I pray. All the time. Not because I have all the answers, but because I don’t. Prayer, to me, is less about religion and more about relationship—a conversation with the unseen, with the divine whisper that guides and holds me when I can’t seem to hold myself. It doesn’t much matter which name you give that presence—God, Universe, Source, Spirit.

What matters is that you speak, and more importantly, that you listen.
Because prayer isn’t just about asking—it’s about remembering that you are heard.

There are days when my prayers are calm and graceful. When I bow my head, light a candle, and whisper soft requests for protection—for my loved ones, for myself. I pray for ease, for peace, for the strength to meet the day with grace.

Sometimes, I pray for love—the kind that stays, that roots deeply, that grows with me. Other times, I find myself praying for something simple, like a solution to a problem that probably doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. But still, I pray.

Because prayer keeps me connected—to hope, to humility, to the heartbeat of something greater.

Then there are the other times. The harder ones. The ones when words feel too small for the ache in my chest. When I can’t find my footing, can’t hear the lesson, can’t make sense of the chaos that life throws my way. In those moments, my prayers sound less like peace and more like surrender. They sound like, “What do you want from me?” Sometimes they are whispered, sometimes they are cried out into the silence, and sometimes they are screamed into the universe because silence feels unbearable. And that’s okay. We are human, and sometimes our prayers sound more like breaking than believing.

That question--What do you want from me?—isn’t one of frustration as much as it is of faith. It’s a prayer of awareness, an acknowledgment that while I may be a co-creator in this life, I am not the sole architect. It’s a reminder that my existence carries purpose, even when I can’t see the blueprint. Those words are not rebellion; they are reverence. They are the moment I stop trying to control and start trying to understand.

When I reach that point, when the only prayer left in me is “Show me,” something shifts. Because that is not a prayer for comfort—it’s a prayer for clarity. It’s not a plea to make the storm stop; it’s a request for the courage to walk through it. Those prayers are humbling. They are raw and unfiltered and real. They often happen on bathroom floors, in dark nights of the soul, when every illusion of control has crumbled. “God, what do you want from me?” “Lead me.” “Show me.” Not fix this. Not make it easy. But use me.

And while I don’t always get an answer I can name, I’ve learned that those prayers don’t go unheard. The universe, in its quiet way, often answers not with thunder, but with a whisper—a small, holy nudge that reminds me to keep going. Sometimes it’s a song that finds me at the right moment. Sometimes it’s a person. Sometimes it’s a moment of silence that suddenly feels peaceful instead of empty.
I don’t know that I’ve ever received the full “mission command” I’ve asked for. I’m still learning to trust the language of divine timing, to see meaning in moments that don’t make sense yet. But I do know this: when the world crashes around me and I crash to my knees, there always comes a moment afterward—a quiet reprieve—when I can breathe again. And in that breath, I feel gratitude rise from somewhere deep within me. “Thank you for this,” I whisper. Not because I understand it, but because I’m not alone in it.

That “thank you” is its own kind of prayer. It’s the moment I realize that I was never meant to have it all figured out. The path rarely appears all at once—it comes one illuminated step at a time. And sometimes, that’s enough. One step, one breath, one act of faith.
​
Because the truth is, there are no prayers that are not holy. Not the polished ones. Not the poetic ones. And certainly not the desperate, trembling ones that spill out between tears. Especially not the ones that begin with surrender.
​

Reflection Prompt:

Take a quiet moment today—just you and your breath.

Close your eyes and think of a time when your prayers felt more like cries for help than words of faith. Instead of judging that moment, honor it.

​Write down what you were truly asking for beneath the words. Was it direction? Relief? Understanding? Then ask yourself gently, How might that experience have been the universe’s way of leading me closer to my purpose?

Remember, even the prayers that sound like surrender are sacred. Sometimes “What do you want from me?” is the beginning of being shown who you truly are.

Every weekend, I sit down and write out this giant to-do list.

You know the kind—the everything-and-the-kitchen-sink list. The one that includes house cleaning, bigger home projects that have been waiting for months, organizing for another week of homeschooling, planning meals and after-school activities, and squeezing in work emails or lingering business tasks that I know will help me feel a little more “on top of things” by Monday morning.

It’s a list that could easily take a small team to complete. And yet, I hand that impossible workload to one person—me.

Some weekends, I power through and check most of it off. But most of the time, I end Sunday staring at what’s not done. The unchecked boxes glare back at me, whispering all the ways I fell short. And if my body dares to ask for rest—or I decide to meet a friend for coffee or spend the afternoon outside instead—I end the weekend feeling guilty, as though I traded productivity for pleasure.

