He knows who his dad is—I promise. But that didn’t stop my toddler from loudly identifying every man in public as his father… and me from learning a lesson I didn’t know I needed

Ever tried to catch the uncatchable? I have—standing at a Subway register, hands outstretched, trying to contain a toddler’s stomach rebellion in the middle of a road trip. Spoiler: it didn’t work. But that messy, mortifying moment taught me something about motherhood, limits, and the grace that comes when we finally stop trying to hold what was never ours to catch.

There’s a sound my children make when they melt into me. Not words, not even a cry—just a deep exhale, like the world has finally given them permission to rest. It’s one of the greatest privileges of my life: to be the place where their breath comes easier

Grief isn’t only about death—it’s about the futures we’ll never share, and the people we lose long before their last breath.

A rainbow behind a cloud reminded me: even in goodbye, love doesn’t fade—it refracts

In a crowded Paris subway, the space between fear and rescue was just wide enough for a stranger to slip in—and change everything.

They are not ours to keep, but souls we are honored to hold for a while. This gentle meditation on parenting draws from Gibran’s timeless wisdom, exploring what it means to love deeply, guide tenderly, and release our children into the wild grace of their becoming. For the hands that bend must also learn to let go.

When my five-year-old handed me a swirl of chaotic colors and said, “That’s you when you tell me no,” I didn’t expect to find comfort in it. But sometimes, the boundaries they resist are the very proof that we are their safest place—even when we don’t give them what they want.

One night, a whisper interrupted my bedtime prayer: “Fire.”

Only, it wasn’t my voice or my thought--but it may have saved our lives.

This is the story of a glowing figure, a gas leak, and the moment I stopped doubting my intuition—and started listening instead.

We set out to make memories and bring home scallops. What we got instead was a stranded boat, a snack-fueled survival scenario, and a peacock that definitely tried to warn us. A story of chaos, kids, and learning to laugh when the rails come off—literally.

I used to think healing would come quietly. That if I was faithful enough, gentle enough, good enough—the hard things would melt away in time. That I could sidestep the pain if I prayed right. That I could outrun the unraveling by working harder, loving better, managing more. But it doesn’t work like that. Healing is not soft at first.

It’s fire.