Karen Hendrickson

The Difference Between Caring and Carrying

Tue, 21 Jul 2026 14:01:09 GMT

For much of my life, I believed that loving someone meant helping.

Showing up.

Supporting.

Being available.

Doing whatever I could to make life a little easier for the people I cared about.

Those things still matter to me.

I still believe love is often expressed through presence, generosity, and care.

But what I have come to understand is that somewhere along the way, many of us learn something else.

We learn to carry.

Not simply care.

Carry.

And there is a difference.

For years, I did not recognize that difference in my own life.

When someone I loved was struggling, I struggled too.

When they were afraid, I felt responsible for helping them feel safe.

When they were overwhelmed, I stepped in.

When they were hurting, I tried to make it better.

At first, this felt like love.

And perhaps some of it was.

But over time, I began carrying responsibilities that were never fully mine.

Not because anyone asked me to.

Because I believed that was what caring people did.

I see this often in women.

Especially women who have spent years caregiving, parenting, supporting partners, helping family members, or holding communities together.

We become so accustomed to anticipating needs that we stop noticing how much emotional weight we have taken on.

We monitor moods.

We manage tension.

We smooth conflict.

We absorb worry.

We carry concerns that belong to other people.

And eventually, we become exhausted.

The difficult thing is that carrying often looks admirable from the outside.

People describe us as:

selfless,
dependable,
generous,
strong,
caring.

What they rarely see is the cost.

Because carrying someone emotionally is very different than caring for them.

Caring says:

I love you.
I support you.
I am here with you.

Carrying says:

Your pain is my responsibility.
Your happiness is my responsibility.
Your choices are my responsibility.
Your healing is my responsibility.

And that is a burden no one can sustain for long.

I remember periods during caregiving when I became responsible not only for tasks, appointments, medications, and logistics, but also for emotions.

I wanted the people I loved to feel comforted.

Safe.

Reassured.

Less afraid.

Less alone.

Those desires came from love.

But over time, I began trying to carry things I could never truly control.

I wanted to protect people from pain that was not mine to remove.

I wanted to solve struggles that were not mine to solve.

And when I couldn’t, I often felt as though I had failed.

That is one of the dangers of carrying.

It quietly convinces us that we are responsible for outcomes that were never ours to own.

Eventually, I began asking myself a different question.

What if supporting someone does not require carrying them?

What if love can exist without self-abandonment?

What if compassion can exist alongside boundaries?

Those questions changed something for me.

They helped me understand that healthy care is not measured by how much of yourself you sacrifice.

It is measured by your ability to remain connected to both yourself and the other person.

To support without rescuing.

To love without controlling.

To be present without becoming responsible for everything.

This is still a practice for me.

There are days when I slip back into old habits.

Days when I want to fix, manage, protect, or carry.

Days when someone else’s struggle feels heavier than my own wellbeing.

But I am learning.

Learning that people can experience discomfort without me rushing to remove it.

Learning that other adults are allowed to carry their own emotions.

Learning that saying no does not mean I care less.

Learning that boundaries are not barriers to love.

Sometimes they are what allow love to remain healthy.

Most importantly, I am learning that I can care deeply without disappearing in the process.

And perhaps that is the invitation for all of us.

Not to become less caring.

But to become more aware.

More honest.

More discerning about what belongs to us and what does not.

Because loving people well should never require abandoning yourself.

And caring should never cost you your own life.

“You can love people deeply without carrying their entire emotional world on your shoulders.”

Weekly Living Room Reflection

Reflection often begins with awareness, but awareness alone rarely creates change. This week’s reflection is designed to help you gently explore the ideas we’ve been talking about together. There are no right or wrong answers - only an invitation to notice what has been quietly shaping your experience.

Many women confuse love with responsibility. This reflection helps separate what is yours to hold from what belongs to someone else, allowing you to care deeply without carrying more than you share.

Remember, there are no right or wrong answers - only an invitation to notice what has been quietly shaping your experience.

Take your time. Write honestly. Return to these pages whenever you need to.

Leave a comment

You may recognize you are not alone. Share one “ah-ha” you may have discovered with this reflection. Other readers may have discovered the same.

Continuing the Conversation

In the coming weeks, I’ll be sharing additional essays, reflection practices, journaling resources, and conversations exploring emotional exhaustion, caregiving, grief, boundaries, and what it means to return to yourself after carrying too much for too long.

If you found yourself somewhere in this reflection, I invite you to subscribe and continue the conversation.

Until next time, be gentle with yourself.

You are welcome inside the Living Room.

Go gently,

—Karen

Inside the Living Room is a growing collection of essays, reflection tools, and conversations for women navigating emotional exhaustion, caregiving, grief, over-responsibility, and the journey of reconnecting with themselves.

Rest Feels Uncomfortable for a Reason

Tue, 14 Jul 2026 13:01:42 GMT

For years, I told myself I needed rest.

I imagined weekends with no obligations.

Days without appointments.

Evenings without responsibilities.

Moments where I could finally stop.

And yet, when those moments occasionally arrived, something surprising happened.

I struggled to enjoy them.

My body would slow down, but my mind would continue racing.

I would sit down to rest and immediately think of everything that still needed attention.

The calls that hadn’t been returned.

The laundry.

The paperwork.

The next appointment.

The people I was worried about.

The things I had forgotten.

The things I should probably be doing instead.

For a long time, I assumed this was simply part of being busy.

Part of being responsible.

Part of adulthood.

What I understand now is that many of us have a much more complicated relationship with rest than we realize.

Especially those of us who have spent years caregiving, managing crises, holding families together, or carrying emotional responsibility for others.

Because eventually, constant activity becomes more than a habit.

It becomes a way of life.

And sometimes, it becomes a way of avoiding ourselves.

I don’t mean that critically.

I mean it honestly.

When life becomes demanding, there is often little choice but to keep moving.

There are people who need us.

Responsibilities that cannot wait.

Decisions that must be made.

Problems that need solving.

And in those seasons, continuing to move forward is often necessary.

The challenge comes when the season changes, but the pattern remains.

When the crisis passes, but our nervous system never receives the message.

When we no longer know how to be still.

I have seen this in my own life.

During years of caregiving, there was always something that required my attention.

Someone who needed support.

Something that needed managing.

Something that felt too important to set aside.

My focus became external.

Who needs me?

What needs to be done?

What happens next?

Those questions became so familiar that I rarely stopped to ask:

How am I?

What do I need?

What am I feeling?

And perhaps most importantly:

What might surface if I finally stopped?