But recently, something shifted.

It dawned on me that these lists I create are never going to end. There will always be more things that could be done, more ways to be better, cleaner, more prepared, more accomplished. I realized that my list wasn’t a tool to support my week—it had become a silent standard of perfection I could never, ever reach.

So, I decided to pivot.

This weekend, instead of writing my list based on everything that needed doing, I wrote it based on what would leave me feeling accomplished and grounded before Monday morning. It sounds so simple—almost laughably small—but that single shift changed everything.

When I reframed my list, I found myself focusing on what truly mattered for that moment in time. I asked myself, what would make me feel ready? What would ease my mind? What could I complete that would genuinely add peace to my week ahead? And once I finished those few things, I gave myself permission to stop.

That afternoon, my son and I spent the day at the ocean. The air was unusually warm for fall, and the sun seemed to stretch itself across the water just for us. I remember thinking, I could be home doing laundry or answering emails right now. But instead, I felt calm, full, and satisfied. Not because I finished it all—but because I chose to be content with enough.

I’m sure not every weekend will land this way. Life, after all, rarely follows a neat plan. But if this small change—this simple redirection of intention—helps me start most weeks with more peace and less panic, then I’ll take that as a success.

Maybe It’s Time to Reimagine Your To-Do List, too! Here are a few reflections you might try this week:

1. Start with how you want to feel.
   Before you write your list, ask: What emotional space do I want to be in when this weekend ends? Peaceful? Grounded? Accomplished? Build your list around that.
2. Name your “enough.”
   Choose 2–3 key things that would help you feel genuinely prepared for the week. Let everything else be optional.
3. Add at least one “soul task.”
   Something that nourishes you. A slow morning coffee, a walk, a conversation, or creative time that doesn’t serve a “purpose” beyond joy.
4. Release the illusion of done.
   The list will never be finished, and that’s not a failure—it’s simply life unfolding.
5. End with gratitude.
   Before bed on Sunday, instead of counting the unchecked boxes, name what you did do—and who you became in the process.
6. Struggling with this process? Check out this Surviving the Storm guide!

Journal Prompts:
What would my to-do list look like if it was built around peace, rather than pressure?
What tasks would stay?
What could I release without guilt?

Healing Practice - This weekend, before you begin your usual to-do list, pause.
Take three slow breaths.
Ask yourself: What would help me feel satisfied, not stretched?
Then write from that place.
And when the day invites you to rest or play—accept the invitation fully.

Life is rarely quiet.

Our schedules overflow, the world spins faster every day, and the demands on our attention never cease. But within the noise, there is always a still point—a breath, a moment, a pause. That is where mindfulness lives. It’s not about escaping the chaos; it’s about returning to yourself inside it.

Mindfulness is the art of presence. It invites you to show up fully in this moment—not the regrets of yesterday or the worries of tomorrow, but right here, right now. It’s a radical practice in a world obsessed with doing. To be present is to reclaim your power.

You don’t need a silent retreat or hours of meditation to practice mindfulness. You just need intention. Start with your breath. Breathe in deeply through your nose. Hold. Exhale slowly through your mouth. Feel the air move. Feel your feet on the ground. You are here. That’s enough.

Everyday moments are invitations. Washing dishes? Feel the warm water, notice the rhythm. Walking to your car? Feel the ground beneath your feet. Drinking tea? Savor the flavor. These small acts, done with awareness, become portals to peace.

Mindfulness teaches you to respond rather than react. When life gets overwhelming, you can choose to pause. To breathe before you speak. To soften your shoulders. To ask yourself, “What do I need in this moment?” That space between stimulus and response is where your freedom lies.

Incorporating mindfulness into your routine can be as simple as a one-minute body scan, a gratitude journal before bed, or a mindful stretch between meetings. Technology can help—apps like Insight Timer or Calm offer short meditations to guide you back to center. But even a mindful walk in nature can do wonders for your nervous system.

The more you practice, the more mindfulness becomes your way of being. You become less reactive, more grounded. Less anxious, more attuned. You begin to witness your thoughts instead of being ruled by them. You become the calm in your own storm.

And perhaps most importantly, mindfulness reminds you that you are enough—right now, exactly as you are.

You don’t need to do more or be more.
You only need to be here.

Alive. Awake. Aware.

​That is where peace begins.

Change rarely arrives with a gentle knock. More often, it crashes through the door uninvited—messy, loud, and inconvenient. It doesn’t ask if you’re ready. It doesn’t wait for your permission. It simply arrives, rearranging the furniture of your life, scattering the familiar, and daring you to find beauty in the mess.
​
But what if change isn’t the enemy? What if it’s the sacred invitation we’ve been unknowingly waiting for? The kind that doesn’t just shift our circumstances—but reshapes our soul.

