Idea Dust

Author: Felecia J

  • The Story I Told Myself

    Today, it’s 11:05 a.m., and the sun is still hiding behind the clouds, casting an overcast scene in front of me. The air is humid, wrapping around me like a blanket. I don’t mind humidity, though. I’ve visited desert regions of the United States, and I’ve come to appreciate what I call nature’s moisturizer. Humidity leaves our skin soft and shiny instead of rough and dull.

    I’ve been excited to write about what I learned over the weekend because I seem to process things best when I’m forced to articulate them. Writing in my journal, to people, or on this blog helps me clarify where I stand and, ultimately, find peace.

    This weekend, I read a book that I think everyone should read—especially if you are married, have children, are a teenager beginning to date, or are a teacher working with children from a variety of households.

    I’m sitting here listening to the birds chirp, trying to figure out where to start because the book offers so much insight. I expected to learn about relationships. Instead, I learned something about myself.

    A few days ago, I was outside working in the yard while listening to the audiobook. Before long, I found myself walking inside to find Robert.

    “You make sense now,” I told him.

    Then I laughed.

    “Actually, I make sense now, too.”

    Before reading the book, Robert thought he was avoidant. I didn’t know what I was—maybe just a basket case. If you know me, you know you laughed.

    It turns out everything I assumed I knew about myself, my marriage, and my relationships with others was mostly wrong—in a good way. Attachment theory ended up explaining things about our marriage that had puzzled me for years.

    If you have read the book Attached, you know where this is going. If you haven’t, I highly recommend it. I had no expectations when I purchased it. I enjoy scientific studies on human behavior, but I wasn’t prepared to be confronted with the possibility that I had misunderstood something fundamental about my own marriage.

    I think sometimes we carry on like slightly ill people who never go to the doctor, so we never realize that headaches at 3:00 every day aren’t normal. Then one day we go in for something completely unrelated, and the doctor says, “Hey, you don’t happen to get headaches every afternoon, do you?”

    As it turns out, there’s a reason.

    Suddenly, something you’ve experienced for years makes sense.

    That’s how this book felt.

    For years, a certain symptom kept showing up in my relationship with Robert.

    When we were dating, friends would tell me to break up with him.

    “He doesn’t prioritize you,” they would say.

    But that explanation never quite fit the man I knew.

    He was kind.

    Yes, he liked spending time with his friends. Sometimes he chose them over me. But even when I was disappointed, it never outweighed the character, gentleness, and steadiness I saw in him.

    He wasn’t constantly whispering sweet words in my ear.

    He wasn’t overly emotional.

    He wasn’t intense.

    But somehow, it still felt right.

    Then we got married.

    We had children.

    Time alone together became harder to find.

    And suddenly, some of those things that hadn’t bothered me before became harder to ignore.

    My friends were married now, too.

    Some had husbands who became jealous over interactions with other men. Some would confront perceived threats. Some seemed intensely protective.

    But not Robert.

    In fact, when I was in college (and married), I had a close male friend. Our friendship was completely platonic. We had some of the same classes, studied together, grabbed lunch occasionally, and sometimes he even came to both Robert and me for advice about his relationship.

    Robert never seemed threatened.

    Never seemed jealous.

    Never seemed concerned.

    And it wasn’t just him.

    As the years passed, I wondered. Then, I began filling in the blanks.

    Maybe he wasn’t worried because he wasn’t attracted to me.

    Maybe he wasn’t worried because he didn’t see me the way other husbands seemed to see their wives.

    Maybe he loved me, but not with the intensity I saw in other relationships.

    The strange thing was that those explanations never quite fit the evidence. Overall, I was often just as happy—or happier—in my marriage as friends whose husbands were intensely jealous or protective.

    So how can I make this make sense?

    I’ve always been perceptive.

    One time, Robert wanted to move a family friend into our home. The moment I met him, alarms went off in my head. I told Robert absolutely not. Later we learned that the man had been scamming a family member out of thousands of dollars.

    Another time, I got off a brief phone call and immediately told Robert that I thought a family member knew something we had intentionally kept from them.

    “No way,” Robert said.

    But they did.

    So I began to trust my instincts.

    Actually, that’s not quite right.

    I began to trust my interpretations.

    That sentence changed the way I think about nearly every relationship in my life.

    I thought I had become an expert relationship meaning-maker.

    If I sensed something, I assumed I understood it.

    If I noticed a shift, I assumed I knew why.

    What I would eventually learn is that observation and interpretation are not the same thing.

    According to attachment theory, there are three main attachment styles, but two of them immediately caught my attention.