Because that is often what makes rest so uncomfortable.

Rest creates space.

And in that space, things we have been carrying quietly often begin to emerge.

Grief.

Exhaustion.

Loneliness.

Fear.

Disappointment.

Longing.

The emotions that were easier to postpone while we remained busy.

Sometimes rest is uncomfortable because it asks us to feel what we have spent years managing.

Other times, it challenges something even deeper.

Our sense of worth.

Many women have received countless messages throughout their lives that value comes from being useful.

Being productive.

Being dependable.

Being needed.

Being the one who shows up.

Being the one who keeps everything together.

Over time, it can become difficult to separate who we are from what we do.

If I am not helping, who am I?

If I am not accomplishing something, am I wasting time?

If I am resting while others still need things, am I being selfish?

These questions are rarely spoken aloud.

But they often live quietly beneath our discomfort.

I think that is why true rest can feel surprisingly vulnerable.

Rest requires trust.

Trust that things can wait.

Trust that our value does not disappear when we stop producing.

Trust that we do not have to earn our right to be cared for.

Trust that we are worthy of rest simply because we are human.

This is something I am still learning.

There are days when slowing down feels natural.

And there are days when it feels deeply uncomfortable.

Days when I still catch myself reaching for productivity when what I actually need is compassion.

Days when I confuse movement with progress.

Days when I forget that rest is not a reward.

It is a necessity.

What I have come to understand is that rest is not only physical.

Sometimes we need emotional rest.

A break from carrying everyone else’s feelings.

A break from responsibility.

A break from decision-making.

A break from proving ourselves.

A break from being the strong one.

And perhaps that is where healing begins.

Not in doing more.

Not in becoming better.

But in allowing ourselves to stop long enough to hear what our exhaustion has been trying to tell us all along.

“Rest is not the reward for finally finishing everything. Rest is part of how we continue living.”

Weekly Living Room Reflection

If slowing down feels uncomfortable, you’re not alone. Rest often brings emotions to the surface that busyness keeps hidden. This reflection isn’t about encouraging you to do less. It’s about becoming curious about what makes rest feel difficult in the first place.

Take your time. Write honestly. Return to these pages whenever you need to.

Remember, go slowly and gently.

Leave a comment

If this reflection resonated with you, remember you are not alone. Leave a comment and let us know what you have acknowledged about your resistance to rest. Let’s chat.

Continuing the Conversation

If you found yourself somewhere in this reflection, I invite you to subscribe and continue the conversation.

Until next time, be gentle with yourself.

You are welcome inside the Living Room.

Go gently,

— Karen

Grief Changes More Than We Expect

Tue, 07 Jul 2026 13:03:14 GMT

For much of my life, I thought grief belonged primarily to death.

When someone dies, we grieve.

When a loved one is gone, we mourn.

When a significant loss occurs, we expect sadness.

What I have come to understand is that grief is far more expansive than I once imagined.

Grief is not only about who we lose.

Sometimes it is about what we lose.

And sometimes it is about who we become along the way.

Over the years, I have experienced grief in many forms.

The grief of watching someone you love become ill.

The grief of witnessing dementia slowly change a parent you have known your entire life.

The grief of caregiving.

The grief of roles changing.

The grief of realizing life will never return to what it once was.

And eventually, the grief that follows death itself.

What surprised me most was not the sadness.

It was how deeply grief changed everything else.

My energy.

My perspective.

My relationships.

My priorities.

My understanding of time.

Even my understanding of myself.

Loss has a way of quietly rearranging us.

Not all at once.

But gradually.

Almost invisibly.

One day, we realize we no longer see the world in quite the same way.

Something has shifted.

Something has softened.

Something has broken open.

Something has been lost.

And something new is trying to emerge.

The challenge is that many forms of grief go largely unrecognized.

We know how to acknowledge death.

We send flowers.

We attend memorials.

We offer condolences.

But there are many losses that happen without ceremony.

The end of a marriage.

A difficult diagnosis.

A child leaving home.

A friendship that quietly disappears.

A career change.

The loss of health.

The loss of certainty.

The loss of the future we imagined.

The loss of a version of ourselves we can never fully return to.

These losses matter.

And yet many women continue carrying them silently.

They keep functioning.

They keep caring for others.

They keep moving forward.

All while quietly grieving something they have never fully allowed themselves to name.

I think this is especially true for women who have spent years caregiving.

There is grief in watching someone you love suffer.

There is grief in witnessing decline.

There is grief in the endless adjustments required when life no longer resembles what you expected.

And there is often grief in recognizing how much of yourself became consumed by simply surviving those seasons.

I know there were times when I believed I was simply tired.

Or stressed.

Or overwhelmed.

Looking back, I can see that grief was often sitting quietly beneath those feelings.

Not always demanding attention.

But present nonetheless.

Grief has a way of showing up in unexpected places.

Sometimes it appears as exhaustion.

Sometimes as irritability.

Sometimes as numbness.

Sometimes as loneliness.

Sometimes as a longing we cannot quite explain.

And sometimes, as tears that arrive unexpectedly years after the original loss.

What I have learned is that grief does not operate according to a schedule.

It cannot be rushed.

It cannot be managed into neat stages.

And it certainly does not disappear simply because we become skilled at functioning.

Perhaps one of the kindest things we can do for ourselves is to acknowledge that grief is not something to overcome.

It is something to carry differently over time.

Not forever in the same way.

But with greater understanding.

Greater compassion.

And greater acceptance of how profoundly it has shaped us.

Today, I no longer see grief as evidence that something is wrong.

I see it as evidence that something mattered.

Someone mattered.

A season mattered.

A dream mattered.

A relationship mattered.

A part of my life mattered.

And perhaps that is why grief changes us so deeply.

Because it asks us to honor what was.

While slowly learning how to live with what is.

That is difficult work.

Tender work.

Human work.

And none of us were ever meant to do it alone.

“Some grief does not arrive loudly. Some grief quietly changes the shape of a person over time.”

Weekly Living Room Reflection

Not every loss is acknowledged by the world around us. Some grief lives quietly beneath the surface, shaping us in ways we don’t always recognize. This reflection creates spaces to gently name the losses that may still be asking to be seen.

Take your time. Write honestly. Return to these pages whenever you need to.

Remember, go slowly and gently.

Leave a comment

If this reflection resonated with you, you are not alone. We’d love for you to share where you might have discovered a new awareness about your own grief. Let’s chat.

Continuing the Conversation

If you found yourself somewhere in this reflection, I invite you to subscribe and continue the conversation.

