The Question

What helps people notice life again after a deep loss, trauma, or event that completely derails the life once lived?

Mission

AWKN exists to help people reconnect with the sacredness of being through contemplative arts - photography, writing, painting, drawing, mindfulness, meditation - and soulful coaching.

Our passion is to guide individuals back to their curious, creative, and awakened nature by teaching them how to notice deeply, live intentionally, and remain openhearted in the midst of growth, grief, uncertainty, and transformation.

Through contemplative art and mindful living, AWKN inspires people to see beauty where they once saw numbness, possibility where they once saw endings, and meaning within the ordinary moments of everyday life.

Our mission is to cultivate presence, creativity, spiritual awareness, and compassionate action so that people may live not as passive observers of life, but as awake and conscious participants within it.

Vision

We envision a world where people reclaim their inner lives through presence, creativity, contemplation, and connection.

A world where art becomes meditation.
Where mindfulness becomes a way of seeing.
Where grief becomes transformation.
Where creativity becomes remembrance of the soul.

AWKN seeks to build a global community of seekers, artists, photographers, writers, and everyday mystics committed to living with awareness, compassion, curiosity, and reverence for life.

We believe that when people learn to truly notice—to pause, observe, feel, create, and awaken—they not only transform themselves, but help create a more conscious, connected, and beautiful world for others.

The Answer

Contemplative art, mindfulness, meditation, and soulful practice awaken us to the beauty, mystery, and sacredness of being fully alive.

There are moments in life that don’t ask for your permission. They arrive, and everything you thought was solid, isn’t anymore. There is a before version of you—
the woman who was building, planning, moving forward, holding it all together—and then there is the after, the one who wakes up in a world that looks the same on the outside, but feels completely unfamiliar on the inside.

I know this space.

I have lived the kind of loss that doesn’t just break your heart—it rearranges your entire existence. Losing my son in November 2022 in a fiery crash shattered something so fundamental, there were no words big enough to hold it. Eight months later, losing my husband to suicide didn’t just deepen the grief, it changed the terrain of my life completely.

There is deafening silence.

The kind where the noise of everyday life fades into the background…and you’re left standing still while everything and everyone else keeps moving. People go to work, the world keeps turning, conversations continue, and you’re somewhere in between—not who you were… but not yet sure who you are becoming.

This is the space no one prepares you for. The in-between space where even the smallest decisions feel heavy.

What do I do today?
Where do I put my attention?
How do I even exist in a life that feels so unfamiliar?

You don’t go looking for something big. But you do try to figure out what your purpose or passion is now that what you thought was your purpose and passion, your family, your world with them in it, wis gone. You look for something—anything—that helps you make it through the next moment. Sometimes… unexpectedly… that something is simple. So simple it almost feels insignificant.

For me, it was picking up my camera again.

Not as a professional.
Not as a business.
Not as something to share or prove.

But as something that felt connected.

Photography has always been a part of my life. I took a few course in college using my dad’s Pentax 45mm film camera and spent a few of those weekends traveling with my late husband working on photo projects for class. It was something my son and I shared—something we did side by side, noticing the world together.

Returning to photography, to put it lightly, has been complicated. Painful, even. Because every image holds a memory. Every moment behind the lens echoes with what is no longer there. Underneath that pain, there is also something else.

A quiet pull.

Something deeper than logic, that I can’t quite explain. It’s not about creating anything impressive, or about being “good.” It isn’t even about healing—at least not at first.

It is about survival.

About having something to hold onto when everything else feels like it has slipped away. It has given me a place to put my attention when my mind doesn’t know where to go. It has given me a reason—however small—to step outside, to look, to pause.

In a life that has been split into before and after…picking up the camera again has become essential.

It Isn’t About the Photo

It is not really about the photo.

Not the composition.
Not the settings.
Not whether anyone else would ever see it.

It’s is what happens to me when I slow down long enough to look.

Grief has a way of narrowing your world. After loss, everything becomes functional. You move through the day doing what needs to be done—handling responsibilities, managing what’s been left behind, taking care of the details no one warns you about. In my case, that meant not only navigating unimaginable grief, but also stepping into the weight of managing an estate, making decisions, handling paperwork, living inside a reality I never asked for.

Somewhere in that process, I stopped noticing life. The color of life drains a little. The edges blur. Moments pass, and you don’t even realize they were there.

When I picked up my camera again, I didn’t expect that to change. I wasn’t looking for beauty. I wasn’t trying to feel inspired. If I’m honest, I wasn’t sure I could feel much of anything at all. However, the camera asked something of me—quietly, without pressure.

It asked me to look.

The way light hit the edge of a doorway.
The texture of worn stone.
Shadows stretching longer than I expected.

It required my attention.

And that’s when I started to understand something powerful. The camera wasn’t pulling me out of my grief. It was gently bringing me back into the world—by pausing, breathing, and noticing something instead of just moving past it. Those seconds began to matter.

When your world has been shattered, presence doesn’t come easily. Your mind wants to go backward—replaying moments, asking impossible questions. Or it jumps forward—trying to make sense of a future that no longer looks the way you planned. There are still days, nearly four years later, that I feel like I am living in a dream and that I just need to wake up and my son will be ruffling my hair like he use to.

But the camera?

It anchors you in the now. Not in a forced, “everything is okay” kind of way, but in a real, grounded way. You connect with the here, the moment, and the realization that you are in it. This is when I began to notice things I would have missed before.

I didn’t have to try to be mindful.
I didn’t have to sit still, close my eyes, or quiet my thoughts.

The act of looking—through the lens—did that for me.

It gave my mind somewhere to land that wasn’t pain. It gave my attention something to hold that wasn’t loss. Slowly, without forcing it, I started to re-enter my own life. It has helped me to realize there was a way to keep going. Not by fixing what had been broken. But by learning how to see again.

You Don’t Need Permission to Begin

After a few months with my camera, and gradually talking about photography again with people, intrusive thoughts started showing up. Those thoughts that your mind throws your way to “protect” you.

I don’t know what I’m doing.
I’m not creative.
I am wasting my time.
What’s the point, anyway?

But this is normal. Your mind is trying to keep you inside what feels known and safe—even if what is known is pain, exhaustion, or disconnection. Stepping into something new, especially after loss, can make you feel exposed. Vulnerable. Like you’re risking something, even if you can’t quite name what that is.

