Beautiful Overwhelm: The Aftermath

I sometimes struggle to settle on the weekly topic for this blog because overall, my life is quiet. It's routine. It's slowing down again, finding balance after a storm of busy seasons marked by the kind of overwhelm and exhaustion inherent to the life of an introvert. Monday through Friday, my daughter has school. Wednesday evenings and Sunday mornings, we have church. Thursdays, I meet with my women's group. And other than a sprinkling of doctor's appointments and the constant drive to meet my own writing deadlines, the biggest variable is my Thursday group cycling through hobbies and activities we all enjoy as we learn and grow together as women.

There's a lot of gratitude these days, but I don't always feel like I have something new to say because most of the time, nothing new happened.

But the last two weeks have been so wild and wonderful and crazy, I'm struggling to settle on a moment because there have been so many beautiful moments in such a short time.

We've had a whirlwind of family time, where each day folded almost invisibly into the next. We probably drove over 1,000 miles in the last fourteen days. My daughter slept in five different beds. We ate so much junk food, fast food, and restaurant meals that my body went into full rebellion and my little one begged for salad. There were mornings when the first thing I did was check the calendar just to be sure I was starting the right day at the right time.

But even with emotional exhaustion poured over an absolute failure to find enough rest...we made so many amazing memories. And maybe I just haven't finished sorting them all out yet. Maybe I don't even need to, and maybe if you're feeling the same way, you don't need to either. I think it's okay if, just for once, we sit in the quiet and let those moments be what they were.

Hours spent with people we love. Memories we wouldn't trade. And you know what? It's probably okay if you need three to five business days for recovery, too. I know I do.

I'm writing this lying down, propped on the pile of white pillows I nest in every night at bedtime. The afternoon sun is moving over my building, slowly shifting its light over the colors of my bedroom, and I've let my hair down for the day. The fan is whispering quietly to itself, there's a loaf of gluten free garlic sourdough rising downstairs in the kitchen, and a fresh cup of coffee waits, steaming on the nightstand beside me.

My knee hurts, my head hurts, and I can't remember the last time I worked on a Selkie scene. I miss Annie and Malik. I miss the excitement and the magic of their story, the joy of rediscovering them as I work through this second edition in preparation for January's release date. I miss the note-taking and the anticipation of fresh adventure in Selkie III.

There's an almost-seventy-year-old bookshelf standing to my left—built by my great-grandfather in 1958, scarred but still sturdy, loaded down with books waiting to be read. Directly ahead is a wall unit filled with yarn waiting to become something beautiful. I look around and am faced at every angle with projects calling for attention.

There's laundry to be done. Travel products to be organized and put away for next time. A potted string of pearls quietly craving a drink. Always, always, there is a surface begging to be dusted. And for the moment, I'm leaving it all. Not only to prioritize this time I spend each week with you, but to reflect on the beauty of what it means to be overwhelmed.

So often, we think of gratitude as a good thing. Energizing and positive. Gratitude is that leap of joy that brings our hearts almost into our throats as we celebrate the blessings in life. And in turn, we think of overwhelm as bad. It's the sudden realization of having gone too far, pushed too hard, done too much. The draining that leaves us on the edge of bewilderment even as we carry on.

I'm learning that this is yet another place where two opposing things can be true at the same time—and that nothing is ever only good or only bad.

I spent these weeks with the fresh new generation of my family. My nephew, who I once carried at my shoulder, who I once cradled to my chest, who I once helped to teach and love and nurture, is now a Marine with a family of his own. His children are five and three, and I spent hours wandering with them, their little hands tucked into mine, watching adventure and excitement light in their eyes. And every moment was joy...but I'm tired.

I drove until I could hardly stand up straight when I got out of the car. Long hours spent sitting, watching the world fly by outside the window, my hands on the wheel, my brows furrowed as an apparently drunken GPS offered more wrong turns than a backwards NASCAR race. I knew my exhaustion was real when I saw it echoed in the eyes of my usually-tireless teenager...and I am incredibly thankful.

Two truths, opposite to their very cores, and still they exist side-by-side.

And after all that, we settled at home just in time for me to kick my daughter out of her own bed, dragging her into my room for a one-night sleepover. We made her bed with fresh sheets, vacuumed her floor, folded a quilt at the foot of the bed, and welcomed my brother back to our city for the first visit in years. We spent too much on groceries, my oldest daughter joined us for taco salads, we shouted and joked and stayed up too late watching movies. It was exhausting. And it was wonderful. And you couldn't pay me to trade those moments.

Yesterday, I had both of my brothers in my house for the first time in ages. One seven years older, one seven years younger. And there I stood between the two of them, listening to the quiet way they talk to each other, broken by bursts of laughter and private jokes and the silly parts of our father that live on in us.

So here I am, wrapped in a soft silvery blanket in my nest of white pillows, delightedly sipping sweet vanilla coffee as I process what those moments mean, where they came from, and what they'll lead to. I hear my daughter whispering to herself downstairs, singing in quiet bursts as she braves the mysteries of a new Minecraft world, and now and then, the air conditioner kicks on, circulating random garlic-scented promises of the bread I'll bake just in time for dinner.

The whirlwind has passed for now, but nothing feels quite settled yet.

And sometimes, maybe that's a blessing, too.

*****

As an emotionally intense person so often focused on personal growth—especially as that growth connects to and reflects on my Christian life—I think sometimes it's easy to expect clear lines. Good and bad. Joy and sadness. Gratitude and grumbling. But maybe these blended moments, and the capacity for contentment in them, are where we tend to lose the plot.

Maybe gratitude doesn't have to be gleeful to be genuine, and maybe it's okay to feel tired after feeling all the things. Maybe it's moments like these, where everyone has gone home and reality rolls in again. Maybe gratitude is right there in the basket of laundry soiled by adventure. Maybe it's the cluttered mind, still buzzing with memories that haven't quite found their places yet.

And maybe it's needing a little more silence than usual, a little more sleep, or a little more time to find yourself again after pouring everything out for the people and moments that matter most.

I don't think any of that makes the gratitude less real, and I think sometimes it's the beauty of the overwhelm that makes us recognize its value. Being grateful for something doesn't mean it has to be easy, and loving people won't always feel seamless. Beauty can still be exhausting...and that's okay.

Because we don't need to rush to sort those memories and lessons into tidy little boxes right away, and I wonder if leaving them scattered like debris in the aftermath of the storm is the best way to let them find where they belong, all on their own, in the stillness of a sunlit afternoon.

And maybe as those pieces of days gone by fall like magic into place, we smile and drink coffee that tastes like contentment. And those moments help us...

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Kennedy, Party Of One...Sometimes

There's a common saying that's so old we don't know where it came from, and while we can't credit its wisdom to one person, its truth is sometimes heavier than we'd like it to be. "It takes a village."

We say it when it comes to family relationships, finding community, spiritual growth, and the power of support. We use it as a balm to make ourselves feel better about learning to accept help when we'd feel safer leaning on self-reliance. We use it as an explanation when we talk about why we need other people and the value of a solid support system. And we arch our eyebrows and shake our heads as we contemplate the challenges of raising children, especially when it comes to single parenting.

I've spent most of my life being grateful when I'm able to be part of someone else's village. When I'm able to protect a friend in a scary situation, when I'm able to lend a hand if someone's overwhelmed—or share a couple of dollars when I see someone struggling to survive with less than I have.

But I was very much the black sheep in my family and, by extension, my daughters were treated that way, too. When my nieces received packages from my dad for the holidays, my mailbox stayed empty. When parties were thrown or gatherings were organized, I often learned about them after they'd ended. And I think I just got used to living my life as "Kennedy, Party of One."

I raised my kids without much participation from their dad, even when we were together. I scheduled and managed doctor's appointments, surgeries, long-distance medical trips. I maintained equipment, tracked prescriptions, and advocated endlessly. I did it with strength I didn't know I had, courage and resilience I shouldn't have needed, and a constant appreciation for every breath my babies took, because I've never forgotten the baby who never breathed.

I did as much of it as possible without asking for help, raising kids on a budget strained by disability and single motherhood. Raising children with less, while desperately fighting to make sure they never noticed. And "it takes a village" always made me a little sad, because I've spent most of my life going, "Okay, where it at, though?"

But maybe I'm a little nearsighted, because my "village" may be barely more than a blip on the map...but its shelter is far more solid than it seems.

Picture it. A dirt road, so settled there's no dust in the air. It's small and untraveled, shaded by old trees that whisper stories in their leaves when the wind blows. And off to the side, where a small town might be, there is one lone building. A little time-battered, a little worn, and maybe you look at it long enough to wonder how it's still standing.

At first glance, it stands alone. Perhaps occasionally a truck or trailer might be parked there as loved ones pass through, but there are no outbuildings. No sheds. No neighboring homes from which to borrow an egg or a cup of sugar when the canister runs low. Visitors may be frequent, and some almost make themselves at home...but only almost, and then they're gone again. And the house remains, haphazardly tended as time, energy, and money allow.

Hi. That's me. I'm the house. The blip on the map. Sometimes interesting, sometimes hospitable, but easy enough to pass on the way to elsewhere. A welcoming place to drop in and rest...for a while.

And maybe I've been looking at the blip all wrong, because it isn't surrounded by the noise of community and the intrigue of a fascinating stop. No sightseeing here, no major attractions. Just a place where the nightlife ends by eleven and the best local band is a tree full of cicadas.

Not a village, but it's more like an old-fashioned rest stop. A road-side inn. A place to grab a snack from the vending machine, empty your bladder, clean the garbage from the center console. It's the place where people go to catch their breath on the way from one phase to another...and then they're off to bigger and better things.

But man, a rest stop is solid, isn't it? We put our faith in a strong foundation, we lean tired shoulders on sturdy walls, and we accept nourishment we didn't know we needed until we saw it. And I wonder how often we really think about the things that hold the ceilings up.

If I'm the rest stop, then I'm proud of my foundation: concrete faith, poured so long ago it feels as solid as the earth itself. Formed by life lessons and gratitude, fortified by unexpected blessings, and strengthened by determination to keep trusting God no matter how much the earth quakes. I'm proud of the walls too, though, with every brick baked in memories of kindness and connection, each surface signed with someone's name.

The rest stop is always "XX Miles From" something else. Connected to a state, a county, a town...a village...but never quite part of what it's connected to. Not entirely alone, and rarely ever truly empty. Rest stops don't actually spend much time resting.

But this week, I got a little unexpected renovation.

A few miles down the road, there's a woman who knows the value of a rest stop, because in many ways, she is one herself. She's the quiet one who comes every morning to clean the windows and let the sun in. The strong one who fixes things when they get broken. The one who keeps the pamphlets organized and the fan running. The one who notices when it's time for a little extra TLC.

And she never asks for credit but it's hard to count how many of my bricks have her name on them, because I don't know the world without her in it.

This week, she locked the rest stop doors and put a little sign out in the parking lot that said, "Temporarily out of order." She opened the windows, turned the fan on blast, and let fresh air blow through a tired old building. Outside this metaphor, she let me do her a small favor...and proceeded to mold that favor into a blessing beyond measure.

