There is a particular kind of guilt that comes with being a mother.

It is not the guilt of forgetting a permission slip or serving too many frozen dinners. It is the deep, bone-level guilt of looking back at a child you love and realizing that love did not protect her from everything.

My oldest daughter has been on my mind heavily lately.

I raised her during years when I was still trying to survive myself. I was young, exhausted, and often making decisions with very little guidance, support, or understanding of what a child truly needs to feel safe and steady. I worked. I worried. I pushed through. I did what I knew how to do at the time.

But knowing I did my best does not erase the places where my best was not enough.

There are things I wish I had given her: more stability, more protection, more attention, more ease and better guidance. I wish I had been the kind of mother who could see farther ahead—who could recognize what she needed before she had to ask for it, or before hurt had already settled in.

And now, at this stage of my life, with both of us as we are today, there is another painful truth: I do not invite her into my home.

That sentence is difficult to write. It sounds cold on the page. It sounds like abandonment.

The truth is more complicated. When she is near, there is tension and emotional turmoil that affects my ability to feel safe in my own home. Creating that boundary has not meant that I do not love her. It has meant that I have reached a point where I do not know how to protect my own peace without suffering to ease her life.

That is the part I struggle to say aloud. A boundary that helps me feel safe may feel very different from her side of the door. It may feel like rejection. It may feel like one more person deciding she is too much, or too difficult, to be close to. I cannot know exactly what she feels, but I know that possibility breaks my heart.

I do not want peace for myself at the expense of hers. I simply do not know how to make a relationship safe and peaceful for both of us from where we are now.

Still, I question it.

I wonder whether I am abandoning her now in the same ways I fear I abandoned her then. I wonder whether a mother is ever allowed to choose peace when her child is hurting.

I do not have an answer that neatly relieves the guilt.

What I am learning is that accountability and self-punishment are not the same thing. I can acknowledge where I fell short. I can grieve what she did not receive. I can wish I had been wiser, stronger, healthier, and more available.

But I cannot go back and become the mother I needed to be then.

And I cannot rescue either of us today by accepring unacceptable behavior and destroying myself now.

Love sometimes looks like closeness. Sometimes it looks like showing up. And sometimes, painfully, love has to coexist with distance and boundaries. That does not make the distance easy. It does not make it less sad. It does not mean the other person is not wounded by it.

It simply means that two things can be true at once:

I love my daughter.

And I am trying to find a way forward that does not harm either of us more.

Perhaps healing does not always mean returning to what we wish we had. Perhaps sometimes it means holding the truth with gentleness—without denying the harm, without rewriting the past, and without deciding that we are beyond redemption because we were imperfect.

My daughter deserved more than I knew how to give.

I do not know what the future of our relationship will be. But today, I am trying to make room for grief without letting it become the only thing I believe about myself. I am trying to remember that love can remain, even when the relationship is complicated. Even when the door cannot always be open. Even when a mother’s heart is carrying both sorrow and hope at the same time.

If you have experience with the difficulty of setting healthy boundaries in situations you cannot change, I welcome your thoughts.

Thought I’d share a little wisdom today.

I once explained to a former employer how frustrating it was to repeatedly tell people—whose work I was responsible for editing—that certain corrections were needed to make documents compliant with Section 508. That is a lot of descriptors in one sentence, but the point was simple: I kept explaining what needed to be fixed, and the documents kept coming back unchanged.

It felt like I was playing a record with the same line repeating over and over.

She told me the military taught her to “shoot twice and then salute.” I had no idea what she meant, so she explained it this way:

To be a communicator who is not ignored, explain something as thoroughly and clearly as possible the first time. Then wait.

If the person does not respond or make the needed change, explain it one more time—including why it matters—and repeat the message in plain, understandable terms.

If nothing changes after that, it is time to put the gun away and salute. In other words, accept that they heard you and have chosen not to change.

Then it is time for Plan B. That might mean going to their supervisor, finding another way to solve the problem yourself, or letting the consequences of their choice take over.

I have used that idea many times in my life. It does not fit every situation, but it often helps me let go of frustration and decide what I can do next.

Taking the time to explain why something matters is crucial. It can make all the difference in whether something is done correctly—or done at all.

As a result of changing my behavior, I am calmer.

This also works when someone offers the same advice over and over. After hearing advice twice, I can respectfully explain that I heard and understood what they were saying. I have simply considered it and decided that another option works better for me.

We can listen to someone without being required to follow their advice. And others can offer guidance without thinking they need to repeat it until we give in.

