I can only wonder if Brené Brown wrote these words after peering through my illuminated dining room window, somehow observing my inner turmoil as I blew out 50 candles jabbed into a fancy birthday cake I didn’t want.

Her words sum up exactly what rumbled inside me at this pivotal point in my life.

When I turned 50, a big GAME OVER sign flashed on the screen of my mind. I certainly collected a few gold coins along my life’s journey—great kids and friends—but lost at facing the truth about my marriage. For far too long, I pretended it worked when quite clearly it didn’t.

At least not for me.

And like a persistent and addictive video game, the screen in my mind beckoned: PLAY AGAIN?

I spent quite a bit of time—many months in fact—staring at the screen, contemplating what to do next. Do I shut it down? Ignore the PLAY AGAIN prompt and act like everything’s okay?

Do I continue the charade?

But I knew deep down that I couldn’t do that any longer. I’d grown weary of pretending. Somehow, I needed to find the courage to accept reality, hit life’s reset button, and play again.

So I left my marriage and my house and moved into a small apartment. I started over. It was a little humbling, but it felt right. I leaned into trusting my gut and what I heard it saying.

“Enough already. Listen up. You raised two great kids, but in the process, you lost yourself. Your marriage isn’t working. Stop pretending. Dust yourself off and let’s play again. This time, pay better attention. I’m with you, guiding you. Start listening.”

About six months before I left my marriage, I attended a Bible study class—mostly to get out of the house one evening a week. As we worked our way through the Book of John, a light bulb flicked on when we read Chapter 15, verses 1-2:

“I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.”

These words paired well with Brené’s message, and I took them to heart. Combined, they felt like a Divine nudge to begin hacking away at the parts of my life that no longer served me and to prune the parts that did, so they could grow and become more fruitful. So my marriage ended up on the chopping block, and I pruned a few friendships. Four women became my go-tos for advice and a shoulder to cry on. Our friendships grew deep and endearing. These women got it. They sat in the hard stuff with me and supported me like pillars.

There wasn’t any pretending with them—only the raw truth. These friendships became like ripe peaches—juicy and flavorful. They fed my soul. I honestly don’t know how I would’ve made it through that time in my life without them.

Internally, I did a bit of pruning and cutting as well, reminiscent of what Michelangelo said about his sculptures. He claimed that David already existed inside the slab of marble. It was simply his job to remove the excess—to chisel away the parts of the marble that weren’t David.

Like a newly trained sculptor, I started removing behavior patterns that no longer worked for me. I learned to accept who I am at my core. I stopped pretending everything is okay to protect myself from facing painful truths. As difficult as it is, owning them is the only way to work through them. Otherwise, just like excess marble, they weigh me down.

I also began chiseling away at the unhealthy stories I’ve told myself for years—stories that I’m not good enough, smart enough, or worthy. It’s unclear to me how or when these stories wrote themselves in my head, but I’m getting quicker at noticing when they’re triggered and closing them down. They never served me. They only made me feel bad about myself.

Like the song This Little Light of Mine, I’m clearing a path for my authentic inner light to shine. I’m no longer hiding it under the bushel of pretending or letting those self-sabotaging stories blow it out. Yes, being authentic can leave me open to getting hurt. It’s a vulnerable place to live.

But the reward is far greater. I want the ripe peach experience I have with my four friends to filter into all areas of my life, hopefully someday with a man who’ll want the same too. Accepting the prompt to play again and this time, choosing to do so with authenticity and grace is the way to live a juicy, fruitful life.

©

Author’s Note: When I considered what to use for the cover image of this story, my mind’s eye saw a painting by one of my favorite artists here on Substack— at The Little Greek Post. I reached out to her and asked if she’d like to collaborate on an image. To my delight, she enthusiastically agreed. I sent her my story draft and using my words, she created a work of art better than my mind’s eye imagined. My sincere gratitude to Eleni, whose kind, generous, and thoughtful soul shines through everything she creates. If you haven’t subscribed to her yet, I encourage you to do so.

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he arrived in a neon safety green T-shirt
camel-colored Carhartt pants
and dusty brown steel-toed work boots

an unassuming therapist

he assessed the situation
viewed different angles
considered the options
devised a plan

then climbed into his metal boxy office
and began dismantling her structure

with a delicate touch and gentle coaxing
old layers peeled back and fell away
revealing bare beams underneath
exposing her worn-out frame

he paused a brief moment
giving time to catch her breath
before continuing to strip away
what was no longer needed

with a few gentle taps
her walls tumbled down
until the entire framework
of who she used to be
collapsed
her old self
her outdated self

what stood so sound mere minutes before
gave way to its impermanence
until only her foundation remained

with the tenderness of a kind caregiver
he scooped up her rubble
he removed the mess
he cleared the slate for a brand new her
an updated structure to encompass who she is today

intentionally designed
thoughtfully crafted
built stronger and with purpose
drafted from hard-won self-knowledge
and the beauty of a blueprint
she created for herself

© 2026

My office sent me to photograph and videotape the demolition of a garage that no longer works for one of our homeowners. We designed and will now build a new one that better aligns with current needs. I arrived at the site expecting sledgehammers and a wrecking ball.

But that’s not at all what happened.

The backhoe operator handled the demolition with such care and thoughtfulness, stirring up a profound heart-tugging feeling I couldn’t name at the time. It hit me a few days later how his gentle takedown of the structure mirrored the dismantling of my life when I left my marriage.

The framework of who I’d become no longer worked for me either, and it took gentle coaxing, seated on a therapist’s sofa, for me to realize that. Together we worked to tear down old notions of self, and rebuild healthier ones this time using newly gained insights into what I envisioned my new life to be.

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oh, my heart
a complicated organ
driving and cycling with pumpjack consistency
yet its fabric resembles
a newly hatched featherless chick

vulnerable, tender and pale pink

it cartwheels and writhes
through life’s twists and eddies and crests

its size increasing
at each son’s birth
its weight doubling
at my marriage’s end

it races when I speak publicly
flutters at a glance from someone attractive
bursts with joyful rays, knowing my sons are friends
melts in the presence of true love
delights while watching birds in synchronized flight

loves quicker than it probably should
with the expansiveness of a Montana prairie

it raises a prayer when an ambulance screams by
winces when stung by rejection’s pinpricks
grieves with a friend’s unbearable loss
sinks and weeps when my dad asks
with soft and earnest eyes
who my parents are

gets tugged at the sight of a woman
with ratty hair and aching eyes
holding cardboard with black marker words

homeless — definitely
pregnant  — possibly
anything helps

and despite all it endures and encounters
from joyful wheelies
to pokes and barbs and stabs
it remains agape and unflinching
like that baby chick's mouth splayed open so wide
you can see all the way into its tiny, empty belly

my heart
that yielding fleshy organ
still hungers
for more

© 2026

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I woke one Sunday morning to sunlight painting lines across the canvas of my dresser and smiled. I love it when sunlight makes marvelous appearances like this, warming and greeting me with a cheerful playfulness.

