Welcome to our newsletter, and thank you for being here! Each month, the three of us share our thoughts around a different theme and rotate the opening reflection.

Opening Reflection - Judi Clark

What Does Rest Look Like for You?

As three artists, we’ve come to realize that while each of us finds rest in different ways, we all need it. Rest doesn’t always look like stillness. Sometimes it’s found in movement, creativity, nature, or simply giving ourselves permission to pause.

For much of our lives, many of us have been taught to admire productivity. We fill our calendars, meet deadlines, care for others, volunteer, exercise, create, and often end the day wondering where the hours went. Somewhere along the way, rest became something we squeezed in only after everything else was finished.

But what if rest isn’t a reward? What if it’s one of the very things that allows us to fully embrace the life we’re trying so hard to live?

Rest is deeply personal. It doesn’t always mean sleep or sitting still. For one person, it may be a quiet morning with a cup of coffee while watching the sunrise. For another, it might be a walk through the woods, a refreshing swim, a long bike ride, painting in the studio, reading a favorite book, listening to music, dancing, sharing an unhurried conversation with a close friend, or simply sitting quietly with their thoughts.

Sometimes rest is found in movement. Sometimes it is found in stillness. Sometimes it is simply found in being fully present.

As we’ve grown older, many of us have begun to recognize that our minds and bodies quietly tell us when it’s time to slow down. We may feel less patient, less creative, emotionally drained, or simply more tired than usual. The challenge isn’t hearing those signals. The challenge is giving ourselves permission to listen.

Our culture often celebrates busyness. We wear full schedules like badges of honor, believing that slowing down somehow means we’re falling behind. Yet the opposite is often true. When we intentionally make room for rest, we return with greater clarity, renewed energy, fresh perspective, and a deeper appreciation for the people and experiences that matter most.

Rest isn’t about doing nothing. It’s about making space to reconnect with yourself, your thoughts, and what truly restores you.

Perhaps that’s the greatest gift rest offers. In the quiet moments, we begin to notice things we might otherwise miss: the sound of birds outside the window, the warmth of the morning sun, the laughter of a friend, the brush moving across a canvas, the rhythm of our footsteps, or the peaceful cadence of our own breathing.

Those moments remind us that life isn’t measured only by what we accomplish. It’s also measured by what we notice, what we feel, and what we allow ourselves to experience.

So this month, we invite you to pause for a few quiet moments and ask yourself:

What does rest look like for me?

How do I know when it’s time to honor that need?

There isn’t a right answer. There is only your answer.

Perhaps rest isn’t stepping away from life. Perhaps it’s returning to it with a fuller heart.

As you move through the days ahead, we hope you’ll give yourself permission to pause without guilt, breathe a little deeper, and embrace whatever rest looks like for you. It may be one of the greatest gifts you can give yourself. What does rest look like for you, and how do you know when it’s time to honor that need?

Tamara Dinius

The art of becoming

For much of my life, I believed rest was something you earned.

Finish the project. Clean the house. Answer the emails. Mow the lawn. One more thing. Then you can rest.

The problem is that “one more thing” has a way of multiplying until there is never a good time to stop.

That voice in my head telling me I need to keep producing comes from my father. He was a wonderful man who taught me countless lessons about hard work, perseverance, and responsibility. He also had a saying that quietly took root in me: “The day’s not counted unless you accomplish something.”

He didn’t mean any harm by it. In many ways, it served him well. But somewhere along the way, I began believing that my value was measured by what I produced.

Even now, I catch myself looking at my daughters with both admiration and confusion. They can spend an afternoon reading a novel, hiking through the woods, playing music, or simply sitting together talking. Part of me smiles because I love that they have found that freedom. Another part of me still wonders, “But what did you accomplish?”

It’s remarkable how long an old voice can echo in our minds.

The truth is, I am not very good at listening when my body whispers that it needs rest. I usually wait until it starts shouting. I’ll push through a cold, keep working when I’m exhausted, and convince myself that one more day won’t matter. Too often, it does. A cold becomes bronchitis. Exhaustion becomes pneumonia. My body finally gives out, and I have no choice but to rest.

The first time I traveled to Italy on my own, I kept a pace that someone twenty years younger might have struggled to maintain. I arrived home so sick that I couldn’t get out of bed for a week. It wasn’t a virus. It was total exhaustion. I seem to live as though life might disappear tomorrow, trying to soak up every experience while forgetting that even joy requires recovery.

Lately, though, I think I’m learning that rest isn’t the opposite of productivity. It’s part of living well.

Travel has been one of my greatest teachers. Sitting at a sidewalk café in another country doesn’t feel unproductive. Walking unfamiliar streets with no destination doesn’t feel like wasted time. Somehow, I permit myself to simply notice the world. I come home nourished in ways I can’t measure on a to-do list.

Perhaps that is what rest has been trying to teach me all along. Maybe a day doesn’t have to be filled with accomplishments to count. Maybe sometimes it counts simply because we were fully present while we lived it.

Judi Clark

Waterline

My Reflection: Learning to Listen

When I first began thinking about what rest means, I realized it has many faces. Rest isn’t one thing. It is deeply personal, and I believe each of us has our own rhythm. The challenge is learning to recognize it.

As I reflected on this question, I began thinking about how often we move through life without really paying attention to ourselves. We become short-tempered, anxious, edgy, emotionally drained, or physically exhausted, yet we continue pushing forward because that’s what we’ve always done. Somewhere along the way, we stop asking ourselves what we truly need.

I’ve often described myself as someone with “nervous energy.” I’ve said those words for years. But as I sat quietly with this topic, I wondered if what I have always called nervous energy is sometimes something entirely different. Perhaps it’s my mind and body gently telling me it’s time to slow down. Time to rest. Time to reboot. That realization was a gift.

Rest doesn’t always mean lying down or taking a nap. Sometimes rest is found in movement. For me, it might be a peaceful swim where each stroke settles my mind. It could be a bike ride, a walk, spending time in my art studio, or simply sitting on my deck with a cup of coffee as the morning begins. Those moments refill something inside me. They allow me to breathe a little deeper and return feeling more grounded.

I have come to believe that knowing yourself is one of life’s greatest gifts. When we understand our own rhythm, we become better at recognizing when we need to pause before we reach the point of exhaustion. Rest becomes less about recovering from burnout and more about caring for ourselves along the way.

I also think we need to change the way we look at rest. Too often our culture associates it with laziness or a lack of ambition. I couldn’t disagree more. Rest is a choice. It is an intentional act of self-care that allows us to show up more fully for the people we love and the lives we are fortunate to live.

As I move through this season of my life, I find myself paying closer attention to those quiet signals. Am I becoming impatient? Am I rushing through the day? Am I losing my sense of joy? Those questions help me recognize when it’s time to step back, reflect, and reset.

Ironically, I have discovered that when I allow myself to rest, I become more creative, more patient, and more present. I paint with greater freedom. I swim with greater peace. I enjoy conversations more fully. I notice the beauty around me instead of racing past it.

Perhaps that is what rest has become for me. It isn’t escaping life. It is returning to it with renewed energy, greater awareness, and a grateful heart.

If there is one lesson I hope to carry forward, it is this: learn to know yourself. Listen to your body. Pay attention to your emotions. Honor your own rhythm. The more we understand ourselves, the easier it becomes to recognize when we need to pause, reflect, reboot, and simply rest.

That awareness may be one of the healthiest and most meaningful gifts we can ever give ourselves.

Ellen Nordgren

The long road

I wish I could say that I’m really good at recognizing when I need rest and honoring that need. The truth is, I’m terrible at it.