My youngest daughter and I delivered my cousin's grandchildren and daughter-in-law to the airport in Nashville. My cousin couldn't get the day off work, and since my car sucks we did what we've done so many times before. We lived one life in two bodies. She made the vehicle appear, and I planted my butt in the driver's seat.

This short road trip turned into a mostly-spontaneous three-day whirlwind vacation, where my daughter and I had the most amazing time. I rested between outings. I got to give my daughter moments and memories we normally don't have access to. And instead of calculating how to make everything work, I got to watch proudly as my daughter openly celebrated every single moment. Not one grumble about what we didn't/couldn't do. Not one "wish we could."

It was three days of "Thank you, Mom." Thank you for showing me how to do this. Thank you for getting up early to find the restaurant I was hoping for. Thank you for a souvenir. Thank you for memories.

And the more blessed I was by those moments, the more I thought about the reason they were possible. The cousin who reads almost every word I write. The one who survived childhood beside me. The one I can always call, who knows she can always call me. The other, better half of everything I am.

Sometimes it's easy to overlook the steadiness of the ones who stay beside us. The ones who hold us up when we've been exhausted for too long. The quiet support of a wall that keeps standing. And, whether it's because we get comfortable enough to stop saying it or because our saying it makes them uncomfortable, maybe we don't always thank them the way we should.

So, to those who've signed the bricks that hold this rest stop together...thank you.

*****

The thing is, I've spent most of my life existing just outside of the village. Not entirely alone, and there have always been people around me. People who love me, who need me, who feel safer or stronger because of me. For some of those people, I help pour the foundation, and for others, I help build the walls. For many, I am the roof that protects them when storms roll in.

And maybe that's what I'm learning about gratitude. It's easy to be grateful for big things—the answered prayers and unexpected opportunities, the three-day adventures we otherwise wouldn't have had. It's easy to look at blessings that roll in like parades and recognize them for what they are.

But some of the greatest blessings are the quiet people whose names have been written on our bricks for so long, we stop noticing. They're the ones who don't announce that they're holding up a wall. They just keep standing there, and maybe that's what a village really is. Not a constant crowd or a steady stream of help and companionship, but just one person—or a handful of people.

Maybe it's the ones who have been part of the architecture for so long, we can't remember what the building looked like before they were there. The people who've known you since before you knew who you were.

We tend to talk about how "it takes a village" as though that village is just for the children, but I think it takes a village to be a person, too. And raising children with very little doesn't always mean raising them without abundance, because watching my daughter on this trip reminded me of something else I'm grateful for: she knows how to receive a gift in ways that I never had the chance to learn.

She notices without shame. She receives freely, and says thank you with no hesitation. She doesn't assume she's entitled, but she accepts blessings with unadulterated joy, and maybe that's one of the unexpected gifts of growing up without financial freedom. You learn that a little can be a lot when you understand what it costs.

I think that's what true gratitude is—not pretending we have everything we need, but recognizing the quiet things that hold us up when we stop long enough to notice. My foundation will always be my faith, but I'm learning new gratitude for the walls, too. Because a rest stop needs a strong foundation...but a place where people step in to sign the walls? Well, that's a home, no matter how small it seems.

And in this home, those walls made of memories signed by loved ones are the strength that helps us...

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Making Time To Notice the Good

Dolly Parton died this past week, and I'm still in shock. I never got to know her in person, of course, but she was one of those people who felt larger than life even from afar. She was sweet, funny, smart, generous. She never forgot where she came from or the life lessons she learned along the way, and for so many, she was a major part of turning difficult seasons into evidence of resilience. She cared about literacy, poverty, mortality. She cared about faith, identity, personal growth, and the kind of contentment you only find through purposeful perspective.

She wasn't perfect but she succeeded at leaving a legacy far beyond the catalog of her music, and I think part of what shocks me most about her death is the number of people suddenly willing to criticize her life. People who didn't know her question the authenticity of her faith based on a quote they saw. People who can never quantify everything she did question her philanthropy based on a thing she didn't do, or they speculate on what she didn't have based on what she did have.

If Dolly can come under such criticism in a world where so much is ugly but she wasn't...well, it made me think about gratitude and appreciation, and the way things look when we focus on noticing the good in the world around us.

And I don't just mean the kind of thankfulness that hits us in the holiday season when lights are sparkly and food is rich and gifts are flowing. I mean the kind that catches you off guard in the moments when you look at your life and realize the things you once prayed for have become the things you take for granted.

I've seen a lot of talk lately in the writing world about authors choosing to eliminate "spice" in their books. For some, it's religious conviction, for others it's simply the realization that on-page sex scenes aren't always necessary, and for still others, it's the writer's passionate desire to follow the current market in order to sell books.

Someone asked me if, as a Christian, I plan to do the same. And the answer? No, I don't.

"But...don't you feel, you know, convicted? Like, writing that stuff? As a Christian?"

And again, the answer is no.

Because I'm not writing sex. I'm writing lives. I'm writing growth and reflection and the way circumstances draw us from one heart change to another. Maybe it's a woman who hates everything she's ever seen in the mirror, but she finds her way to the kind of confidence that allows her to be naked and vulnerable and brave all at the same time. Maybe it's a woman who knows what it is to be violated, but she's learning that pleasure does not have to be painful. Maybe it's a man illustrating the truth behind "not all men," simply by being different.