As I reached for my phone to catch an image of the scene, I also noticed another characteristic of bright sunlight that isn’t nearly as attractive or appealing. It highlighted all the dust accumulating on my hardwood floor, making it sparkle like grey glitter strewn during an industrious evening of crafting.

I hung onto the beauty of the lovely lines streaking across my dresser long enough to snap a shot, then rolled out of bed and trudged to my closet and grabbed the Swiffer.

A short time later, I plopped on my yoga mat to begin my daily sun salutations. Sunlight filtered in through my east-facing windows, revealing a small pile of dust resting quietly under my lounge chair. The sun seemed to be working overtime to highlight my lack of housekeeping skills.

I sighed and whispered to the dust, Why do you have to be so relentless?

I could curse the sun, but it’s only revealing what is—the nostalgic charm of my dresser and the ugliness of dust. It shines on all, regardless of how my eyes interpret or perceive their worthiness or inherent beauty.

I could curse the dust, but it’s my activity that generates it. Simple acts of living, like tracking in soil from a hike, scuffing my feet across a rug, and opening a window, all contribute to its growth, and I certainly have no intention of ending any of those activities.

So I’m left with a continuous effort to keep its accumulation at bay. I wipe down a surface, but dust seems to perform evasive maneuvers and avoids capture because before I know it, it’s back again. It’s a Sisyphean Task that makes me feel a bit exhausted. I don’t like the idea of waging war against something as relentless as dust. It’s a battle I’ll most likely lose.

So I suppose it may be best to shift my perspective on dust’s ever-returning presence. I could see it as evidence of a life well lived. A life spent being and doing. A life where I devote more time to enjoying experiences and less to cleaning up after them. Also, I learned today that dust may contain specks of meteorites, and it’s kinda cool to think bits of outer space traveled through faraway galaxies and ended up congregating on top of my bookshelves.

I also read that human skin cells make their way into dust, which means I’m in that pile under my chair too, along with my sons and maybe even cells of others floating around in the air and wafting in through my windows.

And in the end, we all become dust, yes? That whole ashes to ashes, dust to dust business. So maybe it’s time I stop viewing dust as a nuisance and start approaching it with a little reverence.

Maybe.

And one day when I’m gone, bits of me may still mingle with dirt and meteorites and carpet fibers to form a fuzzy cloud under the sofa. Some future person will spy our little assembly, huff over to her closet, and grab her microfiber cloth. We’ll snicker at her attempt to banish us, swirl like a miniature sparkling solar system in the air for a brief moment as she swipes around, then we’ll settle down, winking and glinting as we settle into in our new spot on her windowsill.

With dirt and meteorites and fibers, I’ll be relentless, too.

, © 2026

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when hard times crowd my days
when challenges mount
when I mess up
when I struggle
when I fall or fail
friends say
give yourself some grace

but I’ve never found it easy
to wrap myself in a word
so holy
so pure
so unearned

any grace I offer myself
comes presented on a chipped plate
it tangles with 3:00 AM thoughts
unkempt and rumpled
like morning hair and sheets

the grace I give myself
sputters towards me
angled and off-center
it spritzes my skin in microdoses
tepid
tentative
primitive
shaky
awkward
untamed

unsoundly sound
imperfectly perfect
uncomfortably comforting
totally human
and completely overdue

2026

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you may hesitate to visit him
because the place smells of oldness 
muted by cheap air fresheners

or because weary finishes and furnishings crowd the space
tinged and tainted with questionable stains
marred and marked by wheelchairs and walkers

or because groaning and hard-to-witness struggles
seep into hallways
paired incongruently
with game show applause

         visit him anyway

you may hesitate to ask him questions
because old hurts still exist
carved from impatient words like 
you ask too many questions 
and figure it out for yourself
and you’re too curious

or because responses require struggle
or may result in mismatched answers

         ask him questions anyway

you may hesitate to hold his hand
because it hangs limp and tenuous
void of robustness and strength
nails tattered and rough
skin patchworked with bruises from some medication he takes
or some affliction he endures
you can never remember which

         hold his hand anyway

cradle it with care and tenderness
for this may be the only touch he’s received today 
wrapped in love and memories
and not duty and obligation

his fingers may not curl around yours
but you may see a softening hint of gratitude
         for the visit
         for the attention
         for the touch

a glimmer of recognition may alight his face
a small memory floating back
from a faraway time
when his hand cradled yours

2026

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you’ll smell it in the air first
a faint and unmistakable pitchy dampness

your eyes may notice it next
colors desaturated and drained of vibrancy

your ears may perk
picking up a slow low rumble
like a lion’s gut growling in the distance

your instincts may sense what’s coming
sparking an itch to flee to a safe spot indoors

but don’t bolt

stay outside instead

duck under a portico or porch or overhang if necessary

then wait
and watch

you may be lucky enough to catch sight
to witness within the inky sky
an awe inducing sensory show
                    a quick 
                            stuttering                         
                                    zig zagging 
                               flash 
illuminating billowy monochromatic clouds 
accompanied by a roaring energetic crack 

so stay outside
stay with trembling skin
watch as light illuminates darkness in the beautiful way it does
allow the thunder to stir and shake your cells 
aligning them with what matters most 

stay outside
stay awed

2026

author’s note
In April, I started attending twice-a-month sessions with a poetry writing group. The leader poses prompts followed by 10 minutes of quiet writing time. The brave ones then share what they’ve written.

I’m humbled and awed by how people in the group pull words and ideas into beautiful works of art in such a short time frame. My brain doesn’t work that fast. It functions more like a slow cooker than an Instant Pot.

The above poem was in response to the prompt ‘write about a sensory experience everyone should experience’. My thoughts didn’t gel while seated in the room, but a week later, an idea spilled out of me on my drive to the office.

That’s just how my brain works. For most of my life, I’ve chided myself for my mind’s slow rhythm, but I’m beginning to see this percolation period not as a flaw, but as an intragal and potentially valuable part of who I am. It seems to be baked into my synapses.

And those storms? Those things I fear? Like coming up empty-handed during a poetry group session? Like feeling humbled to my core in the presence of such awe-inducing creatives? I’m learning to sit with those feelings, too. To stay outside my comfort zone in that scary space where my body trembles and my voice shakes so I can soak in their creative juices until inspiration strikes—even if it happens weeks later.