I‘ve become concerned enough about my memory that I started keeping extensive notes on my calendar about the things I do.

Appointments, errands, purchases, places I’ve gone. Things that once I would have simply expected myself to remember, but that I now write down.

My calendar has become more than a way to know where I’m supposed to be. It has become a record I can go back to when my memory doesn’t give me the reassurance I want. And it’s a full calendar.

Recently, I discovered fraudulent charges on my bank account.

And that’s when two completely different concerns collided.

I didn’t recognize the transactions. They weren’t reflected in the notes I had kept. Yet instead of immediately thinking, Someone has taken money from my account, I still had to ask myself:

Could I have forgotten?

There is something unsettling about reaching a point where you don’t automatically give your own recollection the benefit of the doubt.

Fortunately, keeping records gives me something more reliable than memory alone. I can look back. Where was I that day? What did I do? What purchases did I make?

In this instance, there really were fraudulent charges, and I’m dealing with them.

But the experience has made me think about why I started keeping all those notes in the first place.

I’m not documenting my days because I’ve given up on my memory. I’m doing it because I’ve recognized a vulnerability and found a practical way to work with it.

Maybe that’s an important distinction.

I’ve always thought of independence as being able to take care of myself. I’m beginning to realize that independence can also mean recognizing where you need safeguards and putting them in place before you need them.

My calendar happens to be one of mine.

And perhaps that’s the part of this experience most worth sharing. If you, too, occasionally find yourself wondering, Did I do that and simply forget?, it might be worth creating your own backup system. It doesn’t have to be a calendar. It could be a notebook, receipts, a daily journal, or whatever works for you—something outside your memory that can help you reconstruct what actually happened.

I don’t see that as surrendering to forgetfulness. I see it as adapting to it.

This time, when I couldn’t completely trust my memory, I had something else I could trust, an effective Plan B.

And I was very glad I did.

I witnessed a seriously intoxicated older man sitting with a young woman and her two boys, who appeared to be around eight and eleven. He was cursing at them. Their table was right next to ours, and before I fully understood what I was hearing, my body went into fight-or-flight. My anxiety rose so quickly that I felt instantly nauseated.

Scenes like this were part of how I spent my first eleven years with my father and mother. Their arguments could escalate within minutes—from rudeness and verbal attacks to physical blows, even in public. My father was known to pull a knife on my mother and to knock her into bars and tables. My mother could be abusive too, but that did not justify the violence my sister and I witnessed in our father's behavior.

The sensations that surfaced last night were noteworthy. I used to wonder why no one ever came to my sister’s, my mother’s, or my defense. But last night gave me a clearer understanding.

You cannot reason with someone who is drunk and angry, and confronting them can make a dangerous situation worse. I have read stories of caring people who intervened and were badly hurt—or killed.

I did not come to the defense of those two boys last night. I wish I could say I handled it differently. I did not. I sat there frightened and nauseated, watching two boys experience something that felt painfully familiar.

This morning, I have tried to offer myself some empathy. My body was not simply reacting to a rude man in a restaurant. It recognized the volatility, the humiliation, and the uncertainty of what might happen next. It remembered what it was like to be a child with no control over the adult in the room.

I still believe children deserve protection. If I ever witness an immediate threat of violence, I hope I will have the presence of mind and courage to alert restaurant staff or call for help. But I also understand now why bystanders may freeze. Fear is real. A drunken, angry person is not always safe to confront.

Last night helped me understand that silence does not mean indifference. Sometimes it is fear. Sometimes it is shock. And sometimes, an old wound is touched before we realize it is still there.

I believe it is time for me to return to the reflection journal and workbook I wrote, not because I failed last night, but because healing sometimes asks us to revisit the patterns that still shape our responses—and consider what we want or need to change to react differently.

For the past two days, I have watched my patio plants more closely than I have paid attention to what is going on around me.

Every few hours I stepped outside to check on the plants. Were the leaves drooping again? Did they need more water? Would a fan help? Should I mist them? Would bringing them inside for a few hours give them enough relief to recover?

I found myself worrying over every curled leaf.

Then a really uncomfortable thought settled in.

If I could become this concerned about plants sitting on my patio, why hadn’t I spent the same amount of time thinking about what was happening beyond my little circle? The heat has been relentless. Wildfires continue to spread. What about the people who are not able to escape these conditions?

My plants have advantages many people do not.

I can water them whenever they need it. I can move them into the shade. If the temperatures become unbearable, I can carry them inside.

Some people have none of those options.