We are taught to fear change. To cling to the known, even when it no longer fits. We stay in relationships that no longer nourish us, jobs that drain us, identities that suffocate us—because the unknown feels too vast, too uncertain. But the truth is, the unknown is where we meet ourselves most honestly. It’s where we shed the layers that no longer serve us and step into the wild, uncharted territory of who we’re becoming.

Navigating life transitions begins with surrender. Not the kind that gives up, but the kind that gives in—to trust, to timing, to transformation. Surrender says, “I don’t know what’s next, but I trust that I’m being led.” It’s a softening, a loosening of the grip we have on control. And in that softening, we find strength.

There is grief in change. Even when the change is good. Even when it’s chosen. We grieve the version of ourselves we’re leaving behind. The routines, the roles, the rhythms that once felt like home. Honor that grief. Let it move through you like a tide. Let it cleanse. Let it teach. Let it go.

And then, begin again. Slowly. Gently. With curiosity instead of fear. Ask yourself: What is this transition trying to teach me? What parts of me are being called forward? What am I being invited to release?

You don’t have to have it all figured out. You don’t need a five-year plan or a perfect roadmap. You just need presence.

One breath.
One brave step at a time.
Trust that the ground will rise to meet you.

Remember, you’ve done this before. You’ve survived heartbreak, loss, reinvention.

You’ve risen from ashes you thought would consume you. This transition is not your undoing—it’s your becoming.
​
So take the leap. Let the old fall away. Let the new unfold. You are not lost. You are being remade.

I was once told that people come into your life for a reason, a season, or for life. That quote has brought me a tremendous amount of peace and acceptance with the fluidity of encounters because upon first meeting, we never know which category a person will fall into. We never know who will be a lesson in love and life and loss, or who will choose to ride the experiences out by our side. Yet even through the greatest heartbreak, I have found profound healing in parts of my heart I didn't know existed.

There was a time I thought survival was enough. That simply moving from moment to moment was a testament to strength. I checked the boxes, did the dishes, answered the emails, smiled at the neighbors. But deep inside, I wasn’t really living—I was coping.

The truth is, many of us are taught to equate endurance with success. We’re handed this invisible checklist of what it means to be “okay.” But being okay is not the same as being alive.

Grief cracked me open in ways I never expected. When a love I thought would last a lifetime unraveled, I sat alone in my quiet kitchen and felt the hollow ache of a future I had planned dissolve into mist. But that pain—it was sacred. It demanded I feel. It beckoned me back to myself.

Through those shattered pieces, I began to find fragments of joy I had overlooked:
The way sunlight slants through a curtain in the late afternoon.
The comfort of my daughter's hand slipping into mine without a word.
The wild, reckless freedom of laughing until my stomach hurt.

I started to ask myself—what would it mean to live, not just exist? What if I let the ache be a doorway, not a wall? What if I said yes to the spontaneous road trip, the unfiltered truth, the unguarded love?

The truth is: life is heartbreakingly brief and exquisitely beautiful. We are not here to simply get by. We are here to experience, to evolve, to connect, to heal, and to become.

So this is my invitation to you, dear reader:

Don’t just exist.
Live.
Live with your whole heart. Love with your whole heart.
Live knowing that some people will leave, and others will stay.
Live because your story is still unfolding and you get to hold the pen.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s where the magic lives.

It is that time of year again here in New England - spring has finally arrived!

The warmer days have begun to appear more often, bringing with them our emergence into the fresh air - and our annual garden preparations.

Some of our seeds have been started in the office under grow lights, and we took advantage of the fresh air Saturday to replace the fence and netting in an attempt to keep out the deer/rabbits/groundhogs/whatever other animal decides to feast in our yard this year.

Perhaps we are learning that slowly preparing for the time when the temperatures stay consistent enough to move all of the plants outside, is better than having a single back-breaking weekend to get started!

Some years are a success. Some years the animals channel their inner-Houdini and eat everything no matter what I try. Some years the tomato plants take over everything. Some years we are barely home to give the gardens the TLC that they need. 

But the honest truth of it all - I am not really a great gardener. 
I try - I definitely give it a valiant effort each year.  But a natural green-thumb, I am not!

For me, for us, our gardens aren't necessarily about total yield or success.

I like to imagine someday it will be, but so far, my gardens have been more about a proof of faith rather than producing all of our veggies.

