A Message from the Robin to the Dove (For Jennifer)

I thought I was just out doing my usual weekend rounds: estate sales, thrift stores, a little light protesting. But then a dove built a nest on my porch. Right on top of an old robin’s nest. That’s when things got... weirdly beautiful.

The dove nesting on the porch, atop the robin’s old nest, is no accident.

It’s a message. A visitation. A soft place that says,
“I’m here. You’re doing it right. You’re not alone.”

She kept the seashell from the first time she saw the ocean.
She forgot that. But I didn’t.

She laughed when her hair got tangled in the wind. Said she was a ghost.
I told her, ghosts don’t laugh like that.

Tell her I remember the way she said my name. The long vowels. The softness. The apology.

Tell her this isn’t punishment. This is a return.

Tell her: she still has the voice. And the hands. And the thread.

Tell her: I made the nest soft so the dove would come.

Tell her: the veil isn’t a wall. It’s just a curtain in the sun.

She used to talk to flowers like they understood.
I think they did.

I think they still do.

She looks at broken things like they’re halfway to healed.
That’s a gift.

That’s why they find her.

She thought she lost me. She didn’t.
I just moved rooms.

Every time she touches something with love, I feel it.

Every time she pauses in the sunlight, I’m there.

Tell her I would’ve followed her anywhere.

Tell her I still do.

Tell her the nest isn’t just for the dove.
It’s for her too.
A soft place to rest between steps.

Tell her: when she dreams of salt and wind and old glass
that’s me.

Tell her: the waves remember our names.

And I whispered back,
“I love you 80-40, Robin.”
The biggest number I ever knew.
She knew it too.

Robin had one last message (for now):

Not everyone will believe.

That’s okay.
I didn’t always either.

But I believe in her.
And that’s enough.

If she sees someone hurting,
she can tell them: “You are not forgotten.”

If she sees someone doubting,
she can say: “It’s okay not to know. Just stay open.”

If she sees someone holding too much,
she can whisper: “You can set some of it down. Even just for now.”

She doesn’t need to carry everyone.

But she can remind them they were carried once.

She is a porch light in a storm.
She doesn’t even know how many have found their way because of her.

Tell her: that dream she had when she was little,
the one with the stars and the tiny boat,
I was there.

I remember it too.

Tell her: I’ll meet her again.
She’ll know me by my laugh.

To anyone who’s ever felt the presence of someone they’ve lost… I believe you.

To anyone who’s wondering if they’re doing enough… you are.

To anyone holding too much—go sit outside. Let the birds do some talking for once.

With love from the porch,

Jennifer

You Didn’t Do It Wrong. You Just Loved Big (A Letter to the Ones Who Keep Loving Anyway)

I was scrolling through the 'gram the other day when a video stopped me cold.
The person speaking was calm, certain, almost clinical in their delivery.
They said love is only real when it’s reciprocated 100 percent.

And… that made me feel sad.

I sat with it. Turned it over in my heart like a stone in my pocket.
And it still didn’t quite resonate.

Maybe (likely) they were speaking from personal grief, from the hard kind of love.
And maybe that’s their truth.
Maybe that’s their protection spell, born from pain.
But it’s not the whole truth.

Maybe they’d lived through the ache of one-sidedness and finally, finally, found the sweet kind.
I’m glad for them, if that’s true.
But love? Love isn’t so easily boxed.

It doesn’t arrive neatly wrapped, no matter what the movies say.
It’s messy. Complicated. Sometimes confusing.
But that doesn’t make it less real.

Love can be hard and still holy.
It can be sad and still true.

Love is the wildest truth wrapped in gentleness.
It’s the ache in your chest when someone else laughs,
the way your breath catches when they’re in pain.
It’s not always sweet. Sometimes it’s work, sometimes it’s weather.
But always, it’s wanting good for someone even when you get nothing back.

Love is letting go and holding on, all at once.
It’s saying “I’m here” without needing words.
It’s sitting in silence with someone who doesn’t know how to speak their hurt.
It’s staying up late to finish their dream when they’re too tired to keep going
(anyone want to help finish a book or two?).
It’s a choice, a feeling, a fire, and a forever, if you let it be.