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the page yields to the pressure of my pen
tidy blue lines stand ready and waiting
catching the scribbles and mess that spill from my head

the page doesn’t interrupt
doesn’t judge or complain
doesn’t pounce or interject or spout
unwelcome comments or suggestions

the page lends its ear
offering space and time
to meander through thoughts
to ramble and amble
to sift and sort
to drone and moan
to vent and lament
to wrestle
to reckon
to eject hurts
and to sit in the quiet space that follows

the page remembers and holds
in confidence and trust
keeping my words safe and secure
within its cleanly defined edges

author’s note:
One of the hardest things about being single is not having a partner to lean on during times when hard stuff weighs heavily on my shoulders and heart. During daylight hours, I may call my sister or a friend, but I can’t always do that in the wee hours of the night when I’m itching to talk, process something, or just be heard.

The other night, a deep sadness crept in after a particularly hard day, and without anyone to talk to at that late hour, I grabbed a notebook and started writing—spilling all my sorrows and frustrations, and after three pages, I wrote paper will be my partner.

Although I wrote that declaration earlier this week, in reality, the page became my partner years ago. This isn’t a new thing—more of a new realization. When I left my husband, the page held all my grief, my anger, my pain. In notebook after notebook, I flooded the pages with all the hurts I’d bottled up for far too long.

A few years ago, I decided to share some of those words publicly, which in turn connected me with writers all over the globe—many of whom are now my favorite people on earth.

The page is my trusted partner and an unexpected gift.

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I watched as my 85-year-old dad shuffled through the halls of their independent living facility as though he were trudging against a river’s swift current. His mind and his gestures all move like honey dripping from my wooden dipper. Slow and slightly elongated. He’s battling dementia, which is to say he’s enduring it because it’s not really a battle when we all know which side will eventually win.

His mind has become like the moon with craters and ridges and mean moon men who swallow up his thoughts, old memories, and sometimes his speech, and spit them into the craters, making them difficult to retrieve. Half of his brain still sees some sunlight while darkness shrouds the other half.

Thankfully, the mean moon men haven’t yet stolen his knowledge and love for my mom, or my sister, my brother, or myself. They haven’t yet snatched his love for chocolate pudding, nor his interest in playing pool, although they often disrupt his thought process so that he doesn’t point the cue stick at the cue ball. Sometimes he lines it up and strikes the two or the three or the eight ball instead.

My dad also still remembers that he likes the barbecue chicken sandwich at Panera. When we order at the drive-thru, the mean moon men may steal his words for a brief moment, causing his lips to sputter a series of p p p’s in an attempt to form the words until I say barbecue chicken sandwich? Then he smiles and nods and says yes, barbecue chicken sandwich.

Then last Friday, my dad got out of bed and promptly tipped over, banging his hip and head against the thin carpeting. The hip broke on impact. The trauma to his body and head and relocation to the hospital, where everything is foreign and clinical, bolstered the mean moon men’s devious activity level. They stirred up moon dust, clouding his mind all the more. They made him believe he was standing when he was lying down, causing him great worry that he would slip and fall again. They also churned up embarrassment knowing he was naked under his hospital gown, spurring great concern to find his clothes and shoes without delay.

I did my best to reassure him that he was lying in a bed and couldn’t fall and that it was okay to only wear a gown right now—to ground him in the reality of where he was and what was happening—but my words did little to soothe or reconcile how his mind processed what he saw and felt. His mind kept circling back to these worries and concerns. And while he waited in the pre-surgery area, the mean moon accelerated their wicked acts causing agitation at the sight of my mom, who is his tether, leaving his side. He grasped the bed’s side rails in a feeble attempt to pull himself up and out of bed.

I drove home from the hospital, cursing those mean moon men, telling them to fuck off and leave my dad alone. That he’s had enough, what with heart ventricles that don’t remember to stay in sync and a prostate that grew cancer and medicine that makes him tighten his belt up a notch with every passing year.

Yet I know my lamentations and curses won’t deter them. They’re here to stay.

And I realized this morning that instead of trying to ground my dad back on earth—to reconnect his mind to reality—maybe it’s best to join him on the moon to help him navigate this new lunar landscape where the scenery looks so different. To listen to his worries, nod, and confirm that this new territory confuses me, too. To walk alongside him in this liminal, uncertain world where gravity doesn’t pull as hard, and the stars have all shifted, so he doesn’t feel so alone out in this uncharted space.

, ©2026

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I didn’t go to the conference intending to meet someone.

I had education sessions to attend. Stuff to learn.

Yet Hope hung in the air.

What if?

Before we left, my boss mentioned that 85% of the 1,300 attendees would be male. The cells inside my heart thumped a little faster with wonder and Hope of possibility. Where else would I ever find myself among such a large male population, walking and talking and attending sessions, all under one roof?

Yet everywhere I looked, every man I met—and every woman for that matter—sported a ring around that finger.

Every damn one.

It was a soul-crushing game of one of these things is not like the other. A sobering round of musical chairs where the tune ends and I’m left standing.

When I left my marriage, I carried around a bucketful of Hope that I would meet someone without delay. My friends bolstered this Hope with words like, You’re smart. Kind. Interesting. You won’t have any trouble. You’ll be snatched in no time.

But after seven years on and off the dating apps, attending MeetUp group events, and signing up for various classes, there’s been no snatching. I’m still single.

As each year passed without a hand to hold, my bucketful of Hope slowly dwindled to a ladle-sized scoop. And after that conference, Hope evaporated to the size of a thimble.

Yet with flickering faith and weary hands, I grip that tiny little bit of Hope, holding onto her like she’s precious, holy water.

Despite her diminished size, somehow that small bit of Hope sustains me. Like an IV drip, she provides microdoses of encouragement.

Hope sidles next to me in bed at night. She greets me as I sip my morning tea. She accompanies me on my drive to work. Joins me at the gym. Sits beside me as I type this, leaning into me and peering at the screen, laptop perched upon my thighs.

Hope clings to my skin like a warm spring mist. Her presence is soft. Tender. Wise.

She won’t be easily wiped away. She’s tenacious. Steadfast. Unshakeable.

So I relent and allow Hope to work her magic in the sacred way she does. Let her seep into my head, absorbing her patient energy as she shifts my thinking. Yield to her as she adjusts my shoulder height. Dissolve into her constancy as she softens my face.

I immerse myself in her quiet, unwavering presence, trusting that no matter how small she shrinks, she’ll always be here, keeping me afloat.

©2026

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When some people go through divorce, they liken the process to a phoenix rising from the ashes, but that kind of dramatic display didn’t align with how I felt. I would never rise from the ashes of my marriage because there was nothing to burn down. Nothing there to catch fire.

Sure, we built a home and a family together. Those parts were concrete and had structure. They held shape and form.

