In 2024, I posted a whopping four articles on Substack.

At the time, I’d been in a writing group for almost a year. This platform became a place to share stories shaped by what I was learning in that group. It wasn’t earth-shattering or life-changing.

One random post in April. A handful of posts at the end of the year. That was 2024.

In 2025, I wrote and shared 31 articles here, a mix of stories and things I was learning.

In 2026, only four months in, I’ve already posted 28 articles. There’s a bit more strategy now, usually one instructional piece and sometimes a story each week, but the goal is the same: keep writing something regularly.

I used to have a WordPress blog. In the beginning, all was well. It was called Busy But Blessed: A Little Caffeine and Philippians 4:13. Cute, huh? Once I had a blog name, I felt official. I bought a domain and paid for a fancy web hosting package because I thought that’s what official bloggers did.

Translation: I overpaid handsomely for something that distracted me from the one thing I actually needed to be doing: writing. I work full-time, so extra time is a luxury. Nice to have, but not always available. And I’d already been working on my first book since September 2021.

What have I found?

• An outlet for my writing.

• A group of like-minded people.

• A wealth of thoughtful, surprising, and genuinely helpful content.

• A reason to keep showing up.

• A creative rhythm I didn’t realize I needed.

• A place where writing stopped feeling like something I had to earn time for.

Somewhere between “I’ll post occasionally” and “I guess this is part of my life now,” Substack stopped being a side project. It became a place to think out loud, test ideas, tell stories, and stay accountable to the part of me that has always written.

I didn’t come here with a strategy. I came here with a few stories and a little curiosity. Turns out, that was enough to start something bigger than I expected. Humans love to make five-year plans, then get surprised when the small thing quietly becomes the real thing.

I thought I was building a place to post occasionally. Instead, I built a habit. A rhythm. A space that continues pulling me back to the page. Funny how the things we treat as small sometimes end up taking up the most meaningful space in our lives.

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If something didn’t change—and fast—I wasn’t going to make it to my forty-first birthday. I hadn’t taken a meaningful day off work in months. Going all-in, no brakes, was fun for a season: the feeling of adrenaline coursing through my veins as I made the final touches on a major project, moving miles a minute through obstacles that were no longer a problem. As a long-term strategy, this failed. Every time.

Sure, I’d taken plenty of personal and sick days along with holidays in the last year. But just because I wasn’t at the office didn’t mean I was resting. In the last three months alone, our family braved a dangerous ice storm; my husband had his last major surgery related to an unfortunate event from last year; we celebrated four years since Adoption Day for our daughter Gabby; my team survived Tax Day; I celebrated 13 years at my current company; and I launched my first book.

After the whirlwind was over, if I didn’t strategically step away, things would start to break down. The signs were already there. Allowing that to happen would be a costly and painful mistake. I was determined not to let it go there this time.

“Why don’t you take a day off?” my husband suggested. At first, the idea sounded too simple to work. A day away from the office wasn’t equivalent to a solution to burnout. But what could it look like to add intentionality behind some time off? Deciding to follow his advice was almost instant. What day would make sense? That’s when I nailed down the date: two days after Tax Day, I would step away.

But taking a day off wasn’t the hard part. Taking one intentionally was. I didn’t want a random Friday filled with errands, distractions, Netflix binging, or half-rest. I wanted to interrupt the rhythm I’d been living inside of long enough to remember what it felt like to be a person instead of a machine.

Expect things not to go as planned

Friday came, and all started according to plan… then my phone started blowing up.

All 35 members of my immediate family are taking a trip out East this summer to celebrate my parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. That’s too many people to squeeze into one rental, so we all coordinated short-term rentals to stay nearby. There will be group events throughout the week, but having almost three dozen humans in the same spaces will take some planning.

My family decided it would happen that day. The first day off I’d had in months. Perfect timing. Disruption rarely asks permission before arriving.

I turned the text thread and notifications off, and to solidify the decision, I turned all my electronics to “Do Not Disturb” mode. (Whoever invented that feature, Thank You!)

This day won’t be perfect, so it isn’t fair to expect it to be. Remember: the goal isn’t perfection; it’s disruption. If your normal rhythm is stress, speed, obligation, and reaction, then even a slightly imperfect day can still be wildly restorative.

Pick a day to step away

The minute you lock in the day, just know: invites will start rolling in. There will be conflicts galore. Protect that day. Don’t give in. Interrupting your rhythm will be worth it. Choose a day with intention. Don’t wait until burnout forces the decision for you.

Your body is usually polite before it becomes dramatic.

Plan ahead

Anything you can do beforehand, do it. Removing potential interrupters in advance will only help. The only person who knew how and where to find me that Friday was my husband. Accessibility is one of the biggest threats to rest. Constant availability trains your brain to stay alert, even when your body is technically off the clock. If everyone can reach you instantly, your brain never fully clocks out. Creating boundaries ahead of time isn’t selfish; it’s practical.

I get to work at 6:00 a.m., sometimes even arriving before the sun! I knew I wanted to stay up late the night before my day off, sleep in, yet still get up at a decent hour before the day slipped away entirely. I need 7-8 hours of sleep each night. If I stayed up till 1:00 a.m., I could get up at 8:00 a.m. and have squeezed in the bare minimum of sleep. That would give me just enough time to get ready for the day and head to my first venue by 8:30 a.m.

