built a life in the way couples do—messy, hopeful, unfinished. We grew up together. We learned who we were by learning how to be married. And when he died, that chapter didn’t close neatly. It ended mid-sentence.

Grief doesn’t respect calendars, but anniversaries have a way of knocking anyway.

What anchors me on days like today is gratitude.

Because the love we shared didn’t disappear with him. It lives on in the children he shared with me, in the family we built together, in the relationships and roots that still surround my life. I am profoundly grateful for that legacy. For the laughter that still sounds like him. For the people who carry pieces of him forward without even realizing it. For the fact I can still see his smile in our children’s. He didn’t just leave me memories—he left me a family.

And here’s the part that still feels strange to say out loud: I am deeply, fully, undeniably in love with Tim.

Not instead of loving my Fred.

Not in competition with that love.

Just… also.

For a long time, I thought love worked like a single chair—you vacate it, or you sit in it. One at a time. I didn’t understand that love is more like a house. Rooms get added. Some doors stay closed most days, but they’re still there.

Today is one of those days when an old door creaks open.

I can miss the man I lost and still laugh with the man I married.

I can honor a marriage that ended in death and still be fiercely committed to the one I’m in now.

I can feel the ache of “what would have been” without wishing away what is.

Loving my Tim does not erase my past. And remembering my Fred does not diminish my present.

That’s the juxtaposition people don’t talk about enough—the quiet coexistence.

Tim didn’t replace Fred. He met me after loss reshaped me. He loves a woman who knows how fragile life is, how precious ordinary days are, how deeply commitment can root itself in the bones. He loves me with patience on days like today, when the calendar carries more emotional weight than usual. And that love is not smaller because it came later. If anything, it is more intentional.

Grief taught me that love is not scarce. It expands. It stretches. It surprises you.

So today, I hold both truths.

I remember the man I married nineteen years ago, with gratitude—for our life, for our children, for the family he left behind that still carries me forward.

And I choose the man I wake up next to now, with joy, loyalty, and a full heart.

Both can be true.

Both are true.

And that doesn’t make love complicated.

It makes it real.

Blessings y’all – Amy

Loving Senior Dogs

Nobody tells you how quietly it happens.

One day your dog is bounding through the house, nails clicking, tail wagging so hard it knocks into furniture. And then one day you notice they hesitate before jumping on the couch. They sleep a little deeper. Their face starts to gray in places you swear were brown yesterday.

Having senior dogs is a lesson in noticing.

You notice the way walks get shorter but more intentional. The way they follow you less and watch you more. The way their eyes still light up for food, sunshine, and your voice—even when their bodies don’t cooperate the way they used to.

Senior dogs change the rhythm of your life.

Schedules revolve around medications, vet visits, special diets, and accommodations you never thought about before. Ramps replace stairs. Rugs appear where floors used to be bare. You learn where the nearest emergency vet is without thinking. You start measuring time differently—not in years, but in good days.

And yet… there is something deeply sacred about this stage.

They no longer care about impressing anyone. They aren’t interested in chaos or novelty. What they want is simple: comfort, consistency, and you. They choose their spots carefully. They soak up warmth like it’s their job. They love slower mornings and familiar routines.

Their love becomes quieter, but no less fierce.

There’s a weight to loving a senior dog because you’re always holding two truths at once. You’re grateful they’re still here, and you’re painfully aware that time is not infinite. Every limp, every off day, every vet appointment carries a question you don’t want to ask yet.

But loving them anyway—fully, intentionally—is the whole point.

Senior dogs teach you how to be present.

They teach patience when plans change. Compassion when bodies fail. Acceptance when things are out of your control. They don’t need grand gestures. They need you to show up, again and again, in the small ways: refilling the water bowl, adjusting the blanket, sitting on the floor because they can’t climb onto the couch anymore.

They give you everything they have left.

And if you’re lucky, you get to give it back to them in the form of dignity, comfort, and love at the end of their story.

Loving a senior dog is not for the faint of heart. It’s emotional. It’s expensive. It’s exhausting. And it’s absolutely worth it.

Because when they look at you—old, tired, still trusting—you realize something important:

They were never just a phase of your life.

