A pause I didn’t plan
I stopped writing for a while. Not because I ran out of words, but because life spoke louder.
When my daughter’s leg became paralyzed, everything shifted overnight. we went from one doctor to another, each visit carrying both hope and uncertainty. The house, which had just started to feel calm again after our three oldest sons moved out, suddenly became a place of waiting for answers, for healing, for a new rhythm
The house that wouldn’t settle
I had just started to clean out rooms, breathing space back into corners that had been full for years. The garden was almost finished too, until the builders next door knocked out the fence. now the view outside looks like a pause in progress, a question mark left standing in the dirt.
Inside, I was almost ready, ready to settle. Ready to start creating again.
But now we have to move, and with that comes a whole new layer of rearranging, this time with a wheelchair in mind. Every room is a new decision, every doorway a reminder that nothing stays fixed for long.
What stays when everything moves
Through all this shifting, there is one thing that never wavers.
My husband and I have been married for eighteen years now. through every version of this home, and every version of ourselves, that love remains steady. It is the quiet background to every change, the constant that keeps us grounded when the rest of life feels like a renovation in motion.
Learning to stand still
there’s something quietly grounding in all of this.
when everything changes at once, the mind has to stop holding on. you can’t plan from chaos; you can only stand where you are and feel what’s true right now.
Beginning again
Maybe that’s why i’m here again.
Not to write about control or neat endings, but about the spaces in between, the parts of life that ask for patience, kindness, and a soft kind of courage.
So here I am, dusting off words while waiting for walls to be rebuilt.
Not perfectly ready, but present enough to begin.
pause for a moment.
When life rearranges your plans, your home, or your sense of direction, what remains steady underneath it all?
Can you feel that place in you that doesn’t move, even when everything around you does?