And maybe that's where Dolly and I—and all of us—have something in common. We all know what it feels like to be misunderstood, or to have something so incredibly important reduced to the one thing that's easy to pick apart. So often, we look at that one thing we don't understand or the choice we wouldn't have made (or the chapter we wouldn't have written), and suddenly that's the only thing we can see. And then we shake our heads and close our eyes to something that might have been beautiful.

Maybe we saw a quote we didn't like about someone supporting something we don't agree with, so we cheat ourselves of the chance to admire someone who gave their all to being kind. Maybe we know there's a one-page sex scene, so we cheat ourselves of finding joy and meaning in four hundred pages of everyday blessings meant to encourage and uplift and inspire.

I think that's why I'm so grateful for my readers. They're men and women from all ages and all walks of life. They believe different things, come from different backgrounds, and each one relates to stories differently—but regardless of labels and categories, the thing that brings them together as readers is their willingness to look for the part that feels like it was written just for them. The chapter that makes them see themselves with more compassion. The snippet of dialogue that teaches them something they weren't aware of before. And yes, sometimes even the paragraphs that draw them deeper than the skin revealed in a sex scene.

Because I may be a glow-in-the-dark white girl, but my kitchen is full of flavor and I want my books to be that way too. I want my characters to feel real and their stories to leave readers feeling seen. I hope every reader finishes the last page feeling grateful because something touched them, not because the story pretends that everything is good, but because it notices when not everything was bad.

Sometimes, whether it's in a book or not, gratitude is being able to look at a life that didn't quite go according to plan...and realizing that in the end, the lessons we learned were worth the chapters we lived through.

Besides, reality is too zesty to write without at least a little "spice."

*****

Sometimes gratitude comes from unexpected places. Maybe you find yours in make-up and rhinestones, like Dolly. Maybe you find it in stories that help you understand or express things you've struggled to appreciate before, like me. Most often though, I think we find it hidden in unexpected moments of personal reflection—those sudden flashes of recognition that spark so quickly they're easy to miss.

I'm not grateful for every hard thing I've lived through, and I'm not going to romanticize pain just because I've survived it. But I won't ignore it either, because what I am grateful for is what grew in the aftermath. I'm grateful for a teenager who notices the water on the bathroom counter at church, and takes the time to clean it up. I'm grateful for people who encourage my progress without wondering why I'm not "there" yet. I'm grateful for the secret blessings so precious I can't bring myself to share them, like hidden jewels kept in the privacy of my own heart.

And maybe that's the part we get wrong about gratitude. Maybe instead of struggling to look at everything we've been given and declaring it all as good, we just need to stop and recognize the good we've been given, regardless of where it came from. Because we don't need to sanitize life in order to be grateful for it, and the truth is, we don't have to list our blessings or try to outline everything that comes next. Maybe all it takes is a little mindfulness, a little hot coffee, a little nod to the ordinary blessings we usually overlook, and the willingness to...

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The Magic of Looking Back

So much of what I write these days centers on personal growth and learning from the past, but growth and change depend greatly on trusting yourself and finding confidence in who you are. And I think sometimes we drive too hard toward the future.

Maybe it's because the past often comes with shame. Looking back, we focus on the string of mistakes, and we haunt our present selves with the things we should've done but didn't—or the things we shouldn't have done but did anyway. Too often, we believe that examining the past must mean accepting the regret.

Maybe for you, the past comes with anxiety. It's a list of all the things you wish you'd done, or wish you'd done sooner. Or better. It fills the present with pressure and the future with fear. But what if your personal reflection of the past is only a teacher preparing the present you for what the future you might be proud of? What if the lessons from the past are really just lessons for the future?

Last week, I wrote about what it's like to dig back into The Selkie Trilogy so long after it began. I've been a writer all my life, but that first novel was the first story I'd ever finished...so imagine the joy of completion when I published it, promoted it, and began to watch the sales roll in. Imagine the surprise when I realized the story wasn't truly finished at all, but was only the beginning of a grand adventure for Annie and Malik. Imagine the devastation of life hitting hard and having to watch that series fall, unfinished, by the wayside.

Today I'd like to share the absolute wake-up-early excitement that settles fresh every morning, in the place where rewriting a novel and rediscovering old work come together.

When I first came back to writing, I was expecting to notice creative growth because even when I wasn't publishing, I was still writing. Little scenes and snippets of dialogue. Occasional ideas for characters or plots. Blog posts I didn't share, poems I scribbled in the quiet moments of emotional turmoil. Devotionals and journals no one has ever seen.

My writing journey didn't end just because my author journey got stuck on pause, and in the years of public silence, I was privately becoming a better writer.

And then I went digging through The Freedom Series. I revised and expanded Fighting For Freedom, taking notes along the way, preparing to write Still Fighting For Freedom. And there were so many times when I sat alone during that process, face to face with my own growth as a writer. Not because the original version wasn't good enough or because I was no longer proud of it, but because I could see where my style had shifted and my technique had matured.

With the Freedom Series now complete, the next step is to finish the Selkie Trilogy, which will begin with Selkie's second edition, follow with Selkie II's second edition, and then wrap with Selkie III's debut. And what I'm noticing most vividly in this walk through these books is how they boost my creative confidence.

Are there scenes I'm rewriting? Absolutely. Is there dialogue that makes me cringe? For sure. But oh, the bones of this story, you guys. The nod to ancient Selkie folklore is so solid. The connective chemistry of the character cast is undeniable. The foreshadowing is on point. The curiosity and suspense are everything I would have wanted them to be.