You were their whole life.

Joy, Reba, Lilah – that is a responsibility, and an honor, I will never take lightly.

Blessings y’all – Amy

Confessions of a Spoiled Wife

I’ve hesitated to write this because “spoiled” is such a loaded word. It conjures images of entitlement, diamonds tossed aside, and someone complaining because their coffee wasn’t hot enough the third time. That’s not me.

But if we’re being honest—and this is a confessions post—I am spoiled.

Not in the flashy, reality-TV sense. I don’t live a life of excess or luxury for the sake of it. I’m spoiled in the quiet, everyday ways that don’t make for Instagram reels but absolutely shape how safe, supported, and loved I feel.

I’m spoiled because my husband notices things.

He notices when I’m overwhelmed before I say it out loud. He notices when my patience is thin, when my shoulders are tense, when I’m carrying more than I should. And instead of telling me to “relax,” he steps in. Sometimes that looks like attacking the never ending to do list we share between us. Sometimes it’s ordering dinner. Sometimes it’s just letting me be cranky without fixing me.

I’m spoiled because he encourages me to rest—even when I’m not very good at it.

I’m wired to keep going, to push through, to feel like there’s always one more thing that needs to be done. Rest doesn’t come naturally to me, and slowing down often feels uncomfortable. He sees that. And instead of rushing me or getting frustrated, he gently nudges me toward pause.

Sometimes that looks like reminding me it’s okay to sit down. Sometimes it’s handling things so I don’t feel the pressure to keep moving. And sometimes it’s just being patient while I learn how to stop without feeling guilty.

That kind of steady encouragement—the kind that doesn’t demand or expect anything in return—is its own kind of care.

I’m spoiled because my opinions matter.

I’ve always prided myself on being independent. I didn’t need help. I didn’t rely on anyone. I handled things myself, carried my own weight, and wore self-sufficiency like a badge of honor. Depending on someone felt risky—like giving up control.

And then there’s my husband.

He never asked me to be smaller or less capable. He just made it safe to lean. Little by little, he made dependence feel less like weakness and more like trust. Being able to say “I’ve got this” and “I need you” without shame has been unexpectedly freeing. He makes room for both versions of me—the strong one and the tired one—and somehow makes both feel equally valued.

Not just on the big stuff, but on the boring, everyday decisions. The tone of our life together isn’t dictated—it’s a compromise we work on all the time. I’m heard. I’m considered. I’m respected even when we disagree. Especially then.

And yes, sometimes I’m spoiled in the more obvious ways too.

Thoughtful surprises that say, I was thinking about you when you weren’t in the room. Surprise Stanleys (when we all know I don’t need any more). Over the top thoughtful gifts on the gifting occasions. Not only putting up with but encouraging my hobbies. Those things add up. They soften the edges of hard days.

But here’s the part that matters most: being spoiled doesn’t mean I don’t give back.

This isn’t a one-way street where I take and take and call it love. I show up. I carry weight. I contribute. I fight for us. I love loudly and protect fiercely. Being spoiled isn’t about imbalance—it’s about care being mutual and intentional.

I’m spoiled because my marriage is safe.

Safe to be honest. Safe to be imperfect. Safe to grow and change without fear of being punished for it.

If calling myself a spoiled wife makes someone uncomfortable, I’m okay with that. I didn’t stumble into this life by accident. I chose a partner who treats me well, and I choose him back every day.

So yes – I confess.

I’m spoiled.

And I’m incredibly grateful.

Blessings y’all – Amy

The Joys of Being a Brand-New Mimi

I’ve only been a Mimi for a short time—just four months—but somehow it already feels like a part of me that’s always existed.

Being a brand-new Mimi is a quiet kind of joy. It’s the joy of learning her rhythms, her sounds, the way her face lights up when she recognizes me. It’s lighting up like I won the lottery when a text comes in with a new video or picture. It’s realizing that even at four months old when I visit she knows exactly who I am—and that I am safe, familiar, and love her beyond measure.

There is something incredibly grounding about holding a baby who fits perfectly in the crook of your arm. About rocking her while the world slows down just enough to breathe again. In those moments, nothing else matters—not the noise, not the stress, not the endless mental lists. Just her steady breathing and the way her tiny fingers curl around mine.