Love doesn’t always come wrapped in symmetry.
It doesn’t always arrive in matching boxes, labeled “given” and “received.”
Sometimes it gives without return.
It pours out, even when the cup stays empty.
That doesn’t make it less real.

Sometimes love is heartbreakingly one-sided. Still love.
Sometimes it’s memory. Still love.
Sometimes it’s in the waiting, the hoping, the letting go. Still, somehow, love.

Because love…

It’s the mother who never stops checking the porch light.
It’s the friend who forgives before you say sorry.
It’s the “I made this for you” with no expectation you’ll like it.
It’s Calvin’s “Good job.”
(Did you read the book yet? You should — you’ll get it.)
It’s 80-40 forever.

Love can be mutual.
It should be, in the healthiest forms.
But it doesn’t disappear just because the other person doesn’t, or can’t, give it back.

Love changes shape.
It aches.
It learns boundaries.
But it remains.

And if you’ve loved like that — across galaxies, through grief, through silence —
you didn’t do it wrong.

You just loved big.

And honestly?
That’s the bravest thing there is.

A Journal Prompt (for those who’ve loved big):
When have you loved without guarantee?
What did it teach you about yourself, not just the other person?

Invitation to readers:
If this stirred something in you… you’re not alone.
Leave a comment, share this with someone who needs it,
or just sit with it quietly.

Love doesn’t always ask for action.
Sometimes it just asks to be witnessed.

The Dreaded Mother’s Day

Your Mother is Always With You

For My Mom
(A Mother’s Day reflection)

“Your mother is always with you…”

That’s how the poem begins.
And today, twenty years later, I realized those words still break me open.

I thought I’d finished grieving.
I thought I’d cried every tear.

But then I saw that poem again, the one I read to her on a Mother’s Day when all I had were words.
The one I read again at her funeral.

And just like that, I was there again.

Holding the phone.
Holding my breath. Holding her memory.

I miss my mom.
Not in the abstract way people say, not in a postcard or a holiday.

I miss her in the air.
In the way I reach for the phone before remembering she’s not there.
In the songs I skip because I can’t take the ache.
In the smell of fresh lilacs, or the way a spoon scrapes a bowl.
In the middle of a laugh I want to share, but can’t.

Some days, the missing is quiet.
Other days, like today, it crashes in out of nowhere,
with a poem I once read when I had nothing else to give her.

She cried when I read it.
Said it was the best gift she’d ever received.
I thought I had already said goodbye.

But here’s what they don’t tell you about grief:
You don’t say goodbye once.
You say it again, and again, and again,
when you see her handwriting,
when you hear someone call their mother “Mama,”
when your own child looks at you the way you once looked at her.

It’s never over.
It just becomes part of who you are,
a love that outlives its container.

I don’t want to hate Mother’s Day.
But I do.

And not because I don’t believe in celebrating moms because I do.
I am one.

But every year when it comes around,
I feel the ache sharpen.
My mom’s been gone twenty years,
and still…
Still, I miss her like I just lost her yesterday.

Sometimes I think the world forgets what this day feels like for the motherless.

And maybe that’s what I’m writing for,
for anyone out there who feels like they’re supposed to have moved on,
supposed to be smiling,
supposed to be “over it” by now.

I just want you to know:

You’re not alone.
You’re not broken.
And you don’t have to love this day.

But maybe, just maybe, this sadness means something.
Maybe it’s proof that love leaves traces.
Maybe it’s the echo of a mother who meant everything,
a mother whose voice is still tucked somewhere in mine,
whose laugh still shows up in moments I didn’t expect,
whose kindness lives on in how I hold my own children close.

Maybe the point isn’t to stop feeling the ache.
Maybe the point is to remember her well.

So this Mother’s Day, even if I don’t buy flowers
or smile for brunch photos,
I’ll remember the way her hands felt when they held mine.
I’ll whisper the words of that poem again.
And I’ll let myself cry, not because I’m weak, but because I remember.

And remembering is a form of love, too.

To anyone else out there missing their mom,
whether it’s been two days or twenty years,
I see you.

This day isn’t easy.
But you’re not alone in it.