Until next time, be gentle with yourself.

You are welcome inside the Living Room.

go gently,

— Karen

The Loneliness of Being the Responsible One

Karen Hendrickson — Tue, 30 Jun 2026 13:01:27 GMT

For a long time, I wouldn’t have described myself as lonely.

I was surrounded by people.

I had family.

Friends.

Colleagues.

People who cared about me.

People who appreciated me.

People who depended on me.

And perhaps that was part of the problem.

I was so accustomed to being the one others relied upon that I never stopped to ask whether I felt supported myself.

There is a particular kind of loneliness that can develop when you become the responsible one.

Not because you are physically alone.

But because you become so practiced at caring for others, your own needs slowly move to the background.

You become the person who remembers.

The person who organizes.

The person who checks in.

The person who manages the details.

The person who stays calm during the crisis.

The person who knows what needs to happen next.

And while these roles often come from love, they can also create a subtle distance between who you are and what you need.

People begin to see your strength.

Your competence.

Your reliability.

But they stop seeing your vulnerability.

Sometimes, because you stop showing it.

I know I did.

During the years I spent caring for my daughter, my husband, and later my mother, my days were filled with responsibility.

There were appointments, medications, decisions, paperwork, logistics, conversations, homes to manage, and endless details to be taken care of daily.

There was always something that needed attention.

Always someone who needed support.

And because I loved them, I gave what I could.

Then I gave a little more.

And then a little more after that.

What I didn’t realize at the time was how quietly isolating that role had become.

The more responsible I became, the less likely I was to talk about my own fears.

My own exhaustion.

My own sadness.

My own uncertainty.

I didn’t want to burden anyone.

I didn’t want to complain.

And if I’m honest, I wasn’t even sure there was room for my feelings alongside everything everyone else was carrying.

So I became increasingly self-contained.

From the outside, I appeared strong.

Inside, I was often lonely.

Not because people didn’t care.

But because very few people knew what it was actually costing me to keep carrying everything.

I think many emotionally responsible women know this loneliness.

It shows up when everyone comes to you for support, but you are not sure who you would call when you need it.

It appears when people admire your strength but rarely ask how you are really doing.

It grows when you become so identified with helping others that receiving help begins to feel uncomfortable.

Over time, being needed can become a substitute for being known.

And the two are not the same.

Being needed feels valuable.

Being known feels human.

One of the hardest realizations I’ve had in recent years is that I often made it difficult for others to support me.

Not intentionally.

But because I had become so practiced at being capable.

I shared the updates.

The plans.

The facts.

The logistics.

But not always the truth.

Not always the fear.

Not always the grief.

Not always the exhaustion.

And because I wasn’t sharing those things, others assumed I was managing better than I was.

They saw strength.

They didn’t see the cost.

Many women live this way for years.

Quietly carrying responsibilities.

Quietly holding everyone together.

Quietly longing for someone to ask:

“How are you, really?”

Not because they need rescuing.

But because they need somewhere to put down what they’ve been carrying.

What I’ve come to understand is that loneliness is not always the absence of people.

Sometimes it is the absence of being fully seen.

The absence of feeling safe enough to be honest.

The absence of relationships where support flows both ways.

And perhaps that is why these conversations matter.

Because so many women have spent years caring for everyone else while quietly wondering if anyone notices how tired they have become.

If this is you, I want you to know something.

You are not weak because you need support.

You are not failing because you feel lonely.

You are not asking too much by wanting relationships where you can be honest about what life feels like.

You are human.

And even the most responsible among us were never meant to carry everything alone.

“Being needed by everyone is not the same thing as being emotionally supported.”

Weekly Living Room Reflection

Being surrounded by people doesn’t always mean we feel supported. This reflection offers an opportunity to explore where support exists in your life, where it feels absent, and what kind of connection your heart may be quietly longing for.

Take your time. Write honestly. Return to these pages whenever you need to.

Remember, go slowly and gently.

Leave a comment

If you have ever felt alone in your responsibility, maybe you see yourself here. As you work through this week’s reflection, we’d love to hear what resonated or landed for you.

Continuing the Conversation

If you found yourself somewhere in this reflection, I invite you to subscribe and continue the conversation.

Until next time, be gentle with yourself.

You are welcome inside the Living Room.

go gently,

— Karen

Emotional Overfunctioning is Often Rewarded

Tue, 23 Jun 2026 13:01:45 GMT

For most of my life, I thought being responsible was one of my greatest strengths.

I was dependable.

Capable.

Organized.

The person people could count on.

If something needed to be done, I would find a way.

If someone needed support, I would show up.

If there was a problem, I would help solve it.

For a long time, these qualities served me well. They helped me build a career, raise a family, navigate challenges, and care for the people I loved.

They also earned me something else.

Praise.

People often told me how strong I was.

How capable I was.

How much they admired the way I handled difficult situations.

And if I’m honest, those words mattered.

Not because I was seeking recognition, but because they reinforced something I had quietly come to believe about myself:

That my value was connected to what I could carry.

What I didn’t understand then was that there is a difference between being responsible and becoming responsible for everyone.

There is a difference between caring and carrying.

And there is a difference between supporting people and quietly taking ownership of their emotional wellbeing.

Looking back now, I can see how easily emotional overfunctioning can disguise itself as love, responsibility, loyalty, or strength.

It rarely announces itself.

Instead, it arrives quietly.

You become the one who remembers everything.

The one who organizes.

The one who smooths conflict.

The one who anticipates needs before they are spoken.

The one who checks in, follows up, worries, manages, reassures, and holds everything together.

At first, these actions feel helpful.

And often they are.

The problem begins when they become expected.

Not only by others.

But by ourselves.

Somewhere along the way, many women stop asking:

“How much of this is actually mine to carry?”

Instead, we simply keep carrying.

I saw this most clearly during the years I spent caring for my husband during illness and later for my mother as she lived with dementia.

There were medications to organize, appointments to manage, decisions to make, fears to navigate, and emotions to absorb.

There was always something that needed attention.

Always someone who needed support.

And because I loved them deeply, I stepped in wherever I could.

But slowly, almost without noticing, I crossed an invisible line.

I stopped simply caring for them.

I began carrying them.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

I became responsible not only for tasks, but for comfort.

For reassurance.

For making sure they never felt alone.

For trying to protect them from pain.

For holding everything together.

The difficult thing about emotional overfunctioning is that the world often rewards it.

People see dedication.

Selflessness.

Strength.

Reliability.

What they do not always see is the exhaustion underneath.

They do not see the woman who has forgotten how to ask for help.