At four months, everything is new. Her curiosity is wide open, and I love my front-row seat to the wonder. I get to hear the first belly laughs, the wide-eyed fascination with ordinary things, the serious concentration as she studies the world around her. Being her Mimi means I get to marvel alongside her.

This season comes with a beautiful freedom. I don’t carry the weight of being her parent—but I carry the privilege of loving her deeply. I get to support, to soothe, to show up without pressure. I get to be present in a way that feels both intentional and light. I get to watch my kids thrive as parents and be so proud of how they love and shape this little person.

There is also something unexpectedly healing about this role. Becoming a Mimi has softened parts of me I didn’t realize were still holding tension. It has reminded me that love doesn’t have to be earned or managed—it can simply be given.

I know this stage will pass quickly. Four months will turn into crawling, then walking, then running. But right now, in this small and fleeting season, I’m soaking it in—the weight of her in my arms, the sound of her laugh, the way being her Mimi feels like a gift wrapped in the quiet moments.

Being a brand-new Mimi has already changed me. And I have a feeling this joy is only just beginning.

Blessing Y’all – Amy

Choosing Intentional in the Middle of Chaos

I know we’re halfway through January and I’m just now trying to form coherent thoughts about everything that’s hit my world over the last few weeks—but bear with me.

My word for 2026 is intentional.

I intend (no pun intended) to keep that word front and center as a reminder that life only happens to me if I let it. If I hand over control of my emotions and thoughts to the things that scare me, then I’m the one who pays the biggest price. And since my emotions and thoughts have been in a pretty steady free fall since before Christmas, I clearly need that reminder.

Someone once said—at least Fred repeated it often—that when life stops changing, you get about the business of dying. I know that. Even with as much growth as I’ve had in therapy, change still rocks my world. Nothing triggers my depression and anxiety faster than everything around me shifting for reasons I didn’t choose and can’t control.

Right now, I’m standing in the middle of massive change and chaos at work and last week Lilah was diagnosed with a soft tissue sarcoma. Either one of those alone would be enough to shake me. Both together have left me struggling to function… or even want to get out of bed.

Professionally, after almost 15 years in this place, I know I’ll be fine. Eventually.

Right now? I’d rather not be around anyone. I’m not fit company, and my patience is nonexistent.

My brain feels like someone dumped a bucket of ping-pong balls inside my head and then said, “Function as you normally would.”

Sometimes in life, you just get tired of operating at 200% when everyone around you struggles to hit 75% or to care as much as you do. But slacking off isn’t how I’m wired—no matter how bad I’m struggling. That’s the thing that keeps me being overlooked. Amy will always rise to the occasion no matter what.

And that’s exhausting.

Re: Lilah.

She is my baby. The other half of my heart.

We’ve lost so much in the last year—dog-wise—to cancer. Our vet firmly believes the surgery scheduled for the 23rd will put this monster to bed, but the fear is still there. We’ve already said goodbye to Paris and Hope because cancer and tumors won.

Does anyone really blame me for being just a little resistant to the idea that everything will be rosy?

I’m not sure any of this even makes sense, but the urge to get it out of my head and into written words was stronger than my need for polish. I’m carrying so many emotions right now.

Anger is at the top of the list. I’m tired of giving everything I have and being overlooked like paint on a wall.

Worry is right there with the anger.

Fear and anxiety have joined the line.

Tim would tell you depression is here too—and I know he’s right.

But circling back to my word.

Intentional.

I’m going to be intentional about how much I give.

Intentional about what I carry.

Intentional about where my energy goes.

Intentional about protecting the parts of me that are worn thin but still standing.

I don’t have answers. I don’t have clarity. I don’t even have peace right now.

But I do have intention—and for now, that’s enough to keep me trying to move forward.

Blessings y’all – Amy

When Did We Stop Listening?

I almost never watch the news. Honestly, I can’t stand it.

But this week, during an hour-long nail appointment, the television was on. In that short time, I heard stories of a shooting at an ICE facility in Dallas, a semi-truck being pursued by police in Anaheim, and a stabbing at a school on the East Coast. And of course, you’d have to be living under a rock not to have heard about the Charlie Kirk shooting.