Construction workers, roofers, landscapers, delivery drivers, farm workers, and road crews spend hours in dangerous temperatures because they have to earn a living. Others live in homes with inadequate air conditioning—or no air conditioning at all. Some have no home to retreat to. For them, shade is temporary, water may not be nearby, and relief is never guaranteed.

The same heat that causes my plants to wilt can become life-threatening for another human being.

That realization left me feeling very uncomfortable because it took wilting leaves to remind me to look beyond my own patio.

Perhaps this is one of life’s more serious lessons. We tend to notice suffering when we can see it. A drooping leaf catches our attention. A plant that springs back after watering gives us hope.

Human suffering is not always so visible. Someone standing beside us may be just as depleted by the heat, yet still be expected to keep working and keep going.

Compassion should never stop at the edge of our own lives.

I need to spend more time thinking about the person delivering packages in the afternoon sun. The elderly neighbor living alone. The family struggling to pay another electric bill. The man waiting for a bus with no shade. The woman whose job leaves her no choice but to endure another day in triple-digit temperatures.

My plants reminded me to pay attention. I don't want this realization to end as a passing thought. I need to change where I direct my attention.

I've been thinking about difficult conversations lately. Not because I enjoy them—I don't. In fact, I suspect most of us postpone them far longer than we should.
We tell ourselves we're keeping the peace by remaining silent about something that has offended us. We don't want to hurt someone, create conflict, or risk damaging a relationship.
However, while one person is silently carrying a hurt, the other person likely has no idea that anything is wrong or that something they said or did caused pain.
Years ago, a counselor told me something that has stayed with me ever since. He said that if I let something that bothers me go for two weeks without talking to the other person, I shouldn't continue blaming them for hurting me. If I value the relationship, I have a responsibility to myself—and to the other person—to bring up the issue while it can still be understood and resolved.
The conversation we hesitate to have during those first two weeks often becomes far more difficult after six months... or several years.
Of course, how we have the conversation matters.
In my own experience, I've sometimes shared that I was hurt, only to have that vulnerability used against me later. Those experiences taught me another lesson: "First time, shame on you. Second time, shame on me."
Being willing to discuss a hurt doesn't mean putting yourself in the same position over and over again. Healthy relationships require honesty, respect, and boundaries.
When I value a relationship, I've found it is usually best to talk through the issue as soon as reasonably possible after it happens. It may feel vulnerable to admit we've been hurt, but when both people value the relationship, those conversations often strengthen it rather than weaken it. Boundaries become clearer. Understanding grows. Trust has an opportunity to deepen.
While it's true that not every difficult conversation ends well, I've come to believe that silence rarely heals what honest, respectful conversation still has a chance to repair.
I still don't enjoy having difficult conversations. I doubt I ever will. But I'm becoming convinced that avoiding them costs more than having them when a relationship worth having is at stake.
I wonder how many relationships are lost or are degraded—not because people stopped caring—but because neither person found the courage to begin an uncomfortable conversation.
Setting boundaries and being vulnerable when I've been hurt are two things I'm still learning, but the relationships where I am honest and proactive are becoming stronger every day.

Yesterday, while attending a craft fair, I had the reverse situation happen to me. I was given thought provoking information that made me question my own situation.

I stopped to look at a woman’s beautifully wire wrapped jewelry. After our initial conversation, she asked if I’d ever been told I might have scoliosis.

I hadn’t.

She told me she had lived with it for years. Then she showed me the scars—one on the front of her neck and another along her back—from the surgery that rebuilt her spine.

She described years of pain before the operation. She said she knew something was different the moment she woke up in recovery following her surgery. The surgery didn’t make everything easy. Recovery was long and difficult. But she told me she has never regretted having it done. Today she walks upright and without pain.

As encouraging as her story was, it also frightened me.

I’ve spent the last several years watching myself bend farther forward. I don’t like photographs of myself from the side because I hardly recognize my posture anymore. I find myself looking at the ground instead of the horizon. Raising my head while I walk has become uncomfortable. Working in the yard is measured in minutes before my back tells me it’s time to stop.

Her story made me wonder if what I’ve accepted as “getting older” might actually be something worth investigating.

The fear is real.

When someone talks about spinal surgery, it’s hard not to think about everything that could go wrong. My mind immediately went to the worst possibilities. But I also realized something else I learned long ago: avoiding answers doesn’t change reality.

I already have pending referrals for physical therapy and X-rays for my posture and pain. I’ll be mentioning this conversation to my doctor, not because I assume this woman diagnosed me (whether correctly or incorrectly), but because it reminded me that I shouldn’t dismiss changes in my body simply because they happened gradually.