But the marriage? Not so much. Our foundation may have rested on relatively firm ground. We built some sections for the framework of decent marriage, but stopped short of forming anything substantial. There wasn’t anything solid to lean on or shelter us when the winds of tough times blew in.

It’s no wonder it all fell apart.

So instead of the marriage dying in a blaze of flames, the ending resembled what happens after stomping on one of those eyelash bugs. I flip over my shoe to scrape off the dead bug, only to discover there’s nothing there. They don’t seem to have a body at all— only air and thin, leggy fluff.

And that phoenix-rising imagery of a majestic soaring bird? That wasn’t relatable to me either. I certainly didn’t feel myself rising upward when my marriage ended, let alone soaring. I understand how the metaphor symbolizes hope, renewal, and rebirth. I get that, but my divorce mirrored an actual human birth — not of me giving birth but of being pushed through the birth canal myself.

The process squeezed me. It squashed me.

I emerged from the experience internally bruised and messy. I needed lots of sleep. I demanded a boatload of comfort from the hearts and arms of those who cared about me.

Then I had to learn to walk in this world on my own. I spent time reflecting on who I was and who I wanted to be.

Like a growing child, I also traveled through a period akin to a toddler’s terrible twos. I learned the power of saying no and how using that word helps define my boundaries. Over time, I’m discovering where my edges lie, setting the framework for what works for me and what doesn’t.

Then I found my voice.

Slowly and thoughtfully, I constructed a new life for myself. I laid a new foundation on healthier ground. I dug deep to set my footings on solid bedrock, anchoring them in a quiet strength I now claimed as mine.

After pushing through that painful divorce process, a new life awaited me — a life of growth and stretching myself outside my comfort zone. It’s turned into a life filled with experiences I never quite imagined for myself. Writing. Travel. Lots of first dates. Too many first dates.

A crew of new friends cropped up, filling my days with joy and laughter. Some live nearby and others span the globe. Some live so far away they’re already into tomorrow when we message each other.

I never suspected how pregnant with possibilities my life would be while drenched in the struggles of my divorce. While trudging through the muck of it, the pain weighed too heavily, and the darkness hung too bleakly. I couldn’t see any light or envision all the good things to come just beyond the thickness of my woes.

As I approach the seventh anniversary of my marriage’s end, some bits of that phoenix rising metaphor fit more now than they did at the onset. I feel stronger. I’m more hopeful and maybe just a tad bit wiser.

I also sense myself rising upward, though it isn’t due to soaring but rather standing taller while remaining grounded in the life I’m building for myself. I don’t feel light and airy like a bird, but solid and embodying the stance of a humble yet hearty heroine.

©2026

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A sinking, unsettled feeling filled my body the day I walked away from my home and left my marriage. The autumn day was crisp and bright. The movers were efficient and succinct.

My soon-to-be ex sent me out the door with a bottle of wine stuffed in a gift bag and the words, Be happy. At that moment, I was anything but happy.

All I felt was sorrowful pain and the need to escape — to unlink myself from the life I’d built and the relationship I tried unsuccessfully to make look the way I wanted it to look. I wanted a deep love. A partnership. Two souls working towards the same goal.

Kindness. Compassion. Intimacy.

And as hard as I tried to build those things, I couldn’t make them happen. I rowed our relationship boat alone for so long, yet all I did was travel around in circles. The only thing I could do at the end was to separate myself from what held me back.

That life. That relationship.

We were unmatched puzzle pieces, never quite snapping together the way partners should. He held strong, unchallengeable opinions and wore a suit of armor around his heart — a barrier I couldn’t penetrate.

But I can’t hang all my marital woes solely on him. I brought my brand of dysfunction into the relationship, too. As a well-practiced people pleaser, I deferred to him and his opinions even when my insides didn’t agree. I also hid what burned inside me. A longing for deep connection and to be loved ravenously simmered under the surface. My never-rock-the-boat nature and discomfort with talking about uncomfortable topics kept me from asking for what I needed and wanted.

I didn’t see it until much later, but my behavior created an armor around my heart, too. Back then, all I did was point my finger at him.

A few months before I moved out, I lay on my sofa after another exhausting therapy session. I started seeing a therapist about a year before I left my marriage. I needed her insights to determine if my marriage was salvageable or if it was time to leave.

My therapist had a way of wringing me dry and wearing me out. Each time we met, she dug deeper into my behaviors until I finally succumbed to her excavations.

Through her unrelenting mining, we unearthed and laid bare my truth. She helped me see that my people-pleasing ways and hiding my feelings were barriers to connection. She challenged me to rewire my thinking and practice healthier methods of relating.

This was both scary and freeing. I’d never spoken up for myself in my marriage before, and shifting my behavior toward living my truth released a weight I didn’t realize I carried.

This new way of being didn’t sit well with my soon-to-be ex. Although the status quo no longer worked for me, it still worked for him. So instead of clearing a path to the connection I desired, it shut him down more.

Once I opened the door to change, I couldn’t shut it. I understood now how my behavior kept me from achieving the intimacy I desperately wanted. With his battening-down-the-hatches reaction to this change from me, it became apparent there was no path forward for us to tread together. Within the confines of our marriage, I couldn’t be who I now needed to be.

This truth hung heavy within me as I lay on the sofa that day, and it hurt like hell. I cried so hard it felt like I was drowning. I choked on my tears and my nose filled with fluid. The pain of accepting reality stung badly, yet it was a turning point. I knew I couldn’t continue living this way. I could no longer ignore the truth.

I had to face it and leave.

Psychotherapist Resmaa Menakem writes that healing our pain involves recognizing, accepting, and moving through it. We must face it head-on and choose integrity over fear.

“It is about letting go of what is familiar but harmful, finding the best parts of yourself, and making a leap — with no guarantee of safety or praise.”

When I walked out the door that sunny October day, an unmoored sensation stirred in me. This rattled me. I had no idea where or how I was going to land. My income at the time couldn’t possibly cover the cost of a decent, safe place to live, let alone food and clothing. My soon-to-be ex said he’d help me for a time and I trusted he would. But for how long? And wasn’t I trying to sever that connection anyway? Relying on him for support kept us linked. I needed to cut that tie.

With a hefty load of uncertainty, I set sail into uncharted territory. Like an astronaut untethered from the mothership, I floated through those first months in a paradoxical haze of relief mixed with fear. The tension from the relationship with my soon-to-be ex melted from my body only to be replaced by a nagging inner critic peppering me with questions about my murky future.

How are you going to make this work? How are you going to support yourself? Where are you going to land?

Are you going to land?

Underneath all those unanswered questions, a still, small voice whispered to me. You’re going to be okay. Trust me on this.