It struck me how much heaviness, violence, and grief can fill just sixty minutes of airtime. For me, that’s exactly why I usually avoid tuning in. Still, the stories linger, and they’ve left me chewing on something deeper: when did we stop listening?

Over the last twenty plus years, we’ve gotten very good at talking. With social media, 24-hour news, and endless platforms, everyone has a microphone, and everyone wants to be heard. But somewhere along the way, listening seems to have fallen out of practice.

When did we stop breaking bread with friends and neighbors and really trying to put ourselves in someone else’s shoes? Right, left, polka dot, or rainbow—it doesn’t matter the label. When did our brains stop stretching to see the world from another vantage point? When did the sound of our individual voices grow louder than the sound of voices bonded together—as Americans, as human beings, as family by blood or by choice?

Lately, I’ve struggled most with understanding the tragedy around Charlie Kirk. The things I’ve learned about him since his death make me wish I’d paid more attention before. But more than that, I keep coming back to his widow. Watching her carry herself with such strength in public, knowing the depth of pain and grief she must be enduring, moves me deeply. I imagine how all she must want is to pull the covers over her head and wish it all away.

And I find myself asking: when did the world become a place where taking another person’s life was seen as an acceptable way of dealing with conflict? When did celebrating the loss of someone’s husband and father become okay?

Maybe it’s age. Maybe it’s the season of life I’m in. But I feel like I see things through different glasses now. I long for a time when I could keep my babies close and not have to trust this cruel world to spare them. These days, my heart aches as I wonder where all of this is headed.

I don’t have tidy answers. But I do know this: the more cruelty I see, the more convinced I become that compassion is the only way forward. Listening doesn’t mean agreeing. It doesn’t mean silencing your own beliefs. It means making space, honoring another perspective, and remembering that life is fragile, sacred, and shared.

Maybe the first step is simple. Notice how much we talk. Notice how little we listen. And choose, in small ways, to listen again.

Because the sound of voices joined together—not in anger, not in argument, but in genuine listening—is still one of the most powerful sounds in the world.

Blessings Y’all. Pray for each other and our country.

Amy

A Little News and a Lot of Anxiety

Twenty plus years ago I was told I had Hashimoto’s. All I remember a the time was being told it was an autoimmune disorder and that I needed to make sure we kept my thyroid levels in balance. Given that I’ve been on thyroid medicine since about four months after Em was born didn’t seem life altering.

What I didn’t know over the ensuing twenty years of fighting to keep my thyroid levels stable through insurance insisting on generic thyroid medicine my body didn’t respond to (and being told I was crazy because I thought that), ups and downs in my levels due to weight gain and loss, hair loss, dry skin, and just general life was that that diagnosis meant my body was attacking itself and slowly killing off my thyroid.

In December of 2022 my company changed insurance companies. What ensued was the gluten free thyroid medicine I had finally gotten stable on for almost five years no longer being an approved medicine. Being shoved onto generic thyroid hormone that sent my body into a cycle of weight gain, hair loss, and general yuck. When Tim and I got married he did the research and we figured out how to go back to the right medicine albeit it of pocket. Though that was fall of 2023 we’ve fought all this time to get my thyroid to stabilize. Finally in February after another off kilter set of labs my GYN said “you have to see an endocrinologist”. Back story there – I hate endocrinologists. Between the fact that they are insanely smart humans usually who don’t know how to relate to you and listen to you when you talk and the one that prescribed Fred medicine and didn’t follow up on him thus leading to his kidney failure I’ve got no patience for them. My GP and GYN have managed my thyroid for years.

I procrastinated until end of February and finally got a referral sent to Tim’s endocrinologist. The ONE I actually like cause he listens to Tim and isn’t a condescending human. We expected it to be months before I could get in and after ten days without a phone call was surprised to finally get one Monday – with an opening the next day. Still calling that a God thing.

Dr. Burney walked in, sat down, and said tell me what’s up with your thyroid. IMMEDIATELY went to food…doctors don’t do that…and explained that Hashi’s patients can’t eat gluten. It inflames the gut and limits the absorption of the medicine. Do you know how many other docs had dismissed my saying I noticed a difference when I didn’t eat gluten even though I was negative for Celiac???