One conversation won’t determine my future.

It may, however, prompt me to ask better questions.

I’ve learned over the years that life often changes because of ordinary conversations with ordinary people. Sometimes they simply leave us thinking. Sometimes they point us toward help we didn’t know we needed.

For now, I’m choosing curiosity over fear.

If you’ve ever faced a decision about your spine, chronic back pain, or surgery, I’d be interested in hearing what you learned. Not because someone else’s experience predicts mine, but because there’s value in understanding the many paths’ people have taken in search of results.

Sometimes the first step isn’t making a decision.

It’s simply being willing to ask the next question. Your responses are appreciated.

Nothing extraordinary was happening. No celebration. No grand event. Just ordinary people enjoying one another's company.

It struck me how easily moments like these can pass unnoticed. We become so focused on where we're going, what needs to be done, or what is weighing on us that we stop seeing the simple reminders of what makes life meaningful.

Watching that couple wasn't about wishing I were in their place. I wasn't longing for a relationship. Instead, I found myself appreciating that tenderness still exists in the world. It reminded me that kindness, affection, friendship, and love continue to weave their way through everyday life.

There was a time when I might have looked at those moments differently. Today, I simply smile.

I notice a parent carrying a sleepy child, neighbors stopping to visit over a fence, friends laughing over something only they understand, or someone waiting patiently while another catches up. These scenes rarely make the evening news, yet they reveal the best parts of human nature.

Perhaps healing changes more than our circumstances. Perhaps it changes what we notice… our focus and what we catch on the fly.

I've discovered that life doesn't have to be filled with remarkable events to feel rich. Sometimes the sweetest moments are the ones we aren't part of at all. We simply have the privilege of witnessing them.

As I drove away that day, I realized those few seconds had become a reflection of their own. They reminded me that the world still contains gentleness, connection, and simple joy.

For that moment in time, it was enough to observe.

Depending on how you look at it, maybe that's more than enough.

There was a time in my life when I wasn’t very sure of who I was—or even how I was supposed to act.

I remember adopting quirky behaviors because I was trying to appear more confident and put together than I actually felt. One example was when riding in an elevator. If someone else was in it with me, I felt compelled to start a conversation. I couldn’t stand the silence.

Looking back, I don’t think I was really trying to talk to the other person. I was trying to reassure myself. Were they watching me? Judging me? Wondering whether I was acceptable? Somehow, exchanging a few words made me feel as though I had passed an invisible test.

Over the years, something changed.

I’ve grown older… and perhaps a little wiser. I am more comfortable with silence. I no longer feel the need to fill every quiet moment in an elevator with conversation. In fact, I often enjoy it. Silence has become a place to think, observe, and simply be.

But age has introduced me to another kind of silence.

As we grow older, many of us gradually become less visible. The stories we’ve accumulated over decades aren’t sought after as often. The lessons learned through mistakes, heartbreak, perseverance, and joy can begin to feel as though they’ve been set aside. It’s easy to wonder whether anyone is still interested in listening. Yet experience has value only if it’s shared.

Perhaps that’s one reason I enjoy writing on Substack.

Writing has become my way of passing along some of life’s lessons, in the hope that something I’ve learned might make another person’s journey a little easier. It also allows me to gather thoughts that might otherwise remain unspoken. More than anything, it allows me to participate and contribute in conversations that matter to me.

When someone tells me that something I’ve written resonated with them, I’m grateful—not because it determines my worth, but because it reminds me that a life honestly examined may still be meaningful to someone else.

I still appreciate knowing that someone is listening. I suspect most writers do. But I’ve discovered that isn’t the reason I write. I write because the lessons life has taught me don’t seem nearly as valuable if I keep them to myself.

And, I’ve come to realize that silence isn’t always something to fear.

Sometimes it’s where we discover who we are.

And sometimes it’s where we discover that our experiences may become someone else’s encouragement.

Perhaps silence isn’t empty after all.

Sometimes it’s where reflection begins.

What part of your story is still waiting to be told?

One of the hardest things for me is waiting. It’s like waiting for a bloom to open.

Right now, I’m waiting to hear whether I receive publication approval for a workbook I created. I have revised it multiple times, changed the title, redesigned the cover, rewritten sections, and done everything I know to do. Now there is nothing left to do except wait.

As I thought about it today, I realized this isn’t really about publishing a workbook. It’s about a troublesome pattern that has followed me for most of my life.

For more than seventy years, I have spent countless hours worrying about things I couldn’t control. Waiting for decisions. Waiting for phone calls. Waiting for test results. Waiting for people to change. Waiting to find out what would happen next.