I tend to burn the candle at both ends until my body finally says, “That’s enough. You’re done.” Sometimes that means getting sick. Sometimes I’m achy and exhausted, sometimes I can get mildly depressed, and sometimes I simply reach the point where I have absolutely nothing left in the tank. Apparently, subtle hints don’t work very well with me.

Sleep is probably the most obvious example. I know I should go to bed earlier. I want to go to bed earlier. And yet, night after night, 11:00 rolls around and I’m still up. There’s some ridiculous part of me that feels like if I go to bed early, I might miss something. What exactly is going to happen in my house at 10:30 at night that I can’t possibly miss, I have no idea.

The real lesson for me is that rest shouldn’t have to be earned, and it shouldn’t only happen when my body forces the issue. I’m still learning that slowing down doesn’t mean I’m wasting time. Honoring the need for rest means paying attention to the subtle signals instead of waiting until my body has to start yelling.

After really thinking about how to answer this question, I did some serious self reflection and I am ready to put rest higher on my priority list. But I’m definitely still a work in progress on this one!

The Heart Behind Three Roads

This season is not about reinvention. It is about remembrance, a remembering of self beneath the titles, a remembering of joy without purpose, a remembering that we are still here, still becoming, still open to what comes next.

We don’t know exactly where these roads will lead, but for the first time in a long time, we are not rushing to find out. We are simply walking, side by side on our own paths, trusting that who we are becoming will meet us along the way.

If this speaks to something in you, stay. We are three women on three different paths, sharing what it looks like to begin again, honestly, imperfectly, and in real time.

If you’ve been asking yourself what now, if something in you is shifting, you’re in the right place. Subscribe, share, follow along, and walk this road with us.

Three Roads Studio-We are simply walking each other home. Walk with us. Share your story

Subscribe here

Welcome to our newsletter, and thank you for being here! Each month, the three of us share our thoughts around a different theme and rotate the opening reflection.

Opening Reflection - Laura Blair

Where do you find wonder these days?

Where I Find Wonder These Days

I find wonder in miniatures.

Maybe that’s not surprising, since miniatures have become such a big part of my art practice and my podcast, Tiny Worlds, Big Stories. But what continues to surprise me is how much they still delight me. When I make something tiny, I am transported back to being ten years old, to the little things that I could lose myself in for hours. There is something about a miniature world that makes the ordinary feel magical again. It reminds me that wonder doesn’t necessarily require something big and significant. Sometimes it’s hiding in something small enough to fit in the palm of your hand.

I find wonder outside, too. Especially in the summer. There are blackberry-picking days, deer prancing through our field, and the beauty of everything being green and alive (except our grass, which basically looks like hay with the lack of summer rain!). And there is our golden retriever who has an extraordinary ability to remind me there is really only one thing happening right now, aside from the aggressive pulling and sniffing… this walk, this moment, this day. She doesn’t worry about yesterday or question what’s coming tomorrow. She is completely content to be outside, and somehow that makes me more aware of my own surroundings. I especially love the “sweet light” at dusk and the flowers my husband reminds me are weeds.

Lately, I’ve also been finding wonder in tenderness. I think tenderness feels especially precious right now. We have lost some of it lately, particularly in the way we speak to and about one another. So when I come across a story of genuine kindness, whether it’s a person helping a stranger, someone showing compassion, or a small act of sweetness between two humans, it can bring me to tears. And I’ve never been shy about the fact that I’m an emotional person. I’m an artist! That’s the way we roll. The “kindness accounts” on social media touch me so deeply, I realize how much I have been missing that feeling. They remind me that underneath all the noise, people are still capable of goodness. And I wonder (as a verb this time) whether we will find our way back to that. I think artists will have something important to do with that return. Artists tend to be tenderhearted. We notice things. We look for the overlooked, the beautiful, the strange, the tiny and the meaningful. We make things that ask other people to slow down and look a little closer, and honestly, it’s one of the best things about working in miniature. In a world that can feel heavy and hurried, I think there is real power in helping people remember how to wonder. Maybe wonder makes us softer. And softened people may be more inclined to be kind to one another.

I also find wonder in watching my adult children out in the world. My girls are amazing humans. They are kind, creative and funny, and they want to do work that matters to them. It is incredible watching them navigate the world without our constant guidance as they did when they were small. Yet, I also relish the phone calls where they seek our advice and trust our opinions. They have their own desires and ideas about what constitutes a well lived life. They see the world through the lens of their generation, which can vary from the sometimes blurry Gen X lens we grew up with. And watching them become fully themselves, rather than simply becoming versions of what we taught them, is absolutely the coolest thing ever. Sure, babies are cute and young kids still think you hang the moon, but watching grown daughters crave independence and stand up for what they believe in is one of the best things I’ve ever experienced as a parent.

To wrap up my moment of waxing poetic about finding wonder, I’m realizing it probably isn’t something we need to create a search party for. Maybe it is all around us. Maybe we just have to keep our eyes and our hearts open enough to see it.

Tamara Dinius

The art of becoming

When we wander without wonder, we look but no longer see.

I’ve been thinking about that sentence lately because I don’t believe the world has become less wonderful. I think we’ve become conditioned to look past it. What we train ourselves to look for is often what we find.

These days, I’m finding wonder in ordinary moments.

I watched a toddler trying to teach his father how to blow raspberries on his mother’s leg. For a few precious moments, the teacher became the student, and the student became the teacher.

I watched a woman, quietly enduring cancer treatment, determined to enjoy her cruise despite everything she was carrying. I don’t know her story, but I saw her courage.

My husband Ron had a gift for seeing people. We would pass someone experiencing homelessness, and while others hurried by, he would stop, smile, and ask, “How are you today?” If they were hungry, we’d wander off and buy them lunch. Looking back, I don’t think the meal was the greatest gift.

I think it was being seen.

One of my favorite questions to ask a stranger is, “So, what’s your story?” There’s almost always a moment of hesitation, followed by the realization that someone genuinely wants to know.

Perhaps that’s where wonder lives.

Not in extraordinary moments, but in noticing what has been in front of us all along. A butterfly landing on the chair beside us. A child’s laughter. A stranger’s story. A simple act of kindness.

The more I practice noticing, the more wonder seems to find me.

I’d love to hear where you’re finding wonder these days. Sometimes the things we notice become the very things someone else needed to see.

Judi Clark

Waterline

Where Do You Find Wonder These Days?

I think the first thing that comes to mind is the incredible life I am able to enjoy and explore. I have the time to sit quietly, enjoy the view, embrace the stillness, swim when I want to, bike when I want to, walk when I want to, and paint when I want to. The freedom to choose how I spend my days truly feels like a gift.

Through meaningful experiences, treasured friendships, opportunities to travel, and the simple joys of everyday life, I have come to appreciate just how fortunate I am. As I think more about it, my greatest sense of wonder comes from realizing that life isn’t defined by how busy we are or how much we accomplish. It is found in being present, staying curious, and making the most of the time we are given, whether we are enjoying a quiet moment alone or sharing it with others.

I have grown to truly appreciate my quiet time at this stage of life. Those peaceful mornings give me space to think, reflect, and simply be. Yet two of the activities that bring me the greatest joy, painting and swimming, often begin as solitary pursuits. At the same time, both create incredible opportunities to connect with others, whether it is navigating an open water swim alongside friends or gathering with artists to share ideas, techniques, and inspiration.

As I continued to reflect on this question, I realized my deepest sense of wonder comes from the people who unexpectedly entered my life.

Following my shoulder replacement, I was fortunate to reconnect with several women I had swum with previously. Two of them, in particular, have shown up for me in ways I could never have imagined. During those early months of rehabilitation, when simply moving my shoulder felt like a victory, they never stopped encouraging me.