Note on the venue(s)… do your research. I lost some momentum during the two-hour writing retreat portion of my day while waiting in line for coffee (apparently, Friday mornings are when everyone has the same idea), trying to find the WiFi password (and utterly failing), and being distracted by the new venue. Don’t be like me. Choosing a familiar yet offsite enough venue can help.

Environment matters more than we admit. A change in scenery can shift your mindset, but unfamiliar places also come with friction. Strike a balance between “different enough to feel fresh” and “familiar enough to avoid wasting mental energy.”

The goal of this step is to clear your schedule and prime it for your Top Three.

This was the most important part of the entire day. Without intention, free time tends to disappear into scrolling, errands, chores, or vague productivity disguised as rest.

Ask yourself, “What do I want to feel like when this day is over?”

This question alone inspired the entirety of my day. I wanted to feel accomplished yet grateful and relaxed at the end of the day.

Establish your Top Three

If you can’t do anything else on the day you’ve chosen, what are the three things you want to have done that day? Think less about achievement and more about alignment. What would make the day feel worthwhile when it was over?

Naps in excess of an hour count! Notice the order of events: therapy/relaxation was last. I’m glad I planned this for the end of the day. I arrived home relaxed, ready to tackle tasks, but still refused to do them… until the next day.

Part of breaking your rhythm means refusing to follow your usual script. My weekdays typically begin before sunrise, which meant sleeping in felt almost rebellious. That alone made the day feel different.

Nothing dramatic happened that Friday. No breakthrough. No life-changing revelation. Just a quiet interruption to a pattern that had been running unchecked for too long.

How did I actually feel when Friday was over?

Accomplished. Meaningful. Relaxed. In that order.

Sometimes the healthiest thing you can do is disrupt the rhythm that’s slowly wearing you down. Not everything in life needs to be maintained. Some patterns deserve to be broken.

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Because once you lose it, you spend the next hour pretending to work while actually just rearranging sentences and questioning your life choices.

Then I saw my husband’s name pop up with a play button. It was a video of my daughter enjoying her new bounce house, complete with an inflated slide, basketball hoop, and water spraying in all directions.

Chaos. Joy. Zero calendar invites.

I lived in the north for almost three decades. Experiencing snow as a kid was pure bliss. Snow days were a rare and delicious treat. As an adult, needing to make it to the office in a full-on white-out was…dread.

Somewhere along the way, wonder got rescheduled.

That day, my daughter was fully in the moment.

Time didn’t exist. The only metric was: keep going.

No outcome. No agenda. Just…more.

I was on a schedule.

Every hour accounted for, every task justified.

Every minute explained, as if existing required permission.

Kids experience life to the fullest.

Adults? We manage things.

We get better at life and worse at living it.

• Fluorescent paradise for eight hours: controlled productivity.
  The kind that looks impressive on paper and feels like nothing in your body.

• Bounce house for six hours: complete freedom.
  The kind you can’t measure, which is probably why we stop choosing it.

And there it was, the tension no one warns you about: the life you’re building versus the life happening without you.

One looks responsible. The other feels real.

I chose the latter. And did just the same as my daughter: spent the remainder of daylight outside, watching her exemplify joy.

No optimization. No productivity hack. Just showing up.

When given the choice, I hope we all choose the second option.

Even when it feels inconvenient. Even when it makes no sense on paper.

We learned to manage it. We forgot to be in it.

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It’s been a week. My first book launched last Wednesday.

Unreal.

My brain is still catching up.

The most common question I’ve been asked in these last seven days is, “How does it feel?”

Part terrific, part terrified.

Why?

There’s a lot of real in this book. I have a habit of being brutally, yet kindly, honest when I communicate.

My childhood and upbringing weren’t always a rose garden.

Adulthood? More like lying on a bed of cacti.

The reality is, I wouldn’t trade any of it.

I wouldn’t trade any of it.

Doing so risks not knowing what I know now.

Sharing my story brought so much more than “Great job” or “The book was awesome.”

It created meaningful moments.

And that makes me wonder…

If the outcome of sharing our story is connection like this, what really holds us back?

Or maybe, deep down, fear that it will matter.

Because once it’s out there, it’s no longer just yours. It has the power to meet someone else right where they are.

That kind of honesty changes things.

I’m only one week in, and I already know this: the scary part isn’t the writing.

It’s the sharing.

But it might also be the point.

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That sentence feels both surreal and strangely quiet after everything it took to get here.

This book didn’t start as a “book idea.” It started as tension. As questions I didn’t have answers to. As moments that didn’t make sense while I was living them.

It’s a story of disapproval, storms, and the quiet ache of not quite belonging.

It’s about navigating expectations—some spoken, most silently imposed—and slowly realizing how easy it is to lose your voice when you spend too long trying to live up to them.

It’s also about what it takes to get that voice back.

At the center of it all is our adoption journey.

April 8, 2026, marks four years since Gabby legally became ours. Four years since everything shifted. Not all at once, not in some cinematic, neatly wrapped moment—but slowly, imperfectly, and in ways I’m still learning to understand.

If there’s one truth this story keeps circling back to, it’s this:

And sometimes, it takes walking through uncertainty, disappointment, and more than a few storms to actually believe that.

This book holds a lot:

The hard conversations.
The moments of doubt.
The quiet, ordinary days that didn’t feel significant at the time, but ended up changing everything.

It also holds humor, because if you don’t learn to laugh somewhere along the way, the weight of it all gets unbearable.

And it holds faith—not the polished, easy kind, but the kind that gets tested, stretched, and rebuilt over time.

A sense of home, I’ve learned, isn’t a destination. Healing doesn’t arrive all at once. Neither does hope.

These are built slowly. Through perseverance. Through love. By choosing to keep going when it would be easier not to.

That’s what I poured into these pages.

Not perfection. Not answers to everything. Just honesty.

Wherever you find yourself in The Gabby Effect, my hope isn’t just that you understand my story.

It’s that somewhere in it, you recognize your own.

You can find the book here.

And if you’re here reading this—whether you’ve followed my writing for years or just stumbled into this space today—thank you!

This part of the journey exists because of you. 💟

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My daughter held her latest creation with pride as she showed it to her small audience, our friends who were visiting. “Look what I made!” she exclaimed. She opened her palm to reveal a tiny porcelain cupcake with splashes of red, purple, and green. It was noticeable that she had made an effort to stay inside the lines, but somewhere between her tiny paintbrush and inexperienced hands, the objective had been lost. That certainly didn’t dampen her feeling of accomplishment that day.

She’d completed her project the day my husband and I spent at the hospital while he underwent a six-hour surgery. Since the moment the procedure had been scheduled months in advance, dread hovered over my thoughts and plans, letting anxiety creep in. Its monstrous grip held tight to my former calm and contentment. I’m not usually a worrier, but with the final surgery of four coming up, I knew the risks.

My husband had been in a life-threatening accident on an unseasonably warm evening, just before spring emerged in 2025. After that, his taking advantage of the gorgeous weather seemed like a crime. The hospital stay, multiple surgeries, and numerous follow-up appointments that followed were stifling. The last thirteen months had been filled with a new level of unknowns for our family.

In moments where worry tries to steal my joy, God installs small reminders. “I’ve got you,” He says, through a friend bringing a meal, sending a thoughtful text, or praying with me. I have to remember that my husband wasn’t taken from me. This ordeal has given us even more to be thankful for. How else would I discover that it takes him a minimum of two hours to awaken from “surgery sleep” when an anesthesiologist is involved? (He treasures his rest, even in those moments!) And where else would I have been able to enjoy his post-procedure loopy moments?

My word for this year is “moments,” and it’s God’s personal reminder to me to enjoy the little things in life, to let time slow down. To take deep breaths when I wouldn’t have taken pause at all. He provided these snapshots to remind me of what He wants me to reflect on.

My husband’s last surgery took place thirteen months after the incident, and I was worried about it. Why? Isn’t God good enough? Hadn’t He shown me His faithfulness? I let the unknown take over my gratitude for how far we’ve come. The day before surgery at church, I was reminded of one of my favorite verses:

Just like the level of pride my daughter had when she completed her cupcake, God must cherish the beautiful horizons He paints, the sunsets that take our breath away. He crafts each new day, and yet, He is faithful to us too. This verse served as a reminder that God was watching over Surgery Day as well. May I never take another day or moment for granted again, no matter what the schedule holds.

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In elementary school one year, something wild happened…

Before personal computers were everywhere, I’d been consistently writing since I knew how. Back then, writing was manual, pen-to-paper. It was a sensory experience: grab a sheet of lined paper (college- or wide-ruled), whichever was preferred, snag a No. 2 pencil, and off it went. Creating something, seeing the words on the page, feeling the pencil press grooves into the paper with each stroke, and continuing to develop my handwriting were facets I’ve never gotten over. While helpful, typing on a keyboard still isn’t the same.

At a young age, most of my handwritten words were stowed away in super-secret diaries, the ones that came with a lock and key. I shared my deepest and innermost thoughts that would never see the light of day or meet another set of eyes. When I became more mature and advanced in my writing, I upgraded to a journal (a diary without the lock and key).

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Back in elementary school, I wrote a story about my summer break on a piece of wide-ruled notebook paper…

My family and I traveled to Alabama to visit my grandparents, aunt, and cousins. I didn’t get to see my cousins often, so I was excited about the trip. My aunt had recently purchased a new-to-her home, so she insisted that we cousins spend some extra time together. They had pets, which was the cherry on top. We would spend the night at my aunt’s house, to which my siblings and I squealed with excitement. My parents were staying at my grandparents’ house, five minutes down the road.

No official house tour took place. My siblings and I sat on the floor in my aunt’s family room, talking with her and my cousins and petting the animals (birds, cats, and dogs). It was a bright room with mint-green walls and a high ceiling with lots of windows. The air felt thick, carrying a musty smell that clung to the room. We sat on the crusty-carpeted floor because she didn’t have much furniture yet. Bird cages lined the windows.

It should have been a comfortable, cozy setting.

It wasn’t.

Something about it felt off, like the room was holding its breath.

My aunt casually told us mysterious stories about the house. They weren’t happy stories. One of her cats had a litter of adorable kittens, so she briefly left the room to grab towels and help the new mother care for the babies. When she got back, most of the kittens had disappeared. She thinks the mom ate them! (My stomach turned. I remember going quiet.)

I was seven or eight years old at the time, and that was hard information to process. My cousins continued the storytelling session by sharing multiple occasions when light switches would randomly change positions, usually leaving the room’s occupant in the dark. Lights snapping off mid-sentence, mid-step. (I braced myself for it to happen while we were there, just to show off. It didn’t.) They said other times, they could hear someone walking on the creaky wood floors upstairs while everyone was downstairs. Slow, deliberate steps moving back and forth.

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After the stories, my cousins showed off their rooms. Naturally, I wasn’t too thrilled about the prospect, but curiosity won. What would we find? My other siblings were going, too, so why not? One cousin’s closet revealed another door inside, the kind you see in the movies that leads to the attic. Sure enough, same here. Thank goodness, we didn’t go into the attic. That would’ve pushed my rising anxiety over the edge.

The longer I was in the house, the more uneasy I became. My chest tightened. My thoughts got louder. Never have I felt like that before or since. It was as if my spirit was conflicting with something inside the house, and they couldn’t coexist. (When asked later, my siblings couldn’t corroborate my story.) Really? I didn’t need them to. The feeling was undeniable. The only explanation I can offer years later is that I was experiencing spiritual oppression at a young age.

I knew what I had to do: I couldn’t spend the night there. Every instinct in me said, “Get out!” In fact, the feeling got so strong that I was uncomfortable spending another moment there. The thought of being in that place after dark was unbearable. Night hadn’t even fallen yet, and I was already imagining shadows stretching across those mint-green walls. It took some convincing on my part, but after lots of begging, my aunt finally called my parents, who picked me up minutes later, just before dark. My other siblings spent the night there.

When I got to school that fall, I shared my handwritten account of the “haunted house” encounter with a classmate of mine, complete with illustrations. She felt compelled to share it with her friend. That friend shared it with another friend. The story made its way around the class, then my entire elementary school. I don’t recall the story ever making its way back to me, but that didn’t matter at the time.

While the feeling was incredibly empowering, I wondered: if my words could have that kind of influence then, and in the form of a simple story, how could they be used to create lasting impact?

If I could share a story that would share itself, perhaps I was onto something.

If I could write something that would in turn help at least one person, that would be enough for me.

I always knew I would write a book; I didn’t know that I would share my story, the one God gave me and prompted me to write. A story that, even then, refused to stay on the page. It has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But it has also been one of the most rewarding. My story is for those who are alone, seeking a sense of home, but are facing obstacles that seem impossible to surpass.

Everyone is trying to find home, a place of belonging and peace. A place where they can be unapologetically themselves. A place where there is contentment and rest. A place where nothing feels like it’s working against you. Whatever obstacle you face, I hope and pray that after reading my story, you discover it is not an obstacle, but instead, an opportunity.

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I’m a sucker for a delicious cold brew coffee.

And not just any cold brew.

Each morning, I dedicate five minutes to the perfect recipe: a tablespoon of my favorite concentrated brew, a splash of half-and-half, and sometimes, a squirt of liquid raw sugar. If I add sweetness at the end, I use a little hand mixer to pull everything together before I fill the tumbler with filtered water. Once filled, my routine is complete.

Today was a bit…different.

During the second step (adding half-and-half), rather than a splash of dairy, a cottage cheese texture oozed its way out of the bottle. There was no salvaging what had already been thoroughly ruined. I dumped the “mixture” out, took a deep breath, and started over. Minus the creamer. Hours later, I’m still enjoying my smooth coffee combo. I like cottage cheese, but as a food group, not for a caffeine kick.

I knew something smelled off yesterday, but dairy does that. The half-and-half bottle had some build-up on the cap and threads, so I cleaned it off and moved on.

Problem solved, I thought.

It wasn’t a problem. It was a warning. “I’m turning!” it tried to tell me.

By this a.m., the deed was done.

In that moment, staring down at the curdled combo, I considered pretending it was fine.

I did not consider drinking it.

Some routines are worth the ritual. Not because they’re perfect, but because they make starting over feel normal.

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The day was finally here.

This day wouldn’t take the memories away, but if successful, it would remove the visible wounds.

I stared at my bookbag as if it were a foreign object. I couldn’t bring myself to pack it. Not because I couldn’t. Because doing so meant I’d have to process Monday.

Monday.

The dreaded day I would hand my husband back over to a medical team.

Again.

Something felt unsettling about calling anything “final” when you’ve already lived through the moment that almost wasn’t.

On Tuesday, February 25, 2025, he was almost taken from me. Not in a hypothetical, “that could have been bad” kind of way. In the kind of way that rearranges something in you without asking permission.

We were lucky, but we didn’t walk away without some souvenirs, reminders of life’s fragility.

Broken bones and permanent scars needed to be removed. Fixed. Reconstructed. Made to look more like before.

This surgery is supposed to be the last one.

The last procedure.
The last time I walk him into a building and let someone else take over.
The last time I sit in a waiting room pretending I have any control over the outcome.

The word “final” is supposed to feel like relief. Like a finish line. Like something we get to celebrate.

But sitting here, staring at a bag I still haven’t packed, it feels more like being asked to loosen my grip.

As long as there was another appointment, another procedure, another plan, I could convince myself I was doing something. Holding something together. Controlling at least a small piece of the outcome.

But this part? This requires something different.

Not control, but trust.

Not answers, but surrender.

And maybe that’s the real work all this time.

Not just getting him through surgery after surgery, but learning how to release what was never mine to hold so tightly in the first place.

If all goes well, the visible wounds will fade.

And in their place, something quieter but stronger remains: relief, perspective, and a renewed way of seeing what we’ve been given.

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Hi, I’m Gnorman!

I was born on January 6, 2026, with built-in wisdom to share. I can’t wait to change the world…although these boots aren’t doing me any favors. Actually, it might be my non-existent legs. You see? I already know what boots and legs are, and I’m not even three months old.

My best friend, whom I lovingly refer to as my handler, is Jess. She’s always on the computer, noisily typing on that silly thing. Something about word wizardry. (If anyone should be using sorcery, it’s me.) Maybe I’ve missed my calling…

Anyway, I’m excited to begin my quest to change the world. Since I can’t walk very fast, or much at all apart from a little wobble action, I suppose I’ll have to defer to my friend. With all those words she’s putting into that piece of machinery, I have no doubt she can help.

Onward and upward!

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Dear Jess,

You are a strong woman, one who has, with My help, overcome many obstacles. You didn’t know you would watch your dog die in the summer of 2024, only to nearly lose your husband the following year. But you shared those experiences with others, allowed them to support you, and leaned on Me.

You are stubborn, and I can use that. Don’t let it get in your way. Use it to tell others about Me and to share your story. I have given you a unique life, and your story will be unlike any other. Don’t let the fear of success keep you from pursuing what I have in store.

I want to bless you beyond your wildest dreams.

Let Me.

With miraculous love,
God

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This week was filled with a surplus of grumbling, especially in the evenings after work. My MacBook and I had a recurring “date.” Every night so far this week. My husband wisely steered clear.

The workload morphed me back to Middle School computer class, where I first learned how to use Microsoft Word. In 2026, the bones are still the same, just with a few more bells and whistles.

When taking on the task of self-publishing a book through Amazon, it feels a lot like applying all the things you learned back in computer class—with a gallon of fuel poured on top and someone hovering nearby with a lit match over everything you just built that now smells faintly of gasoline.

Which Word template should I use? Translation: What dimensions will my physical book have?

Which book cover template should I use? Translation: How can I make the size of the cover match the size of the actual book?

How do I make the headings and page numbers on Page 20 mirror those on Page 2? Translation: I need a Word crash course on headers and footers.

It’s not Amazon; it’s me.

A massive learning gap, paired with a multitude of user errors, is smeared all over this process.

I learned patience. That was baked in. But I also learned something else.

Self-publishing is not for the easily deterred, and my stubbornness is a weapon…of sorts. I don’t have any quit in me when it comes to doing something I believe in.

• Helping customers troubleshoot a software glitch? ✅ Check!

• Listening to a lengthy vent about a recent experience a friend had? ✅ Check!

• Leading my daughter to the correct answer for her arithmetic problem? ✅ Check!

Late last night, well after my usual bedtime (when I knew I’d be feeling the lack of sleep in the wee hours of the morning), the publishing platform finally stopped screaming.

I’d done it.

I’d checked the boxes, aligned all the margins, and fulfilled the previously blank fields.

In instances like this, I don’t know how to say “no.” And that’s a good thing.

When faced with life’s challenges—when something you unashamedly believe in is on the other side—don’t let any size serving of difficulty dictate whether or not you continue.

I survived self-publishing. I learned so much. And I wouldn’t trade this experience for anything.

Whatever you’re facing, you’ll make it through, too. Don’t give in! 👊🏼

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“Well, that’s gonna leave a mark!”

“What do you mean, Barbara?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I just shaved a nice little sliver off my thumb. No big deal!”

“Ummm… that sounds like a bigger deal than just a bad day.”

“Sheesh, Henry! You don’t have to make everything so dramatic. It’s just a little blood.”

“Oh my! Remind me not to look at it again until the bleeding has stopped. That made me woozy!”

“Henry, you’re such a pushover! Stop looking at it. I’ve got it covered.”

“That’s what you said about both of our children, and look how they turned out.”

“They turned out just fine. Stop your bellyaching, Old Man. Katie is my pride and joy. Henry Junior? Well, let’s just leave it at this—he favors his father.”

“Barbara Jane! I cannot believe you would flatter me so. Young Henry is (almost) the best thing to ever happen to me. I’m honored to be called his father.”

“Well now, you have me tearing up, dear.”

“They’re good kids. We went from surviving and keeping them alive to becoming quite the fun bunch. I can’t believe they’ve been out of the house for a decade now. Katie’s wedding to John was one of the most beautiful things…”

“Ah, yes! John is almost like a son to me now. So respectful and wicked smart!”

“We lucked out with Henry’s wife Sara, too. What a sweetheart!”

“How’s that thumb doing?”

“Well, now, just as good as your ego is doing right now, Henry!”

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The keys felt like magic at the end of my fingertips.

Once I learned how to type, “sprinting” across a keyboard helped me visualize dreams coming true. Words held power. And magic.

In middle school, I was kind of a big deal…in my head, at least.

At the age of nine—the same age my daughter Gabby is now—I learned to silence my voice to meet the demands and expectations of others. A piece of my identity disappeared.

Until Typing Class.

My teacher had a favorite student, whether she realized it or not. She was one of the first adults who went to bat for me. That felt good after being told to be seen and not heard for many years.