Photography was something I shared with my son, and I had to confront the loss of my son and how it was impacting my life. There were moments where it felt easier to leave the camera where it was—untouched, safe, and connected to the past. Thankfully I was reminded at the Deep Winter Hero’s Journey Intensive program, hosted by the Hero’s Journey Foundation, that waiting until something feels easy, or clear, or fully “ready” is a fast way to stay exactly where you are.

You don’t need to be ready.
You don’t need to be confident.
You don’t need to know what you’re doing.

You just need to be willing. It’s about allowing yourself to re-enter your life. The life you’re rebuilding is not waiting for you to have it all figured out. It’s waiting for you to take one step toward it. You’re ready, whether you realize it or not, to begin again.

Click to Donate

This May, I’m picking up my camera with purpose. I’m participating in the American Cancer Society’s May 2026 Photo Challenge, and I’ve set a bold goal: to raise $1,500 by the end of the month. Every photo I take is more than an image—it’s a step toward funding research, supporting patients, and moving us closer to a world without cancer.

Let’s be real—cancer has touched all of us in some way. It doesn’t care how strong, successful, or prepared you are. But here’s the part that matters: we are not powerless. This challenge is my way of turning something I love—photography—into something that creates real, tangible impact.

What Is the American Cancer Society?

The American Cancer Society (ACS) is one of the most respected organizations in the fight against cancer. They fund groundbreaking research, provide free resources and support to patients and caregivers, and advocate for policies that improve access to care. From helping someone get to treatment when they have no transportation, to offering lodging for families during long hospital stays, ACS shows up where it counts.

They’re not just funding a cure—they’re supporting people through the hardest days of their lives. That’s the kind of mission worth backing.

Why This Challenge Matters (and Why It’s Different)

Here’s what makes this Photo Challenge powerful—it’s not just about writing a check and moving on. It’s about engagement, awareness, and daily action. Every single day in May, I’m committing to taking and sharing a photo. That means this cause doesn’t sit quietly in the background—it stays front and center, visible, and alive. It invites conversation. It sparks reflection. And it reminds people—consistently—that this fight is ongoing and needs all of us.

There’s also something deeply human about using photography for impact. A photo captures a moment—but it also captures emotion, story, and connection. This challenge transforms something creative into something meaningful. It’s not just fundraising—it’s storytelling with purpose. And that? That’s how you move people. That’s how you create momentum.

My Goal: $1,500 by May 31

I’m aiming to raise $1,500 by the end of May, and I’m going after it with intention. No playing small here. Every donation—big or small—moves us closer. Every share expands the reach. Every conversation matters.

So here’s the ask:
If you’ve ever been impacted by cancer…
If you believe in using your life, your voice, your resources for something bigger…
If you want to be part of real change…

Support this mission.

Donate. Share. Follow along as I document this journey through my lens.

Because every photo tells a story.
And this month, we’re telling one that ends in hope.

Click to Donate

“Change can feel scary, but it’s also the gateway to growth.” 🌱

✨ Tip: Focus on one small thing you can do today to step outside your comfort zone. Growth is waiting for you!

🌟 Share how you’re embracing change this week.

Why Change Feels Uncomfortable (And Why That’s a Good Thing)

Change challenges us—it pushes us beyond what’s familiar and comfortable. But without change, there’s no growth. Just like a butterfly must struggle to emerge from its cocoon, we, too, must lean into discomfort to transform.

The fear of the unknown is natural, but the key to embracing change is taking small, intentional steps forward.

A Simple Way to Step Outside Your Comfort Zone

🔹 Start Small – Big changes can feel overwhelming, so begin with one small action today.

🔹 Reframe Fear as Excitement – What if, instead of fearing change, you saw it as an opportunity? Shift your mindset from “What if I fail?” to “What if I grow?”

🔹 Trust the Process – Transformation takes time. Every step forward, no matter how small, moves you toward a stronger, wiser version of yourself.

Your Challenge This Week

Find one way to embrace change today—it could be having a new conversation, making a different choice, or simply saying “yes” to an opportunity. Growth is waiting for you! 🌟

How are you stepping outside your comfort zone this week? Share in the comments! ⬇️✨

Would you like any refinements or additional insights? 😊

I often hear the phrase, “Treat yourself the way you would treat a dear friend.” How often do we actually do that? In my case, not as often as I should. I tend to extend kindness, patience, and understanding to others while harshly criticizing myself. Can you relate?

Radical self-compassion is about changing that dynamic—learning to be our own best friend, especially in moments of struggle. At its core, self-compassion means acknowledging our pain without judgment. Instead of berating ourselves for mistakes, we can offer words of encouragement to ourselves, just as we would to a loved one. Imagine telling a friend, “You’re such a failure,” after they make a mistake—unlikely, right? Yet, we say these things to ourselves all the time.

Here are five actionable steps to help you practice radical self-compassion and become your own best friend:

1. Rewrite Your Inner Critic – Throughout the day, notice negative self-talk. When you catch yourself being self-critical, write the thought down and reframe it with a kinder, more encouraging statement. Example: Change “I messed up, I’m so stupid” to “Mistakes are part of learning. I did my best, and I can grow from this.”

2. Practice a Self-Compassion Break – When facing a difficult moment, place your hand on your heart, take a deep breath, and say:

   • “This is a moment of suffering.” (Acknowledging the struggle)

   • “Suffering is part of being human.” (Recognizing you’re not alone)

   • “May I be kind to myself in this moment.” (Offering yourself compassion)

3. Write Yourself a Love Letter – Imagine you are writing to a dear friend who is struggling. Offer words of encouragement, support, and kindness. Now, read the letter back to yourself as if it was written for you.

4. Set a Self-Compassion Reminder – Pick a daily habit (brushing your teeth, making coffee) and attach a self-compassion practice to it. For example, each time you look in the mirror, say one kind thing about yourself.

5. Engage in Comforting Self-Care – Identify one small act of kindness you can do for yourself each day. It could be drinking a warm cup of tea, taking a slow walk, journaling, or simply giving yourself permission to rest without guilt.

Which one of these steps resonate with you? Can you think of other ways to show yourself self-compassion? I would love to hear from you in the comments section below.

Finally, remember that self-compassion is not self-indulgence; it’s a necessary foundation for resilience and growth. When you treat yourself with kindness, you cultivate the strength to navigate life’s challenges with grace. So today, take a deep breath, soften your self-talk, and remember—you deserve the same love you so freely give to others. 💙

If you would like to schedule a complementary coaching session to discuss how you can bring self-compassion into your life, click on the link below. I look forward to chatting with you.