That still, small voice didn’t emanate from my head but from my body as an inner knowing centered just below my heart. Its reassuring message comforted me, so I leaned into it. In doing so, a calm resolve took over. My breathing slowed. My head cleared. And little by little, things began falling into place.

A job with decent pay, an easy commute, and good benefits popped up on Indeed. It wasn’t in an industry familiar to me or one I ever imagined working in, but the job description seemed like a good fit for my skillset. I interviewed and they hired me. My trust in myself and that voice grew.

Resmaa Menakem goes on to add that healing doesn’t happen in our heads but rather in our bodies. He states that if we remain calm in the face of uncertainty, healing will more likely flow to us.

By accepting that unmoored feeling, I learned to sit with the discomfort of uncertainty and trust that things will eventually work out — maybe not in the way I had in mind, but good nonetheless. Through this process, I learned to stand. I learned what I’m made of and what I'm capable of.

Most of all, I learned to anchor myself to that still, small voice.

None of this happened overnight. I struggled to hear and trust that voice initially. The inner critic’s voice was louder. Bolder.

But the still, small voice was patient and tenderly unrelenting. So I kept tuning my ear to it and focused on making it my compass. This took years and a continuous practice of intention and meditation focused on my breath to steer my awareness away from my fearful thoughts and center it on the spot just below my heart, where that voice lives.

This practice isn’t linear but rather spiral. A situation will crop up when I get blown around by the winds of uncertainty, and that unmoored feeling will sneak back into my head again. Sometimes I still get stuck there, but I’m getting quicker at noticing this and reminding myself to reconnect with my body’s inner knowing.

Some days, the voice remains quiet or doesn’t seem to have much to say.

But I continue to trust it’s always there— a calm and healing presence that helps me navigate life’s choppy seas.

©2026

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Envy crept in on my way to work last week like an unwelcome hitchhiker. He snuck in through the back passenger door I didn’t realize I’d left unlocked.

He leaned over my shoulder. Chided me for my erratic writing. Berated me for not maintaining a steady speed. For getting stuck behind slow-moving ideas.

Judged me for taking detours through barren and quiet spaces.

Reminded me that the seat beside me remains empty.

He whispered.

Everyone else is moving faster. Writing better. Writing more. Churning out great content. Getting more likes. Has their shit figured out. Knows their direction.

And see over there? Those people in the HOV lane? They all have partners. A hand to hold. Someone next to them to navigate their life journey.

Hey! You just took a wrong turn. Now you’re lost.

The green monster’s nature isn’t anything like the refreshing hue of springtime but rather like the shade of moldy, spoiled fruit. I don’t like ingesting his words, or how they feel when they land in my body, or how he infiltrates my mind with mildewy thoughts.

The words he whispers may not even be true, but in the moment, they feel real. Envy is like social media munching on Wheaties. The stories he tells may seem hearty, but in reality, they may just be flakes. Knowing this, however, doesn’t diminish their grip.

It’s no wonder Envy’s a member of the seven deadly sins gang. He kills my spirit. He brings me down. And if sin is anything that separates me from the Divine’s love, then envy and the self-defeating thoughts he ushers in certainly do that. He creates a shroud that darkens my mood and dims my light.

It often takes a distraction of some sort to shake envy’s grip. In recent months, I’ve tried a new one that seems to clear out envy and other spirit destroyers. I take a deep breath, then I scan what’s around me until I get swept up in the swelling awe of a breathtaking scene.

A hallelujah moment, as I call them.

These moments are like a return. A reunion. A reconnection to light.

They stop that green train of thought brewing inside me and shift my focus to something outside myself.

These moments don’t have to be anything fancy or grand. Simple ones are best, most effective, and more widely accessible —like noticing how early morning sunlight wraps a building in apricot hues. Or watching birds swirl in a synchronized dance across a baby blue sky. Or how the office dog greets me with so much tail wagging joy that it makes her whole body wiggle.

Soaking in these awe-filled, wonder-filled, joy-filled moments shifts those rotten thoughts to ones that feel more like warm tea. Comforting and calming. Inviting.

They make my shoulders relax a bit, and with that, a realization set in that my writing goals, my life partner quest, that deep-seated desire I have to be where I want to be without delay, can’t be measured against anyone else’s path. They can’t be tallied up in numbers like follower counts or likes or comments or quantity, or how many days or weeks or years pass until I find that person. Until I get to that place.

Instead, the yardsticks to use are resonance and relatability and to remember that a creative life has rhythms and seasons.

That Divine timing is just that—Divine—and on a schedule that can only be seen as just right in the rearview mirror.

That the right man will arrive when the right moment arrives.

That patience and trust must be smooth stones I carry in my pockets to grip and hold whenever envy or other self-defeating thoughts snake their way into my head.

All of this came to mind when Envy crept in last week, and a switch flipped inside me. I was done listening to his demeaning putdowns. I’d had enough.

I scanned the view outside my car and noticed how taillights painted glowing red streaks on the street’s wavy, wet pavement. It disrupted those negative thoughts enough to snap me back into a reconnection.

Then, like an old-time cartoon, I imagined pushing the eject button, and with the boing of a massive spring, envy shot up and away.

Farewell, green monster.

I’m doing just fine.

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Just after I left my marriage, my friend Kevin texted me a little pep talk on staying positive. I replied that mostly, I am staying positive. I just wish my future wasn’t so muddy.

He replied, The future is muddy regardless. Just sayin’!

I paused to think about what he said, then had to agree he was right. The future is always muddy. Regardless of well-laid plans, current health conditions, or whatever else is happening right now, the future is baked with muddy uncertainty.

In the book, The Immortalists, one of the characters states that her mother gave her the gift of uncertainty. When I read this, I set the book down, a string of resistant questions now circling in my head.

Uncertainty is a gift? Is she crazy? How is that even possible?

I sat for a while, teasing through my tangled thoughts on what she meant by this.

How can uncertainty be a gift? I suppose uncertainty presents us with many different possibilities and opportunities. Anything can happen, and the outcome may be better than what we’d planned.

Uncertainty can also unleash creativity. It generates questions, which lead to learning and growth.

All of these are gifts.

Creativity flourishes not in certainty but in questions. Growth germinates not in tent-dwelling but in upheaval.
— Susan Monk Kidd

At times, uncertainty has also filled my hope bucket. My marriage ended when I was 50 and at that time, I held the hope that I’d meet someone soon. If I’d known for certain that nine years later I’d still be single, my emotional state was so fragile, so yearning, so desolate back then that I would’ve been in despair. I may never have tried dating at all, and instead, being the impulsive person that I am, done something drastic like plodding toward the nearest monastery and throwing myself on the ground at the altar.

I give up. I surrender. Take me. I’m yours.