My first typewriter didn’t have letters, so I could truly learn them.

Along with my in-class teacher, Mavis Beacon taught me a few things, too, including how mistyping digits on the number pad would send poor groceries careening off the edge of a checkout conveyor belt. “Playing” cashier wasn’t as fun as it sounds.

Thanks to someone who believed in me, I went on to hone my skills to the tune of 100+ wpm (wpm = words per minute, for those who are curious and counting).

What truly sticks out is…

And power requires responsibility.

I have the power to communicate at my fingertips:

Words can become weapons.

Or wizardry.

Nowadays, my keyboards still don’t have letters on them.

But not because they didn’t have them in the first place.

Because I used them.

Because fluency leaves evidence.

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I never imagined that I could fall in love with the sounds and smells of spring, which arrived early this year. The purr of tree frogs and the melody of birds who had been silenced by an especially icy winter awaken my eardrums. The scent of past rain and pollen tempts my nostrils. The sky seems a bit bluer today, and the grass is just starting to shift from a sleepy brownish yellow to a subtle green.

“Billy, are you gonna help me with this here plow?”

Ugh.

Spring also meant work. Nearly endless. Until the first freeze. Being a farmer—or in my case, a farmer’s apprentice—afforded little time off. Early mornings, late evenings. A season that stretched on.

I sped up my pace in answer to Jim’s question.

This was our fourth season working together. One of my favorite things about those last three years has been the progress. When I started learning from Jim, there were three fields; now there are a dozen. The farm has grown to something of a force in this region.

The best part? The animals. Those weren’t here in the beginning either. They came Year Two. Bessie was my girl. She would only let me milk her, and Jim hated it. He also joked that I’d never be able to leave. I told him as long as he didn’t transition to beef cattle, I’d stick around. The highlight of my day is seeing Bessie. Cows don’t seem to display emotion, but I know she looks for me.

When we were done in the field that morning, I headed to the barn. There she was, her tail twitching, eyes expectant—or as expectant as a cow can be. When she saw me, she let out a deep bellow. I couldn’t very well start with another cow since she’d already welcomed me back. There were only half a dozen cows, so my current chore didn’t take long.

I cleaned and tidied up the barn and headed to the equipment garage. Jim was already there grumbling about something or other. It had been a dry spring so far, so his complaints likely had something to do with lack of rain.

“You know Who you can ask if you’re not happy with the weather,” I taunted when I got within earshot.

“Keep your judgment to yourself, Billy. Geez, you always get bold after seeing that darned cow.”

I chuckled and went back to work.

When the day was done and the sun crept below the horizon, I pulled away from the plantation. My truck sputtered as I headed for home. I could embrace days just like this one forever if given the chance.

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I awoke with a start, the screech of tires and the blare of car horns assaulting my ears.

I looked out my apartment window and felt my stomach drop when I realized I was no longer on the second floor. I was miles above the ground in a high-rise apartment.

I reached for my flannel and boots out of habit, only to find they had been replaced by a sports jacket and loafers. In place of my truck keys was my phone with a reminder about an upcoming sales presentation.

A deep breath didn’t help since the familiar smells of dirt and manure from my work boots were absent. All I could smell was stale air and something artificial.

What have I done?

“Alright, if I’m in this alternate reality, I might as well see it through.” The confusion settled into something steadier. Not calm. Just stubborn.

The jacket probably fit fine when it was tailored, but it felt stifling. How the taxi driver knew to bring me to another skyscraper only a few blocks away I had no idea.

My “sales presentation” was in fifteen minutes. I tried not to panic. As I exited the vehicle, exhaust and something sour I couldn’t place filled the air.

I walked into the lobby, and no one took notice. Everyone was moving fast, eyes down. No one cared, and no one offered directions.

“Mr. Johnson!” a lady who looked to have just escaped her teenage years waved and motioned me over to the elevators. “Do you have your presentation ready? I can’t wait to hear it!” She didn’t wait for an answer.

The presentation.

I opened the folder I must have grabbed from the apartment.

There it was. The title: Farm Removal in Favor of Shopping Complex.

On the next page, bullet points and an aerial view of a large plantation.

Jim’s farm.

I closed my eyes.

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Jim would already be out by the shed, cap shoved back, one hand braced on his hip while he pretended that knee didn’t ache in the cold. He’d be squinting at the field like it had personally offended him, waiting for me to quit stalling and grab the other end.

And Bessie. She would be working herself into a temper, tail flicking, hooves shifting, that low warning rumble building in her chest because breakfast was late and her boy was missing.

Three years. Fence posts I’d set with my own blistered hands. Gates that only hung right if you lifted them first. Ruts in the path worn down by my boots, morning after morning.

This place, whatever it was, wanted me to forget all of it.

I opened my eyes.

No. Not today.

However I’d landed here, whatever lie waited in the rest of that folder, I couldn’t just nod along and let the wheels roll over everything I love.

“Are you ok, Mr. Johnson?”

“Better than ever,” I said as we exited the elevator on the twentieth floor.

The smell of electronics, paper, and carpet almost unnerved me, but I pressed on.

“Alright, Bill. Let’s see what you got!” the man at the head of the table motioned for me.

I smiled and nodded, making my way to the front of the room.

“I was supposed to come here today to tell you kind folk why a farm should go away in favor of shopping. I’m sure there was good reason behind it at the time. Ladies and Gentlemen, there’s not enough sky in this place. Animals need to graze. Farmers? What they do is hard, hard work. But it’s like therapy...”

“Bill?” the man looked concerned, but intrigued.

I went on. And on. And on.

I thought my heart might burst as the sports jacket tightened around my chest.

And then everything went black.

I awoke with a start. Again.

“Well, there you are, Son. My, you sure have a flair for the dramatic!” Jim chuckled as he continued mucking out the stall.

The realization hit like cold water. I jumped up, brushing hay from my jeans. “Race you to the next chore!” I called, and Jim’s bewildered look followed me out of the barn.

Outside, I paused, drawing in a long breath.

I had almost traded it all for fluorescent lights and polite applause.

And there it was.

Same dusty boots. Same manure smell. Same sky.

Bessie bellowed.

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A year ago today, my world turned on its axis.

Not slowly or gently.

Violently.

Words were said, but their truth wouldn’t penetrate my brain at first…

A year ago today, my husband was in an unforeseen, life-threatening accident that fractured the left side of his face.

The helmet he was wearing?

It saved his life.

The days and weeks that followed were filled with stitches and surgeries. Time moved differently inside those hospital walls. My gratitude for his medical team grew exponentially during his 4-day, 3-night stay. For those who cared for him in those early hours, I don’t have words.

For what my husband experienced as a result of the wreck… I don’t have words for that either.

A handful of learnings stand out when I think back on this season:

• Life is fragile, and moments are precious.

• Teeth are expensive. (Ok, ok… I already knew this based on my own struggles in this area, but it’s still worth noting.)

• Insurance is crucial; miracles are better.

• People want to help, and sometimes, they just need to be invited. And sometimes, you have to let them.

One year later, we still feel the aftershocks. There are appointments and bills and stories we tell differently now.

But there is also breath. And laughter.

And a man sitting nearby as I write this. Alive. A marriage that knows, in its bones, how quickly everything can change.

We were shattered. But we were not lost.

And we are still here.

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Summers were meant to stretch on forever. Friendships? Just the same.

I giggled as the grass tickled my toes. The distance between us disappeared fast. Within seconds, Sara was right behind me, arm outstretched to “freeze” me with her tag.

“You’re IT!” she squealed, squirmed out of reach, and ran off so I couldn’t return the favor.

Instead, I ran after another kid in our group and did just as Sara had.

The sun was high overhead as we took a quick break between games. Sprawled out in the grass, we tried to catch our breath. We stared up at the trees, their scraggly branches like fingers, beckoning us upward.

“Let’s go!” she called. She was at the base of the tree before I even reached a sitting position.

“I can see the world from here!” she shouted, arms outstretched. “Hello, my kingdom.”

She gave me a wink that said it all. Adventure was waiting, and she had already decided we were going.

When we were both six, Sara and her family had moved in next door. A neighbor my age was the best gift I could’ve received as a child. Those were the days when parents didn’t have to lock doors, and the only knocks came in the form of neighbor kids asking if so-and-so could come outside to play. We were rarely turned down.

The best part of our neighborhood was our stretch of road because our backyards touched the emerald lake behind them. Swimming was Sara’s favorite, and I swear she was part fish. I loved jumping off Dad’s sailboat into the shallow end. (I didn’t float well.)

My favorite role was taunting Sara: “I bet you can’t cannonball off the sailboat!”

And then she did. She always did.

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It was an extra-special day when she invited me over to her house. She had her own room, a luxury I didn’t have with three other siblings at the time. It was just her, her older sister, and their parents. We didn’t play at her house often since the Michigan summer beckoned us outside. Rare rainy days held us indoors. At her house, it was magical. More time to spend together, and I never cared what we did.

Being around Sara was like being transported to a completely different world.

“You’ve got to come out here!” she yelled through our screened front door to my siblings and me one afternoon.

“Why?” We didn’t really need to ask. (I always longed for her next invitation.)

“Two Words: Golden Retriever.”

Griffin sparked screams of delight as she launched into our arms. The softest fur tickled our arms and noses. Her excitement was fueled by our own. Having a neighbor as my best friend was amazing, but having an adorable dog next door was the icing on the cake.

We survived elementary school, and middle school brought challenges Sara helped turn into entertainment. Instead of studying during study hall, she’d whisper what she proposed the other students and even the teacher were thinking. We would hold it in as long as we could until the fits of silent laughter forced tears down our faces.

In Family Living Class, each student, including the boys, got baby dolls to care for as our final exam. Sara didn’t tell the teacher when I let the boys I was attempting to impress throw my doll around before Science. I got an A+ on the exam. She never used my foolishness as a weapon.

We enrolled in driver’s training together. When questions were posed to the group, her hand flew into the air. The answers weren’t always correct, but that level of boldness commanded respect. She led by example, urging me to take risks, and not just when it came to climbing trees, jumping in lakes, and impressing boys. Sara believed the world rewarded the brave.

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The best thing about being college roommates was not having to knock on the door or ask our parents when it was time to play. “Play” these days looked more like grabbing coffee with friends or pizza dates with crushes. One night when she and I were on a double date with a couple of guys from Speech Class we thought were nice, she busted out laughing and almost decorated her date’s jacket with pepperoni.

Later in our room, she asked, “Be honest. Too much?”

I smiled and shook my head. “You’re the coolest person I know. Anyone who doesn’t see that is missing out.” I meant every word.

Christmas Eve Day brought a foot of snow, which nestled into every corner of the landscape. The new winter coat felt like a fresh start. The neighborhood was quiet. Everyone had settled in for the night, or so I thought. Then I got the call. A drunk driver had hit Sara’s car.

I was certain she’d brush it off like every other tough thing she’d experienced in her life. Right?

Wrong.

Sara was gone.

For a long time, I waited for her to burst through a door and tell me it was all some elaborate misunderstanding. She didn’t.

Years later, when a kind, steady man asked if he could take me to dinner, I felt the old instinct to hesitate rise in my throat.

I could almost see her beside me, eyes bright, grin forming, ready to nudge. I could feel the courage she loaned me all those years.

So I said yes.

She had practiced “yes” her whole life. Even in her absence, she was still teaching me how.

Sara’s presence can still be felt in every brave “yes” that follows.

I imagined the wink that always meant, go on.

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I am one of six kids. Constant chaos filled our house. There was always a church service, a school event, or a sports game to rush to. Within the continuous craziness, the loudest voice was heard; all others were ignored. It was a game of survival. In this case, survival of the loudest. The noise level was unmatched. And yet, throughout my childhood and into adulthood, I never felt more alone. There were always people around. Privacy was a pipe dream, not a reality. Our house was the opening scene of Home Alone. And I was Kevin. Forgotten and left behind.

I became self-sufficient, in need of nothing. In need of no one. I didn’t ask for help. I didn’t need to. I knew how to find and get the things I needed. I could fend for myself at a very early age. I got pegged for being cynical, even the “black sheep” of the family, a stealthy child. (At times, that wasn’t entirely inaccurate. There was plenty of room for scheming when no one was looking.) I hid in plain sight. Being overlooked turned into my invisibility cloak. My superpower.

I gained independence rather than it being given to me or earned at a certain age or maturity level. What I didn’t realize then was that the less I needed, the less anyone thought to check on me. I mastered self-sufficiency. I just didn’t notice what it was costing me.

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Providing customer service is not for the faint of heart.

It’s been over a decade now, and the longer I serve in this capacity, the more it feels like a battlefield. Not customer vs. support, but tradition vs. progress. It’s the process, the “way it’s always been done” vs. automation and technology.

Regardless of what the process looks like centuries from now, one thing will always be crucial…

I received a voicemail last week from a sweet lady who referred to herself as having “just stepped off Noah’s Ark.” I couldn’t help but giggle. I’ve heard folks refer to themselves as dinosaurs or not tech-savvy.

But this one was new.

Of course, my curiosity was piqued.

I called her back, and she was just as kind in person. Each question I asked came with an answer, but first, a story.

In this moment, I had a choice: follow the script, collect the information, keep the line moving, or I could slow down, lean in, and listen to the human behind the problem.

I chose the latter.

“You just stepped off Noah’s Ark, and our company is flying a spaceship. I’m here to merge the two.”

She laughed heartily in response.

Nothing could erase that moment, the moment when we connected. Two strangers, separated by technology and probably a few decades, suddenly on the same team.

While she talked, I worked. And without either of us announcing it, we were getting somewhere.

What could have been a routine phone call ended with a solution. But most importantly, it ended with delight. She felt seen instead of processed. And that feeling was mutual.

For a while, it felt like Covid tried to evict connection altogether. Automation is starting that cycle over again.

We will never not need one another.

Lean in. Take the time. It’s those moments where unexpected delight can happen. Not because the system is perfect, but because we showed up for each other.

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I stepped up to the lane, heart pulsing. It was only a warm-up before the game, but my body didn’t get the memo. The bowling ball in my hands felt like an anchor.

My husband, Jeremy, and I were on a weekly bowling league with my parents. As newlyweds, we were trying to both build our connection with them and simultaneously impress them. Jeremy was a good bowler; I tended to be a bit of a loose cannon, which felt like a liability in front of an audience I cared far too much about.

As I released the weight, letting the ball slip gracefully from my fingers, it did its job. All ten pins collapsed on cue. Too bad it was just practice. (Or so I thought.)

I turned around to face my team, expecting cheers of congratulations. Instead, I received a particularly concerned look from Mom, the kind that skips celebration and goes straight to triage. She gestured me over. In a hushed tone, she said, “Go to the women’s restroom and turn around in the mirror.” In a single motion, she urged me toward the bathroom and placed her sweatshirt in my arms.

I did as I was told, turned around, and looked into the mirror. To my horror, I’d ripped a generous-sized hole in the back of my jeans, right at the seam between the two back pockets. I’m nothing if not thorough, apparently.

If I’d gone home to change, I would’ve missed most of the three-game match. Mom’s generous offer solved more than just my embarrassment. It allowed me to stay. Bowling isn’t the place to have a wardrobe malfunction, especially one that announces itself to anyone standing behind you.

But no one pays attention to us as much as we think, even when we’re convinced the spotlight is fixed squarely on our backside.

When going bowling these days, I always bring an extra pair of jeans—or a sweatshirt. If that traumatic day taught me anything else, it’s how liberating it is to realize most people aren’t watching us at all. They’re too busy worrying about their own split seams, missed shots, and imaginary audiences.

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