All of that waiting has come at a very expensive cost.

It has stolen time that could have been spent enjoying life with people I love. It has worn on my body, especially my heart, through stress and tension. It has exhausted my mind by replaying possibilities that often never happened.

The truth is that worrying has never changed an outcome. It has only changed the experience I’ve had while waiting for an answer or a result.

That doesn’t mean I can simply decide never to worry again. After a lifetime of responding this way, I know it won’t disappear overnight. But I do think I can learn a different response.

The challenge isn’t learning how to avoid waiting. Waiting is part of life. We all experience it.

My challenge is learning not to worry while waiting.

When we allow worry to consume our thoughts, we unintentionally give away pieces of today to something that hasn’t happened yet. We miss conversations, overlook small moments of beauty, and postpone joy until we know the outcome.

Today, I’m still waiting.

But I’m trying not to let the waiting take away the opportunities that exist in this day.

The workbook will either be accepted, or it won’t. If it isn’t accepted, I’ll learn what I can, make changes if they’re needed, or find another path forward.

Life has taught me that there is always another path.

Maybe that’s what seventy years have been trying to teach me all along.

Not that life becomes free of uncertainty.

But that peace is found when we stop expecting certainty before allowing ourselves to live.

What do you do to keep from worrying about things you can’t control?

I have a confession.

I am not and haven’t been drinking enough water for more than 70 years.

It’s such a simple thing. Water is within reach, in the pantry and at the sink. Yet somehow hours pass before I remember to get a drink.

My body, however, reminds me every day.

When I use the restroom, my urine is dark yellow. The odor tells me what I already know—I haven’t given my body what it needs.

My physician noticed too.

Before leaving on an extended leave of absence, she expressed concern, suggesting my kidneys were screaming for water and that she wanted to do additional testing. I asked if I could have a few months to do something much simpler first.

“I’ll drink more water.”

It sounded so easy when I said it.

But changing habits isn’t about knowledge or promises.

It’s about awareness and repetition.

No one has to convince me that water is important. I know it helps my kidneys, my heart, my brain, my energy, my skin—virtually every part of my body.

Knowledge has never been my problem.

Remembering to care for myself and doing self-maintenance has.

I’ve spent much of my life responding to other people’s needs, solving problems, meeting deadlines, worrying about family, or thinking about the next project. Somewhere in all of that, the simple act of taking a drink of water became optional.

That realization makes me wonder how many other forms of self-care quietly slip through the cracks.

We often imagine neglect as something dramatic.

Sometimes it looks like nothing more than walking past water eight times a day without getting a drink

Healing isn’t always found in life’s biggest decisions.

Sometimes it begins with one sip.

One glass.

One small act that says, “My body matters too.”

Today, I’m choosing to refill my glass, and I am setting eight different reminders on my phone to remind me to drink it.

Not because I’m suddenly disciplined, but because I’m aware that caring for myself doesn’t have to be complicated, but it is necessary.

Sometimes healing is as ordinary as drinking the water that’s been within my reach all along.

Reflection:

How about you?

"Drink more water, your kidneys are screaming for it."

It sounded like one of the simplest assignments I've ever been given.

No expensive prescription.
No complicated treatment plan.
Just... drink more water.

Three months later, I have to admit I haven't done very well.

Every trip to the bathroom reminds me. My urine is dark yellow. The odor tells the same story. My body keeps sending messages that I'm not paying enough attention.

The strange thing is that I know better.

I've spent decades solving difficult problems. I've gone back to school as an adult. I've survived things I once thought would destroy me. I've written a book about healing from trauma.

And yet I can walk right past the kitchen sink or the pantry without getting myself a glass of water.

It makes me wonder how often growth isn't about learning something new. Sometimes it's about responding to something we've already known all along.

Maybe that's true far beyond hydration.

How often do we ignore fatigue until exhaustion forces us to stop?
How often do we postpone rest, kindness toward ourselves, or asking for help because there always seems to be something more important?

Perhaps the hardest habits aren't the complicated ones.

Sometimes they're as ordinary as filling a glass with water.

I just opened a fresh bottle. Maybe I should set six to 8 timers a day to remind me. After all, I'm trying to become someone who listens a little sooner, to take better care of myself.

This lesson is a no brainer, drink more water!

This reflection discusses past suicidal thoughts and suicide attempts.

I read a heartbreaking story today about a young woman who ended her life. It stirred memories I do not often speak about, but perhaps it is time.

Nearly fifty years ago, and again thirty years ago, I attempted to take my own life.