Eventually, the goal became much bigger than simply moving my arm. I had to relearn my freestyle stroke and even my bilateral breathing. It was incredibly humbling. There were moments when I questioned whether I would ever feel like a swimmer again.

Yet they never questioned me. Their constant support, encouragement, kindness, and belief in me became part of my recovery. They celebrated every small step forward, even when I could not yet see the progress myself.

That is wonder to me. The same has been true in my art journey.

One day I simply walked into an art studio and asked an artist if she offered painting classes. Looking back now, I realize that one simple question changed the direction of my life.

She guided me, encouraged me, and believed in me from my very first mountain and field painting. Today I paint regularly and have even had the opportunity to sell some of my work, something I never imagined when I first picked up a paintbrush.

Through her, I was welcomed into a collective of talented artists. Several generously shared their experience, knowledge, and encouragement. Once again, I found myself wondering how fortunate I was that people who had never met me opened their hearts and invited me into their world.

That, too, is wonder. Again and again, I am reminded that life’s greatest gifts are rarely the places we go or the goals we achieve. They are the people who choose to walk beside us, encourage us when we struggle, celebrate our victories, and quietly help us become more than we believed we could be.

As I think about this season of my life, I realize my greatest joy has not simply come from learning new skills or accomplishing personal goals. It has come from the people who embraced me as I struggled, learned, relearned, explored, and continued moving forward. They reminded me that perseverance matters, but so does the kindness of those willing to walk beside us.

So where do I find wonder these days?

When I first reflected on this question, I thought the answer was the freedom this season of life has given me. The freedom to choose how I spend my days, to swim, paint, travel, embrace life’s quieter moments, and remain open to the people who continue to shape my journey.

But as I continued to ponder, I realized my greatest wonder isn’t found in that freedom alone. It is found in the compassionate people who quietly show up, encourage, teach, and believe in others without expecting anything in return.

In a world that can sometimes feel uncertain and filled with negativity, I believe we each have the opportunity to create positive communities, extend kindness, and encourage one another along the way.

Perhaps the greatest wonder isn’t what we accomplish. Perhaps it is the people who quietly come alongside us, believing in us when we struggle, celebrating our victories, and reminding us of what is possible. They help us become the person we were always capable of being.

As I look ahead, I hope I can be that person for someone else.

Ellen Nordgren

The long road

If you are awake and present, it’s hard NOT to find wonder. Even with all the noise and division in the world, I don’t have to look very far.

I find it in simple, everyday things: stargazing, sunsets, flowers, my vegetable garden, bugs, and all the little things in nature that we walk past every day without really seeing.

I find wonder in the people in my life. In the young people, like my daughter and my nieces and nephew, and in watching them grow into adults, some with families of their own now. I find it in the old friends who have stayed with me through thick & thin (sick & sin), and in the newer friendships that have been such unexpected blessings.

And, of course, I find wonder in creating art. One minute there is a blank surface in front of me, and before I know it, I’ve created something that has never existed before. Something completely unique to this world. When you really stop and think about that, it’s pretty amazing.

I think wonder is everywhere, but we have to be paying attention to see it. And if you’re having a hard time finding wonder in your life right now, start small. Look at the everyday things, the simple things, the little miracles.

They are there.

The Heart Behind Three Roads

This season is not about reinvention. It is about remembrance, a remembering of self beneath the titles, a remembering of joy without purpose, a remembering that we are still here, still becoming, still open to what comes next.

We don’t know exactly where these roads will lead, but for the first time in a long time, we are not rushing to find out. We are simply walking, side by side on our own paths, trusting that who we are becoming will meet us along the way.

If this speaks to something in you, stay. We are three women on three different paths, sharing what it looks like to begin again, honestly, imperfectly, and in real time.

If you’ve been asking yourself what now, if something in you is shifting, you’re in the right place. Subscribe, share, follow along, and walk this road with us.

Three Roads Studio-We are simply walking each other home. Walk with us. Share your story

Subscribe here

Welcome to our newsletter, and thank you for being here! Each month, the three of us share our thoughts around a different theme and rotate the opening reflection.

Opening Reflection - Tamara Dinius

The wisdom we share....What would I tell the person standing where I once stood?

If you could sit down with the person you were ten, twenty, or even forty years ago, what would you say?

Would you offer advice? A word of encouragement? A gentle reminder that the heartbreak wouldn’t last forever? Or perhaps you would simply sit beside them, knowing that sometimes our presence speaks louder than our words.

As we talked about this month’s question, we realized our answers would all be different. Our roads have taken us through different landscapes of joy and sorrow, success and disappointment, beginnings and endings.

Yet we kept coming back to one simple truth. Our stories may be different, but there is something deeply comforting about hearing from someone who has lived through a difficult season and found their way forward.

At Three Roads, we believe every story holds wisdom. Our experiences, especially the difficult ones, have the power to become lanterns that light the way for someone else. We may never know whose path is made a little easier because we chose to share our own.

This month, we invite you to reflect on the person standing where you once stood.

What would you tell them?

And perhaps, as you read the stories that follow, you’ll discover that someone else’s journey shines a little light on your own.

Tamara Dinius

The art of becoming

What would I tell the person standing where I once stood?

I have been sitting with that question for days.

There are so many things I wish someone had whispered to me when my world felt as if it had fallen apart. However, some lessons can only be learned by living them.

Years ago, I heard a story that stayed with me. A person falls into a deep hole and cannot find a way out. A priest walks by. The person cries out for help, so the priest offers a prayer and keeps walking. A doctor comes by next. He writes a prescription, drops it into the hole, and says, “This should help.” Then a friend walks by. Without hesitation, the friend jumps down into the hole. “What are you doing?” the person asks. “Now we are both stuck.” The friend smiles and says, “I have been here before. I know the way out.”

I have returned to that story often over the past few years.

A dear friend lost her husband three years before I lost mine. Her circumstances were different from mine, and, if I am honest, likely even more challenging. Not that grief needs comparison; it asks enough of each of us already.

When Ron died, she became a light on the long road back to a life I could not yet imagine. She never pretended to have the perfect words. She simply walked beside me. She had stood where I was standing. Because she had found a way forward, she helped me believe that one day I would, too.

Today, I think about the women who read the Three Roads Studio Newsletter. Some are at the beginning of grief. Some wonder whether it is too late to begin again. Some have quietly packed away the paintbrushes, the dreams, or the parts of themselves they once loved. Some have lost the roles that once gave their lives shape: wife, mother, daughter, caregiver, professional. Roles they wore with love and purpose, only to find themselves asking, What now? And some simply woke up one morning and realized the life they had built no longer fit the person they were becoming.

If I could tell the person standing where I once stood anything, it would be this: Find someone who has walked the road before you. Borrow their hope until you can find your own. And when your time comes, become that person for someone else.

We do not have to rescue one another. We simply have to be willing to climb into the hole and say,

“I have been here before.”

“You are not alone.”

“When you are ready, I will help you find the way out.”

One day, without even realizing it, you may become the light on someone else’s long road back to a life they cannot yet imagine. We all need that person. And if we have been fortunate enough to find them, perhaps our greatest privilege is to become that person for someone else.

Judi Clark

Waterline

The Wisdom We Share

The older I become, the more I realize that life’s greatest lessons rarely arrive all at once. They are quietly gathered through the people we meet, the friendships we nurture, the challenges we never expected, and the ordinary moments that quietly shape who we become. If I could sit beside someone standing where I once stood, these are a few of the lessons life has gently taught me.