    The securely attached person generally assumes the relationship is okay unless given a reason to think otherwise. They are open to love, receive love easily, and tend to believe the relationship will persevere.

    The anxiously attached person also builds deep connections. But when they sense a change in that connection, they don’t always interpret it as neutral.

    Research discussed in the book found that anxiously attached individuals are often remarkably perceptive. They notice subtle changes in emotional connection faster than many other people.

    The problem isn’t necessarily what they notice.

    The problem is what happens next.

    An anxious attachment style doesn’t just notice the shift.

    It assigns meaning to the shift.

    A delayed text becomes rejection.

    A quiet evening becomes distance.

    A distracted spouse becomes a spouse who has lost interest.

    The observation may be accurate.

    The interpretation may not be.

    That distinction hit me like a ton of bricks.

    For years, I thought my intuition was infallible because I had been right enough times to trust my conclusions.

    What I failed to realize was that being a good observer and being a good interpreter are not the same thing.

    Attachment theory didn’t teach me to distrust my intuition.

    It taught me to slow it down,

    Looking back, I can see how often I confused observation with certainty. I noticed shifts and immediately assigned meaning to them. I filled in blanks. I connected dots. And because I had been right before, I trusted my conclusions without always questioning them.

    What I didn’t know then was that one of the biggest misconceptions in my marriage wasn’t about Robert at all.

    It was about the story I had created to explain him.

    And that’s where attachment theory changed everything.

  • Work on It Wednesday: The Plant That Missed the Memo

    Work on It Wednesday: The Plant That Missed the Memo

    Nearly a year ago, Robert brought home this beautiful umbrella plant. It was full, healthy, and thriving. Naturally, when the time came to repot, I decided to divide it into two plants.

    One half is doing great.

    This half? Well…he apparently missed the memo when I said, “Persevere.”

    I thought he was thirsty, so I watered him. Then I realized the soil was staying wet, but he continued to droop anyway. He spent a few days outside in the Arkansas heat before I finally brought him inside, hoping the cooler temperatures would help him recover.

    Since then, I’ve learned something I didn’t expect. A plant can look absolutely pitiful while still trying to grow. Even though many of the older leaves have drooped, there are tiny new leaves emerging from nearly every stem.

    So, for now, I’m resisting the urge to keep “fixing” him.

    No more moving him around.

    No more watering every time he looks sad.

    Just patience.

    Gardening has a funny way of teaching the same lessons life does. Sometimes turning over a new leaf (pun intended) can still look messy. Because well, it’s growth.

    Whether this guy pulls through or not, he’s already taught me something.

    We’ll check back in a few weeks on a random Work on It Wednesday and see if he finally got the memo.

    Also, if anyone has any advice, I’m open to it.

    First signs of trouble.
    Roots still looked good though.
    I started to get worried when a few days later it didn’t perk up.
    Today… Looking scary!
  • Tiny Acts of Kindness Tuesday: The Lemonade Stand

    Tiny Acts of Kindness Tuesday: The Lemonade Stand

    This week’s Tiny Act of Kindness Tuesday is about how my daughter’s lemonade stand inspired me.

    A couple of weeks ago, Abigail had some friends over, and it was hot outside.

    Right now, our pool is waiting on a liner to be installed, so our usual summer plans are on hold. Originally, we decided to paint. Then, somewhere in the middle of the afternoon, I jokingly said, “I wish you were still little enough to want to do lemonade stands.”

    Her eyes lit up.

    She immediately started talking about the last lemonade stand she had when she was five years old. She remembered making money and having fun, and before I knew it, she had convinced her friends they needed a lemonade stand.

    It was already after 1:00 p.m., and I had to send Robert to the store for lemonade mix.

    I gently warned the girls that lemonade stands aren’t always successful on our road. We don’t live in the same close-knit neighborhood where Abigail spent her early childhood. Our homes are more spread out here, and there simply isn’t as much traffic.

    But sometimes the fun isn’t in the selling.

    Sometimes the fun is in the setting up.

    Abigail found some rolled-up poster board in my craft area, and I taught the girls a little art trick for flattening curled paper. We dampened it, weighed it down with garden blocks, and left it to dry in the sun while we worked on the rest of the stand.

    Then Abigail and I started shopping our own house.

    The stand itself was an old white plant cart I normally use for rehabbing plants. I found a pink cardboard awning left over from a birthday party years ago. We added a lemon-themed tablecloth, a tip jar, some summer decorations, and a few lemon trees that usually sit elsewhere around the house.

    Before long, what had started as random odds and ends looked like a real lemonade stand.

    We mixed lemonade, made simple syrup for extra sweetness, and brought out my Ninja Slushi machine because, if I’m being honest, I use that thing almost every day during spring and summer.