Beginnings Are Hard

Beginnings ask something of us. They ask us to step forward before we feel ready. To speak before we have all the answers. To create before we know how it will be received. To trust something we can not see or touch.

For me, this beginning feels especially tender.

This space is not coming from a place of strategy or planning, both of which have been grounding points for most of my life. It’s coming from a place of lived experience - deep, earth shattering, tragic loss. Trying to find solid ground that I could trust, to rebuild, to learn how to breath again has felt nearly impossible.

I am a bereaved mother…a widow…a trauma survivor. These are not titles I would have ever chosen—but they are truths that have reshaped my life.

And still…I am here, standing, breathing, and taking a step forward.

The Past Two Years and Ten Months

After Greg died, I was determined to continue my work at Aflac, to not let some of Greg’s final words ring true—“You will have to quit your job just to figure out how to unravel the financial mess I have left you.” Unfortunately, the eight months after his death proved too much for my physical and mental health and I stepped away at the end of March 2024.

For the next year and a half, I focused on healing from several rough bouts of stomach ailments, pneumonia, two Covid strains, and a diagnosis of Parkinson while working with numerous lawyers, CPAs, financial strategists, and the wonderful estate manager, Joanna. (In Ohio, a spouse cannot administer the estate of their spouse if they do not live in that state.) I can finally say that as of March 2026, the estate is closed.

Before Dawson’s death I obtained a life and spiritual coach certification and had started seeing clients part-time. Since his death I have obtain other certifications in meditation, art therapy, and business coaching all with the intent to build a full-time coaching practice. Dawson’s and Greg’s deaths, dealing with the numerous estate issues, my health, Riven’s health, caring for my parents who are in their 80s, has presented several challenges to running a full-time business. Holding emotional and mental space for my clients to work through their own challenges became impossible and I could no longer provide the level of service my clients deserved. So, in December 2025, I decided to put my business plans on hold and take a few months to figure things out.

By the end of February this year, I was at my lowest point emotionally, physically, and mentally. I was letting pride of “resilience” get in my way of being honest with myself and those I loved and trusted. I was determine to not let anyone know that I was drowning and loosing hope. I believed myself to be “the rock” in my family and I was determine to not crumble, but crumbling I was.

The Hero’s Journey

Thankfully, my best friend and her husband, Esther and Josef, and my wonderful therapist, Nancy, saw through my charade and got me the help I needed.

Getting to a place where you face your most authentic self is a Hero’s Journey. If you have read anything by Joseph Campbell, you know the Hero’s Journey myth. It plays out again and again in literature and film when the main character goes on a journey of personal growth, self-discovery, and overcoming obstacles. We all experience our own Hero’s Journey many times throughout our lives.

Since 2020, I have been involved with The Hero’s Journey Foundation. I can’t recommend this foundation enough. They have not only helped me over the years navigate very challenging times in my life, but they have helped thousands (men, women, teenagers, LGBTQ+) do the same. The leaders, facilitators, volunteers, and participants are the most authentic people I have ever been around other than those in my Buddhist community.

Since starting with them, I have attended ten events and am now preparing to be a facilitator of a women’s program while also continuing to be a participant. Dawson’s memorial fund is also an active donor to their projects. The program that I attended back in February at the urging of Esther, Josef, and Nancy literally saved my life by reconnecting me with two things that light me up from inside - photography and art.

A New Place - Why Now

AWKN—A Way to Keep Noticing—was not created in a moment of clarity.
It was created in moments of survival.

In the quiet.
In the in-between.
In the spaces where life felt both unbearable and achingly beautiful at the same time.

When everything I knew was gone, I found myself scrambling to make since of what happened to my world. Even reaching for small things—light through a window, the way shadows moved across a wall, a phone call with a friend, the stillness of early morning, a quiet walk in nature - felt impossible. I had stopped noticing the little joys, moments of grace, and love around me. The Hero’s Journey Foundation helped me to “notice” these once again.

Not in a poetic way.
In a necessary way.

It took a deeply challenging program with two dedicated facilitators to help me notice in myself that there was still something that could light me up and help me notice that life was still worth living. Photography was a hobby I started in college, developed professionally when my children were young, and embodied when my son started developing his photography skills. By the time he graduated high-school and obtained his mechanics certification, we had plans to start a photography business together taking photos of racing events and traveling the world photographing and writing about our adventures. His level of photographic skill in the few short years he practice astounded me. He was truly gifted.

That dream ended when he passed away. I boxed up my camera and shut down believing that I would not be a photographer ever again. But the thing you are most passionate about, the thing that is birthed from your soul, never dies. After February’s journey, I began to realize that photography and art just maybe the way I can heal and unearth who I am meant to become after the losses.

At the very heart of photography and art is the skill of noticing. Noticing is the life blood of living.

Noticing is the way to stay.
To stay present.
To stay connected.
To stay alive inside my own life.

AWKN—A Way to Keep Noticing—is a space built from that practice. It is an effort to keep noticing, connecting, honoring, and because I know I am not the only one walking through something that feels impossible. What I have realized is there are so many holding grief, transition, exhaustion, identity shifts—and doing it quietly.

We live in a world that tells us to move on, fix it, or package it into something more comfortable for others. To ignore our own healing processes and put others first. To move on. Admittedly, I have found myself setting these same expectations for myself instead of getting still and facing my emotions such as fear and anger. I have decided that I’m not interested in ignoring my healing process anymore.

I’m interested in truth.
In presence.
In the slow, honest return to self.

Now feels like the right time to stop holding this privately—and begin sharing it in a way that might meet someone else exactly where they are. To share my journey, what I have learned, the mistakes I have made, and my efforts to find my new self in hopes that I am able to help others in similar shoes and connect with the pieces I have lost within me.

What Kind of Community I Want to Build

Not a loud one. Not one built on comparison or performance.

I want to build a space that feels like safety and exhale. A place where we don’t have to have the right words. Where we don’t have to be “better” yet. A place where we honor both the beauty and the pain. Where we don’t rush each other. Where we don’t look away from what’s hard. A space rooted in presence, truth, and quiet strength.

A space where the practice of noticing through photography and art can be a place of healing, community, and rebuilding.

What You’ll Find Here

My aim here is to document my photographic and artistic journeys through life, through grief, and through building my business. I hope that by documenting what I experience, my words and creations will help others as they go through their darkest days of their lives while helping me do the same.