Take the time to discover who you are. Not who others expect you to be, but who you are when the noise quiets down. What brings you joy? What gives your life meaning? What makes you laugh? What stirs your compassion? Just as important, what no longer fits the person you are becoming? We continue to grow throughout our lives, and giving ourselves permission to change may be one of the greatest gifts we can give ourselves.

One of life’s greatest gifts is relationships.

I count myself incredibly fortunate to have a circle of college friends who have walked beside me for nearly fifty years. Together we have celebrated milestones, raised our families, weathered losses, laughed, and simply continued showing up for one another. Time has only deepened those friendships. They know my story, and I know theirs. That kind of friendship is a treasure.

What has surprised me most, though, is discovering that some of the people who have brought some of the greatest joy into my life are people I hadn’t even met until a few years ago. Through swimming, art, and simply saying yes to new experiences, I have learned that meaningful friendships can begin at any age. Some friendships become part of our history. Others become part of our future. Both are gifts.

That realization has changed me. I no longer believe our circle is complete by a certain age. Every season of life offers opportunities to meet remarkable people, if we remain open to them. Be curious. Listen well. Share a smile. Offer a hug if that’s who you are. Be the friend you hope to have. Sometimes the smallest gesture becomes the beginning of a friendship that enriches your life in ways you never imagined.

Another lesson life has gently taught me is to find my voice. For many years I often stayed quiet when I wanted to speak. I worried about disappointing others or saying the wrong thing. Today I understand that kindness and honesty can exist together. Our voices can be calm, respectful, and still be strong. They deserve to be heard.

Life has also taught me not to hold too tightly to every relationship. Some friendships deepen over time. Others quietly drift in different directions. Rather than trying to understand every change, I have learned to appreciate the people who are walking beside me today while remaining open to those I have yet to meet. Gratitude leaves much more room in the heart than regret.

Don’t be afraid to challenge yourself either. Whether it is something physical, emotional, or creative, don’t wait until you feel completely ready. Some of the most meaningful experiences in my life began with one uncertain step. Courage rarely arrives first. It grows because we choose to move forward anyway.

And finally, don’t spend too much time worrying about tomorrow or replaying yesterday. There is so much life waiting in this very moment. Breathe deeply. Notice the beauty around you. Be grateful for ordinary days. Reach out to someone you care about. Tell people they matter. Those simple moments become the memories we carry with us.

As I reflect on these lessons, I realize that wisdom isn’t something we keep. It grows when we share it. It is passed from one person to another through conversations, friendships, challenges, kindness, and simply showing up for one another.

Perhaps that is how we leave our mark. Not by having all the answers, but by sharing what life has gently taught us with an open heart.

I hope we never stop learning from one another. Every one of us has walked a different road. Every one of us has a story worth telling. Every one of us carries a piece of wisdom that someone else may need.

That, to me, is the wisdom we share.Ellen Nordgren

The long road

If I could sit down with the person I used to be when she is standing in the middle of heartbreak, grief, uncertainty or disappointment, I wouldn’t tell her to “stay positive.” I know that’s not how healing works. I would simply tell her this: You will not always feel this way.

The darkest moments can feel as though life will never be light again. But it will. And you have to believe this. The sadness won’t disappear overnight, and the road may be longer than you ever imagined, but little by little, hope returns.

I believe that the worst thing we can lose is hope.

I’ve also learned that strength is a remarkable gift. Being a strong, independent person has carried me through some very difficult times. It helped me survive. It helped me keep moving forward when I wasn’t sure I could.

But strength has a shadow side…

For years, I believed being strong meant handling everything myself. Asking for help felt like weakness. Looking back, I can see that mindset did not serve me well, leaving me often feeling isolated, frustrated, and sometimes even settling for less than I deserved.

One of the greatest lessons I am learning later in life is that asking for and accepting help doesn’t make us less strong, it makes us more connected. The people who love us often want to help. Allowing them to do so is not a burden; it’s a gift we give each other.

So if you’re standing where I once stood, know this: hold on to hope. Trust that there is light beyond the darkness. Let yourself lean on the people who care about you. And remember that strength isn’t measured by how much you can carry alone.

Sometimes the strongest thing you’ll ever do is simply let someone walk beside you.

The Heart Behind Three Roads

This season is not about reinvention. It is about remembrance, a remembering of self beneath the titles, a remembering of joy without purpose, a remembering that we are still here, still becoming, still open to what comes next.

We don’t know exactly where these roads will lead, but for the first time in a long time, we are not rushing to find out. We are simply walking, side by side on our own paths, trusting that who we are becoming will meet us along the way.

If this speaks to something in you, stay. We are three women on three different paths, sharing what it looks like to begin again, honestly, imperfectly, and in real time.

If you’ve been asking yourself what now, if something in you is shifting, you’re in the right place. Subscribe, share, follow along, and walk this road with us.

Three Roads Studio-We are simply walking each other home. Walk with us. Share your story

Subscribe here

Welcome to our newsletter, and thank you for being here! Each month, the three of us share our thoughts around a different theme and rotate the opening reflection.

Opening Reflection - Guest artist Erin Thornbrue

If you could collaborate with anyone - living or not - who would it be, and what would you create together?

What stories do we tell ourselves? Why do we try to convince ourselves we aren’t good enough, talented enough, deserving enough?

My grandma believed making art was a luxury she didn’t deserve. Her life was hard. She raised an army of kids, worked tough jobs, and battled a depression that distanced her from her dreams. She never called herself an artist, but there were signs if you knew where to look.

Family patterns often repeat, but I was lucky--I eventually got a college education and landed a great job. When my kids grew up, I had time to myself. Later, I married a man who saw the artist in me. And when my health took some unexpected turns, I finally followed the call to create.

Allowing myself to be an artist has been a great challenge and rewarding joy, but one Grandma never experienced. I feel that deeply, and, perhaps because of this, encouraged my kids to live the lives they want. Now, when my daughter visits from Alaska, we paint together! Grandma has been gone for years, but sometimes I wonder what it would be like if she painted with us too. What would she paint? What would it feel like for each of us to express our own unique visions, together?

I feel my Grandma’s presence with me, even now. She checks on me often. And as I continue to challenge my own limiting stories, I know she’s proud of me.

Artist Bio:

Since I was a little girl, I’ve seen things differently. I’ve always thought about big ideas too much, focused on subjects people with manners avoid, found meaning in rocks, feathers, and hooting owls, and devoured myths, documentaries, and stories like candy. I love dreams, signs, and symbolism. Most of all, I love where the word why can take me. Creating quiets the noise inside and around, allowing me to move through this beautiful, confusing human experience with more peace. Making art has taught me to play, make a mess, be patient with myself, and how to have fun. Paint and paper have brought me closer to Spirit than I ever could have imagined, and sharing my creations fills me with joy and deep gratitude. Thank you for joining me on this journey. -Erin Thornbrue

Tamara Dinius

The art of becoming

When I first saw the question about who I would collaborate with, my mind immediately went to my husband, my mother and father, Maya Angelou, and Barack Obama. But the longer I sat with the question, the more I realized none of them felt quite right.

My heart kept wandering somewhere else. Then I knew. I would choose you, the everyday woman who is questioning her life.

The one quietly carrying heartbreak while still showing up for everyone else. The artist who packed away her paints because life asked something different of her. The widow who discovers she is not starting over, but starting anew. The woman who looks at sixty, seventy, or eighty and whispers, “Perhaps there is still more.” My answer to you is a resounding yes.

I imagine inviting you to gather around one long wooden table, preferably the one my husband built for me. There would be coffee, wine, journals with dog-eared pages, paintbrushes stained from years of use, and windows open to a gentle breeze. We would simply sit together and share our lives, our heartbreaks, our joys, and everything in between.