Today, I am profoundly grateful that neither attempt succeeded.

This is not a story about those attempts. It is a reflection on what led me there—the loneliness, despair, and distorted beliefs that convinced me there was no way forward. It is also a reflection on what I can see now that I could not see then, and what I wish someone had helped me understand before I reached either attempt.

The first attempt was when I was in my early twenties. I was raising a toddler, working multiple jobs, and struggling in an unhealthy relationship. I felt overwhelmed and alone. My support system was almost nonexistent, and the one person I depended on emotionally was pulling away.

The rejection felt unbearable. Looking back, I can see that I was exhausted, frightened, and carrying wounds from childhood that I had never addressed. At the time, however, all I could see was failure, in my choices for relationships and many of the decisions I was making.

Nearly twenty years later, I found myself in a remarkably similar place, but this time I had three children. After my divorce, I entered another unhealthy relationship thinking that I could not manage life on my own.

What strikes me today is not how different the two situations were, but how similar the feelings were. The circumstances had changed. The underlying beliefs had not.

Both times I felt alone.

Both times I believed I was a burden.

Both times I was terrified of losing an important relationship.

Both times I had stopped imagining a future worth living.

I could not see beyond the pain I was experiencing in the moment.

After the second attempt, I accepted help. I was diagnosed with depression and began working with a counselor I trusted. She helped me understand that I had experienced significant trauma in my early years, that it was okay to start again, that hope could be rebuilt, and that I needed to begin focusing on what I wanted for my future.

That last idea was huge for me. It meant stopping long enough to consider what I truly wanted and needed. I began taking evening classes at a local college. Photography and Psychology 101 became unexpected milestones. They broadened my perspective and helped me better understand both depression and the trauma I had experienced.

I began talking honestly about my life with people I trusted. I learned that asking for help was not weakness. Returning to school gave me a sense of purpose and possibility. Slowly, I began building a life instead of simply enduring.

Most importantly, I began to challenge the belief that my future was already decided. For years, I thought my past had permanently defined me. Education, counseling, healthy relationships, and new experiences taught me otherwise.

Hope did return, one small step at a time. Finding hope did not mean depression vanished from my life. It did not. Decades later, I still manage it through counseling, medication, self-awareness, and the daily choices that help me stay grounded. The difference is that today I recognize depression for what it is. I no longer believe every thought it offers me is true.

If there is one thing I wish my younger self could have known, it is that feelings are not permanent. Despair insists that nothing will change, but life rarely stands still. There were chapters ahead that I could not imagine then—an education to pursue, meaningful work to do, people to love, lessons to learn, moments of beauty to experience, and a version of myself that would eventually find peace with much of the past.

Today, I am profoundly grateful that those attempts were not successful.

These resources were created during my own journey through trauma, resilience, self-discovery, and healing.

My hope is that others can use them to explore their own stories with curiosity and compassion for a greater understanding of how life shapes us.

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WOUNDS TO WISDOM:

From Survival to Intentional Growth

A collection of personal reflections exploring how adversity shapes us and how healing, growth, and intentional living can help us create a different future.

Topics include:

• Childhood adversity

• Loneliness and belonging

• Relationships and recovery

• Education and personal growth

• Self-Compassion and healing

Readers who wish to explore these themes more deeply for their own life may also be interested in the pattern recognition and personal growth workbook: Using Reflection to Recognize and Replace 30 Limiting Behavioral Patterns.

Available at Amazon.com Wounds to Wisdom: From Survival to Intentional Growth

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Using Reflection to Recognize and Replace

30 Limiting Behavioral Patterns

Designed to accompany WOUNDS TO WISDOM: From Survival to Intentional Growth, this workbook provides an opportunity for readers to discover behavioral patterns that no longer serve them today. Reflection questions and guided exercises are examined for thirty limiting behavioral patterns. Ten integration sections designed to help readers recognize, understand, and intentionally reshape their lives are included.

Available on Amazon: Using Reflection to Recognize and Replace 30 Limiting Behavioral Patters

◆◆◆

Depression is such an ugly disease. It tugs and yanks at one’s feelings about themselves until there is nothing positive to say. I have taken many accredited psychology courses and read countless articles about depression to better understand it. I have been counseled for more than 45 years about ways to try and combat it, and I take prescribed medication to help keep ahead of it. Yet sometimes it is still a great battle to keep my head above water.

Research on self-compassion suggests that treating oneself with understanding rather than constant self-criticism can reduce the intensity of depression and anxiety symptoms over time. Perhaps that matters more than depression wants me to believe.