First change he made was saying from here on out it’s a strict gluten free diet. Also an unprocessed chemical free (whole foods) as much as possible. Hashi’s patients bodies attack foreign stuff and get inflamed and that prevents absorption of the medicine. Next up is continuing with getting some more of the weight off. The goal is to get me to ONE pill a day of the thyroid medicine so that if I’m going to pay for it out of pocket it’s not three boxes every six weeks to the tune of $185.

Then he took a look at my thyroid. It’s dead and gone. Shriveled up and fibrotic. The out of control Hashi’s has done its thing and I’ll be on the hormone therapy the rest of my life. As it has sunk it that how I feel will be a direct correlation to how I take care of myself for the rest of my life the more overwhelmed I’ve felt. Those close to me can tell you – the one thing I am worst at is taking care of me. And there is something different between choosing gluten free and being told it’s not an option anymore. As much as we travel it makes it a challenge.

I’m still exhausted, still have very little energy, and that’s as much mental exhaustion as it is physical. I have so much I want to do and right now nothing is cooperating. I am trying to lean into the amazing support that my hubby and kids are being but it’s hard. I am also angry. The ONE thyroid medicine most effective for Hashi’s patients most insurance companies don’t like and thus won’t pay for. To me that’s like saying you won’t pay for insulin for a diabetic. How dare you? Who made them God? It’s maddening.

If anyone with Hashi’s is reading this – your diet is as important as the medicine. You have more control than just the medicine. Take control and keep your thyroid functioning as long as you can.

Blessings y’all – Amy

Another Goodbye, A Closing, and A New Year

This one has been bouncing around in my brain the last few weeks and I’ve been trying to sort through so many emotions. Figure I’ll sort it out here like I always do lol. The Irving house finally found its new owners. About a week ago another tumor took our sweet Paris. And inexplicably a new year is upon us.

We signed the papers on the Irving house four years to the day of when I unpacked the last box, hung the last picture, and posted the before and after video of the renovation from moving into Turtle Summit. Funny sometimes how God’s timing works. I’ve been trying to put my mind around the emotions there, cause there are some, but can’t quite get there. When I reflect back on who I was then…man.

Four years ago I was so angry. So tired. So overwhelmed. So afraid. If I dared to crack open one of my prayer journals I can almost promise you those prayers read something like “give me my life back” or “rewind the clock”. My children were leaving home, my husband was gone, and I had absolutely no idea who I was. And quite frankly I was crazy. Out of my mind flipping crazy. I look back on that person and wonder where she came from and thank God every day that he put the right tools and people in my path to get me through.

As I look around today? My list of blessings is as overwhelming as that list of pain and sorrow was. A home I never could have dreamed this small town girl would ever have. A man I adore who loves me beyond measure. A job that challenges me and pushes me to keep growing even when I’d like a minute to breathe.

Last weekend we said goodbye to another of our fur babies. She was older but we weren’t ready. She had a tumor in her ear that they couldn’t promise us wasn’t in her brain. She was in pain and not herself. We kept the promise we made each other not to prolong our babies lives for our own inability to say goodbye. But less than three months after losing Hope it just made the grief hole rip open again. The energy in the house has shifted again and the three remaining girls are tying to find a new rhythm. They are very clingy to us and hate when we leave the house.

Tim and I’s word for 2025 is “intentional”. So often we find ourselves at the end of a week, month, or year having just responded to all that came at us instead of acting intentionally towards our goals. We want to work on the goals we have set and live life on our terms. I think some of that is a result of seeing what we accomplished when we set our mind to it with the house. Not sure. We just know that as we heal from some of what 2024 took from us and embrace some of what it gave us we have big plans.

I am waking up at night with my mind and my heart racing. Anxiety coursing through me that I can’t identify. I thought it was the house. But with that settled not sure what it is. Work is out of control busy so maybe it’s that. But I know that if I turn it over to God and just lift it in prayer it’ll resolve itself in time. Just takes the one thing hardest for me – faith.

What are you reflecting on in as we close out 2024?

—Amy