There was a moment when I sat back and stared at the screen, wondering if maybe this was evidence that I hadn't grown at all, after all. That maybe fifteen years ago, I was already as good as I was going to get. And I'll be honest, I kind of psyched myself out. What if I can't live up to this when it comes time for the third book, when the whole story depends on strong world-building? What if young me had some kind of skill or ability that faded over time, like the red in my hair as it shifts toward streaks of silver?

The thing about true courage is that it's open.

So I talked with a friend and I put it all on the table. The shame I felt over versions of past-me who couldn't juggle a decade of crisis and open discouragement while writing anyway. The fear of a future-me who couldn't live up to the hype present-me was trying to rebuild.

And this friend looked me dead in the eyes and said, "Stop it. Look at what you did back then." They said, "Look at what you carried. When the seed of writing was planted in dead soil and utterly starved for nutrients, look how you watered it."

And they were right. Because in early mornings when the sun hadn't risen yet, I was pouring words onto paper. Still practicing my craft in small ways, even when big things didn't seem possible. In late afternoons when the sun beat down and the heat felt unbearable, I was there, shading precious growth in stolen moments with my phone in my hand, fertilizing not only a dream but a set of skills I still hoped would bloom.

The plant, once sprouted, cannot help but look different from the seed it sprouted from. And yes, sometimes plants need change. We move them, we shade them, we warm them, we prune them, all in the hope of shaping something to be proud of.

In my home, there are currently five large plants—or six, depending on how you look at it. One of them is a pair of miniature pepper plants that grew by accident. A spinach seed failed, but in the fertile compost this pair of peppers sprouted with no one's permission, simply doing what seeds are meant to do. And while I grieved the spinach failure, I'm still celebrating the peppers almost two years later.

Another is a lemon sapling grown from a grocery store lemon seed, a nearly three-year-old experiment that lives in an artificially sunny corner of my office. I don't know if I will ever make lemonade from its fruit because I've never grown a tree before, and I have no idea what I'm doing...but it's two feet tall and its reedy little trunk is finally starting to branch. When I look for evidence of growth and success, it's there in the baby leaves slowly opening. It's there in mature leaves covered in waxy shine. And if I cut one of those leaves and crush it, success wafts from the mortar in shades of citrus.

My daughter is like that (both of them actually, but only one lives at home now), too. Fed and watered and carefully nurtured to maturity, my youngest is approaching eighteen years old. She's thinking of college and career choices and what it will be like to have what she calls, "adult money." She thinks of learning to drive and finding a partner and someday creating a home of her own, and I can't cut leaves from her branches. But when I look for evidence of growth and success, I see it in her brilliance. I see it in the way she works so hard to overcome the limitations of Autism. I see it in her concern, not only for her own future, but in her gratitude and concern for mine.

And that fifth—or sixth, depending on your pepper perspective? Well, I guess that plant is me.

*****

My point is, I'm still growing too. And while it's true that sometimes we look backward because we're stuck, sometimes we look backward because we've finally grown enough to appreciate what we couldn't see before.

In the trauma of my childhood, I could never have predicted the rise of a strong and at-least-mostly confident woman. In the rebellion of my teen years, I'd have laughed at anyone who told me someday I'd be a faithful Christian giving her best to what she feels is God's purpose for her life.

And in the early days of my walk as a writer, even when I could imagine a fanciful picture of a shelf full of books with my name on them...I would never have pictured the life I'm leading now, with a head full of characters waiting to be brought to life and a collection of readers who began with the man who called me Scheherazade.

Looking back will always carry evidence of failure. It will always show us the steps we missed, the opportunities we ignored, and the effort we should have put in. But beneath those things, there will also be a buried treasure of potential growth. Those missed steps may have accidentally led us directly to where we needed to be. Perhaps those opportunities we didn't take advantage of left room for other opportunities we fell in love with. Perhaps the effort we didn't have the emotional energy for is still waiting there too, fully charged and prepared to launch us toward our futures.

And maybe that's why I think it's only in looking back bravely that we find what we need to move forward, and...

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Ancient Mysteries, Family Lore

I've made no secret of the fact that my family history is a mess. In my family, most of the inherited stories we're living out—or determinedly rewriting—are more cautionary tales than motivational manifestos. And sometimes it's sad to think that if we didn't have hard stories, we wouldn't have many at all.

But what we do have is a priceless treasure trove for someone like me.

I grew up largely unaware of my genealogy, so there weren't a lot of longstanding ancestral stories to study. My father never knew who his father was, and even DNA failed to shed light on the mystery of his family. His mother was a living box of questions with no answers, a woman who denied the existence of siblings, refused to tell family stories of any kind, and even kept her birthday a secret in order to prevent my father (and later, me) from looking any deeper than the surface. All my father had were inherited traditions...and most of them were poison.

My mother never knew her father either, though we did learn about him later on through connections with family members my mother lived most of her life entirely unaware of. She did, however, have a close relationship with the man she only knew as "Dad."

My mom's side of the family had a rich oral history full of stories, and while I'm sad that so many of those ancient mysteries passed away with the people who could perhaps have shared them, there are plenty of stories still left to tell. We're a minefield of family lore, and some of my favorite memories are from moments when the adults forgot to care if the children were listening. I loved sitting in quiet corners, filled with delight as the oral traditions of my family passed, sometimes unknowingly, from one generation to the next.

And maybe that's where my love of stories really comes from. Because I think sometimes, far more than names and bloodlines, what we inherit are the stories.

The storytelling sessions I overheard as a child have become, in many ways, my best inspiration for writing. Maybe it's why I lean toward hope in women's fiction—because I saw just enough of it as a kid to believe in it, even when I couldn't believe it was there for me. Maybe it's why I love literary fantasy—because those stories blend real and imaginary in such magical ways, you can't help but lose yourself to other worlds, other lives.