I have made such progress in my life considering where I began. Still, I know there is more I can do. I can get more rest, eat better, cut back on sugar, drink more water, and exercise more consistently. Some days I manage those things better than others. But, some days even small tasks feel heavy.

What makes depression especially cruel is that it often strips away perspective. It magnifies failures while minimizing strengths. It convinces people that they are not successful when, in reality, they may be carrying enormous mental, physical, and financial loads.

What makes this especially discouraging at times is that insight alone is not enough. A person can understand depression intellectually and still feel emotionally overtaken by it. Just because one knows what tools are available does not always mean there is enough strength to apply them.

I have come to realize that fighting depression is not about one dramatic victory. More often, it is about the small daily decisions we make, for example: getting out of bed, brushing our teeth, taking medication, going to the gym even when exhausted, preparing healthier food, or simply choosing not to completely give up on ourselves.

Today, I am writing to remind myself that I am okay. It was not a dramatic day. Nothing catastrophic happened. Yet I found myself feeling discouraged, focusing on what remains unfinished rather than what has been accomplished. Depression has a way of shifting my attention toward deficiencies while completely overlooking my growth.

Sometimes the most important thing I can do is pause long enough to acknowledge that I am still moving forward, even if the steps are smaller than I would like. I am still here, still trying, still learning how to care for a body and mind that have endured far more than they should have.

When depression speaks harshly to you, what small truth helps you keep going anyway?

There are different ways to look at closed doors. We often pass by them without considering what might lie on the other side. Do they lead to new opportunities, or simply mark places we no longer need to return to?

I find myself standing before one of those doors today.

Recently, I have found myself feeling sad, though not for any one reason.

My sister recently moved into her own home. For months, we shared a house, meals, conversations, frustrations, and laughter. While I am happy for her and proud of the independence she has reclaimed, the house feels different now. Quieter. Emptier.

At the same time, I am nearing the completion of two projects that have occupied much of my attention and energy over the last nine months. My reflection book is nearly finished, and the third proof is on its way. The companion workbook is complete and awaiting its second proof. For many months, they have given structure to my days and purpose to my thoughts. Soon, they will be done.

Work is changing as well. A new employee is being added to my department, and although I understand the reasons, I found myself questioning my place and value. Old fears have a way of resurfacing when circumstances shift.

None of these changes are necessarily negative. In fact, several are positive. Yet I have learned that positive changes can still carry a sense of loss.

For much of my life, I viewed life as a series of destinations. Graduate. Get the job. Finish the project. Pay off the debt. Reach the goal. I assumed that once I arrived, I would feel complete.

Instead, I find myself standing in the space between what was and what comes next.

It is an uncomfortable place.

The familiar routines are changing; the future has not yet revealed itself. The old chapter is ending, but the next one has not fully begun. There is uncertainty in that space. Sometimes there is loneliness. For me, a lot of times there is fear.

But I also need to acknowledge… there is possibility.

When I look back, many of the most important changes in my life began in these in-between seasons. They were rarely accompanied by confidence or certainty. More often, they arrived slowly, disguised as confusion, hesitation, and restlessness.

Maybe we are not meant to rush through these periods.

Perhaps standing before a closed door has a purpose of its own.

Could it be this is where we need to pause long enough to notice what mattered in the chapter that is ending? I know this, I need to move through the anxiety of it all and gather the courage needed to open the door for what is about to begin.

I do not yet know what the next chapter of my life will hold.

For now, I am trying to sit with this season instead of forcing it to pass more quickly.

Writing has always helped me make sense of the spaces between chapters. Perhaps that is why I am here today, sharing these thoughts with you.

For now, that feels like enough.

Reflection Question

Can you think of a time when one chapter of your life was ending before the next one had fully begun? What did that in-between season teach you about yourself?

Almost all of them were taken more than 35 years ago.

At the time, I simply knew they moved me. Certain landscapes captured my attention and stayed with me long after I put the camera away. I couldn't have explained why.

Now, looking at them through the lens of experience, I see something different.

I see resilience in trees shaped by relentless winds. I see persistence in rivers that continue carving their way through stone. I see hope in paths that disappear into the mist and invite us to take one more step.

The younger version of myself who took those photographs had no idea how much life still lay ahead—how much pain, growth, healing, and understanding would unfold over the decades to come.

There is something surreal about holding those old photographs alongside the reflections I've written today. In many ways, I am revisiting places and images that once resonated with a pain I was still trying to understand.

What feels especially meaningful is recognizing that I am now viewing them from the healing side of that pain.