The past three years have been a season of becoming. Through grief, writing, painting, and solo travel, I have learned that every person is carrying a story we cannot see. Somewhere between street-side cafés in Europe, quiet mornings at sea, conversations with strangers, and evenings on my porch listening to the owls call across my property, I realized that the more honestly we share our stories, the less alone someone else feels in theirs.

Every time someone trusts me with her story, every time I paint what words cannot say, every time I write honestly enough that another woman quietly whispers, “Me too,” we create something together.

I have come to believe that stories are our greatest legacy. Long after our possessions have found new owners, our stories continue to travel. They become courage for someone standing where we once stood. They become permission to begin again, although the only permission we have ever truly needed is our own.

None of us tells the whole story alone. Each of us carries a single thread, but when we are brave enough to weave our stories together, they become something far stronger and far more beautiful than any one of us could create on our own.

Perhaps that is why I create. Not to leave behind perfect paintings or beautifully written pages, but to leave breadcrumbs. If my words encourage even one woman to trust herself, take the trip, make the art, leave what no longer fits, or simply believe she is not walking alone, then I will have left a trail worth following.

Judi Clark

Waterline

If I Could Collaborate with Anyone…

I would choose the two women who quietly shaped my life, my mother and my mother-in-law.

What an extraordinary gift it was to have both of them by my side through childhood, adulthood, and into the later chapters of their lives. They belonged to a generation where marriage, raising a family, and supporting their husbands often came before pursuing their own dreams. It wasn’t something they questioned. It was simply the path they knew.

My mother-in-law was an artist before she married. Like so many women of her generation, she packed away that part of herself as family life took center stage. Decades later, in her eighties, she returned to painting. Watching her reconnect with something she had loved years before was a beautiful reminder that parts of ourselves never truly disappear, they simply wait until we’re ready to welcome them back.

My mother expressed her gifts differently. She had a remarkable ability to make people feel loved, accepted, and safe. Together, these two women taught me that a meaningful life isn’t measured by accomplishments alone, but by the kindness, resilience, and generosity we share with others.

After they each lost their husbands, their friendship grew even deeper. They leaned on one another, laughed together, and became family in a way that went far beyond in-laws.

One memory will stay with me forever.

As my mother spent her final hours in hospice, my mother-in-law sat quietly beside her, gently holding her hand. My mother was heavily sedated, unable to speak, yet my mother-in-law never let go. She simply sat with her in silence. No words were needed. There was a peace in that room that has never left me. Whenever I think of them now, I picture them together again, continuing the conversation that began so many years ago.

If there is a place beyond this life where conversations continue, I like to imagine the two of them together, sharing stories, laughing, and cheering me on. Until we meet again, I’ll keep carrying the lessons they gave me, grateful for the incredible gift of having been loved by them both.

If I could collaborate with them today, I wouldn’t ask them to create something to hang on a wall. I would simply ask for one more afternoon around a table. We’d share stories, laugh about the past, wonder about the future, and talk about the dreams they once held and the lives they lived. Most of all, I would thank them for showing me what friendship, compassion, grace, and unconditional love truly look like.

Perhaps that’s the beautiful thing about love. Some collaborations don’t end when someone is gone. They continue in the lives they shaped and in the people who carry their stories forward.

The painting that accompanies this piece was created by my mother-in-law. It is a portrait of my mother, painted with love, and it hangs in my art studio today. Every time I look at it, I’m reminded that in so many ways, their collaboration never ended, and neither has mine with them.

Ellen Nordgren

The long road

If I could collaborate with anyone, living or gone, it wouldn’t be a famous artist. It would be my older sister, Sue.

Sue graduated from Portland State University with honors in graphic design. She had an incredibly creative mind and an eye for good design, but life was full - work, family, responsibilities - and she never really had the chance to explore her creativity the way I know she wanted to.

She passed away at just 50 years old. Today I’m 66, and she would have been 68. I often think about the creative years we never got to share.

It was after Sue died that I finally felt compelled to pick up a paintbrush and reconnect with the creative part of myself. In many ways, my artistic journey began because of her.

I imagine we would have had so much fun together! Long days in the studio, bouncing ideas off each other, encouraging one another to take risks, laughing when things didn’t go as planned and celebrating the moments when they did. Maybe we would have even opened a studio together in our later years.

I think she would have been proud of where this journey has taken me. And every time I walk into my studio, I feel like a small part of her is still there, reminding me to keep creating.

The Heart Behind Three Roads

This season is not about reinvention. It is about remembrance, a remembering of self beneath the titles, a remembering of joy without purpose, a remembering that we are still here, still becoming, still open to what comes next.

We don’t know exactly where these roads will lead, but for the first time in a long time, we are not rushing to find out. We are simply walking, side by side on our own paths, trusting that who we are becoming will meet us along the way.

If this speaks to something in you, stay. We are three women on three different paths, sharing what it looks like to begin again, honestly, imperfectly, and in real time.

If you’ve been asking yourself what now, if something in you is shifting, you’re in the right place. Subscribe, share, follow along, and walk this road with us.

Three Roads Studio-We are simply walking each other home. Walk with us. Share your story

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Welcome to our newsletter, and thank you for being here! Each month, the three of us share our thoughts around a different theme and rotate the opening reflection.

Opening Reflection - Ellen Nordgren

Who are you becoming in this season of your life?

This is an interesting question, as I think we spend most of the time looking backward at who we have been, that “becoming” happened when we were young - Son or daughter, student, sibling, spouse or partner, parent, working professional, etc, etc.... so many roles we have had! Seldom do most of us stop to consider who we are becoming right now.

But life has a way of reminding us that we are never truly finished. Change sometimes happens uninvited and sometimes by choice, but either way it’s going to happen, and it sets us up for growth and transition.

Whether a new relationship, a loss, a move, retirement, a creative pursuit or even a change in perspective, these can send us into a completely different direction we never expected.

I don’t think that becoming has an expiration date. We will continue to learn, adapt, and discover things about ourselves throughout our lives. Maybe this season is asking you to be more courageous, or maybe it’s asking you to slow down. You might be letting go of people or situations that no longer serve your soul, or maybe making room for something (or someone) new in your life.

Whatever season you find yourself in, it is definitely worth asking: Who am I becoming? Not who was I, and for sure not Who do I think I should be, but, Who am I growing into RIGHT NOW. Because in truth, now is all we have.

The answer may not be completely clear yet. And that’s OK. But sometimes, the question itself is enough to help us notice the changes already taking place.

Tamara Dinius

The art of becoming

Who am I becoming in this season of my life? The truth is that I am becoming more myself than I have been in years.

That isn’t to say I haven’t liked the person I’ve been. I don’t look back with regret, nor do I wish I had chosen a different path. The life I built was full of love, purpose, family, friendship, and experiences that shaped me into the woman I am today. But somewhere along the way, I became very good at being what others needed me to be.

I became a devoted wife. A loving mother. A dependable daughter. A loyal friend. I built businesses, communities, and a life that cared for the people around me. I carried responsibilities willingly because they mattered to me.

What I didn’t do very often was stop and ask myself a simple question: “What do I want?” Not what was expected of me. Not what made sense. Not what would make everyone else comfortable. But what did I truly want?

For much of my life, my choices were intertwined with the needs of the people I loved. There is nothing wrong with that. In fact, many of those choices brought me tremendous joy. But this season feels different.

For the first time in a very long time, I am allowing curiosity to have a seat at the table.

Maybe this chapter includes travel. Maybe it includes putting down roots somewhere new. Maybe it is art. Maybe it is writing. Maybe it is wandering the coastlines of Washington and Oregon with no particular destination in mind. I don’t have all the answers yet. What I do know is that I am no longer asking what role I should play.