This will be a space for:

• Reflections on grief, healing, and rebuilding

• Photography and the stories behind the images

• Art as a practice of presence and processing

• Gentle ways to reconnect with yourself

• Honest conversations about life, loss, and meaning

• Short videos and tips that you can use to create your own creations.

• Tips to help you navigate the difficult task of laying a loved one to rest and managing what comes after that.

• My adventures as I building my photography and art business.

Some posts will be quiet. Some may be more direct. All of them will be authentic.

If You’re Still Here Reading This

You don’t need to have it figured out.

You don’t need to be “on the other side.”

You just need to be here.

You just need to engage.

And maybe…just maybe…start noticing.

(Shameless plug time…If you or someone you know needs a photographer, please send them my way. Thank you!!!)

In many towns across Portugal, the doors are not incidental details—they are declarations. They anchor the streets, interrupt the light, and offer a vocabulary of color and craft that speaks as clearly as any guidebook. For me, they became both subject and storyteller: a way into the layered identity of a place where history, artistry, and daily life meet at the threshold.

Travel with me on my solo trip through Portugal in October 2025. A trip that felt important and meaningful as the doors I encountered.

Portugal: A Country Built on Crossings

Portugal has always been a place of thresholds.

Perched on the western edge of Europe, it was both an endpoint and a launch point—especially during the 15th and 16th centuries when Portuguese explorers pushed into the Atlantic and beyond. But long before that, the land itself had already been shaped by multiple civilizations: Romans, Visigoths, and, most influentially, the Moors, who ruled much of the Iberian Peninsula for over 400 years.

That mix shows up everywhere—in arches, in tiles, in geometry, in color. And yes… in the doors.

Medieval Towns: Why the Doors Matter

Many of the towns I waked walking through—especially hill towns like Óbidos and parts of Lisbon—were fortified during the medieval period. Back then, doors weren’t aesthetic choices. They were defense systems.

• Thick wood to withstand force

• Iron studs to resist break-ins or fire

• Narrow openings to control entry

• Arched stone frames for structural strength

A door was protection. Survival. Control over who—and what—crossed the threshold. That is why some of the heavier doors I photographed feel almost grounding. They were built with purpose, not decoration.

But here’s where it gets interesting…

Over time, as threats diminished and daily life softened, those same structures began to evolve. The function stayed—but the expression changed. People started painting them. Personalizing them. Claiming them. The doorway shifted from “keep out” to “this is who lives here.”

Color: Not Random—But Not Restrained Either

The bold colors I captured—blues, reds, greens, yellows—aren’t accidental.

Historically:

• Blue was often used to deter insects and was associated with protection

• Whitewashed walls reflected heat and kept interiors cooler

• Bright trims helped define ownership and identity in tightly packed towns

In coastal regions especially, color also reflected proximity to the sea—blues, teals, sun-faded tones. But over time, practicality gave way to personality.

Portugal never fully adopted the “neutral minimalism” that exists elsewhere in Europe. There’s a kind of quiet rebellion in that. A refusal to flatten identity. Portugal’s doors say: we’re not here to blend in.

Azulejos: The Soul of the Walls

Portugal is know for its tiles—they are Portugal’s cultural DNA.

The word azulejo comes from the Arabic “al-zulayj,” meaning “polished stone.” The Moors introduced tilework to the Iberian Peninsula, and the Portuguese took it and ran with it. By the 16th century, azulejos had become a defining art form in Portugal.

Originally:

• Geometric, repetitive, Islamic-influenced patterns

• No human figures (due to religious restrictions)

Later:

• Narrative scenes

• Religious imagery

• Historical storytelling

• Everyday life captured in ceramic

You’ll see entire buildings wrapped in tiles that tell stories—battles, harvests, faith, mythology. Hand-built mosaics around doorways. Trees, animals, abstract scenes. These are modern echoes of an ancient tradition—less formal, more individual.

It’s where history meets the human hand.

The Doors I Encountered and How They Taught Me About Healing from Grief

The red door didn’t ask for attention—it took it.

It stood there, grounded and unwavering, as if it had nothing to prove and nowhere else to be. On either side, mosaics pulsed with quiet movement. Horses surged forward in broken lines of tile, their energy caught mid-stride. A countryside unfolded in fragments—sky, field, horizon—pieces that refused to make sense up close, yet somehow resolved when I softened my gaze and stepped back.

Through the lens, it was a study in contradiction: stillness that moved, fracture that formed coherence, chaos that held intention. And something in me recognized it instantly.

Grief has the same architecture.

There are days when everything splinters—memory, identity, the imagined future I once carried so clearly: a life with my husband, my daughter, my son. A life that felt whole because I believed it would continue in a certain direction. Up close, after loss, nothing aligns. It’s jagged. Disorienting. Unrecognizable.

But then—without permission, without warning—there are moments. A breath. A frame. A flicker of light where something holds. Not fixed. Not healed. But held.

Standing in front of that door, camera steady in my hands, I felt something shift—not dramatically, not in a way I could name—but enough.

The door wasn’t trying to hide its fractures. It was built from them. And maybe that’s the truth grief keeps circling back to, whether I am ready or not:

Wholeness is not a return to what was.

It is a quiet, courageous willingness to remain open—to stand in the pieces, to see them, to live with them… and still, somehow, to create something that holds.

This doorway no longer feels like an entrance—it feels like a beginning.

From the threshold itself, a tree rises. Its trunk is rooted in the place where crossing happens, where one world meets another. Branches stretch outward in arcs that feel both deliberate and wild, holding birds mid-flight, catching fragments of sky, gathering pieces of something that feels ancient… and yet unmistakably new. Every shard, every curve, every line carries the imprint of a hand that chose to keep building.

Through the lens, it doesn’t read as decoration. It reads as becoming. It doesn’t reach for perfection. It doesn’t try to reconstruct what once was. It grows anyway.

Standing there, something inside me tightens—then softens—because grief leaves behind a very specific kind of longing. Not just for the person who is gone, but for the self who existed before the loss. The woman who moved through the world without this weight in her chest. The one who believed, quietly and completely, that certain things were safe… that certain people would always be there.

I will not get her back. No matter how much I ache for it.

But here, in tile and mortar, another truth reveals itself—one that is harder, but somehow more honest. Something else begins. Not in a dramatic moment. Not all at once. But slowly, almost imperceptibly, through small acts of continuing. Through showing up. Through picking up the camera again. Through allowing myself to see what is still here, even when so much is gone.

This tree does not return to a former shape. It extends from where it is. Maybe that is what growth really is—not a return to who we were, but a quiet, defiant continuation into something we never expected to become… and are still, somehow, alive enough to grow into.