Not because life became perfect. Not because the wounds disappeared. But because time, support, reflection, education, faith, and intentional choices helped me build a different relationship with what I had lived through.

The photographs haven't changed.

But I have.

Perhaps that is one of the gifts of healing: we can revisit the landscapes of our lives and see not only what hurt us, but also what sustained us, shaped us, and helped us find our way forward.

Sometimes the things that call to us early in life become clearer with time.

And sometimes, what once felt like wounds slowly become wisdom

Last week I was reminded why gratitude matters.

In one situation, I spent three weeks learning metalsmithing and gained a new appreciation for the time, patience, and skill required to create a handmade piece of jewelry. In another, I spent fifteen hours helping my sister make and sell cookies, fudge, and brownies at a community event. The lessons from those experiences were different, yet they led me to the same realization.

Both experiences made me more aware of how much a sincere “thank you” or a simple compliment can mean. When you have invested hours of effort into creating something, being seen matters.

Before learning metalsmithing, I looked at handmade jewelry without fully understanding the hours of sawing, the mistakes, and the patience required to create it. The same was true when helping my sister bake. Customers saw cookies, fudge, and brownies. We invested time in shopping, measuring, mixing, baking, packaging, setting up, selling, and cleaning up. Most of the work happened long before the first customer arrived.

Thinking on these examples makes we wonder how often we overlook the work behind the things we enjoy. Why do we sometimes hesitate to acknowledge the effort others make? Are we too busy? Do we simply not notice? Or have we forgotten how meaningful a few sincere words can be?

I am often reminded that I should practice gratitude. Now I realize there is more to it than simply thinking, “I am grateful for...” Gratitude is not just an internal exercise. It means taking one step further and letting another person know why you are grateful, especially when you are acknowledging their effort, time, or care.

Gratitude becomes more meaningful when it is shared. I know that when I am at work, a sincere “thank you” often means more to me than simply receiving an hour’s pay for my effort. It leaves me feeling that my work has value, that my contribution was noticed, and that my time was well spent. Long after the paycheck has been deposited and spent, I can still remember the moments when someone genuinely appreciated what I had done.

The more I learn about what goes into creating, building, teaching, growing, or caring for something, the more grateful I become for the people who do those things every day.

The lesson I took from these experiences is simple. I want to become more intentional about expressing gratitude. Not just for what people do for me, but for the effort, skill, time, and care they invest. The jewelry, the cookies, the clean home, the repaired car, the meal, the kind gesture, each represents work that someone chose to do. The least I can do is let them know it mattered.

Who in your life has done something recently that you’ve appreciated but never actually thanked?

What might happen if you told them today?

Depression is such an ugly disease. It tugs and yanks at one’s feelings about themselves until there is nothing positive to say. I have taken many accredited psychology courses and read countless articles about depression to better understand it. I have been counseled for more than 45 years about ways to try and combat it, and I take prescribed medication to help keep ahead of it. Yet sometimes it is still a great battle to keep my head above water.

Research on self-compassion suggests that treating oneself with understanding rather than constant self-criticism can reduce the intensity of depression and anxiety symptoms over time. Perhaps that matters more than depression wants me to believe.

I have made such progress in my life considering where I began. Still, I know there is more I can do. I can get more rest, eat better, cut back on sugar, drink more water, and exercise more consistently. Some days I manage those things better than others. But, some days even small tasks feel heavy.

What makes depression especially cruel is that it often strips away perspective. It magnifies failures while minimizing strengths. It convinces people that they are not successful when, in reality, they may be carrying enormous mental, physical, and financial loads.

What makes this especially discouraging at times is that insight alone is not enough. A person can understand depression intellectually and still feel emotionally overtaken by it. Just because one knows what tools are available does not always mean there is enough strength to apply them.

I have come to realize that fighting depression is not about one dramatic victory. More often, it is about the small daily decisions we make; for example: getting out of bed, brushing our teeth, taking medication, going to the gym even when exhausted, preparing healthier food, or simply choosing not to completely give up on ourselves.

Today, I am writing to remind myself that I am okay. It was not a dramatic day. Nothing catastrophic happened. Yet I found myself feeling discouraged, focusing on what remains unfinished rather than what has been accomplished. Depression has a way of shifting my attention toward deficiencies while completely overlooking my growth.

Sometimes the most important thing I can do is pause long enough to acknowledge that I am still moving forward, even if the steps are smaller than I would like. I am still here, still trying, still learning how to care for a body and mind that have endured far more than they should have.

When depression speaks harshly to you, what small truth helps you keep going?