Yet if I’d done that, I never would’ve met all the men I did while dating—two of whom have become dear friends—nor all the other people who crossed my path. I would’ve missed out on all the rich and meaningful experiences that shaped me during those nine years, many of which fueled and inspired my writing. So yeah, uncertainty kept my hope for a potential love afloat, and with that hope dangling like a carrot on a stick in the future, many wonderful things entered my life.

The cautious voice will always offer its counsel. But the life you want rarely waits for certainty.
- John P. Weiss

Which leads to what I believe is uncertainty’s greatest gift—the way it brings people together. Relationships matter to me more than anything, and sharing the worries of my uncertain future with friends drew us closer, connecting us through similar life experiences. These friends not only sat with me through my muddy divorce but also helped me accept uncertainty’s presence and lean into its positive side as well.

This reminds me of some sage advice given by the mom in the book, Where the Crawdads Sing. She took her daughters out for a ride in their old skiff in the swamp area near their home. In the course of their fun outing, the skiff drifted too close to the shore, and they got stuck in the mud.

They all jumped out, their feet and clothes now slopped and caked with mud, and pushed the boat back to open water. Then, they climbed back in the boat, flopped down on the bottom, stuck their muddy feet in the air, and laughed at the sight.

The mom then said,

You all listen, now, this is a real lesson in life. Yes, we got stuck, but what did we girls do? We made it fun, we laughed. That’s what sisters and girlfriends are all about. Sticking together even in the mud—‘specially in the mud.

I would add that it’s not just sisters and girlfriends who stick with us in the mud, but brothers and other men too. It’s the mud in our lives that unites us. The mud that draws us closer together.

And sometimes the muddiness of life can even spark laughter.

What I know for sure is that whenever I think I’m certain about something or believe I can predict the outcome—whether it’s thinking a relationship will last, or that leaving my marriage will render me forever scraping to get by financially, or that somehow I know the best path my son should take into adulthood— the Divine responds with a wink and a smile. She doesn’t behave according to my certainty plans.

The future glides forward like a slippery fish. It doesn’t want to be caught, known, or figured out. The future reveals itself gently in measured bits. It often gifts me with outcomes I didn’t expect—some not so good, but many of which end up better than anything my limited mind could’ve ever dreamed up.

And overarching all of this is a reminder that if uncertainty is a gift, it should be received as any gift should—with gratitude and grace. So expressing gratitude for the mud—for the things we learn and for the people and experiences it brings—grounds us in a mindset to keep showing up even when we’re unsure.

Gratitude is not a form of passive acceptance or complicity. Rather, it is the capacity to stare doubt, loss, chaos, and despair right in the eye and say, “I am still here.”
— Diana Butler Bass

In the midst of muddy times, Norma, my dear friend and Kevin’s sister, often quotes the words from 1 Thessalonians 5:18— In all circumstances give thanks.

I’ll admit giving thanks in all circumstances seems a little impossible, but Brian McLaren explains that “the words ‘in all circumstances’ shouldn’t be confused with ‘for all circumstances’. But neither should they be thinned to mean ‘in easy circumstances’. Even in pain, we can find a place of gratitude, a place where, alongside the agony of loss, we still count and appreciate what remains.”

This means banding together, whether it be in lamentations or laughter, and giving thanks in all of it—even the mud.

Maybe even ‘specially the mud.

©

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“She gave me a ride to the hairdresser, and in return, I gave her some celery.”

When my mom uttered these words at the dinner table last month, my sister and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. Our mom can no longer drive and needs rides to get to her appointments and such.

“You barter for rides with celery, Mom?” my sister inquired.

I tried to wrap my head around paying for rides with celery. My mind spun briefly with a slurry of questions.

Does she really use celery as a currency? The vegetable that’s always left over on a veggie tray at the end of a party? The one we coax kids to eat by filling its cavity with cream cheese, embedding it with raisins, and calling it ants on a log?

“Yes,“ she replied quite matter-of-factly. “My friend lives alone, and sometimes you just need a few stalks.”

Her answer made us snort again.

Celery?!

Honestly, Mom.

On the way home, I thought more about how steadfast she was on the saneness of this exchange system and my personal relationship with celery. How often have I needed it for a recipe, bought a bundle, used a few stalks, then tossed out the wilted lump weeks later, never having needed it again before it went bad?

Maybe receiving a few stalks in trade wasn’t such a crazy idea after all.

Maybe it was even kinda thoughtful.

This idea brought to mind a story I heard years ago. I’m not sure if it’s true or a parable about how misunderstandings or misinterpretations can derail relationships. It featured a married couple, and as the story goes, whenever the husband made toast for his wife, he gave her the heel of the bread. This bugged her, but she didn’t say anything, so a ball of resentment grew inside her.

Why does he always give me the heel? A miffed internal dialog rang through her mind every time this happened.

This went on for years until one day, that ball of resentment exploded.

“Why do you always give me the heel?” She exclaimed with a hint of rage.

He looked at her with earnest eyes.

“Honey, the heels are the best part. There are only two per loaf. They’re rare. They have the crusty outside and the tender inside. I’m giving you the prized pieces.”

With those words, a new understanding sank inside her. What she saw as the worst parts of the bread, he saw as the best.

He presented her with a thoughtful offering, and she interpreted it as lowly celery.

As I reflect more on this currency of celery idea, it makes me wonder how often my former husband and I missed each other’s cues. Was he giving me what he thought was the best, but I mistook it for celery? And what about those times when I did something I believed to be thoughtful, but he interpreted it as merely celery?

I’ll never know, and it's too late to go back. I don’t even want to go back. But it gives me food for thought on how to handle situations like these in my current relationships and any that may materialize in the future.

It’s a good thing to clarify.

Hey, honey? Is this more than just a stalk of celery?

©

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She sits perched on a bookshelf at the foot of my bed.

A 15” x 20” black and white photo of 24-year-old me.

My friend Amy took the photo while completing her BFA in photography. For her final senior project, she took a bunch of portraits, mounted them on foam core, and displayed them on a wall in a large grid.

This photo of me was somewhere in that grid.

Amy gave me the image when her senior show ended. I had no idea what to do with it, so I stuffed it in a black portfolio case along with my own college photography projects and stashed it in the basement.

When I left my husband, I took the portfolio with me. I’d forgotten about the photo, and when I unzipped the case one day to flip through my old projects, there was 24-year-old me peering out at me.

I remember being newly married when Amy took the photo, and now here I was, 27 years older and newly divorced. The bookend nature of discovering it felt like synchronicity somehow.

Me then. Me now.

Me at the base of the marriage mountain.

Me on the other side, already beginning the ascent up a new mountain.

And all the rocky stuff in between.