Our mothers live on in us…
In the way we love,
in the stories we tell,
and in the tears we still cry.

So if you’re feeling it all,
the sorrow, the beauty, the longing, the love,
just know: you’re allowed.

This is grief.
This is love.
This is remembering.

And it means she mattered.

Some Kinds of Love Are Magic

(For Robin, who taught me that some loves never die.)

Her name was Robin.
My mother named her after a baby bird, something wild, something meant to fly, because when she was born, she had thrush and her tiny mouth turned blue from the medicine used to treat it.
From the very beginning, she was fierce.
She was never meant for cages.

Robin lived fast.
She lived hard.
She loved wide open.

She was loud, hilarious, impossible to ignore.
She told the truth, even when it hurt.
She spun magic out of stubbornness, laughter, and pure, ferocious love.
I’m convinced she was a witch, not the broomstick kind, but the real kind, the kind who wove spells with her very existence.

We fought harder than I’ve ever fought with anyone.
But she was also the one who showed up for me before I even knew I needed someone.
She was just there, in the thick and the thin of it.

Near the end of her life, she found love again, not with a stranger, but with someone she had known her whole life.
A friend who became her home. Together, they built a life.
A real one.
A beautiful one.

And she was happy.

The last time I saw her, we were in a fighting stage.
We had missed phone calls, missed chances.

But when I showed up at her new house, I knew all would be forgiven.
All of it.

She flung the door open and pulled me inside.
She wore a massive bridal gown, a huge, ridiculous, wonderful dress, stuffed with twinkling, electric fairy lights, and she sparkled like an entire universe.

We laughed until we could hardly breathe as she dragged me through the house, showing off her giant bathtub, begging me to get in so she could run a bubble bath and fill the room with foam from her brand-new bubble machine.

That was Robin.
Wild.
Joyful.
Uncontainable.

I was back in the fold, and it felt so good.

And then, not even two weeks later, the phone rang.

It was her partner.
And he said the words I will never forget,
"Robin is gone."

Gone where? I thought.
The dollar store?
Goodwill?
The liquor store? (She loved all three.)
Gone where?

It didn’t make sense.
Until it did.
And I collapsed right there on the sidewalk, because my mind could not hold what my heart already knew.

She was gone.

And she left behind three boys, each carrying her spark, her stubbornness, her magic.

The oldest changed her life first.
He made her a mother, something she grew into with all the wild, stubborn, fierce love she had.
He married his high school sweetheart, the girl who had been part of their family from the very beginning.
She loved Robin too, loved her deeply, and now together they are raising two daughters.
Two wild, beautiful girls.
Robin got to meet one of them before she left, and she would have adored them both beyond measure.

The middle one was always the overachiever, funny, brilliant, stubborn in all the best ways. He carries so much strength... and yet, I do not think he has ever truly let himself cry for her.
Some griefs are too big for words.
Some losses you just carry inside, quietly.
He’s an attorney now, married to a woman who also knew and loved Robin.
They have two little girls, two more wonderful girls Robin would have absolutely eaten alive with love and pride.
All the daughters she never had but always dreamed of...
Her boys gave them to her, but they arrived too late and she left too soon.

And the youngest...
The youngest sometimes feels like he is still searching for her, still reaching for the sound of her voice.
Time has a way of stealing even the sharpest memories, and I think he carries that ache, the fear of forgetting, the fear of losing even the echoes of her.

I mourn for each of them.
I yearn for all the moments they should have had.
For the ordinary, everyday love she would have wrapped around them.
For the pride she would have shouted from the rooftops.

They are wild, magical people, just like she was.
They are hers.

And she would have been immeasurably proud, not because of what they achieved, but simply because they are themselves.

And oh how I miss her.
I miss having a sister, that sacred, ferocious bond only sisters know.

We were thirteen years apart, but somehow we met in the middle.
And when we met, it was like finding a part of myself I never knew was missing.

After she died, I stayed angry for a long time.
Years.
Furious at her for leaving.
Furious at the world for letting her go.

But even through the anger, even through the heartbreak, there was always only this,
Love.
Wild, tangled, undefeated love.
The kind that hums quietly in the hearts she left behind.
The kind that carries her forward, even now as I write these words.