Maybe together, those things are why, long before I knew about my own Irish ancestry, I could happily drench myself in mythology and folklore for hours. When other kids were at the mall, I was hidden in a quiet closet with a book. When my friends were studying how to improve eyeliner application, I was studying werewolves and magic and dragons. I was reading historical fiction that allowed me to travel through time. I was walking through worlds that brought folklore and storytelling together, long before I knew how those stories would shape the one I'm still living.

Another thing I've made no secret of? My mother was always sick. Not just dramatic and lazy, but truly sick. She'd been through some of the worst emotional and physical traumas imaginable, and I spent my childhood watching her past gnaw on her future like a slobbering beast.

In the winter of 2012, I was a young mom with two kids. My daughters were 3 and 8 years old, their dad and I shared one car between us, he was always gone to work, and I was at home with the girls. So when my mom had a serious cancer scare, I couldn't go to all the appointments. I couldn't fix the problems. I couldn't heal her. But in the quiet moments when my children would play together at my feet, I could open my laptop and write. I could immerse myself in a story.

I'd always been fascinated with Celtic folklore, as well as Scottish and Irish heritage (oh, the irony), so it seemed incredibly timely when I discovered selkie mythology that November...and I fell in love. Well, mostly.

In the old stories, Selkies are shape-shifters, seals that shed their skins and live on land as humans. In most stories, the Selkie is a female, captured by a man who steals and hides her skin, trapping her in her human form, keeping her as a wife both because she is stunningly beautiful and because Selkie-women were said to be attentive and caring mothers. The caveat? If the woman should find her skin, she will immediately abandon her human life to return to the sea.

As a woman, I couldn't stand the idea of a trapped wife (again, so much irony)—and as a mother, I couldn't imagine finding anything so enticing as to make me leave my children behind.

So as my mother went from one appointment to another, I entertained us both with these questions: What if the Selkie was a man instead of a woman? A devoted husband then, and a spectacular father? And...well, what if he wasn't trapped? What if he knew where his skin was all along...and stayed anyway? What if the power of choice makes it all even better?

In November 2012, I took what I knew of selkie folklore and flipped it on its head, writing a story about a human woman in a desperate situation. My mother loved Annie's grit and determination...and oh, how she loved Malik. His power, his gentleness, his care. And yes, his sacrifice.

I wrote and published To Love A Selkie in less than a month. I cried when I held the first paperback, and my mother cried when I gave it to her. And those moments taught me that stories passed down through generations don't only have to go one way—which is why, when Annie and Malik refused to let go, I pulled To Love A Selkie from publication and expanded it, republishing it in 2013 as simply Selkie, the first book in the Selkie Trilogy.

I've seen a lot of life in the fifteen years since then, and a lot of death. My parents are both gone now, and maybe that's part of why so many of my characters are orphans, Maybe it's why one of my favorite things to do is take those orphans and plant them in found families.

Maybe it's why I still love Annie's story so much, despite never having been able to finish the trilogy. I published Selkie II in a frenzy of personal crises, and I think the need to escape the struggle of daily life fueled so much of what I'm proud of in that story. It gave Annie adventure...and it gave me a chance to spend time in someone else's life.

But now? Life is looking good these days, and with the Freedom Series finished, I've been digging back into the Selkie story. Selkie will rerelease as a second edition in January 2027, Selkie II will rerelease as a second edition in November 2027, and then...after such a very long time, Selkie III will debut in September 2028.

It's time to see where Annie and Malik's story will take them. I hope you're ready.

*****

One thing I've learned about stories is that we don't always get to choose which ones we're written into. Sometimes they're beautiful, sometimes they hurt, and sometimes they're so full of holes and unanswered questions, you're surprised you can hold onto the pages. Sometimes you wonder if there are even enough pages left to cover all those loose ends. Either way, our stories are ours to carry. Or to change.

I've spent a lifetime collecting stories, and while many came from the books I've loved losing myself in, there are just as many that wrote themselves in quiet corners where children listen to history in the making. I've carried bits and pieces of all of them into my writing, sometimes intentionally, but often without even realizing it until years later.

Maybe that's why I love the idea that stories can be rewritten or repolished when they need to be. Not because the past didn't happen or because it doesn't matter anymore, but because the past only dictates the ending when we let it.

Selkie began with an old Celtic myth I couldn't quite accept, and in my heart, it became the possibility of a story about choice, love, sacrifice, and finding your way to a home you might never have known existed. And now, after all these years, I'm excited to pick it up again and carry it somewhere new.

I suppose that's another kind of family lore, isn't it? Stories don't always move neatly from parent to child, or from one generation to the next. Sometimes they move sideways. Sometimes they skip a generation. Sometimes they disappear entirely for a while, and only come back when someone is ready to hear them. And maybe every now and then, a story begins its journey simply, by finding its way back to the person who needed it first.

I love that Annie and Malik never stopped waiting in the background for their turn. I'm looking forward to figuring out what happens as a clan war begins, a baby gets caught in the crosshairs, and honestly? In all that excitement, I hope I can manage to...

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The Space Between

 Life transitions are weird, and while navigating change is rarely easy, I've been noticing a certain theme as the seasons of my own life shift from one to another.

There's a strange phenomenon in the reading community known as a book hangover, and this week I've had one. The Freedom Series is complete, my celebration giveaway is fast approaching 700 entries, and as Christine's story of personal growth after trauma comes to an end, I'm moving on to The Selkie Trilogy—where Annie Jacobs learns that sometimes, new beginnings show up in truly unexpected places.