    The girls spent the afternoon making signs, arranging decorations, and getting everything just right.

    And I loved every minute of it.

    But the stand wasn’t my favorite part of the day.

    The people were.

    One of the girls looked at me at one point and said, “I don’t even care about the money. I just want a customer.”

    I started praying for customers, but I know how spaced out the neighbors are here. But even if just one….

    Because the girls weren’t trying to get rich. They wanted someone to stop. They wanted someone to see what they had created. They wanted to serve somebody. They wanted to share their excitement with the world.

    And people did.

    Car after car slowed down.

    Neighbors stopped.

    Strangers stopped.

    Our neighbor sent her son and tagged everyone she knew from our area in a community post.

    One man came back for a second cup.

    Another handed the girls a twenty-dollar bill for two cups of lemonade.

    Ironically, the girls weren’t the only ones who made new friends that day. After six years here, I left with two new phone numbers and a few neighbors I finally got the chance to meet.

    I don’t think those adults realized what their kindness meant.

    To them, it may have been a quick stop on a hot afternoon.

    To those girls, it was everything.

    It told them their effort was noticed and that creating something and putting it out into the world was worth doing.

    I’ll be honest: I rarely carry cash anymore. But that afternoon changed the way I think about lemonade stands.

    We often talk about wanting kids to stay out of trouble, work hard, and spend less time staring at screens.

    That is exactly what these girls were doing.

    They weren’t scrolling TikTok.

    They weren’t texting.

    They weren’t sitting inside playing video games.

    They were outside in the Arkansas heat creating something together, hoping someone would stop and share in their excitement.

    And so many people did.

    Those cups of lemonade probably weren’t life-changing.

    But the kindness those girls experienced was.

    They’ve already started talking about their next lemonade stand.

  • Living in Sunshine

    Living in Sunshine

    This picture is everything to me.

    It’s a picture of my dad and my children’s dad sitting together at a table during my dad’s most recent trip to Arkansas. It was actually the last trip for a work contract that brought him here regularly, and since it was only a one-day trip, he suggested he not stay the weekend. I told him that coming to Arkansas and not visiting me would be crazy.

    A couple of months earlier, my dad mentioned that he was beginning to feel like a burden when he came to visit. I love him dearly, but sometimes I think he lives in a completely different universe than I do.

    I told him that we might be busy when he comes. The kids have activities, Robert and I have projects, and life keeps moving. But none of that changes how much his visits mean to me.

    I told him, “Dad, even if we’re busy, just having you here means the world to me. You don’t even have to be in the house. When you stay in the guest house, and we can share a few meals, have a few conversations, and go about our days. Just knowing you’re here brings me comfort.”

    I don’t know that he fully understood what I meant, but it’s true.

    There is something comforting about knowing my dad is nearby, even when we’re doing nothing special at all.

    To understand why these visits mean so much to me, you need a little backstory.

    At Thanksgiving in 2022, my daughter hugged my dad and asked about a spot on his back. I asked him to show it to me, and the moment I saw it, my stomach dropped. I went into the kitchen where Robert was cooking and leaned against the sink and went to the floor. It reminded me of the melanoma brochures I had seen in dermatology offices.

    I said, “Dad, I think you have melanoma.” I documented the spot with a picture and moved on.

    You have to understand that my dad is like every other dad. He’s super brave. Always worried about everybody else. Telling me to go to the doctor when I have a fever for a few days straight, but he doesn’t worry about himself… at all.

    Then, in November of 2023, we learned he had metastatic melanoma.

    His doctor said remission would not be the goal. The melanoma had spread so much that his oncologist said he couldn’t believe my dad was still able to walk. Not only that, but he had a patient, same age/disease/same metastasis as my dad who only lived 6 months.

    Ouch.

    The thought of losing my dad felt unbearable.

    But as usual, my dad was the strong one. He said he wasn’t scared. He said that he had made peace with a good life that he already had if this was the end. To this day, I am blown away by my dad‘s strength. If he truly was scared, he never showed it. And he was an example for me on who I want to be for my kids. I remember him even telling me one time, I will feel sorry for you if something happens, but I’ve lived in my life so don’t feel sorry for me.

    That was a gut punch.

    The treatment was difficult. It made him extremely sensitive to sunlight, which felt especially unfair for someone who loves golf, loves his dogs, and loves being outdoors. I remember wondering how much of the life he loved would be taken from him, even if the treatment worked. Because if he had to stay on that treatment to survive and he was breaking out in hives from ANY sun exposure, would he give up?

    Then something remarkable happened.

    My dad went into full remission.