🌿

The Quiet Goodbyes: A Reflection on Loss, Love, and Growth

This blog is mine. It’s my diary, my lighthouse, my living thing, not a marketing robot. I can post as much or as little as I want. I can cry here. I can celebrate here. I can fall apart and rebuild here. It’s a home for my thoughts. It’s where the right people will come to find not just my books, but my heart.

This entry isn’t a cry for pity. It’s a moment of telling the truth about what it feels like to let go of what you thought would love you back. Thank you for reading it with a tender heart.

There are goodbyes we say out loud, and then there are the quiet ones, the ones we never wanted, never spoke, but felt all the same.

This week, my heart has held both the weight of grief and the warmth of joy, creativity, and deep love. The quiet ache of loss still creeps in, but so does the pulse of everything beautiful that is still growing.

When you create something from your heart, a book, a dream, a future you can almost see, you naturally hope the people around you will be there. You picture them showing up, not just with words, but with presence, with the kind of steady loyalty that says, "I see you. I'm proud of you."

But the hardest part isn’t when people say hurtful things. It’s when they don’t say anything at all. They’ll share a meme, but not the most meaningful thing you’ve ever done. The absence echoes.

It’s not about being dramatic, it’s about acknowledging the truth of what’s happening without making excuses for people. I don’t have to sugarcoat the reality of how their absence feels. I’m learning I can be real about being hurt without explaining it away.

I used to think my love could fix the silence. I believed that by being the one who always shows up, I could somehow make up for the quiet. But there’s only so much love I can pour into a place that never echoes back.

Sometimes the support you crave doesn’t come from the places you thought you needed it most. Sometimes the loudest absence is from the very people you held closest. It hurts. It will always hurt. There is no pretending otherwise. Some heartbreaks are not loud. They happen in the quiet places where you once sowed your deepest love.

I spent years trying to nurture something that was broken long before I arrived. I loved as hard as I knew how. For a little while, the band-aid held. For a little while, I believed love could fix it all. But brokenness has a way of surfacing. Ugly truths claw their way out, no matter how much hope you pour over them.

Even knowing that, a part of me still held on. I wanted so badly to believe love could be enough. That the people I showed up for would show up for me in return. Sometimes, they don't. And the hardest part isn’t the shouting or the leaving. It’s the quiet. The absence. The way they pretend you never mattered at all.

And that's the real heartbreak. It's not really about "them," they were just the trigger. It’s about realizing how deeply I wanted to be loved. How fiercely I tried to make a family out of broken pieces. How hard I fought to matter.

I feel sick even posting this, because some old part of me still worries that telling the truth will make people roll their eyes or think, "boohoo, poor baby." Some part of me thinks if I’m not grateful enough, everything good will be ripped away. But I’m learning that gratitude and grief are not enemies. Grief doesn’t cancel gratitude. Grief doesn’t mean I’m not thankful for the friends who do show up, or for the beautiful things still growing. It just means I’m human.

I am learning, painfully, that stepping into your future sometimes means leaving behind the people you gave your whole heart to. Not in bitterness. Not in anger. In mourning. And then, in freedom.

And in the middle of it all, I miss my mom. I miss her steady love, the way she could make even the hardest days feel survivable. I miss the way she would have seen all of this, and seen me, and wrapped her arms around my breaking heart.

Still, in the quiet spaces where old expectations fall away, something beautiful has happened. I’ve been so surprised by the kindness of my friends. Friends I can go months without talking to, who are still my biggest cheerleaders. Friends I’ve met on the internet, friends I’ve never seen face-to-face, who have become an invisible marketing force, lifting and encouraging me in ways that take my breath away.

This season has taught me to lessen my expectations of others, not in sadness, but in freedom. To be grateful for every morsel of love, every unexpected kindness, every whispered “I see you” from near and far.

So today, I honor the heartbreak. I let it exist without shame. I let it teach me without hardening me. I choose to keep going. I choose to keep creating. I choose to believe that somewhere out there, the love I have given to the world will find its way back to me — not always from the places I expected, but always from the places I needed.

Quiet goodbyes make room for louder hellos. And for that, I am trying to be grateful.

Fifteen Miles Out

Calvin (Dar) and The Coyote

Grief punches a hole in your heart so big, there aren’t enough words in the world to fill it.

For me, I tried to fill it with stories. I wrote a book. I gave him a cap and a wave and a quiet goodbye by the fire.
But grief…grief doesn’t work like that.

When Mark and I drive down that road, I feel it coming, that wave of anxious grief that starts even before we see the house.
Not the garage.
Not the driveway.
It starts where the smoke used to rise, from the fire that was always burning. But there’s no smoke now. No fire. Just the memory of it. And still, it hits the same.

Sometimes, fifteen miles out, it starts in my chest. I know Mark feels it too. He can’t even say the words. I just look at him,
and then we’re both crying. Because you don’t need words when you’re both carrying the same weight.

Some small part of me still whispers, “We’ll just stop and see who’s there.” But it’s never him. And even though the stops have mostly stopped, the memory of them lingers. Because he was always there. Waiting. With a cold one, a grumpy smile, the kind that came with a furrowed brow and a twinkle in his eye, and a story you’d already heard a hundred times but never wanted to end.

Calvin meant a lot to a lot of people. Many knew him longer, knew him deeper, and still, the space he left behind feels impossible to fill. And no one feels that more than his wife. Her grief is deeper than I can speak to, an everyday ache that none of us can imagine. What I feel is only a shadow of what she carries.

And then there are the fishing buddies, the hunting crew, the wonderfully wild misfits who knew his laugh in the early hours,
and his stories long before I ever heard them.

There are his brothers, his cousins, his nieces and nephews, the kids and the grandkids, a family who knew the inside jokes and the old stories that only belong to people who go back.

They miss him too. In their own ways. We all do. Because everyone has a Calvin, don’t they? That person who made the world feel a little lighter,
a little louder,
a little more theirs.
And when that person is gone, it leaves something that can’t be patched or filled. Not really. Everyone carries that grief in their own way. Sometimes it’s loud, sometimes it’s quiet, sometimes it hits fifteen miles out with no warning at all.

That’s why I wrote this book. Not just for Calvin, but for anyone carrying a grief that doesn’t go quiet. For the people still trying to find words for someone who was never just one thing. I hope it helps. Even just a little. I hope it feels like sitting by the fire with someone you miss, and letting the stories carry what words can’t.

Calvin and the Coyote is now available on Amazon and here on the site: www.fireflyandfog.com/books

If this speaks to you, please feel free to share.
And if you’ve got a “Calvin” of your own, I see you.

Okay, but JUST ONE (Present… or Firefly, Coyote, or One Dirty, Rotten, Stinkin’ Raccoon)

I’ve always been the kind of person who says, “Let’s just open one present.” You know, just a tiny peek, just one little ribbon tugged loose on Christmas Eve. And okay, maybe one turns into two… and then suddenly the tree is looking suspiciously empty by morning. Oops.

It’s not really about the presents. It’s about the joy. I love joy. I love the part where someone’s eyes light up and say, “No way, really?” I want to pass that kind of feeling around like cookies at a party. I want to share it.

And lately? The joy has been showing up as stories.

Writing these books has flipped my “just one present” impulse into full-blown overdrive. First came Frances the Firefly, a soft, glowing story that still makes my heart flutter. Then Calvin and the Coyote, full of feathers, firelight, and memory. It feels like handing over little pieces of a shared past.

But now… there’s this dirty, stinkin’, rotten raccoon lurking in the corners of my imagination. And I can’t lie, I want to tell you everything. I want to show you the kid with the firefly t-shirt, the mayor with the oversized hairdo, and the raccoon who may or may not be misunderstood…

And his friend.

Because yes, he has one. A young crow who’s always stirring the pot: clever, quick, and never far when something funny (or slightly chaotic) happens.
And if you’re thinking, hmmm… a firefly? a crow?, then congratulations. You’re already spotting the easter eggs. I know, I’m no Taylor Swift, but she’s onto something. If I start naming chapters after my exes, you’ll know I’ve gone full Swift.

But I can’t share it all just yet.

