Last week I was sitting at my laptop with headphones on, editing audio for an upcoming podcast episode. If you’ve ever edited audio, you already know it’s about as glamorous as filing receipts in your pajamas — but I genuinely enjoy it. Somewhere between...
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I was in the kitchen the other day, staring down a pile of dishes, reminding myself of three emails I hadn’t answered yet, and trying to remember where I put the shopping list… when suddenly my bladder chimed in with:
“Hi... yeah... Whatever we were doing here? Cancel it. We have a new plan.”
And just like that...
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Don’t Wait for January
Every year, it’s the same routine: January 1st rolls around, and we all make these bold, shiny promises to ourselves. This is the year. New habits. New routines. New me.
And then by February? Most of those grand declarations are already gathering dust.
But here’s the thing nobody tells you:
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I heard an old song the other day... one I’ve heard a hundred times without ever really paying attention to the lyrics. But this time, I actually listened. I had one of those "Oh! So THAT'S what I've been singing about all along," moments. It was one of those times that the meaning of the lyrics actually landed.
I’ve actually had a few of those moments. They sneak up on you—not with fanfare, just with a soft tap on the shoulder—reminding you that your perspective changes over time. What didn’t make much sense in your thirties lands differently at sixty. And the older you get, the more you realize how much of life is something you learn as you go, not something you arrive at a certain age just magically knowing.
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Life is short — and I don’t mean that in the cliché “Live, Laugh, Love” way that belongs on a distressed wooden sign at Hobby Lobby. I mean it in the way you feel it when life yanks the rug out from under you and the air feels too thin to breathe.
It has been one year since Eric died.
And in all the grief, the quiet moments, the ruminating I keep trying not to do, there’s this one truth that keeps coming back to me again and again:
