Today, I choose to share my podcast. This one is offered to close out a year filled with so much noise and uncertainty. Through it all, I decided to stay focused on light, searching for beauty.
I turned off the news and found my truth by walking the woods.
I embraced creative potential, forcing myself to keep learning, keep trying new things.
Creating is my way of breathing healthy air. This year, that meant self-publishing a book, writing songs, and producing a podcast.
This year does not end with a celebration. It ends with an exhale.
It has been a tumultuous year — politically loud, emotionally charged, and unexpectedly heavy. A year that brought loss we didn’t see coming. A year that tested patience, resilience, and the ability to stay soft when everything felt hard.
There are still many moments when our country feels fractured, when anger seems easier than hope. When the noise makes it hard to hear our own thoughts, let alone each other.
And yet.
In the midst of all this disruption, something else happened quietly.
We created a book that promised light at the end of the tunnel. It was not just a slogan. It was a belief we needed to hold onto ourselves. We wrote words meant to steady us. We shaped something gentle in a time that was anything but.
We created music in the darkest corners of the year. Songs born not from ease, but from necessity. We found a way to share that music with others. It could travel beyond us. It could remind someone else that they weren’t alone.
That is what makes this a quiet crossing.
Not because the year was calm — it wasn’t. But because we are leaving it with intention.
We are not carrying everything forward. We are setting some things down. The outrage. The exhaustion. The constant vigilance. We honor what this year asked of us, without letting it define what comes next.
This crossing isn’t about forgetting. It’s about choosing what deserves space in the days ahead.
So as the calendar turns, we step forward gently. A little wiser. A little more worn. Still hopeful. Still creating. Still believing that light matters — especially when it has to be made by hand.
This is how we cross: quietly, honestly, carrying forward our own flicker of light.
Holidays are supposed to arrive gently. Marked by familiar rituals. By comfort. By things we expect.
But sometimes the season is interrupted.
A sound you didn’t anticipate. An impact you didn’t see coming. A moment where everything shifts, and suddenly the world you knew five minutes ago no longer exists in the same way.
When a car crashed into my house, it wasn’t just damage to walls and windows. It was the feeling that routine had been broken. That life, once again, had reminded me how quickly everything can change. It was Thanksgiving. We were together, as a family. Then, just like that, everything changed.
It felt strangely familiar.
Like the moment when someone you love is gone, grief enters—the light in the room changes.
There is a pause that follows moments like these — not one we choose, but one we are given. A forced stillness. A slowing we didn’t plan for.
The world keeps moving, but we are held in place, trying to understand how we got here.
And the holidays don’t stop. Lights still glow. People still rush. Music still plays.
But inside, we begin to move differently. More carefully. More slowly. We notice what matters because we have no energy left for what doesn’t.
This kind of pause is not peaceful — at least not at first. It carries fear, frustration, and unanswered questions. It asks us to breathe when breathing feels hard.
So now it’s Christmas, and so much is still unresolved with my house. With every breath, I need to swallow frustration. Allow space for unanswered questions. Let the uncomfortable pause not paralyze me with fear, but teach me.
Life is fragile. Control is an illusion. Presence — real, honest presence — is sometimes all we have to offer.
So this holiday season, I’m allowing interruption. I’m letting disruption invite stillness. I’m honoring the pause — even when it arrives through shock or loss.
Because sometimes, when the world changes in an instant, the most human thing we can do is stop and remember: I am here. I am breathing. I need to let that be enough.
I’ve been trying to stay centered on peace and joy. It’s that time of year, after all — the season of light, of calm, of remembering what matters
But the truth is, I’m still standing in the middle of a mess.
A driver ran into my house. The damage is real. The disruption lingers. And the insurance process — slow, unclear, incomplete — has added another layer of strain. There are unanswered questions. Partial approvals. An estimate that far exceeds what’s been offered. Unnerving silence where communication should be.
And here I am, trying to figure out what comes next.
I’m sharing this not because my story is unique — it isn’t. This is how life works. This is how unexpected things arrive. This is how we end up in hard places, still trying to function, still trying to breathe.
Some days feel especially dark.
I notice the anger. The tightness in my chest. The urge to replay conversations, searching for something I might have said or misunderstood, to solve everything all at once. I know anger doesn’t repair walls. It doesn’t move claims forward. It doesn’t bring clarity.
So I come back to the smallest things I can control.
One breath. One step. One moment of noticing something beautiful — even though that feels out of place right now.
I remind myself that peace is something I have to work on every day. I need to return to it again and again while things are still unresolved.
This is me working through a dark time. This is me trying to stay soft without being naive. This is me choosing not to carry anger, even when I have every reason to feel it.
And if you’re walking through something hard too, know that I get it. This is hard work.
Be courageous with me —breathe — and keep breathing — until the next step becomes clear.
Here’s What I Am Going Do Right Now
Breathe in slowly, reminding myself that everything is safe in this moment. Breathe out gently, releasing what I cannot solve today. Feel my heart and rest, just here, just now.
During the holidays, light is everywhere— twinkling on trees, glowing in windows, flickering in quiet corners of our homes.
And yet, for many, this season can still feel heavy. The nights are long. The days are full. The heart carries more than it shows.
In moments like these, we often look for something bright enough to fix everything at once. But hope doesn’t arrive that way. It comes softly. It comes steadily. It comes in small, faithful ways.
In my song, Light A Candle, I wrote:
“Find a quiet moment. Light a candle. Watch it dance. Invite the stillness. Give your heart a chance.”
A candle does not banish the dark. Its quiet glow steadies the room. It reminds us that presence matters more than perfection.
So this season, if the holidays feel overwhelming, don’t search for a brighter light. Light the candle you already have. Sit with it. Let it be enough.
Even in the darkest nights of winter, a gentle flame can guide us— one breath, one moment at a time.
There are days when the world seems to move faster than I can follow.
. Lists multiply, expectations stack themselves heavily on my shoulders,
and suddenly— even without meaning to— I find myself rushing from one moment to the next.
But rushing rarely brings me closer to peace.
If anything, it pulls me farther from the heart of what matters.
So today, I give myself permission to pause. Just for a minute.
Just long enough to feel the ground beneath my feet again. I will close my eyes. Take a slow breath in.
Imagine gathering all the scattered pieces of my attention and bringing them home.
Then, on the exhale, I’ll let the rush go— like snow slipping softly from a branch. Let it fall away.
The world will keep spinning. My tasks will still be there. But I will be different— steadier, calmer, anchored in the quiet strength that comes from choosing presence over pace.
A river does not rush to prove itself. It simply flows — steady, patient, unwavering. When rocks block its way, it doesn’t stop. It finds a route around.
When the path dips low, It now moves a bit slow But then gathers strength From solid ground.
And it keeps moving ahead.
We can carry on, too. Without force or hurry Trusting the path, Winding as it may be.
Like the river, We are stronger than we think. Keep moving. Believe.
Tranquil Resources 