The woman who no longer knows what she needs.

The woman who feels responsible for everyone else’s wellbeing while quietly neglecting her own.

Over time, emotional overfunctioning can become a way of life.

You become so accustomed to carrying that you stop noticing the weight.

Until one day, your body notices.

Or your spirit notices.

Or your relationships begin reflecting something back to you that you can no longer ignore.

Exhaustion.

Resentment.

Loneliness.

Disconnection.

The feeling that you have somehow disappeared beneath the responsibilities of your own life.

What I’ve come to understand is that emotional overfunctioning is rarely about weakness.

It is often rooted in love.

In responsibility.

In survival.

In a deep desire to help the people we care about.

But even love has limits.

And caring for others should never require abandoning ourselves.

That realization has taken me years to learn.

I am still learning it.

Learning that I can care deeply without carrying everything.

Learning that other people’s emotions are not always mine to manage.

Learning that support is healthiest when it flows both ways.

And learning that strength is not measured by how much we can endure alone.

Perhaps true strength is something else entirely.

Perhaps it is the courage to tell ourselves the truth about what we are carrying.

And the willingness to finally set some of it down.

“You are allowed to care deeply without carrying everything alone.”

Weekly Living Room Reflection

Before you begin this reflection, take a few moments, hopefully in a quiet and comfortable space, if possible. Take a breath. Move slowly and gently as you work through this one. Write whatever comes to mind. No editing. No judgment. Just honesty.

Leave a comment

If this reflection resonated with you, you are not alone. Let us know how this one landed for you.

Continuing the Conversation

If you found yourself somewhere in this reflection, I invite you to subscribe and continue the conversation.

Until next time, be gentle with yourself.

You are welcome inside the Living Room.

go gently,

— Karen

When the Strong One Gets Tired

Karen Hendrickson — Tue, 16 Jun 2026 13:02:26 GMT

Some women become so practiced at carrying everything that eventually no one notices when they begin disappearing beneath the weight of it.

They continue functioning.

Continuing to help.
Continuing to organize.
Continuing to support everyone else emotionally.

And over time, “being strong” slowly stops feeling like a personality trait and starts feeling more like survival.

The problem is not strength itself.

The problem is what happens when a person no longer feels safe enough to stop being strong.

Many emotionally responsible women are not simply stressed.

They are exhausted from years of carrying emotional responsibility that was never meant to belong to one person alone.

And eventually, even the strong one gets tired.

Maybe this is you.

It has certainly been me.

Years of caregiving for a sick husband and a mother living with dementia slowly wore me down in ways I did not fully recognize at the time.

I managed appointments, medications, schedules, care needs, emotions, logistics, comfort, and reassurance. I carried the constant invisible mental load of making sure everyone else felt supported, cared for, and never alone.

Somewhere along the way, I quietly took responsibility not only for their care - but for their emotional wellbeing too.

I did not want them to feel abandoned.

I did not want to disappoint anyone.

And my own needs began to feel small in comparison to what they were carrying.

So I kept going.

The more I carried, the less I spoke about my own feelings.

And the less I spoke, the more others began describing me as “strong.”

People praised how well I was handling everything. They admired my resilience. They told me what a good job I was doing caring for everyone else.

And slowly, almost invisibly, I began disappearing inside the role of being “the strong one.”

Others stopped seeing that I needed care too.

Truthfully, I stopped seeing it myself.

I had convinced myself that strength meant continuing no matter how exhausted I became.

Keep going.
Keep doing.
Keep holding everything together.
Keep carrying responsibility for everyone else.

Until eventually…

I simply could not anymore.

And it was only then that I began to fully recognize the depth of my emotional exhaustion.

Not because I had abandoned the people I loved.

I never did.

But somewhere inside all the caregiving, responsibility, and survival…

I had abandoned myself.

“The problem was never that you were strong. The problem was believing you always had to be.”

Weekly Reflection

If you can relate to any of this, I invite you to take a few quiet moments and complete the following exercise. Sometimes women have operated as “the strong one” for so long, they don’t even recognize the emotional weight they might be carrying.

Give this a try, and let me know what you discover in the process.

Leave a comment

If this reflection resonated with you, you are not alone.

Continuing the Conversation

If you found yourself somewhere in this reflection, I invite you to subscribe and continue the conversation.

Until next time, be gentle with yourself.

You are welcome inside the Living Room.

go gently,

— Karen

A Place for All of Us

Karen Hendrickson — Sun, 07 Jun 2026 13:03:07 GMT

More than forty years after our brother died, we stood together waiting for Ernie to come home.

It sounds strange to write those words. He had been dead since he was twenty-two.

I was 16 when we lost him.

Yet, when his ashes were placed into our hands, it felt less like receiving remains and more like finally welcoming a family member back into the circle. He was home. Ernie was home.

My brother and I had talked about bringing Ernie home. In the midst of making decisions about how we would take care of our mom after her death, it always led back to Ernie. Where he was. Where he had been - all alone for over forty years.

Our dad is scattered at our family cabin, exactly as he would choose. Amongst nature, wildlife and the cabin he built for generations to come. We know he’s happy overseeing everything there. Seeing all of us there.

Ernie was placed in a cremation plot in 1979, at the age of 22. By our parents, who were so distraught and heartbroken, made decisions they thought were right. Because someone in the funeral business told them so. And when you have lost your child, how can you even begin to know what’s right? Nothing is right in those moments.

Ernie’s ashes lay in a cremation plot at Valley View Memorial for over forty years. I never visited him there. My mom visited a few times early on. I don’t know if my dad ever did. He was alone. Separate from us.

I had never thought about it too much until our mom was dying. Knowing as a mom, she needed to be with her son. Or I needed her to be with him. As a mother with my own son. I needed this.

So on a September day, we stood with tears in our eyes, waiting for Ernie to be lifted out. There he was. In my heart, it was like seeing a brother come home after forty years. Of course, he isn’t alive, but in that moment it sure felt like it. We were bringing him home!

After forty years of carrying the heavy weight of Ernie’s grief, the feeling of things undone, of life simply not being “right”, our grief softened that day. As we placed him beside my mom’s ashes on the shelf, we softened. “Here you go mom, here he is.” “I know you’ve missed him so much”. We are all together now.

The dead may not know where their ashes rest. But the living do.

Many of us feel guilty about memorial choices, never feeling confident about the decisions we make. Were they the right ones?

We are encouraged to know what our dying would wish for, yet in the end, what we do with our loved ones after death is really for us. We are the ones who visit. The ones who remember. The ones trying to make sense of a loss.