At the top of a narrow rise, this blue door waits. Not inviting. Not resisting. Just there—steady, certain, almost indifferent to whether I reach it or not.

The steps leading up to it are uneven, worn by years of passage. Stone softened by time, shaped by feet that came before me, each one leaving something behind. I lift my camera, then lower it again. This isn’t a moment to capture yet. It’s a moment to move through.

I begin to climb. Not gracefully. Not with confidence. My footing shifts beneath me, and suddenly I am aware of everything—my balance, my breath, the weight I carry in my body. There’s no autopilot here. Every step asks for presence. Every movement requires decision. Something about that feels familiar.

Because this is what moving forward after loss actually looks like—not the bold declarations people expect, not the clean narrative of “healing,” but something far quieter, far less certain. A series of small, uneven steps toward something I cannot fully see. No guarantee. No map. Just the next place to put my foot.

There are moments when I pause, not because I’ve reached a stopping point, but because I’m not sure I can keep going. The past feels closer than the future. The ground behind me feels more stable than what’s ahead.

And still—I climb.

Not because I’m strong every moment. But because something deeper than strength is still alive in me. Something that hasn’t been taken. Something that, even in the wreckage, is willing—quietly, stubbornly—to believe there is something on the other side of this.

When I reach the top, the door doesn’t change. It hasn’t moved. It hasn’t transformed into something grand or revealing. But I have. Sometimes, that’s the only shift that matters.

This door is my favorite because it does not try to become anything else.

It stands in its truth—green, but no longer just green. The color has thinned, softened, surrendered in places to what came before it. Layers reveal themselves without apology. Marks remain where hands have pushed, where weather has pressed, where time has insisted on being seen.

Through the lens, it doesn’t read as neglected. It reads as lived. Nothing about it has been rushed into renewal. No sanding down. No clean repaint to make it easier for the eye, more acceptable, more finished. It has been allowed to remain exactly as it is.

There is something disarming in that kind of honesty. Grief does not pass through you without leaving a trace. It settles into the surface of your life. It changes the way you carry yourself, the way you move, the way you see. It alters the texture of everything—subtly at times, undeniably at others.

There is a quiet pressure, almost constant, to make grief look different.

To smooth it over.
To present something composed.
To suggest that you have “moved on.”

Standing in front of this door, that impulse loosens its grip. This—this unedited, unrefined presence—holds more integrity than anything polished.

Healing, real healing, does not ask you to erase what has marked you. It asks you to live with it. To allow the layers to show. To let the story remain visible. Not as something broken. As something that has endured.

At the top of this little town stood this church and beneath the curve of a stone arch, the teal door rests inside a structure that has outlived certainty itself. The stones are uneven, worn smooth in places where hands have brushed past, where bodies have leaned, where time has pressed in quietly, without asking. There is weight here—not heavy, but steady. A presence that doesn’t demand attention, only acknowledgment.

Through the lens, it feels less like an object and more like a witness.

This doorway has held centuries of crossing. People have stood here carrying everything—joy that could not be contained, fear that could not be named, grief that reshaped them, hope that kept them moving. All of it passing through the same narrow opening. All of it leaving something behind.

The door has opened and closed for lives that never imagined mine. For stories that began and ended long before I arrived, camera in hand, trying to make sense of what I feel and what I see. Yet, here I am.

There is something unexpectedly comforting in that realization. Not because it lessens the weight of my own grief—it doesn’t—but because it places it within a larger current. A continuity of human experience that stretches far beyond this moment, far beyond me. These walls have held loss before. They have held uncertainty, longing, unanswered questions. Still, they stand.

I linger here longer than I planned to. Not to photograph, not at first—but to feel the quiet permission that this space offers. I don’t have to have the answer before I step forward. I don’t have to know what waits on the other side.

Others have stood here, just as unsure. Just as full of what they carry. I am not the first to arrive at a threshold like this—paused, searching, not ready and yet unable to turn back, and I will not be the last. The door doesn’t promise clarity. It offers passage. Sometimes, that is enough.

This heavy wooden door does not reach for attention. It doesn’t need color, ornament, or contrast to be seen. It holds. Thick grain, darkened by years of weather and touch, absorbs the light rather than reflecting it. Iron hardware anchors it in place. Every line speaks of weight, of purpose, of something built to endure rather than impress.

Through the lens, it resists interpretation. It simply is.

There are moments in grief where that is the only language that makes sense. Moments when beauty feels out of reach. When inspiration feels like something that belongs to another life. When even the act of looking—really looking—feels like too much. In these moments, I can’t find meaning.

This door does not try to lift the moment. It does not soften it or reshape it into something more palatable. It does not offer transformation, or even comfort in the way we often expect it. It simply stands. Unmoved. Unrushed. Unchanged by the need to be anything other than what it is.

Standing in front of it, something quiet but steady passes between us—not understanding, not resolution, but recognition. I don’t have to be more than I am right now. I don’t have to feel differently. I don’t have to rise above it. I can stand here, as I am, with the weight and the silence.

Sometimes, that is enough-still standing, even when everything inside me feels unsteady.

This door doesn’t meet you at eye level. It sits lower—set into the wall as if it belongs to another rhythm, another way of moving through the world. I have to shift my body to see it fully. Step closer. Angle myself differently. Pay attention.

Painted a deep, worn green, it holds the marks of use—scratches, softened edges, the quiet evidence of years lived around it. The white wall frames it simply, the blue trim grounding it in place, while shadows from nearby branches fall across its surface like something fleeting, something passing through. It would be easy to walk right by, and once, maybe, I would have.

But grief changes your line of sight.

It lowers your gaze. It pulls you out of the obvious and into the overlooked. You begin to notice the thresholds that don’t announce themselves—the ones tucked into corners, set just outside the main path, waiting without expectation.

This door doesn’t perform. It doesn’t ask to be photographed. It asks to be seen.

Standing in front of it, camera in my hands, I realize how much has shifted. Not in a dramatic, life-altering way—but in the quiet accumulation of small choices.

The moment I decided to walk a little farther.
The moment I paused instead of passing by.
The moment I lifted the camera again, even when I wasn’t sure what I was looking for.

I am learning that these are the crossings that matter now.

Not the grand, obvious transitions—but the subtle ones. The nearly invisible decisions to keep engaging with the world, even when part of you wants to retreat from it entirely.

Photography becomes something different here.