I painted that sign in 2023 (admittedly no expert painter either...) when I didn't just want to grow veggies, I needed to WITNESS something growing.

I needed to watch something start as a seed and evolve into something bigger, stronger, beautiful and life-giving.

I needed to garden because I needed a reminder that what exists today is growing into a beautiful tomorrow.

I needed to believe that like that little seed, I could change and grow my own reality into something new and beautiful and fulfilling.

I needed to garden because I needed a physical reminder that faith exists.

That even through the dark soil, even when we can't see what is taking place, even if we forget to water it a day here-and-there, even if they are eaten by animals instead of us, life is still in bloom.

MY life is still in bloom.

Maybe in a phase where I can't see the "end product" but magic and growth is still happening beneath the surface.

If the heaviness of your winter - whether that is actually, truly winter - or a broader meaning of winter such as loss, grief, an aching heart, an unknown future, is weighing you down right now...

Go to the store, buy some dirt, a little pot, a few seeds, and let your mini garden become more than just a garden.

Don't worry about being a master gardener. You aren't looking to be featured in a Home & Gardens magazine.

Let your little seed be your own proof of faith.

Faith in the cycle of life, the ability to start fresh and above all - that you are still growing.

Happy Blooming!


​
  

As the warmer weather slowly forces its way in through the seemingly never-ending coldness of winter, if I am not in a lunch meeting and Joey is not out in the community with his helpers, we always make sure we take a walk together at lunch time.

Joey's thoughts often have him spinning into different lands, directions, anything other than the path that we walk on a regular basis.

Like many of us, his thoughts lead him astray to anywhere and everything other than the present moment.

To help bring him back from his own thoughts, I ask him questions about what he sees, and he responds with:

"I see that nice mailbox number 57."
"I see the yellow flowers."
"I see the withered white fence that protects the forest."

We are looking for the good in the here and now, focusing on not getting lost in our own thoughts.

Away from the what-ifs and what could have beens and the will-it-evers.

As an official over-thinker in recovery, I know how challenging this is.

​Yesterday on our walk we stepped out into the breezy crisp air, but the sun was shining.

"Ahhhh, Mom, feel that sunshine."
Suddenly, we weren't just looking for the good in the present moment, we were feeling it.

These past few months have been exhilarating in ways I never imagined.

Book events, speaking events, anthology and contest submissions and even a new course I'm developing (wink, wink stay tuned...) not to mention the countless new friends and contacts I have met has been just incredible.

BUT

I have also felt bombarded with people saying:

"have you done this or that?"
"are you going to start coaching?"
"are you maximizing your website contact information?"
"are you, are you, are you..."

And honestly it started to feel overwhelming. And the old repetitive thoughts of "you aren't doing enough, being enough, trying enough, fighting enough" started to fill the pit of my stomach.

I didn't write my story to make millions. I am not focused on boosting my SEO.

I wrote it to heal, and I wrote it to give hope to others who had found themselves asking questions like:

"Is this it?"
"Is there another way, I feel like I have more inside of me."

I wrote it so that I would be reminded of the silver lining of love in every lesson and blessing of chaos that life inevitably throws at us.

I wrote it to remind others to look at life through a lens of gratitude and hope.
​
And as we walked along our usual path yesterday, something happened....

Joey stopped to smell the hyacinth. (A little too early for roses).

I mean he stopped, sat down on the sidewalk and breathed in their delicious scent.

My children humble me more often than I can count, and this was one of those moments.

When we got back home, I paused to reflect in my journal before returning to my day job.

I reflected on all of the blessings that are surrounding us every day.

I reflected on how liberated I felt in sharing my story and my authentic voice with at least a small corner of the world.

I reflected on how I know I am on the precipice of stepping out into a phase of life where the choices I make, the words I write, the people, companies, and organizations I engage with may not always be the best to "maximize my growth and potential" but they resonate with the core of my value and my beliefs.

I reflected on how I trust myself and trust the gift that this life is more than I have ever before.

In the past twelve months life has been anything BUT ordinary, nor has it been the path we had expected to be on.

Yet, there we were, on a cool Thursday in spring, sitting down to smell the flowers that have courageously fought through the soil and swinging temperatures and dared to shine their beautiful colors.

And all I could think was "Life is SO Good."

I hope that as nature comes back to life around us as we continue to creep into spring, that you don't just witness it, but that you become part of it.

That you feel it.

That you learn to ride the waves (or the spring breeze) and allow it to move you to where you can truly flourish from the center of your heart.

That you fall in love with all of the good that surrounds us.

That you stay present in a state of gratitude.

​Because it is there - everywhere - we just have to Look for the Good.