I decided not to put the image back inside the case and instead perched it on that bedroom bookshelf. So now I wake up each morning and go to bed each night looking at 24-year-old me.

She glances at me sideways with eyes that say she knows something. Like she’s hiding a secret.

But what could she possibly know? She lives on the other side of the knowing equation. She lives in the pre-plan stage. The prologue stage. She’s forming Plan A. Mapping it out.

She can’t possibly know that at age 50, she’ll need a Plan B, or that at age 59, she’ll set Plan B aside and begin figuring out Plan C.

She also has no way of knowing that quite possibly a year after that—a year into the future— she’ll most likely toss out the whole idea of planning and simply ride whatever waves life rolls her way. Stop muscling herself against the tide and flow with it instead.

Release her grip on the oars and drift through life without any plans at all.

Yet as I look at her face and that half smile, I wonder if somehow she did know all of this. The glint behind her eyes seems to say, Just wait. I have a few surprises for you.

But she kept them hidden. Didn’t give me any warning. No heads up.

She kept them bottled up inside her—holding them all in—so I’d live the surprises instead.

I study her face more and wonder if this could be true. Did 24-year-old me have an inkling of what life would hold? Somehow sense all this in her gut?

Did her intuition send up a red flag, but she let her human desires—her wants, her needs—get in the way of listening? Were her longings, those pestering voices, louder than the gut nudges warning her, so she acted on the former instead?

Did she somehow sense what may come and decide to climb the mountain anyway?

I can’t be sure.

As I survey her expression further, my mind wanders, and I imagine her offering advice to me now—this 24-year-old me from the past. My mind creates the next shot in this series. The shutter snaps, catching her leaning towards me, hunched over slightly, raising her pointer finger to her lips.

Shhh, she whispers, as her lips form a tender hush that stills me.

Don’t think.

Feel instead.

Be patient.

Trust your gut. Your intuition.

Have faith.

And remember, she continues, her eyes and lips now shifting from comforting to mischievous.

Remember that message you received within a fortune cookie oh-so-many years ago, still tacked on your bulletin board:

An easy life does not teach anything.

©

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Persistence is my magic wand and my kryptonite.

When I want something and remain committed to working towards it—like my search for a new job this year—sometimes my persistence pays off. The door unlocks and opens.

What I seek is mine.

Last January, I determined it was time to leave my current job. After almost a year of arriving home most evenings overwhelmed and exhausted with little response from the higher-ups to my pleas for help, I pulled together a resume and started the networking process.

And after seven months of numerous non-responses and suffering through the pin pricks of rejections from employers, I landed a job I love. I pushed through the frustrations and disappointments and opened a door to a place that’s a good fit for me.

Other times, the opposite occurs. When I want something badly—like a successful marriage—I put in the effort.

For 27 years, I tried every angle. My persistent nature kept me searching for that magic if I only do this key to unlock the door to open communication and a happy marriage.

If I say it just right.

If I get my timing just right.

If I act just right.

if if if

I got stuck in an endless loop of thinking that with enough persistence and patience, I could make this happen. I did everything I could think of to crack the door open.

I knocked. I rang the doorbell. I jiggled the handle. But the door to the marriage I desired remained closed.

So I sat and gave it some more thought. I considered another angle. I tried another key.

Maybe we need counseling.

Maybe a weekend away.

Maybe a new pair of underwear.

Seriously. I tried that. I tried all of it.

Yet my attempts were like trying to wriggle an unmatched key into the slot. The lock’s tumblers never aligned. The door still wouldn’t open.

Around this time, a friend asked me, Are you gonna turn over every stone? Try every god-forsaken key?

Damn straight I am. I don’t want to be divorced.

So I sat again, but at this point, my friend’s words started to sink in, and I sensed that leaving may be the best option. The happy marriage I desired wasn’t gonna happen, yet I wanted it badly enough that I tried one more time. I drew another ladle full of hope from my well of persistence. I got up again.

I knocked. I pounded. I wrestled with the knob.

But the door remained locked.

It’s times like these when my persistence turns into kryptonite. It weakens me. It makes my head ache from continuing to bang it against a door that’s never gonna open.

And so with my marriage, I finally slumped my shoulders, packed up a few things, and walked away. It wasn’t easy, especially when what I wanted consumed large amounts of my sight. The narrow-minded idea that what I desire lives behind a particular door blinded me from considering that there might be other options.

A Plan B for my life.

And so I left, and my life forever changed—mostly for the better.

And it has me wondering about other wants that haven’t happened as I hoped—like my search a new partner. And it begs the question. With one more try, will my persistence turn into a magic wand that opens the door, or am I only swinging around a stick of kryptonite?

How do I discern the subtle chalk line between a persistent effort payoff and being a crazy person who can’t stop knocking on a door that’s never going to open?

Where does the balance between determined actions and a sighing acceptance rest? Between diligent attempts and surrendering to what is? Between rattling the handle and relinquishing my grip?

My hunch is that the answer lives somewhere in my gut.

I know with my job search, I felt a subtle nudge to keep moving in that direction. To keep putting myself out there. To keep trying.

With my marriage, however, all I felt was friction—a resistance in my gut signaling it was time to apply the brakes and pivot in a new direction. My penchant for persistence. deep desire for a life-long marriage, and resistance to divorce ignored those signs, though, and in doing so, I stayed stuck in that abrasive state for far too long.

In the new year, I’m considering another round on the dating apps but after six years of on-and-off attempts to find someone and coming up empty-handed, I’m wondering—is it time to accept that Venus—that planet of love—may never pass through the constellation of my life? Or do I step in the ring one more time and muscle through the pin-pricks of rejections until I find the one as I did with my job search?

I’m still learning to discern the difference between how these two gut-knowing sensations feel in my body. Am I getting a nudge to give it a go? That the timing is right? That my persistance will pay off?

Or am I feeling that tumbler misalignment friction as I did with my marriage? A prodding sensation to start considering a Plan C for my life?

I’m not sure yet, but I hope it doesn’t take 27 years this time to figure it out if perisitance will be my magic wand or if I’m merely gripping a stick of kryptonite.

©

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Right before that bastard named cancer gobbled up the last remaining healthy cell in my coworker’s body, someone asked him how he wanted to be remembered.

His answer?

For participating.

His answer dawned like recognizing a familiar face I hadn’t seen in years.

Participation. Yes. I remember you.

Isn’t participating what we naturally did as children? One of the reasons we were birthed onto this earth? To actively experience the wonder of life? To live each day in awe and curiosity? To ask questions and enmesh ourselves in the answers?