My mom and brother still sit on the shelf right now. Yet soon, we’ll gather them up and take them to the cabin to be with our dad, and my dear friend’s son, Andy, as well. Our loved ones will be gathered there. Forever. And we will follow.

Here is where we feel closest to our dad, grandpa, and now great-grandpa. Where my kids and grandkids continually learn about their family before them. My granddaughter even walks through the cabin door, looks up at the picture of my dad and will say, “Hi, great-grandpa”. He lives loudly in our hearts there.

My kids spent summers at the cabin, basked in the love and guidance of my parents. I was a young mom, and they were tiny babes. Yet, my dad knew exactly what was building there, even if we didn’t see it at the time.

And so, here is where we all belong. Together. Family. Separated no more.

As a death educator and consultant, I’ve learned so much about death, dying, and grief. How to intentionally take steps to help you get through. How to soften your grief and sadness in ways that make sense for you.

I knew what else I needed to do.

I gathered up a wee bit of my mom and my brother’s ashes and sent them off to my dear friends Nicola and David of Touchwood Memorial Rings. Nicola has been talking to my dad regularly at the stone circle on their property. Nicola knows him. She never met him when he was alive - but she has met him through me. The stories I’ve told, the sadness I’ve felt, the love. She knows him - and my brother Ernie too.

So it only made sense to have them craft some keepsakes for us. I sent the ashes, and Nicola found my dad’s brand of tobacco. Export A. My dad’s ashes had all been scattered 15 years prior, so I needed something that represented him.

I wanted something for myself, but also for my brother and my kids. Not because I couldn’t let go, but because love seeks expression. I wanted to honour the fact that the people we love continue to shape our lives long after they are gone.

Nicola and David took so much time to listen, to learn and to truly understand the relationships we all had with my mom, dad, and brother. Their love was infused in every conversation, every step in creating these pieces. Their hearts and love are woven into everything they do.

And so a ring for me. Talismans for the others. Each infused with the ashes of my mom, my brother Ernie and tobacco for my dad. Each was from wood that represents the cabin, douglas fir, plus crabapple. The crabapple represents the tree that grew at the home my dad grew up in, where we played as kids, and where my brother lives today.

My ring was glittered with mother of pearl. On each piece, David inscribed, “Never Alone”.

When my ashes arrived at the meadow with Nicola and David, Nicola took them for a walk around the meadow, to the stone circle. She honoured and blessed them there. A quiet, deeply loving ceremony. Just Nicola, my mom, dad and Ernie, the chickadees and the song of the raven in the background. It was beautiful.

She was gracious enough to take photos and video for me. To make sure I could see and feel this ceremony. I truly did, and you probably will too. You can watch it here.

Of course, not everyone would choose memorial jewellery or a talisman, and that’s okay.

The point isn’t the ring or the talismans. The point is permission.

Permission to create rituals that are meaningful. Permission to remember differently. Permission to keep relationship alive.

We often speak of closure as though grief has a finish line. My experience is quite different.

The people I love have not disappeared from my life. The relationships have changed, but they continue.

The beauty is that we can imagine many possibilities. There is no right way. There is only meaningful way.

This was mine.

I gifted the talismans at Christmas. Inside each were traces of the people who came before them - my mom, their grandma; my dad, their grandpa, my brother, the uncle they never got to meet, or have a chance to know.

I gave each of them a letter, explaining how the talismans were made, what each element represented, and reminding them they are never alone. Our people are always with us.

I watched quietly as each of them read their letter, let the talisman roll around in their hands. Fingers gently rubbing and caressing, as they reflected, and truly felt the love we’ve all been so blessed with. There were some quiet tears. No words spoken. Just acknowledgment and honouring.

What I felt was continuity.

The people we love do not stay because we keep their ashes. They stay because they have become part of us. My ring and the talismans simply remind us of what was already true.

Love leaves a mark.

And sometimes, if we are fortunate, we get to carry that mark with us wherever we go.

We are never alone.

go gently,

Karen

In the months that have followed my mom’s death, I began noticing something else. How many women carry families, memories, caregiving, responsibilities, grief and other BIG life transitions, without ever stopping to ask what it is costing them.

That realization became the beginning of another conversation. Subscribe and stay tuned to learn more.

^{I am blessed to call Nicola and David Finch good friends. They do many different things on the Meadow, and no matter what they’re doing, it is always with deep heartfelt love for what they do, the people they serve, and the land they steward. Be sure to learn more about them at:}

If my writing stirs you in any way, I’d love for you to share it with others. It is the sacred wisdom we gain through lived experience that connects us all.

The Last Kindness

Karen Hendrickson — Wed, 03 Jun 2026 20:00:48 GMT

There is a quiet that settles over you. A stillness. Not empty. Not cold. Just still, in a way I never quite experienced before. The kind of stillness that makes everyone speak softer, without being asked.

The room was cool. And although the light was somewhat bright, there was a sense of warmth among us. Beside her resting place, we organized bowls of warm water, oils, and cloths. We gathered around her. My brother, standing tall, holding a hand, remembering, loving her. My daughter, beside him, laying a hand on her grandma’s shoulder, and listening, as we quietly described how her grandma looked. Words that would allow her to carry a vision and memories of this moment in time.

For months, we had contemplated this moment. Her death. And we probably even feared what it might look like, feel like, do to us.

Yet, standing there together, our hands resting on my mom’s body, I felt something entirely different.

Not fear. Not sadness.

Reverence.

And love, so present in the room it seemed to soften everything around us.

My mom died on June 12, 2025. As we near the 1st anniversary of her death, it seems now is the time to share how we bestowed her with our “Last Kindness”.

As we were sitting vigil with my mom last year, I wrote about how hard it was, the emotions. The gratitude, the regret, the forgiveness. You can read it here.

The sadness, the loss of a generation, the uncertainty of what would become of us, of me.

The recognition of there truly never being enough time. There will never be enough time.

I didn’t know how it would feel in the end. Yet, when death came, it was reverent.

And so, as my brother headed out for a walk, my daughter and I, along with the loving guidance of Ngaio Davis, KORU Cremation|Burial|Ceremony, began.

We started with the music. A playlist of songs we’d compiled over the last 10 days of mom’s life. Music she loved. Music that reminded us of her. Music that held our faith and gratitude for her. Her love. Her legacy. We played this music for her - for us, every day we sat with her before her death.