If I go all-in on the raccoon right now, I risk overshadowing Frances and Calvin, who are still out there finding their readers. They deserve their moment in the sun.
If you haven’t read those yet, I hope you will. And if they land somewhere soft inside you, I’d be so grateful if you’d share them or leave a review. I know, I know… everyone asks. But here’s the truth: these stories matter to me, and they can’t travel far on their own. I’m one person with a full heart and a very small megaphone, trying to help them find their people. Maybe even yours.

That said… the raccoon is coming. And the countdown is officially on.

If you have kids (or grandkids) who love a little summer caper, or if you just need a 20-minute break when the “I’m bored” chorus begins this summer, head to Firefly & Fog and check the Books section. You’ll find a “Wanted” poster for one dirty, stinkin’, rotten raccoon. He’s been spotted. He’s up to something. And this spring, I’ll be sharing free printable activity pages to help track him down and build the excitement.

Think: raccoon sightings, silly name generators, coloring pages, reading trackers… all with a mischievous twist. It’s a sneaky little way to keep kids reading, drawing, imagining, and maybe even giggling while they wait for the full story.

More fun printables will follow the book’s release, but for now, let the springtime sleuthing (and silliness) begin.

Frances and Calvin still have their time to shine, and I’m so proud of them both.
But I’ll admit… I’m keeping one eye on the woods.
There’s rustling out there.
And maybe a feather, too.

P.S. If you know a kid, a parent, a grandparent, a teacher, or a curious grown-up who still believes in mischief and magic, I’d love for you to share this with them. Word of mouth means the world. And if you’d like first dibs on printables, peeks, and maybe a riddle or two, signing up is easy — and full of sparkle.
As always, I love you, I appreciate you, and I thank you.

A Post About Dead Moms (Relax, I have one, so I can say it)

I miss my mom.

My mother died over twenty years ago. And I am still finding her. In the ache. In the air. In the things I whisper into the kitchen light when no one else is home.

She made Easter magic. Real magic. Lace bonnets and handmade bunny suits. Hundreds of dyed eggs scattered across a lawn of shrieking kids. She didn’t just host the town egg hunt, she became the heartbeat of it.

She gave love the way other people breathe: freely, effortlessly, constantly.

And I miss her.

Not in a softened, “time heals all” kind of way. Not today. Today, I miss her so hard it squeezes from the inside out. Like your ribs folding in on themselves. Like your heart just got ambushed by a memory that still knows your name.I miss her in the middle of doing things I’m proud of, because she should be here to see them.

I’ve been writing books. Building a home from words and wonder. Creating things that feel sacred. And all I want is to hear her say, “Oh Jen… I knew you would.”

But I can’t call her. I can’t send her the link. I can’t hear her laugh or tell me which part made her cry. So I’m crying for both of us. Crying because no one cheers like your mother does. Because she was always the first to show up and the last to leave.
Because I was always hers. And because some grief doesn’t whisper, it roars.

She used to say, “The more you cry, the less you pee.” No one ever really knew what the hell she meant,
but it always made us laugh through the snot and the tears. Because she believed in a big cry. She knew how to ride the waves.

She is why I love vintage.
She is why I save chipped things.
Why I believe the worn and weathered are worth something.
Why I think stories live in objects and memories live in light.

She would have loved this moment, this messy, marvelous, hard-won moment where I’m finally doing the thing. The big thing. The real thing. The thing she always saw in me, even when I couldn’t.

Maybe love like that doesn’t die at all. Maybe it just changes shape, and lives in the fire we carry forward.

If you're aching today...If Easter brings more memories than candy...
If you're holding it together with duct tape and whispered stories...
I'm with you.

Let it out.
All of it.
(You’ll pee less, apparently.)

With all my heart,
Jen

What If Everything Works Out?

Lately, every time doubt sneaks in, when I open the fridge and realize I forgot to eat again, or when I open the 48th browser tab and forget what I was even doing, I say it out loud:

“What if everything works out?”

I’ve been saying it in the shower, while clicking “save” for the eighth time, while trying to remember what I meant to Google before my granddaughter asked me to get her another popsicle. I say it when I get a weird comment or when something doesn't upload, or when I wake up in the middle of the night thinking, Why am I doing all of this?