The first step should have been simple, especially because the first two Selkie books have already been written. I just need to re-read them, clean up sneaky errors that might've slipped into the first editions, re-polish (and probably expand) them as I prepare for the third book, then dress them up in fancy new covers and give them back to the world.

Instead, I spent a few days staring at my computer, wrestling with the shift from Christine to Annie, almost like I've spent the last several years sitting comfortably across the table from one woman...only to look up and find a completely different woman in her place.

They both have brown hair, but one is more auburn than the other. Christine has brown eyes, while Annie's are green. One was born and raised in the Appalachian South, and the other begins her story in coastal Bar Harbor, Maine. But they have similarities, too. Both stories begin with the end of a marriage and the pain of starting over. Both are orphaned, like me. And both have helped me learn how to navigate seasons of change, simply by being willing to live in the space between them.

One or two life changes at a time often seem manageable—and sometimes they seem to happen almost without notice. Time sweeps us from winter to spring to fall and back again, and while we often notice the difference from one mid-season to another, the slow daily shift tends to sneak along, quiet degree by quiet degree.

It's why we miss the coziness of a blanket in winter, only to reach winter again and miss the kiss of a warm summer sun.

There's something about August that sets our attention more firmly on the shifting world around us, though. Maybe it's the way seemingly endless heat makes us extra cranky as we head into (or out of) various local and national elections. Maybe it's the humid stickiness of summer's last hurrah, or the early stress of increasingly prevalent holiday-season countdowns.

For me, it's always the start of a new school year, complete with mandated shopping lists and fees that make no sense and an influx of emails from my daughter's school that borders on actual spam—but this year? This year is different.

My youngest will enter her senior year of high school tomorrow morning, and I can't stop thinking about the shock on a friend's face at church this morning. "A senior," he said, stepping back in surprise. He shook his head slowly, holding one hand out, just below his sternum, and I could see him remembering. When we first met him, my youngest daughter barely reached his chest. "But she used to be..."

"I know," I said. "And just like that, she's seventeen." Across the aisle, his wife and their new sixth-grader approached, and I arched an eyebrow, grinning. "Get ready, your turn's next."

The conversation moved on as he asked about my oldest daughter, who passed her teenage years at his side, running the tech booth at our church. And as I gave him updates on her various adventures, he seemed amazed.

Life is like that sometimes. You see someone every day and they're just...them. You notice if they change their hair, if they grow a beard, if they gain or lose a partner or spouse. But you don't see them slowly growing inch by inch, and you don't notice the steady deepening of a newly established wrinkle. Until something changes so dramatically that it shakes your perspective, forcing you to recognize the passage of time.

I notice it most with my oldest, who spent a few days with us this week, unknowingly reigniting the strange dichotomy of 20-inch baby girl and 63-inch young woman. So much the same in face and temperament, but now truly a person in her own right, with friends I don't always know and a life I'm not always privy to.

My friend asked what it's like, and I laughed as I answered, because the truth is both completely honest and completely ridiculous at the same time. "I don't know how to have an adult child," I said. "I'll keep you updated."

And maybe that's what it's all about, anyway. Maybe embracing change doesn't have to mean knowing what to do with it right away. We like to assume that when something changes, the old version of our lives ends, the new one begins, and somewhere in the middle of everything, life owes us an instruction manual.

But it doesn't. Sometimes you just wake up one day and discover that your last little baby is nearly grown. Or that the first one to call you "Mommy" suddenly has a whole life you only see in bits and pieces. Or that the story your heart revolved around is finished, and the next one is still patiently waiting.

You don't stop loving the good parts of the old season, and it's okay if there's a part of you that isn't quite ready for the new one.

Maybe the space between isn't so much about finding peace in change as it is about the courage to keep moving forward anyway—not because we've figured out what to do when life is changing, but because it's perfectly normal to feel uncertain as we study the climate of the season to come.

*****

In many ways, the hardest part of any transition in life is accepting change that refuses to tell the whole story. Anyone who knows me has heard me joke about "what I wouldn't give to get a peek at God's planner..." but the truth is, sometimes all we can do is trust the process, no matter how unsteady that process feels.

Sometimes we dance through changes that feel like music. Other times, all we can do is lower our heads and walk bravely into the coming storm. And while I'm sure we'd all rather be dancing (yes, even those of us with knees that have popped it, dropped it, and unfortunately locked it), sometimes we grow best when we realize that we don't have to stand on the edge of change, waiting to be "ready."

This week, I formally began the work on my next book, months later than I originally intended to. Last year's psychotic scheduling upended my writing routine, and while I'm proud to have gotten things done at least mostly on time, there were days when I wasn't sure I'd be able to get everything back to where it needed to be. And still, here I am, slowly sinking back into the delicious adventure that is Annie's story. The January re-release is looming on the horizon of my life, and even if getting there looks different than I'd thought it would, I'm looking forward to seeing Selkie reach new readers.

I'm also learning that sometimes, embracing new beginnings means celebrating the lessons that come with endings. My current giveaway started with a bucket of yarn, a hook, a story, and an idea, and as I watch the entry numbers climb, I'm excited to see it become something bigger than I was brave enough to imagine.

My motherhood journey is changing too, with one daughter learning what it means to be an adult, and the other somehow simultaneously a high-school senior and a precious ten-pound, cantaloupe-headed baby.

I still don't know what to do with that. And maybe I don't have to.

I don't think the space between seasons is a problem to solve. Maybe it's simply the space where we learn to move differently—to loosen our grip on what has been, pay attention to what is, and step into whatever comes next. The future doesn't need us to arrive with a planned itinerary. It just needs us to arrive, still standing, and still willing to...

