May I Trust the Mysterious Unfolding of Life As the year begins to wind down, something in me feels settled in a way I didn’t expect. There’s a steady gratitude beneath everything ̶ not loud, not dramatic ̶ just a simple appreciation for what’s here, for what stayed, for what grew in its own quiet way. At the same time, there’s a gentle hum inside me. Ideas arriving unannounced. New possibilities forming at the edges of my awareness. A kind of inner widening that feels both e

I'm learning to allow signs and messages to come to me instead of seeking them. The world is loud enough without trying to solve it like a puzzle. And -- when I’m really paying attention — not to the noise, but to the way things land — the pattern is hard to ignore. Someone says something and it hits like a spotlight. A conversation opens a door you didn’t even know was there. A single sentence feels like a gift that was meant only for you — wrapped inside an ordinary momen

Some of us became strong before we ever became safe. That shapes a person. I love silence and solitude. Not because I’m avoiding life, but because it’s the only place I don’t have to perform. No suitcase of costumes. No smiling on the outside while bleeding on the inside. No adjusting myself to make others comfortable. In silence, I don’t have to prove anything. I just exist. And it’s beautiful. Safer. My body softens — and the edges of me disappear. Finally, I stop holding e

I’ve been a writer since I was a kid — long before I ever called myself one. I used to write little stories and staple the edges of the papers together to make “books.” I didn’t know anything about publishing or audience or structure. I just knew I needed to get what was inside me onto the page. That was it. That was the whole point. Somewhere along the way, I stopped writing like that. I ended up in corporate communications — writing for a living, getting paid to put words t

Disconnection isn’t losing faith — it’s a quiet call to pause and listen. When the world grows loud, when striving replaces stillness, the soul forgets the language of peace. Returning to Source isn’t something we do — it’s what happens when we stop doing. Returning When I feel far from Source, it’s never that I’ve been abandoned — only that I’ve wandered into noise. The soul doesn’t lose its way; it just forgets the way home. So I stop. I listen. I let the silence rearrange

We spend so much of life bending toward belonging — saying yes when we mean no, softening truth to keep the peace. This piece is part of a collection of poems and reflections about what it means to come home to ourselves — to remember that Spirit was never gone, only waiting for our return. I said yes when I meant not really. I smiled when I meant, that hurt. I softened the truth to keep the peace, and called it love. I wanted to belong anywhere— to feel normal, to exhale in