I am asking who I am when all the roles fall away. And little by little, day by day, I am discovering her. I am becoming me.

Judi Clark

Waterline

Finding my way back to the water

For much of my life, I was always doing. There was always another project, another commitment, another place to be. I became so accustomed to looking ahead and checking the next thing off my list that I rarely stopped long enough to ask myself, What do I want to do?

One of the greatest gifts retirement has given me is the freedom to pause. To look ahead with intention. To dream a little. To create a map, not one filled with obligations, but one filled with experiences that bring me joy, challenge me, and remind me how grateful I am for this season of life. This summer, my map leads to the Long Bridge Swim in Sandpoint, Idaho. In August, I’ll swim 1.8 miles across beautiful Lake Pend Oreille. It will be my first organized open-water swim in six years. I often talk about setting a “carrot” out in front of me, something that encourages me to keep growing and moving forward. This swim is my carrot for 2026. But this event isn’t about competition. It isn’t about finishing first or swimming my fastest time. It’s about celebrating the journey that has brought me back to the water.

Over the past 25 years, I’ve had several shoulder surgeries. Nineteen months ago, I underwent a total shoulder replacement. Recovery has been long, and I still don’t have full range of motion. There were moments when I struggled. Days when progress felt slow, and I wondered how much of my swimming I would regain. Then, somewhere along the way, my perspective changed. Instead of focusing on what my shoulder couldn’t do, I began celebrating what it could do. One more stroke. One more lap. One more drill. One more morning in the pool. With every swim, I’ve focused on rebuilding strength, trusting muscle memory, and appreciating each small improvement. Every session has become part of my rehabilitation, not just physically, but mentally. Each day in the water brings me one step closer to August, but more importantly, it reminds me to appreciate where I am today.

When I swim, I feel the cool water surrounding me. I watch the morning light sparkle across the surface. I settle into the rhythm of each stroke, grateful simply to be moving again. Those moments have become just as meaningful as the finish line waiting for me in Sandpoint.

Living near the Columbia Gorge has reminded me to notice beauty everywhere—in the sunrise, the river, the trails, and the quiet moments that invite me to slow down. Perhaps that’s what creating a map really means. Not planning every turn, but choosing a direction that fills your heart and embracing everything you discover along the way.

Crossing the finish line in August will certainly be special. But in many ways, I already feel like I’ve arrived. I found my way back to the water. And maybe, in the process, I found a little more of myself

.

Ellen Nordgren

The long road

At 66, I thought I would have a much clearer picture of who I was becoming. Instead, I find myself standing on the edge of retirement with no clear roadmap for what comes next.

For most of my life, I’ve been someone who likes a plan. I like knowing where I’m headed and what the next step should be. But this season of life is teaching me something different. I’m learning to embrace uncertainty rather than trying to control every outcome.

And believe me, there is plenty of uncertainty!

What will retirement really look like? Will I be able to support myself financially? How will I spend my time? Will I be able to grow my art business? What opportunities might appear that I can’t even imagine today?

I don’t have answers to those questions. What I do have are a few things I know with certainty:

-I know I will be OK

-I know I am deeply loved by my family, and that love doesn’t depend on what I accomplish or what comes next

-I know I have strong and meaningful relationships in my life - friendships old and new that bring support, laughter and connection

-I know that art will continue to be part of my journey. I will keep learning, experimenting, and developing my artistic voice. In many ways, I feel like I’m just beginning to understand what I want to say through my work

And while my life has gotten smaller (smaller house, smaller studio, simplifying and decluttering), my life is also getting richer in my relationships, art practice, and sense of purpose.

Maybe who I am becoming in this season of my life is someone who trusts the road ahead even when she can’t see around the next bend.

Someone who is learning that certainty isn’t always necessary.

Someone who is still growing, still creating, and still becoming.

The Heart Behind Three Roads

This season is not about reinvention. It is about remembrance, a remembering of self beneath the titles, a remembering of joy without purpose, a remembering that we are still here, still becoming, still open to what comes next.

We don’t know exactly where these roads will lead, but for the first time in a long time, we are not rushing to find out. We are simply walking, side by side on our own paths, trusting that who we are becoming will meet us along the way.

If this speaks to something in you, stay. We are three women on three different paths, sharing what it looks like to begin again, honestly, imperfectly, and in real time.

If you’ve been asking yourself what now, if something in you is shifting, you’re in the right place. Subscribe, share, follow along, and walk this road with us.

Three Roads Studio-We are simply walking each other home. Walk with us. Share your story

Subscribe here

Welcome to our newsletter, and thank you for being here! Each month, the three of us share our thoughts around a different theme and rotate the opening reflection.

Opening Reflection

What am I making room for in my life right now?

As Three Roads continues to grow, we are excited to share that we will now be exploring two questions each month instead of one.

We are also opening our newsletter to guest writers who will join us in reflecting on these monthly questions. By welcoming a variety of voices and experiences, we hope you may discover pieces of your own journey reflected in the stories of others.

The second newsletter each month will be a shorter, bonus reflection. Think of it as an extra offering rather than required reading. If life feels full, please know there is no expectation to keep up with every edition. We simply wanted to create more opportunities for connection, encouragement, and shared wisdom.

At the heart of Three Roads is the belief that stories matter. When we share our experiences honestly, we remind one another that we are not alone. Sometimes a story offers comfort. Sometimes it provides hope. And sometimes it becomes a roadmap for someone finding their way through a difficult season.

Thank you for being part of this community. We are grateful to continue walking this road together and look forward to exploring these questions with you.

Tamara Dinius

The art of becoming

When I first lost my husband, allowing myself to experience joy felt like a betrayal. Who was I to be laughing and finding happiness when he was no longer here to share it with me? I knew, rationally, that he would want me to live fully again, but permitting myself to do so was much harder than it sounds.

I carried a quiet guilt whenever laughter found its way back to me. Perhaps I believed grief required me to remain solemn as proof of how deeply I had loved. Whatever the reason, I held joy at arm’s length. Over time, though, I came to understand that grief and joy are not opposites. They can coexist. Moving forward is not the same as forgetting.

If you’ve been following my journey on Facebook or Instagram, you’ve watched me make room for adventure. You’ve seen me board planes, wander unfamiliar streets, and slowly reclaim pieces of myself I thought had been lost forever. What may have looked like travel was, in many ways, healing. With every passport stamp and every unfamiliar city, I was rediscovering parts of myself that had been overshadowed by grief.

For anyone walking through a season of loss, I hope you’ll consider making room for your own version of adventure. It doesn’t have to mean boarding a plane or crossing an ocean. Sometimes adventure is saying yes to coffee with a friend, trying something new, or stepping back into the world one small moment at a time.

Adventure has a way of leading us from darkness toward light. It reminds us that even after profound loss, there is still beauty to be found, laughter to be shared, and joy waiting patiently for us to embrace it once again.

Judi Clark

Waterline

For me, the first thing that comes to mind is creating more space and less scheduling. It means making time for swimming- not just for the fitness, but for the peace and clarity it brings. It means allowing quiet moments without feeling the need to fill every hour with activities. It means listening more carefully to my own voice and trusting what it is telling me.

Like for most of us, life was shaped by careers, raising a family, and caring for others. While those experiences helped shape who I am today, this chapter feels different. I am learning that an open calendar isn’t empty. I’m learning to use that empty calendar to create space for what matters most- swimming for both strength and peace, creative exploration, and listening to my own voice with greater intention.