Yet sometimes, somewhere along the way, we retreat. We pull back. Instead, we sit and scroll and tune out. We stop noticing the ants and the frogs and the worms. Our curiosity flattens. We no longer need Band-Aids pasted to our knees or dirt removed from under our fingernails after a day spent exploring. Our participation shifts and changes.

In the poem When Death Comes, Mary Oliver writes that she doesn’t want to end her life having only visited this world.

When it’s over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

Amen sister.

If life is a zoo, I want to hop the fence, tangle with life’s tigers and live to talk about it. Climb the necks of giraffes and view my situation from a different perspective. Ride on the back of a chasing cheetah, then slow down with a sloth to experience the contrast between graceful speed and peaceful presence.

Hover with a hawk, taking in its keen awareness. Laugh with hyenas and howl with wolves. Swing around playfully with baby chimps. Plop in the mud with hippos.

Flow through life’s currents with the ease of a fish, then recognize the need for rest and go snooze in the sun with bears.

When my soul exits my body and merges with the ether or whatever mystery juice enfolds me when I die, when I’m no longer tethered to skin and sinew, to tongues and tibias and toenails, to the world of dirt and concrete and feathers and shit, I want to be remembered for participating too.

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My car is so much more than a means of transportation.

It’s the place where I realized my marriage was over as I drove home from work one day. I pulled into the Target parking lot because my sobs hijacked any awareness of the road; my eyes too waterlogged to see. The dashboard became my therapist. The steering wheel, her shoulder to cry on. The driver’s seat, her couch.

Thank goodness I always keep a box of Kleenex in there.

It’s the place where, on a cool and bright October morning, I packed it up with my clothes and fragile items and followed a moving truck filled with the rest of my stuff to a new apartment. Its steel structure became a bridge with tires that rolled me away from my marriage and into a new life.

It’s the place where I discovered that sex could be blissful when shared with someone who loved me deeply and desired me fiercely. The back seat turned into our bed. The foggy windows, a testament to our passion.

It’s the place where, during a college visit trip, my son shared some tender thoughts with me. Under the cover of a dark and moonless Autumn night, he opened up about his dreams. His fears. His longings. I got a glimpse of his inner world and discovered there’s a lot more going on inside him than I realized. Our time together in that four-wheeled box became a gift wrapped in connection.

It’s the place where insights arrive at the most inopportune times. Words and phrases rumble into my head as I motor down the freeway and have no way to write them down. I fumble to open the notes app on my phone, hit the microphone button, and start speaking with the hope that the voice-to-text feature will capture my words correctly—that it won’t read like a bunch of jibberish when I finally stop and read what came through me.

It’s the place where I sat with a friend for an hour and a half last week, reviewing this past year’s griefs and joys. We remarked how life often dishes out both emotions at the same time, and how hard it can be to hold those opposing tensions. That grief often arrives in waves and joys as pop-up surprises. Both often hit when we aren’t expecting them—one as an unwelcome visitor and the other as a warm delight.

It’s the place where I noticed one bright spring day that my face held a smile. During the year and a half I spent navigating my divorce and its aftermath, I thought I’d never shake the grief that hung on my shoulders. Yet one day, while driving in that car, I felt a glimmer of contentment settle in as I sang along to a favorite song on the radio. A soft smile eased across my face.

It’s also the place where my laughter returned. A month or so after my smile came back, a friend and I attended a brewery’s 5th anniversary celebration. The two of us spent most of the evening dancing with a guy named Woody. His enthusiasm and positive presence pumped up my self-confidence at a time when I desperately needed it. As we drove away that night, I announced to my friend that everyone needs a Woody in their life. There was a brief pause, then we laughed so hard I could hardly see to drive.

Needless to say, my car is the place where I discovered the healing power of laughter.

That laughter is a sacred kind of healing.

My car. A confessional booth. A love nest. A couch for therapy.

A spot for connection and sharing. A quiet refuge for reflection. A place for fits of laughter.

A steel-walled, rubber-wheeled, emotionally saturated sanctuary.

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Fatigued from months of planning, countless rehearsals, and the final days of scrambling to put the last-minute touches on costumes for her upcoming production, she glanced up to see a man walking into the dimly lit prop room.

He had a curious air about him. A pair of whimisical glasses sat perched in front of his dancing eyes. His head cocked this way and that, like a perceptive bird taking in its surroundings.

She approached him and uttered a weary, “Hello. Can I help you?”

“Actually, I’m wondering if I can help you,” he replied. “See, I’ve always been enamored with theater and heard about an upcoming production that might need a set of extra hands. I’m an engineer. Anything I can do?”

Her eyes lit up. “Why yes, I’m quite desperate right now,” she responded. “The show starts tomorrow, and I’ve been so busy completing the rest of the costumes that I haven’t had time for mine. I still need to somehow fashion a pair of wings for myself and I’m at a loss.”

“Aye, matey, I’m on it,” he said with the assuredness of a trustworthy captain. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.” He exited the space with a smile and a wink.

A few hours later, her eyes widened as he strolled in with a pair of wings constructed out of semi-circular translucent plastic pieces strung together on a thin cord. He tugged on the cord’s end, and the wings telescoped in and out.

”Think these will do?” he said with a grin.

She exhaled the words, "Oh, wow.’

He slipped them over her shoulders. They felt light as air.

“They’re perfect,” she whispered. “How can I repay you?”

“Got any beer?” he asked as his lips parted in a wide, cheshire cat smile.

She rummaged through the prop room mini-fridge and spied two cans of Coors Light.

He cracked the can open and plopped down on the soft, faded velvet sofa situated near the mini-fridge. He looked up at her and patted the spot beside him with his palm.

“Care to join me for a spell?” he inquired.

Spellbound is more like it, she thought as she sat down next to him.

She gave him a sideways glance, and a conversation started. Words between them flowed with all the characteristics of a gentle meandering river—dancing and calm, bubbling and smooth—and before they knew it, the sun dawned on a new day.

Thus marked the opening act of an enduring love that gave her two things every woman wants.

Wings to soar and a soft place to land when she’s weary.

, ©2025

This story weaves together bits of truth with my imagination for what the scene and dialog were like when my former coworker, Rob, met his wife, Ursula. When I heard their meeting story and how he gave her wings, my heart melted at the symbolism in it.

A few years ago, I wanted to write their story and post it, but the timing felt too tender as Rob was in a precarious duel with cancer. Unfortunately, cancer gobbled up his insides faster than a voracious vulture, and the heartache of it made me set the idea aside, but their story wouldn’t stop circling in my head.

Last week, I finally put it into words and then reached out to Ursula, telling her about my story and asking for her permission to share it. A heartfelt thanks to her for her ever-gracious spirit and her positive reply.

A special thanks also to for allowing me to use her image for this story. Check out her site. You won’t be disappointed.

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