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What Happens After "The End"

I recently spent several months crocheting a blanket for someone I've never met. It's the crocheted version of a quilt, with 750 tiny granny squares in a rainbow of colors, joined together in stark black that makes every color bolder than they could've been on their own. I prayed over every loop and swirl as I wove roughly 35,000 individual stitches into something beautiful.

Because this crochet blanket was never for me and I knew that before I ever tied the first slipknot—but it's a reminder of how we write the stories of our lives. One choice, one day, one moment at a time. And it's only when we look back that we see the pattern, where every choice we've made is just another stitch in the fabric.

I made it while I finished editing and finalizing STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM, the second book in the Freedom Series. And in between stitches, I collected little things that reminded me of Christine and her story—a bookmark, a recipe, a candle, a mug. Little things that might seem ordinary on their own, but together become tangible evidence of a story that escaped the limits of paper and ink.

The Freedom Series started as a tribute to my mother, who never got to experience the type of community and post-traumatic growth portrayed in Christine's story. But as Christine became so much more than a character in a book, what she left me with is a deep realization of how much stories matter. I ached with her, cried with her, learned from her, grew through her. And now, I'm not sure I'll ever be the same.

It's easy to think we begin as blank pages because we're born needing help for everything. We can't feed ourselves, clean ourselves, or even move from one place to the next on our own, but we're all born with inherited stories already written in our DNA. From the colors of our eyes to the tones of our skin, we can't help but echo pieces of the people who came before us.

And that's before the pages of our lives begin to fill with family legends, before the darkness of heartbreak stains the paper, before our stories are colored by the strength of survival. Before life stories turn into faith stories or success stories or inspirational tales of Adventures on the Struggle Bus. Sometimes we get to live stories we're proud of, and we walk through life collecting the creases of chapters spent in laughter. Sometimes our stories leave us dog-eared and wounded, and healing only comes with the turning of a page we weren't quite finished reading yet.

And sometimes we find ourselves living stories we're desperate to learn something meaningful from, lest in ignorance, we live that chapter over again.

I think the greatest purpose of a story doesn't have anything to do with whether it's remembered. Maybe a story is most truly successful when it reminds us that we're worth remembering too, and maybe in this, stories and blankets have more in common than most people realize. After all, neither can reach the fullness of its potential while folded up in a closet.

Maybe the best stories write themselves on our hearts because they don't end when the book does—they simply find new places inside us to keep living. First born in the writer and then raised to something new in the reader, the books that stay with us remind us of how every chapter matters. They stay when storytelling plants a seed of gratitude or understanding that wasn't there before, leaving storyprints like fingermarks, lingering in lessons learned and highlighted quotes to keep for later.

They remain long after the pages have turned. And when we're lucky, they become relationships that help us figure out who we are, regardless of where we're from.

Stories have taught me that love can still be real, even when it doesn't look the way we thought it would. They've taught me that no hero is ever all good, and no villain is ever all bad—and that depth really does make the difference. They taught me to look deeper at the roles I play as mother, as teacher, as mentor. And yes, they taught me to pay better attention in the chapters where I am the student.

That's why I've never been interested in simply selling stories. I've always wanted to share the things those stories have grown into. And it's why what I'm giving away in this blanket is more than yarn. It's why the signed books tucked into these carefully stitched folds are so much more than ink and paper. It's why I tested the recipe so many times before I created the card for Violet's Elisi Casserole.

And it's why the giveaway that begins tomorrow morning means so much to me.

It's more than just the chance to win books or a blanket or a few comforting trinkets, and it's more than cook time on a delicious new recipe filled with warmth and the flavors of fall. It's a chance for me to place something tangible into someone else's hands and say, "Thank you for making room for my story."

For someone, it's a few afternoons spent reading under the comfort of something handmade. Maybe it's the warmth of a cup of tea or the scent of a candle burning in the corner. Maybe it's the quiet sound of pages turning, the gasp of surprise as a particular scene unfolds, or the anticipation that overrides a readers need for sleep.

For me, it's the acknowledgement of a blessing. Because every email you've sent, every comment you've left, every chapter you've read has reminded me of something I hope I never forget: Stories matter because the people matter. Mine. Yours. All of them. And if my words have ever helped you feel even a little less alone, this giveaway can only be the smallest glimpse of the comfort you've given me.

*****

Maybe the real power of stories is the way they remind us even on the very last pages that endings are rarely as final as they seem.

A book closes, a season changes, and a chapter of life comes to an end, but the connections between readers and writers are still becoming something that sustains us long after the story is over. The things we carry forward—the lessons, the laughter, the courage, the reminders that we aren't alone—those things are still standing, still writing themselves into who we are.

I've spent a lot of time thinking about the stories that shaped and challenged and comforted me. The ones that gave me language for things I didn't recognize yet or couldn't explain on my own.

The simple truth is, the stories we love don't just entertain us. They leave fingerprints on our hearts, shaping us into something we weren't before. Maybe that's why stories matter, why the reading community has always felt like home to me, and why I love creating things that can be shared. It doesn't matter whether it's a book, a recipe, or a blanket made from thousands of tiny stitches. In the end, those things are just reminders that something made with love always travels further than we expected.

So whether you enter the giveaway or not, I hope you close this post feeling seen. Because your story doesn't have to be perfect to matter, and it's okay if some of your chapters are hard to read. What means the most is the certainty that every page is part of the person you're becoming—and The End is never truly the end.

Sometimes it's just the place where your story starts to live somewhere new. Because stories are never meant to stop with the storyteller, no matter how many times she tells you to...

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