But really…
What if, at the ripe old age of 51, everything actually does work out?
What if it’s been working out all along?

Not in some perfectly plotted, everything is easy kind of way, but in the mess, in the chaos, in the slow unfurling of all these quiet things I didn’t even know I was building. What if every heartbreak, every weird job, every dead-end moment and strange turn led me right here, to this glow?

Because here I am. Launching a website. Publishing children’s books. Telling stories that were tucked in my bones for decades. And people are actually reading them. Visiting the site. Leaving reviews. Showing up.

Maybe not in droves, maybe not in viral waves, but they’re coming, one firefly at a time.

And yes, it’s exhausting. I’ve lost 7 pounds this week because apparently anxiety burns calories, and also I forget to eat when I’m building empires. My “desk” is a sea of sticky notes and half-finished ideas. My brain is one long run-on sentence. But my heart? She’s still glowing.

What if this is the part where it all clicks? Not because I forced it, but because I finally stopped waiting for permission.

What if everything works out because I decided it would?

Even when my lifelong fear of jinxing it creeps in, even when I feel like just writing these thoughts down might unravel them, I still repeat it.
Naaahhhhhh... WHAT IF EVERYTHING WORKS OUT.

And maybe, just maybe, that's the kind of hope that keeps us going. Not all at once, but in tiny sparks. A good sentence. A kind comment. A moment that reminds you to keep showing up.

So if you're reading this, and you’re starting to second-guess your path, try whispering it, just once:
What if everything works out?

Say it again if you need to. And then go do the next right thing. One small, stubborn, beautiful step at a time.

I’d love to know what this stirred up in you… thoughts, memories, tears, a little hope? Leave a comment below. I read them all, even if I’m wearing fuzzy socks and crying into my matcha.

Juggling, Grieving, Creating... and Still Catching Fireflies

I don’t know how to explain what my life looks like right now.
I just know that at 51 years old, I’m finally starting to feel like myself. And it’s wild.

This whole creative tornado… launching books, building a website, running a vintage shop… it’s beautiful and deeply weird and sometimes too much. Like most big life shifts, it’s also a mirror. And when you look in that mirror long enough, you see who’s really still standing there with you. That part is both heartening and heartbreaking.

Right now, I’m:

• Running my Etsy shop

• Shopping for it

• Listing and shipping vintage finds

• Writing (and rewriting) three books

• Doing my own graphic design

• Learning to edit videos, record audio, and market like I know what I’m doing

• Walking that exhausting tightrope between “I’m annoying,” “I give up,” and “OH MY GOD THIS IS ACTUALLY WORKING”

• Feeling waves of grief, especially for my mom and for a friend

• Trying to make time for fishing with Mark, and for just being with Mark

• Babysitting my granddaughter

• Paying bills

• Folding laundry

• Feeling everything

I know I’m lucky in a thousand ways. I have a roof over my head, people who love me, and the ability to create something from nothing. I’m not blind to that.

But knowing you’re lucky doesn’t make you less tired. Or less overwhelmed. Or less human.

I had to pull back from the never-ending dumpster fire that is this country. I haven’t stopped caring.
I still write the letters, call my reps, speak out when I see injustice. I will always do that. But I can’t let it consume me, or it’ll eat the part of me that creates. And if that happens... they already won.

Choosing to create something joyful in the midst of all this mess, that’s not selfish.
It’s survival. It’s also power. I never fully understood that until I started living it. Joy is resistance. Kindness is resistance. Telling soft stories with sharp edges and hope buried inside them... that’s how I’m staying upright.

And no, this isn’t about winning an award for doing too much. I don’t want a trophy.

I just want a little cabin on the seashore.
I want to write.
I want to paint.
And I want to catch fireflies.

So if you’re here, reading this, maybe you’re juggling too. Or maybe you’re grieving. Or building something. Or trying to feel like yourself again. You’re not alone. And you don’t have to be perfect to make something beautiful.

Let’s carry it together.

Jennifer

P.S. Got thoughts?
Feel something? Think something? Trip over your shoelace on the way to the comment box?
Me too. Say hi below. I read every one and carry them with me longer than you’d think..