In those days prior, this music brought tears … laughter … memories … hope. Hope her transition would be easy. Hope she would remember how much we loved and appreciated her. Hope that she would reunite with all the loved ones left before, and that God would hold a place at his table just for her. Hope that she would finally know just how much she is truly loved.

She was afraid to die. So we committed to being there 24 hours a day until her death. My brother, my son, my daughter. All of us took some time.

I wasn’t able to be there when she died. My brother was. And just as we discussed, he tucked her rabbit under her arm; tucked the photos from her bulletin board into her hands, and he stayed with her until KORU’s transportation team arrived. She would not be alone.

And here we were now, extending our last kindness. As Rita McNeil began to sing softly, I opened the bag I brought with me. A brush, a comb, a curling iron, a flannel nightgown, and a box filled with cards. Christmas cards, Mother’s Day, birthday. Cards my mom had collected from her entire life. Years ago, I had wondered why she would have kept them all. Yet the more open I became about truly understanding my mom, the more I began to understand it. She held on to them because they came from people she loved, and who loved her. They simply reminded her that she was definitely loved.

As Ngaio filled the bowl with warm water and oils, my daughter and I began. My mom looked so calm … peaceful. It had been years since I’d seen such peace in her face. I was grateful. This warm cloth connected us. As we bathed her, we shared stories and memories with Ngaio. She welcomed and invited them. It was soothing and healing for us.

We dressed her in the flannel night gown. Bright pink with roses and white flowers. I had bought it only weeks prior. Stopped in for a visit with my mom and showed it to her. She loved it. She always loved pink … and flannel nightgowns. I had taken it home to shorten for her, but she never got to wear it. It seemed so right that she wear it now. Her face almost glowed once she was dressed in this pink … flannel … nightgown. I am certain she was happy.

As I curled and combed her hair, the way she always liked it, my brother returned. She was almost ready. We were almost ready. We gathered around her, music softly continuing to play. We chatted and shared more stories as we tucked the rabbit back under her arm. She wasn’t going to be alone. She no longer had to be afraid.

Together, we lifted her from the table to the cremation tray. I had found the last letter I had written her from Christmas 2 years prior - inside the box of cards. I tucked this letter into her hands, along with the photos from her bulletin board. These hands that wore almost 90 years of caring, living and loving lay gently across her waist. We made sure she still had her anniversary ring on her finger. She had always said, even in her dementia, “This is going with me”. And so it was. It would go with her.

That box of cards was precious to my mom. We placed each card around her on the cremation tray. She would take the box of love and precious memories with her, too. Mom was never willing to really talk about her wishes for end of life, or after-death plans. Yet, we’d listened to things she said over the years - and we made sure we remembered. We made sure we gave her this last act of kindness. Of love.

We stare at her, at each other. She is ready. We know we are, too. Ngaio asks: “Are you all ready now?” We nod our heads, and as we all say “yes, we’re ready", Amazing Grace begins to play. Ngaoi acknowledges “how perfect for this moment”. Yes, how perfect. All of it was perfect.

Ngaio places tea light candles with mom, and we say “goodbye”, “see you later”, “we love you, mom”. Yes mom, your work here is done.

Afterward we gather in the caring space next. My brother, my daughter, and I. As we wait for Ngaio, we take notice. Werthers caramels are in the tulip candy dish on the coffee table. We laugh - Werthers caramels have been on our mom’s coffee table, in a similar dish … forever. “She’s here”, I say.

And then, there is a basket filled with cookies. “Look”, I say to the others. “Mom’s cookies!” Celebration caramel cookies. You would always find at least two boxes of these exact cookies in our mom’s fridge before she went into care. We have to have them. We all take one and laugh out loud. Our hearts smile, we smile, there is joy in this room. My brother speaks. “I think she approves. We’ve done right by her. She approves.”

Ngaio later tells us this is the very first time she’s had those cookies. Only just purchased a day or so ago. Yes. Yes. I think our mom approves.

As we climb into the car, my daughter comments on how “peaceful and healing” the experience was. My brother agrees. “This was good, Karen. Really good.” I am so very glad we shared in this experience together.

When we come together to bear witness to the dying, to death, and how we tend to our dead … and also each other, something magical can happen. Reflecting back now, I know for certain:

Our mom’s illness and death have created a greater intimacy between us
Old heart wounds have somehow healed or become softer for us
Each of us is less afraid of our own mortality and the realities of death
We still grieve, and always will … But, it’s gentler … easier
We did right by our Mom, our Grandma, our Great-Grandma. We all did.
We loved.

Death is a sacred labour that we can bear witness to, participate in, and engage with through vigil, gathering, remembering, and storytelling. When we let our love guide us and continue through our care, fear diminishes. Love is ever-present, and our grief is softer.

We thought we were giving our mom this last kindness, yet we were also giving this kindness to ourselves. Death is not to be feared. Death is to be honoured, revered, celebrated. This is where the love lives on. This is where love remains.

It’s been a year since my mom’s death. My mom is still teaching me, guiding me. My relationship with my mom has changed, not just physically, but emotionally. I understand her better now. I know her more. I respect her more.

A lot has changed in me. It’s been an incredible year.

So on this first anniversary of my mom’s death, I will revisit and relive this “Last Kindness”. I will remember the sounds, the scents, the conversations. I will be reminded of the love that was in the room that day. I will never forget that even in death, love remains.

go gently,

Karen

If you’ve made it this far, thank you. Let me know what you think of this article. What may have stirred in you? What perspectives are you left with?

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My Mom

Karen Hendrickson — Wed, 03 Jun 2026 19:13:56 GMT

^{Originally produced, June 13, 2025}

June 8, 2025 ... My Mom …

I never imagined it would be this hard. It’s been 5 days bearing witness to my mom while her body is trying to die. My brother, son, daughter, and I have spent many hours sitting with her, talking to her, reminding her of how much she is loved; how we know she’s tired, and how we will be okay when she’s ready to untether from this earthly world.

I talk of all those gone before her, and how they are waiting for her, saving a seat just for her. She is the eldest of the 7 siblings … all the others gone long before her. George, Bob, Dick, Patsy, Dave, and baby brother James, who died at just two weeks old. Plus the sister in laws, the friends, and of course her husband, Ernie; and 46 years ago – her oldest son, Ernie. I talk of him waiting and ready to see her again.