Making room doesn’t mean adding more. Sometimes it means letting go of what no longer serves us so we can embrace what matters most.

So I’ll ask you the same question: What are you making room for in your life now?

Ellen Nordgren

The long road

At this stage of my life, “making room” sounds simple enough. But the truth is, I’m struggling to find room for everything that already matters to me.

I work full time. I try to carve out a few hours each week for art. There is housework, gardening, social media, family, friends, and a new relationship that I’m excited to nurture. Somewhere in there, I’m also preparing for retirement and wondering what the next chapter will look like. To be honest, it feels very overwhelming at times.

What I am realizing is that I don’t need to make room for more things. I’m trying to make room for the right things, and to be more fully present when I’m doing them. Sometimes I feel like I’m rushing from one commitment to the next, giving each one only part of my attention.

My body eventually lets me know when I’ve reached the limit. It says, “Enough. Slow down.” So what am I trying to make room for right now?

More sleep. More movement. More quiet. More time with family that isn’t squeezed into whatever space is left in my calendar. More importantly, more grace for myself as I navigate a season that feels both exciting and uncertain.

The Heart Behind Three Roads

This season is not about reinvention. It is about remembrance, a remembering of self beneath the titles, a remembering of joy without purpose, a remembering that we are still here, still becoming, still open to what comes next.

We don’t know exactly where these roads will lead, but for the first time in a long time, we are not rushing to find out. We are simply walking, side by side on our own paths, trusting that who we are becoming will meet us along the way.

If this speaks to something in you, stay. We are three women on three different paths, sharing what it looks like to begin again, honestly, imperfectly, and in real time.

If you’ve been asking yourself what now, if something in you is shifting, you’re in the right place. Subscribe, share, follow along, and walk this road with us.

Three Roads Studio-We are simply walking each other home. Walk with us. Share your story

Subscribe here

Welcome to our newsletter, and thank you for being here! Each month, the three of us share our thoughts around a different theme and rotate the opening reflection. This month, the reflection is by Judi Clark, and we’re talking about the advice we would give our younger selves. This newsletter reflects back on our younger selves with the wisdom we now carry.

Opening Reflection - Judi Clark

The advice I would give my younger self.

There is a quiet unfolding happening in our lives right now as we continue walking these creative roads together. Three women with entirely different life experiences who met in our 60’s through art. We often find ourselves reflecting on the women we once were and the wisdom we wish we could have carried sooner, not just between ourselves, but with others that we are sharing life with.

When we think about what we would say to our younger selves, each of us brings a different voice to the conversation, yet together, we share many thoughts & feelings. One of us would say the road doesn’t have to be perfectly paved; it’s okay to walk an unmarked path & take whatever the trail brings you. Another would remind her younger self that her voice matters, when it shakes, and others do listen. And the third would gently remind herself that the courage to begin again may be the bravest act of all.

As we look back now, we can see that every struggle, every “bump in the road of life,” and every question and quiet hope brought us here, to this moment of still growing. Life has a way of softening us over time, if you take the time to reflect…Fulfillment does not come from knowing every answer, but from having the courage to trust the journey as it unfolds.

Through art, which first led us to friendship and reflection, we are learning that this chapter of life is less about becoming someone new and more about rediscovering the wonder, creativity, and openness that has always been within us.

So this month, we invite you to reflect alongside us. What would you say to your younger self? And what wisdom are you finally allowing yourself to carry forward now?

Let’s continue walking this road together, honoring every step that brought us here.

This season is not about reinvention. It is about remembrance, a remembering of self beneath the titles, a remembering of joy without purpose, a remembering that we are still here, still becoming, still open to what comes next.

We don’t know exactly where these roads will lead, but for the first time in a long time, we are not rushing to find out. We are simply walking, side by side on our own paths, trusting that who we are becoming will meet us along the way.

If this speaks to something in you, stay. We are three women on three different paths, sharing what it looks like to begin again, honestly, imperfectly, and in real time.

If you’ve been asking yourself what now, if something in you is shifting, you’re in the right place.

Subscribe, follow along, and walk this road with us.

Three Roads Studio

We are simply walking each other home.

Tamara Dinius

The art of becoming

Dear Younger Me,

You are going to spend far too many years looking around the room, wondering if you are doing life “correctly.” Measuring yourself against other women. Against expectations. Against all the quiet and unspoken rules about beauty, success, marriage, motherhood, aging, and what a woman is supposed to become. Please don’t lose yourself trying so hard to fit inside those spaces.

The world will hand you endless ways to measure your worth, but very few of them will have anything to do with your soul. And if you are not careful, you will slowly begin shaping your life around being accepted instead of being honest. You were never meant to live that way.

There will be seasons where you try to become easier to love, easier to understand, easier for others to approve of. One day you will realize that shrinking yourself never actually made you happier. It only made you quieter.

Listen carefully to the small voice inside you that keeps whispering, there has to be more than this. Not more things. Not more proving. Not more applause. But, more life. More wonder. More moments that make you feel fully awake.

You are going to lose people you love deeply. Grief will change you. Some days it will feel as though the life you once knew has disappeared beneath your feet. But somewhere inside that heartbreak, you will begin to meet yourself in a deeper and more honest way. That woman will be braver than you can imagine right now.

She will change others’ lives and build community. She will laugh loudly, take the trip, sit at sidewalk cafés, watch clouds drift overhead, and slowly stop apologizing for taking up space in the world.

Please remember this: Trying and failing will never be the tragedy. The tragedy would be standing safely on the sidelines of your own life, too afraid to step fully into it.

You do not need to build a life that makes sense to everyone else. You only need to build one that feels true when you are alone with yourself.

That quiet knowing in your chest, the one you keep talking yourself out of, will become your compass. Trust it.

Judi Clark

Waterline

If I could speak to my younger self, I would tell her to breathe a little deeper and hold herself a little gentler. I spent so many years striving, trying to do everything well, be everything for everyone. I wanted to be the supportive spouse, the dependable friend, the organized one, the good mother, the person who always kept moving forward. And while there was beauty in that dedication, I now realize how often I placed myself at the very end of the line.

For as long as I can remember, I have carried a nervous energy within me. I stayed active, always training for something, always setting a new “carrot” out ahead every decade as motivation to keep growing. This year, at sixty-nine, that carrot is a long-distance open water swim, a reminder that there are still new waters to cross and new parts of myself to discover.

What I would tell my younger self now is this: your worth is not measured by how much you accomplish for others. It is also found in stillness, joy, creativity, and allowing yourself to simply become. Through art, I have found a new beginning. Painting has taught me to let go of perfection and to trust the unfolding rather than control it. For the first time in a long while, I feel connected not only to others but to myself.

And perhaps that is the greatest journey of all.

Ellen Nordgren

The long road

If I were to give my younger self advice, I most likely wouldn’t have listened. I was blessed with intellect, common sense, and street smarts. I thought I knew far more than I did, and I wasn’t very good at listening to people who tried to guide me.

But damn… I wish someone could have made me understand that I didn’t need to be so free with my body and my heart.

I could never figure out why I felt so empty and alone afterward, after doing something I thought would make me feel special, wanted, loved even. Sometimes I gave myself away simply to appease someone who was persistent because they “really, really wanted me.” Ugh.

So this is my advice, dear Ellen:

I know you think you are tough. Cool. Untouchable even. But darling, I know the inside of you. I know your heart and your soul. I know the girl who is searching for acceptance, understanding, and true connection.

And you deserve those things. All of them. But they are not meant to be something you have to earn by giving pieces of yourself away. The connections that will matter most in your life will be rooted in honesty, safety, laughter, patience and care. They will not leave you feeling empty in the dark, wondering why you still feel unseen.