It is no longer about capturing something extraordinary or creating something polished. It becomes an act of attention. Of presence. Of willingness. A way of standing in front of something quiet, something easily missed, and saying:

I see you.
I am here.
And I am still willing to look.

The red door stands centered, almost unwavering, held in place by the stone walls that frame it with quiet precision. Everything about it feels intentional—the symmetry, the contrast, the restraint. Nothing spills over. Nothing is out of place.

Through the lens, it reads as certainty.

For a moment, I feel the pull of that—something deep and instinctive. The longing for life to return to this kind of order. For things to make sense again. For the edges to be clean, the lines to hold, the future to feel structured and known. It’s a seductive kind of clarity.

But standing there, something softer, more honest begins to surface. The truth is, I cannot return to the life that once felt this balanced. That version of order—the one I held with my husband, my daughter, my son—was not just disrupted. It was undone.

Yet…here I am. Camera in hand. Breath steady enough. Heart still willing. Balance, I realize, is not something waiting for me to find it again, untouched and intact. It is something I am building now. Not in sweeping gestures or perfect alignment, but in small, deliberate choices.

The decision to keep walking.
The willingness to keep seeing.
The courage to remain open, even when the shape of life no longer resembles what it once was.

This door does not carry the illusion of perfection. It carries intention. Maybe that is what balance becomes—not a return to what was, but a quiet, ongoing act of choosing how to hold what is.

This lattice door doesn’t close itself off—it breathes. Light slips through its openings, breaking into small, shifting patterns. Beyond it, there are only hints—shadows, movement, fragments of something just out of reach. I can’t fully see what’s on the other side.

Through the lens, it resists completion. It refuses to give me the whole story. Standing there, I realize how deeply familiar that feels. This is what the future looks like now.

Not defined. Not mapped. Not something I can plan my way into or understand before I arrive. The life I once imagined—the one that held certainty, continuity, a clear line forward—no longer exists in that form.

What remains is partial light, unfinished views, openings that don’t promise anything…but don’t close, either. There was a time when this kind of uncertainty would have felt unbearable. When not knowing would have been something to fix, to control, to resolve.

Grief changes your relationship with the unknown. It strips away the illusion that anything was ever guaranteed to begin with. In that stripping away, something unexpected begins to form.

Standing here, camera in hand, I feel it—not as a surge, not as confidence, but as a quiet shift. A willingness. Something within me, even after everything, is no longer trying to turn away.

I feel more ready now to step closer. To look through the openings. To accept that I won’t see it all at once. To move forward anyway.

At this church, the doorway no longer feels like architecture. It becomes something you approach with longing. Stone rises around it—carved, weathered, shaped by hands that understood both craft and devotion. Figures stand above, softened by time, their gaze steady, as if they have watched every arrival, every hesitation, every crossing that has happened here long before I ever existed.

I don’t walk straight through. I slow. Something in my body recognizes this kind of space. It asks for a pause, and I listen.

Before I lift my camera, I pause because this isn’t something to capture immediately. It’s something to stand inside of, even if just for a moment.

There are places grief takes you where language doesn’t follow. Where explanation feels too small, too incomplete, too far removed from what you actually carry. You stop trying to name it. You stop trying to make it make sense.

What remains is presence. Just this breath. This moment. This quiet awareness that I am here, and something inside me is still responding to the world. Spaces like this don’t fix anything. They don’t resolve the weight I carry or offer answers where there are none.

They do something subtler. They hold me.

Without asking me to be different.
Without asking me to move faster.
Without asking me to understand.

They simply make room for me to stand exactly where I am.

The house stands almost impossibly still.

Whitewashed, precise, held between bold strokes of yellow that rise like pillars on either side, it feels composed—intentional in a way that leaves no room for excess. And there, centered below it all, the red door anchors the structure, quiet but undeniable. Above it, a single window reflects the sky, holding a fragment of something passing through.

At first glance, it reads as simplicity. Flat. Clean. Resolved. As I stand there longer, something begins to shift.

The light moves—just enough to catch the edges of the stone frame, to pull forward the subtle texture in the wall, to reveal the softness in what once felt sharp. Shadows settle into places I hadn’t noticed at first, creating depth where I initially saw none.

What looked static begins to breathe. I realize how quickly the eye decides it understands something… how easily it moves on once it thinks it has seen enough.

Perspective interrupts that. It asks me to stay. To look again. To question what I thought was complete. Returning to photography feels like stepping back into that practice—not of capturing, but of re-seeing.

The camera doesn’t just record what is in front of me. It reveals where I am standing. What I am willing to notice. What I am ready to see.

Grief changes that position entirely. It shifts the vantage point. It alters the way light lands, the way shadows form, the way meaning gathers. What once felt clear becomes layered. What once felt flat begins to hold depth.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, something begins to open again—not in the world, but in the way I meet it. Photography becomes less about creating something new and more about allowing something to emerge.

A quiet retraining of the eye. A deeper retraining of the heart.

And finally, there is a doorway that does not try to be seen.

Set into rough stone, its dark wooden arch nearly dissolves into the wall that holds it. The building rises with quiet authority—centuries old, weathered, steady—and the door sits within it as if it has always belonged there, asking nothing, offering no performance. It would be easy to miss.

No color pulls you in. No ornament demands my attention. Even the light seems to pass over it gently, as if honoring its restraint. Above, windows hold their own quiet geometry, a small balcony reaching outward, but the door remains grounded—rooted, almost hidden in plain sight.

Through the lens, it doesn’t compete. It simply exists. There is something deeply honest in that.

In the end, healing does not arrive as a single, defining moment. It does not announce itself with clarity or resolution. It does not transform everything all at once. It happens here.

In the quiet thresholds.
In the places that do not call attention to themselves.
In the nearly invisible crossings where something inside you shifts—just enough.

These are the doorways that matter. Not the grand entrances, but the subtle ones. The ones we pass through without ceremony, without certainty—only to realize later that something has changed.

Portugal: The Healing Journey

Walking the streets in Portugal, camera in hand, was never just about photographing doors. It was about returning. Not to who I was before—because that life, that version of me, no longer exists in the same way, but to something deeper.

Something quieter.
Something more honest.
Something that does not need to be seen to be real.

Somewhere between one doorway and the next, without intention, without announcement, the searching began to soften. The sharp edges of longing began to shift. The weight didn’t disappear—but it began to settle differently within me.

Almost without realizing it, I found myself doing something I once wasn’t sure I could do again.

I step forward through the doorway.