My mom has been in the storm of dementia for over 5 years. The first few years were manageable, the last 2+ years she has been in care. Dementia is an interesting beast. As I’ve watched my mom, along with the many other dementia residents she has lived with over these past two years, I’ve seen two things. Those with dementia whom seem to have a quiet, comfortable peace. For these folks, I guess dementia is an okay state. There are also those who struggle, fight, and battle all the way to find some control when they’ve lost all control. Both can be incredibly difficult for families to witness. My mom is the latter. Dementia has never been anything but a struggle and fight for her. Never trusting others, always fighting with and against the care providers … and us too at times. Many times. Even now, in an extremely weak state, she will raise her hands to swat at the care staff. No strength at all, but still fighting.

So, I’ve spent two years wishing and praying for her to find peace and ease; to untether from this world and move onward with all those who love her and are waiting for her. All with the deepest of love and gratitude for all she has been and given to me. And yet …

Dementia is a trickster when it comes to end of life and the dying process. In fact, in January, we thought we were here. She had RSV and was hanging by a thread. She survived it. And in true dementia fashion, these past days have been a roller coaster of ups, downs, and wtf’s? But we’re finally here now.

As I sit with my mom, she breathes like a blowfish, fidgets with the bed sheets and her clothes, and speaks – though mostly inaudible and quiet. She holds my hand. When she’s awake enough, and I bring my face close to hers, she leans in, placing our foreheads together, her eyes glazed, and she whispers, “love you”. Or so I think and so want to believe.

As I speak of her dead beloveds, and especially her son Ernie, she smiles, some. I let her know it’s time for her to go home, and that no matter what, we will always know where to find her. She has taught us how to be okay and support each other.

She has spent much of her life being afraid and uncertain. I try to assure her there is nothing to be afraid of now. All that surrounds her is love and safety. The angels will guide her and protect her.

I thank her for everything she has taught us about love and family. For being an amazing grandma to my kids, and frankly, to us, too. I acknowledge that I know she gave everything she possibly could, and her only intention was ever love. I ask forgiveness for much, and although I don’t harbour any regret, I do wish.

I wish I had been more aware of her heart pain, her sorrow, earlier.

I wish I had asked more questions about her life – her struggles and her joys.

I wish I could have been more compassionate.

I wish I had known more.

I wish we had more time. Not this kind of time. Not dementia time, but time to have really talked and shared together; to better understand each other.

I wish I hadn’t been too afraid to crack open our hearts together to truly understand this woman – my mom; and so she could have truly understood me.

And yet, right now … in these moments … it is so clear the only thing that matters is love. All the things we get so wrapped and twisted up in while we try to live life simply do not matter. I think I know this, but in these moments … I recognize I still have lots to learn.

So I sit with my mom. Talk to her – whether she is responding or not. I hold her hand, and occasionally she tightens her grip with mine. My brother says, “I’m not sure if I’m here to hold her hand, or so she can hold mine.” This hits me. We think we’re there for her, but we’re there for ourselves even more so.

She’s my mom. And although our life has been complicated and sometimes frustrating as hell for both of us, we love each other. Care about each other … and we will miss each other.

I never thought this would be as hard as it is, and ask myself why?

I’m 62, and I’m watching my mom do the hard work to leave her earthly body. To die. This is hard business, of course. Yet, I also recognize it’s about so much more.

Not just her mortality, but my own. Everyone’s mortality. The loss of most all of our elders, and so many friends, and young people too. The unknown of how much of my own life is left to live. The knowing that no matter how much time and love I soak up with my kids and my grandbabe … it will never be enough. Not for me, and in the end, not for them either. This is life, isn’t it? Deeply rich with so much that truly matters – so much love; and yet so fleeting. Even when we know what matters most to us, how do we ensure we absolutely get enough of it all? I don’t even think we can.

Let today be the day. The day my dear mom untethers her sorrows, her pain, her suffering for nothing but love and god’s grace. But for the grace of god, may she find the love and peace she’s always been longing for as she goes home.

And may we always know and feel her presence and be reminded of what a good mother is. A good mother may not always be the way you want them to be, but she can still be a good mother. A very good mother.

Thank you for all of it, mom. Forgive me for all the times I could not hear or see you.

Your love will carry us, influence us, and remind us of what matters most. We will never forget and will always be able to find you.

So let go. There is no longer any need to struggle, go to the light and the love you’ve always needed. It’s right there, across the horizon. Your people will walk you there, if you let them. We will find our way, and we will be okay. Your light will shine in the eyes of your grandchildren, and their children, and well beyond what any of us can see right now.

This is your legacy. A legacy of love.

I love you, mom.

Karen

^{You can read about some of our Dementia journey here.}

Dementia as the Lines Blur

I just want ...

Karen Hendrickson — Tue, 19 May 2026 00:32:07 GMT

These days seem crazy. Life and the world can seem crazy. And yet, when I take myself to the forest, I realize…

“I just want. I want to be here with you, not bracing for what comes next.”

Suppose you are feeling overwhelmed, sad, or just fed up with it all. Food prices, gas prices, the anger, chaos, and absurdity within our humanity … or maybe your own personal challenges of life. No matter what it is that weighs you down, go to the forest. Bathe in it. Let it remind you just how amazing, powerful, and miraculous nature is … this world is … how amazing and miraculous you are. Be present with the forest. Place your hand on that tree trunk. Feel … and listen to the trees breathe. Yes, listen. Listen to your own breath, hold faith in what’s to come, and know you were made for this.

I invite you to go out into the forest, breathe, take a photo, and share it here.

_________________________

The music belongs to Case/Lang/Veirs - I Want to be Here

This video photography is owned by Karen Hendrickson and Jo-Anne Haun.

Into the Wild

Karen Hendrickson — Tue, 19 May 2026 00:22:49 GMT

This piece was originally written by Karen Hendrickson and published in July 2025 as a blog post with Death & Dying Network International.

We have a sacred place. A cabin in the woods. Built by my Dad, Ernie. His legacy lives on there, just as he intended. A place for us all to come together. A place to love, to share, to remember. A sacred place. One that has come to mean so very much to all of us.

A place shared with only a few chosen and dear friends. The ones who are so important to you, you want them to be able to feel what you feel when we’re there. The ones who you know will absolutely “get it”. The ones who can appreciate all the love, the loss, and the healing that happens when we are there.

I did this recently. Shared this sacred place with my dear friends, Jo-Anne and Nicola. Little did we know how powerful our friendship, our love, and support of one another would be on this trip.

Jo-Anne brought the ashes of her beloved son Andy. I’ve walked with Jo for over 23 years of grief, shared memories, and love for this boy. So, when Jo asked me if she could scatter some of Andy’s ashes at the cabin, with my Dad, well, there was only ever one answer.

Of Course!

