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I took the longer road one morning. The prettier one. The road that winds a bit— asks a little more patience, but whispers something lovely the whole way through. And that morning, it whispered in fog. Let me back up. I take a road trip each week – two hours

I have this image of my old dry bones, sitting cross-legged on the floor— not broken, exactly—just bewildered. Rocking gently. Whispering, “What just happened?” Like maybe, if I rinse the same memory a few more times, it’ll finally come out clean. But it never does. So I wring it out

Somewhere along the way, I started believing the lie that survival means success. That breathing means winning. That if I stopped crying, stopped falling apart, stopped repeating old patterns I’d be okay. My life was full of betrayal, sexual assault, abuse, abandonment, addiction, and grief, and with that came whole

“You are weirdly excited” are the words my husband uttered as I set up this cute little power lift recliner in my bedroom. I had gotten the chair in preparation for the recovery from a complete open heart surgery. He was deeply concerned about the impending procedure and didn’t understand

If you were not with us at our My Story, Our Table event in February, I wish you could have been so that you could have heard the heart of our precious speaker, Jamey Ory. I can in no way do it justice but let me share a few snippets.

It’s no secret that the Pacific Northwest is my favorite place to visit. I love long barefoot walks on cool beaches, the sounds of the waves and the smell of the salt air. When you walk along the water’s edge, the waves lap up erasing your footprints. No evidence remains