There’s something most people don’t see when they show up smiling in matching T-shirts on event day: a charity walk like the Walk of Hope Pittsburgh doesn’t just “come together.” It’s built—layer by layer—by women carrying stories that would break most people… and choosing to turn that pain into purpose anyway.

This is what it really takes.

The Mission That Fuels It All

At the heart of events like those led by RESOLVE: The National Infertility Association is a bold, necessary mission: to ensure that every person who wants to build a family has access to the care, support, and medical treatment they need—including IVF—regardless of sexual orientation, identity, or financial status.

But this isn’t abstract policy work.
This is deeply personal.

Every registration, every donation, every mile walked—it all traces back to someone who has sat in a doctor’s office hearing news that changed their life forever.

The Invisible Weight of Infertility

Infertility is often described clinically. Quietly. Politely.

But the lived experience? It’s anything but.

It’s the monthly cycle of hope and heartbreak.
It’s the isolation of watching others build families effortlessly.
It’s the financial strain of treatments that can cost tens of thousands of dollars—with no guarantee.
It’s the strain on marriages, partnerships, identity, and self-worth.

For many women, infertility doesn’t just challenge the body—it shakes the foundation of who they believed they would be.

And yet, it’s still something people whisper about.

That silence is exactly what these events are designed to break.

What It Actually Takes to Build a Charity Event Like This

Let’s strip away the Instagram version and talk about reality.

Creating a successful fundraising event like Walk of Hope Pittsburgh requires a level of coordination that rivals running a small business—except the currency isn’t just money. It’s emotional labor.

Vision & Leadership
Someone has to step forward and say: “We’re doing this.”
Not because it’s easy—but because it matters too much not to.

Logistics & Planning
Permits. Routes. Insurance. Vendors. Signage. Registration systems.
Every detail matters—and every detail takes time, coordination, and persistence.

Fundraising Strategy
This isn’t just a walk—it’s a campaign.
Teams are formed. Personal fundraising pages are built. Stories are shared.
And behind every dollar raised is someone asking—sometimes vulnerably—for support.

Sponsorship & Partnerships
Local businesses, medical providers, and community leaders must be engaged.
This means pitching, following up, negotiating, and delivering value.

Volunteer Coordination
No event like this runs without people.
And people need leadership, communication, and care.

Marketing & Awareness
Social media campaigns. Email outreach. Community engagement.
Because if people don’t know, they can’t show up.

Event Execution
The day-of experience has to feel seamless—welcoming, organized, and meaningful—no matter what’s happening behind the scenes.

And here’s the part that doesn’t get said enough:

Most of this work is done by women who are still actively navigating their own infertility journeys.

Women Turning Pain Into Power

The women behind these events are not detached organizers.
They are participants in the very struggle they are advocating for.

They are women who have endured loss.
Women who have faced uncertainty.
Women who have had to rebuild hope—over and over again.

And instead of retreating, they choose to lead.

They gather others.
They create community where there was once isolation.
They build something visible out of something that is often hidden.

There is a particular kind of strength in that.
Not loud. Not performative.
But steady, grounded, and deeply impactful.

Bearing Witness: My Story Behind the Lens

For me, this work is not just professional—it’s deeply personal.

I know what it is to lose a child.

That kind of loss changes you. It rearranges your world in a way that doesn’t ever fully go back to what it was. There is a before, and there is an after—and you learn to live in the space between.

Grief has a way of sharpening your awareness. You begin to see moments differently. You notice the small things—the way someone holds a hand a little tighter, the quiet tears behind sunglasses, the laughter that feels both real and fragile at the same time.

Returning to photography in the midst of that grief has been one of the hardest—and most meaningful—things I’ve done. It’s something that connects me to a deeper part of myself. And it’s also something that connects me to my son in a way words never could.

So when I stand behind the camera at an event like Walk of Hope Pittsburgh, I’m not just taking photos.

I’m witnessing.

I’m capturing courage in real time.
I’m honoring stories that deserve to be seen.
I’m preserving moments of connection, resilience, and hope that might otherwise pass too quickly.

It is, without exaggeration, an honor and a privilege.

Because I understand, in my bones, that these moments matter.

Why These Events Matter More Than Ever

Events like Walk of Hope Pittsburgh do more than raise money.

They:

• Normalize conversations around infertility

• Provide connection for those who feel alone

• Advocate for policy change and insurance coverage

• Fund research that could change futures

• Open doors for families who otherwise wouldn’t have access to care

And perhaps most importantly—they offer hope.

Not the kind of hope that promises outcomes.
But the kind that says: You are not alone in this.

The Deeper Truth

When you see a group walking together at an event like this, you’re not just witnessing a fundraiser.

You’re witnessing resilience in motion.
You’re seeing grief transformed into leadership.
You’re watching women reclaim agency in a journey that often leaves them feeling powerless.

That’s not small.

That’s legacy-level work.

A Final Word

If you’ve ever built something while carrying something heavy—you understand this.

And if you haven’t, let this be your invitation to look closer.

Support the events.
Share the stories.
Have the conversations most people avoid.

Because behind every successful charity event like the Walk of Hope Pittsburgh is a simple, powerful truth:

When women come together with purpose, even their deepest pain can become a force that changes lives.

And sometimes, the most powerful role you can play…
is simply to see it, honor it, and help others see it too.

Support this cause by donating to RESOLVE Pittsburgh Walk of Hope. To date, they have raise $30,768, but more is needed.

Today marks two years since Dawson White's death. He was 18 at the time, had just started his dream job the day before, and was making plans for his future. I have thousands of photos of him that I took over his 18 short years, but the photo that I based this drawing on, is by far one of my favorites. For me, this photo shows his true spirit - love for life, mischievous, silly, loving, playful, rule "tester", unique, and grounded. To say I miss him, that I grieve him everyday, doesn't even come close to the depth of loss I feel. Everyday has been a struggle that has yet to get "easier." Yet when I look at his photos, this photo in particular, I can't help but feel the spirit of his life reaching into my heart to give it a little squeeze that brings me back to life again.

The past two years has been about trying to put the shattered pieces of my life back together again. To figure out where all these thousands of pieces of the puzzle fit. Some just do not seem to even be a part of the puzzle. I can't find a place for them.

It dawned on me yesterday that perhaps I am trying to put a puzzle together that just doesn't exist anymore. I am grasping on to pieces so tightly that my entire body aches from the strain of the grip. Living with grief is being in a state of living in the past, the present which seems impossible, and a future that is unimaginable, and it is maddening.