Nicola brought her love for us, her compassion, and her guidance as we gathered for this task. Nicola has been honouring my Dad, walking with him on the meadow, and talking to him at the Stone Circle for years now. She embraces all that Jo and I believe about dying, death, and loss, and even more importantly, about ritual and remembering. And so, it only made sense that she be with us; that she lead us in this, the uniting of Andy and my Dad, Ernie.

Jo picked the tree, and Nicola led us through the process of ritual and the scattering of ashes. We had no plan, only intention. Jo’s intention, to scatter Andy in a place he would love, and be loved by my Dad. A place he could climb trees, run through the forest, jump in the lake, and share lots of laughs and fun with my Dad. A place Jo has come to love as much as I do.

I was honoured that this is where she’d like him to be. With my Dad. I never realized the comfort I would feel in knowing my Dad is no longer alone there. I imagine my Dad laughing, playing, and teaching Andy, just as he did with my own son.

As Jo chose the spot, as we scattered, spoke words from the heart, and shared both together and alone, our thoughts and our prayers, it was more than magical. There were tears, but even more laughter – just as Andy would have it. There was love and there was healing. I believe I witnessed a different glimmer of peace within my dear friend that day. Within me. Within all of us.

What we fully experienced on this day was the power of friendship. What it means to have dear friends who hold us up and guide us, who share in our grief, our love, our survival, and our healing; who show us that our joy is really in who we share it all with - this life.

And then there is the importance of ritual – even if it’s 23 years later. It doesn’t matter when. The only timeline is “when you’re ready”. It doesn’t matter how or where. All that truly matters is that it holds deep meaning and value to you. And it does matter who you invite to join you. IF you choose anyone at all. In Jo’s case, it was her dear friends who hold a deep understanding and love in all of this.

On this day, we had no defined plan about how this ritual would go. What we did have was 3 dear friends willing to let our friendship, our hearts, and our love lead us; willing to trust that however it went, it would be just right for Jo ... for Andy ... for all of us together that day.

That day, we were forever changed by the power of friendship ... and the importance of ritual.

We went into the wild, to a cabin in the woods, a mom, a boy, dear friends, and Ernie. And it changed us.

__________

If you would like to experience this with us, you can watch the video here. (This video is shared with permission.)

I do not own any rights or copyright to the music used in this video.

Music by:

Lee Dewyze – Into the Wild

Layup – Who You Share it With

Five for Fighting - Superman

Lee Dewyze - All is Well

A Better Boat

Karen Hendrickson — Wed, 31 Dec 2025 21:06:17 GMT

I’ve been quiet for months now. Some of you have been asking where I’ve been; where I am. Well, I’m back now.

I haven’t written since my mom died in June of this year. I didn’t want to; didn’t know where to begin; just simply couldn’t. Yep, 2025 has definitely been a kicker for me. It took me down; took me out, and showed me within the depths of my soul what really does matter in this life of mine.

This year really showed me what it means to live in the “and” of life. I understand now, more than ever. This was a very hard, very sad year, AND, it also held many joyous, heartful experiences I will carry forward. Days with my Grandbabe, just the two of us; having Paul still on this side, breathing free and easy; sharing our cabin with two of my dearest friends, scattering a young boy’s ashes on our property there; sharing my mom’s vigil and after-death care experiences with my brother and kids; many days on the Sunshine Coast; being witness to the ongoing growth and success of my kids; removing clutter and chaos in my life, in my head; and rediscovering the creative maker in me.

Yes, my mom died. It was a welcome and beautiful end to years of her emotional suffering with dementia, AND I am deeply grieving her death and all that it represents for me; AND each day I become more grateful for all she gave, all she represented, and the mom she was.

I’ve experienced the true depths of Caregiver Burnout, and am learning that Caregiver Recovery takes time. I am learning to be more patient.

I did less, disconnected; no longer having energy for people, for doing, for serving. I felt extremely alone, AND it felt so good spending this time with just me.

“I ain’t lonely, but I spent a lot of time alone”

“More than I’d like to, but I’m okay with stayin’ home”

I stopped reaching out to others, yet thankfully, some continued to reach out to me. I was sad about those who didn’t or couldn’t, AND I am also appreciative of those who did, and continue to do so. Not fixing, not “shoulding”, just showing up, whether I thought I needed it or not. They continue to just show up, no questions, no expectations - just there for me. These are the ones I will carry into 2026 and beyond. They are more than enough. I am blessed.

“I breathe in, I breathe out. Got friends to call who let me talk about

what ain’t workin’, what’s still hurtin’, all the things I feel like cussin’ out.”

I’ve felt frustrated, angry, resentful, and sad about Paul’s transplant recovery journey. Year 2 was harder than Year 1 - maybe for both of us; AND still, there are no words to truly express the gratitude for this miracle blessing, including the unexpected, unwanted realities that come with it. We are so deeply blessed.

I purposefully stepped away from a thriving business and business partnership that no longer fulfilled our hearts. AND, although it was a choice I gladly made, I still felt some grief and a sense of loss without all the “doing” of running a business; no longer sure of who I was. AND, I am so fortunate and happy to have done this with my dear friend, Jo-Anne; AND I am extremely grateful that once again, we can just be friends.

“My how the last months have changed, I’m smilin’ more despite the pain”

I was rushing and forcing life changes that weren’t yet meant to happen - like moving to the Coast; something my heart and soul feels it needs; AND I have been reminded that it’s God’s grace and God’s time that leads the way, not mine.

“I hate waitin, ain’t no patience in these hands”

“I think I’m stronger than I was, I let God do what he does”

In 2025 I lost myself in a compounded unconsolable grief, anxiety, fear, anger and resentment; AND, I also appreciate this has been necessary for me. I am grateful.

“Now and then I let go, I ride the waves I can’t control”

I am both weak and strong; both sad and happy; filled with self-doubt and also confident. All my feelings and emotions run deep; my love and therefore, my grief too. Some would suggest I let these feelings run too deep, yet it’s the only way I’ve ever known how to be; AND I’m learning to be better with all of it.

I am now at a place where I can truly give myself grace, as I am being reminded of who I was, who I’ve been, AND I’m ready to discover who I really am today; in this season of my life. The newly crowned family matriarch, a mother, grandmother, wife, sister, friend. A writer, a creative maker, and who knows what else is in front of me.

I still have work to do, but I think I’ll like who I am becoming and re-becoming; maybe you will too.

I’m learnin’ how to build a better boat.

“If it’s workin’, I don’t know, when I get done the thing may not float

but I’m learnin’ how to build a better boat.”

Kenny Chesney, Better Boat

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