One day you will understand that your softness was never a weakness. Your heart was never too much. You were simply looking for love before you had fully learned how to love yourself first.

And girl, how worthy you always were.

Walk with us. Share your story

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Welcome to our newsletter, and thank you for being here! Each month, the three of us share our thoughts around a different theme and rotate the opening reflection. This month, the reflection is by Tamara Dinius, and we’re talking about the chapter we didn’t see coming - the unexpected changes, the in-between spaces, and the things that have surprised us along the way.

Opening Reflection - Tamara Dinius

The Chapter we didn’t see coming

There is a quiet unfolding happening in our lives right now, not loud, not urgent, not something that can be mapped or measured. Just a gentle unraveling, and a soft return.

For so long, we knew who we were. We wore our titles with love and pride, wife, mother, business owner, caretaker, professional, provider. Our days were full, our hands were busy, our purpose was clear. And we loved those versions of ourselves. But life has a way of shifting the ground beneath us, asking us to loosen our grip on what once felt certain.

After loss, after change, after time has done what time does… we each found ourselves standing in spaces we didn’t quite recognize. The roles that once defined us had quieted, and the noise of doing had softened. In that silence, a question began to rise:

What is waiting to emerge from us in this season of life?

At first, we searched for answers the way we always had, by doing more, planning more, trying to rebuild something that felt familiar. But this path is different. It is asking us to slow down, to listen instead of lead, to be instead of build.

And somewhere in that stillness, we began to feel her again, the younger versions of ourselves, the ones who moved through the world with wonder, who didn’t carry the weight of expectation, who believed life was something to experience, not manage.

She’s not gone. She’s been waiting. Now, we are finding our way back, not by becoming who we were, but by allowing who we are to rise without all the layers we once carried.

This season is not about reinvention. It is about remembrance, a remembering of self beneath the titles, a remembering of joy without purpose, a remembering that we are still here, still becoming, still open to what comes next.

We don’t know exactly where these roads will lead, but for the first time in a long time, we are not rushing to find out. We are simply walking, side by side on our own paths, trusting that who we are becoming will meet us along the way.

If this speaks to something in you, stay. We are three women on three different paths, sharing what it looks like to begin again, honestly, imperfectly, and in real time.

If you’ve been asking yourself what now, if something in you is shifting, you’re in the right place.

Subscribe, follow along, and walk this road with us.

Three Roads Studio

We are simply walking each other home.

Tamara Dinius

The art of becoming

I never imagined I would be selling the home and property that held over 42 years of my life. I didn’t expect to close the doors of the Adret Collective - a space filled with creativity, connection, and community. And I certainly didn’t expect to be standing here, at the edge of something unknown.

After my husband passed, I spent a year simply trying to find my footing. The next year, I began to step back into the world; traveling, exploring, remembering what it felt like to breathe again.

And now… this year feels different. This year feels like a beginning. Not a beginning of building more or doing more, but a beginning of being. Of letting go of the constant pull to maintain, manage, and complete. Of stepping into the present moment and allowing a quieter, deeper question to rise:

What is waiting to emerge from me in this season of life?

As I’ve been sitting with that question, I’ve realized something important—this isn’t a road I’m walking alone. Alongside me are two women I deeply admire, Judi Clark and Ellen Nordgren. Different stories, different paths, but a shared knowing that something new is ready to emerge.

Together, we are choosing to lean into the unknown rather than rush past it. To listen more closely. To honor where we’ve been while gently opening ourselves to who we are becoming. I have a feeling we’re not the only ones.

If you’ve ever found yourself in the in-between, where the roles have shifted, and the future feels unwritten, we invite you to walk alongside us. If this speaks to something in you, stay. We’re just getting started. Over the coming weeks, the three of us will be sharing our individual paths, honestly, imperfectly, and in real time.

If you’ve been asking yourself, “What now?” If you feel the pull toward something you can’t quite name yet, you’re in the right place.

Subscribe, follow along, and walk this road with us.

Judi Clark

Waterline

I didn’t come to art early in life—and maybe that’s exactly why I don’t feel the need to control it. There’s no long history of rules I’m trying to follow, no expectation of how things are supposed to turn out. Instead, painting feels more like stepping into a current than standing at the edge with a plan. It moves, it shifts, and once I’m in it, I realize I’m not really in charge of where it goes. And strangely, that’s where the freedom lives.

After many years in the Seattle area, my husband & I made the decision to retire and relocate to Camas/Washougal three years ago—a change that, in hindsight, feels both bold and deeply right. Re-connecting with college friends made the transition especially meaningful. This brought an immediate sense of belonging, something you can’t quite plan for. Just as unexpectedly, I found myself welcomed into a vibrant and inspiring art community. That experience has given me a renewed sense of direction and purpose, opening a door I hadn’t even realized I was looking for. I can honestly say I am the happiest I have ever been, and I feel a deep sense of excitement for what lies ahead in this next chapter.

For so much of life, we’re taught to anticipate, to prepare, to shape outcomes before they even have a chance to unfold. We measure progress by how closely things align with what we imagined. But art has quietly unraveled that habit for me. It has shown me that there’s something deeply honest—and even powerful—about not knowing. Let go of needing perfection—embrace the unexpected.

When I paint, I’m not chasing a final image as much as I’m responding to what’s happening in the moment. There’s a rhythm to it, not unlike moving through water—you can resist it, try to force your own direction, or you can learn to move with it. And when you do, there’s an ease that takes over, a sense that you’re being carried rather than pushing forward alone.

Maybe that’s what this chapter is really about. Not just in art, but in life. Allowing ourselves to trust the current a little more. To loosen our grip on certainty and step into something that doesn’t come with guarantees. It’s not always comfortable—there’s vulnerability in not knowing where you’ll land—but there’s also a quiet excitement in it. A sense of possibility that only exists when we stop trying to predict the outcome.

I didn’t see this coming—this way of creating, this way of being. But now that I’m here, I’m beginning to understand that not seeing it coming might be the point. Because sometimes the most meaningful directions aren’t the ones we plan, but the ones we’re willing to follow when we let go.

Ellen Nordgren

The long road

If you had asked me a few years ago what this chapter of my life would look like, I would not have described this. Some changes you choose. Others just show up.

One of the biggest shifts has been moving my studio. Leaving Tammy’s property and setting up in my small garage has been more than just a change of space. It requires me to rethink how I work, how I organize my space, and even how I show up to paint. The space is smaller, simpler, and a little less ideal in some ways, but it’s mine! There’s something honest about that. It’s forcing me to be more intentional, to focus on what really matters in the work and let go of what doesn’t.

At the same time, I would like to retire this year and I’m trying to figure out what that even looks like. It’s not as clear-cut as I once thought. There are questions about income, about purpose, about how much structure I still need/want in my days. After a lifetime of working, it’s strange to be standing in this in-between space, without having all the answers. I didn’t see that coming.

But along with all the uncertainty, what I also didn’t see coming but what has meant the most, are the unexpected relationships that have come into my life during this time. I didn’t expect to meet so many people who would matter to me in such a real way. Building a deeper connection with Tammy and Judi, forming friendships with other artists, and maybe even opening the door to a romantic relationship…these weren’t part of any plan. But they’ve added depth and meaning to my life that I didn’t know I was missing. At this stage of life, those connections feel different. Less about surface, more about substance and showing up honestly.

When I step back and look at it, this chapter isn’t defined by any one thing. It’s the combination of all of them – a mixture of change, uncertainty, and a few great surprises. I didn’t see it coming. But I’m here for it! And, like painting, I’m learning to respond to what’s in front of me, rather than trying to control what comes next.

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