Today I woke up, as I do everyday, with him on my mind. However, today is different. As strange as it seems to say, today I am not mourning him. I am not dwelling on the past, and the present no longer seems impossible. I now realize why life granted me that little moment in the park with him climbing on a tree and sticking his tongue out at me. The little squeeze of my heart now feels like an electric shock, not from grief but from the lesson of my greatest teacher...love, laugh, be silly, test all rules and only follow the ones that are true to myself and my heart, be joyfully curious about everything and everyone, be unique, speak honestly without fear, allow life to move me, feel all the "feels", create the life I want, be with the people I want to be with, and by all means, live awake.

The puzzle pieces will never fit. The puzzle is not meant to be put back together. That is because life is not a puzzle, it is a tapestry that is forever being woven by moments in time of our spiritual existence.

As a human, this is nearly impossible to grasp. We agonize, lamient, and assign meaning to events to further agonize and lamient over. However, our job as spiritual beings in a human existence is not to assign meaning to events. As spiritual beings, our tapestry is actually a beautiful mandala of rich experiences that serves to soften us to life, to one another, and to the mysteries of the universe. What I have experienced in the past, this week, will experience today and beyond, should not be interpreted, diagnosed, explained, or assigned to "meaning." That is my human existence trying to create puzzle pieces to a puzzle that doesn't exist.

Instead, I want to strive to live into my tapestry in which my spirit remains forever connected to the beautiful spirit of my son, my soul softens to those around me, and my heart opens to the gifts that remain in front of me.

I am deeply humbled by all who have reached out since my post last week. Thank you!

Many of you have mentioned how comments from family and friends can sometimes feel unhelpful or even triggering after losing a loved one. I believe this is something we can all relate to in some degree. Most of the time, people genuinely mean well, but they often struggle to find the right words. Grief can make everyone uncomfortable, and navigating those conversations can be challenging for all involved.

First and foremost, grief can arise not just from losing a loved one, but also from losing a job, a home, cherished belongings, or anything deeply valued. It encompasses the feelings associated with loss and the realization of what will never be. Additionally, grief manifests uniquely for each person; we all have our own ways of experiencing it.

It’s completely understandable to find it difficult to know what to say to someone grappling with such intense emotions. Here are five tips, drawn from my own experiences with grief, that may help you support someone through their journey.

1. Acknowledge the Pain: Validate their feelings by saying something like, "I can’t imagine how hard this is for you." This shows that you recognize their pain and that it’s okay to feel what they’re feeling.

2. Avoid Clichés: Instead of saying, “They’re in a better place,” try expressing something like, “I’m so sorry you’re going through this.” Clichés can minimize their experience; authentic words matter more.

3. Encourage Sharing: Invite them to share their thoughts and memories by asking open-ended questions like, "What do you miss most about them?" This allows them to express their grief and keeps the memory alive.

4. Be Present: Sometimes, simply being there is enough. You can say, "I’m here for you, no matter what you need," reinforcing that they are not alone in their grief.

5. Normalize Grief: Remind them that grief is a personal journey with no right or wrong way to feel. You might say, “It’s okay to feel however you feel right now; there’s no timeline for this.”

The most significant support I received during the early days of my grief journey came from dear friends who checked in on me regularly. They made sure I was eating and doing at least one thing each day for my well-being. There were days when I struggled to get out of bed and had no appetite, and on those days, it felt like the grief would never lift. Just getting out of bed felt monumental. A call or visit from a loved one, encouraging me to take care of myself, often became the lifeline I needed to make it through another day.

Above all, being sensitive and attentive to their needs will go a long way in providing comfort during this difficult time. Simply reaching out and being with them can bring the healing they need in a difficult time.

I hope you find this helpful. Please forward this to anyone you feel would benefit from this newsletter, and leave a comment. I would love to engage with you.

Take care - Jen

Grief is a profound and universal experience, often overwhelming us with waves of sadness, confusion, and loss. Whether it's the passing of a loved one, the end of a relationship, or a significant life change, grief can feel like a heavy fog, clouding our ability to move forward. It’s important to remember that grief is not something to “get over,” but rather a journey to move through. Acknowledging and embracing our feelings without judgment is the first step in this healing process. Instead of resisting the pain, we must allow ourselves to experience it fully, recognizing that our emotions are valid. Easier said than done I know.

I am still moving through the stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I am learning that when processing grief, it is crucial to honor each phase without rushing. We all process grief in our own ways, and comparing our journey to others will only hinder our healing. What is helping me is creating a space where I can safely express my emotions through journaling, talking to loved ones, and seeking support from my therapist, life coach, and my spiritual teachers. These outlets are allowing me to process the intense emotions I feel without becoming overwhelmed by them.

Finding purpose after the loss of my son and husband has proven to be the most challenging aspect of my life, but it’s also allowing me to find new purpose. Purpose does not have to be grand or immediate—it might begin with small actions, such as taking care of ourselves or reconnecting with activities we once enjoyed. Reclaiming a sense of purpose often starts with reevaluating our values, priorities, and what truly matters to us. This has been a process that has been difficult and a little exciting. Loss has a way of reshaping our perspective, encouraging us to focus on what brings us meaning, rather than the superficial or fleeting.

As I begin to regain a sense of direction, I strive to practice patience and self-compassion. There are good days and difficult days, moments of light and darkness, and of deep sorrow and unexpected joys. Purpose doesn’t mean forgetting our grief; rather, it’s about finding ways to live with the pain while still seeking joy and meaning. Sometimes, our loss can inspire new avenues of growth, such as helping others who are going through similar experiences or pursuing passions that reflect our inner truth.

Ultimately, I am learning that moving through grief and finding purpose again is not about reaching a final destination but about embracing the ebb and flow of healing. Life after losing my son and husband looks completely different, but I believe this new life will be rich with meaning and connection. Continuing to allow myself to feel deeply, honoring my journey, and seeking new sources of purpose, is giving me a greater sense of resilience, compassion, and understanding of what truly matters in life.

If you or someone you know is grieving, I hope you will pass this on so that they know that they are not alone.

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The twinkle of a star in the blink of their eyes.

The rays of the sun in the corner of their smiles.

We lay down in the grass to look up at the sky.

Their small soft hands in mine remind me how fast time flies.

We watch the birds, butterflies, and insects fly by and I marvel at their inquisitive minds.

I wonder to myself “When did I lose this connection to the splendor of life?”

The cosmos, stardust, and elements of life are all contained in their innocence.