    Not only that, but he received a work contract that brought him to Arkansas every other month. Suddenly, I was seeing him more often than I ever had during my adult life.

    During that season, there was a song that became deeply meaningful to me.

    Sunshine by NEEDTOBREATHE

    “Tell ’em you feel alright, we’re living in sunshine”

    Those words stayed with me because they captured exactly what I wanted for my dad. More than survival, I wanted him to feel well. I wanted him to enjoy life again. I wanted him outside, doing the things he loved.

    So you can imagine what it felt like when, during this last visit, my dad randomly said, “You know, I usually come to Arkansas around Thanksgiving when the trees are bare and everything feels gray. Being here in the sunshine when everything is green is amazing.”

    It took my breath away. I thought, this is why we keep him around. It’s the simple things for him.

    But in that moment, I realized it wasn’t that I was no longer hoping for those things. It was that I had only been able to imagine them. My dad had been in remission for two years, but my dad never came to Arkansas in the summer, so since his remission, I hadn’t actually seen him enjoying the sunshine like this. Standing there, watching him take it all in, I realized I was seeing something I had only hoped would be possible.

    This visit was full of ordinary moments that didn’t feel ordinary to me.

    My dad and I ate breakfast in the front yard.

    He helped us move our garden fence.

    He helped Robert run electricity through our backyard. That was a blessing in itself because my dad is a licensed contractor, and the work they accomplished together would have cost us thousands of dollars to hire out.

    But what stood out to me most wasn’t what he did. It was who he is.

    At breakfast one morning, I jokingly told him that I better hurry up and finish eating because Robert doesn’t do much in the yard unless he can do it from a riding lawn mower. Someone has to weed eat, I joked.

    Most dads might have used that as an opportunity to join in.

    Not mine.

    Without missing a beat, he laughed and said, “That’s exactly what my wife would be doing too, and if she wasn’t fast enough, I’d probably complain about that.”

    My dad has always protected me, but what I appreciate now is that he protects my marriage too.

    A day after he left, Robert shocked himself while working on the electrical project my dad had tried to give him directions on. He was frustrated, discouraged, and ready to quit. I was buried in transcript work and couldn’t give him much attention.

    Then my dad called out of nowhere to check on him.

    When they hung up, Robert said, “Your dad renewed my motivation. I’m going to try again tomorrow.”

    That is who my dad is.

    He shows up.

    He encourages.

    He helps.

    He strengthens the people he loves.

    The older I get, the more I realize how much of who I am came from him. My love of being outdoors, my willingness to tackle projects, and my belief that family shows up for each other all have roots in the man who raised me.

    In 2023, I thought I might be losing my dad.

    Instead, I got breakfasts in the front yard, projects in the backyard, extra visits, more conversations, and a perfect spring weekend where I got to watch him stand in the sunshine and enjoy it.

    Happy Father’s Day to the man who was the best daddy to a little girl and is still the best dad to a grown woman.

  • Did It Matter?

    Every morning, I drop the kids off at school, and occasionally, right as I’m driving off, I start thinking, what if that was it? What if this morning was our last?

    Then I wonder: if I were the survivor, would I be able to carry grief without regret? How did our last morning go? Was I gentle enough? Did I kiss them enough times? Did I play with them enough? Did we snuggle on the couch? Lord knows I’ve been too busy to read with them lately.

    This doesn’t cross my mind often, but when it does, the questions sometimes haunt me.

    Then the moment becomes a declaration of change.

    I will read to them tonight.

    I will kiss them when they get home.

    I will do every single thing I just listed because, if I end up with a second chance, I am going to make it worth it.

    But then sports happen. Dinner time happens. Atlas testing happens. Keeping my children awake for a book seems less important in the moment since they need rest, and then I find myself, more often than not, right back in the same pattern I was in before I had those intrusive thoughts.

    Yes, sometimes we pick up something new that sticks, but I often find myself living on the margins of motherhood and marriage. The paper is already full, and anything more might push me completely off the page.

    If I add something to motherhood, I may have to erase something from my marriage. If I add something to my marriage, it may take up lines that were being used somewhere else. Every date night, every extra book, every new commitment has to fit onto a page that already feels crowded.

    It’s where the echoes of a fleeting life battle with the realities of a sustainable one.

    “They grow up too fast.”

    “Just read it one more time.”

    “Life is short.”

    The voices urging us to do more are not wrong. They are often rooted in love. But they rarely acknowledge that the page is already full.

    Truth is, deep down, we all know that doing more does not lead to completion. It can lead to temporary comfort, but not complete comfort, especially with social media’s portrayal of what an ideal marriage or parenthood should be.

    The more I think about the most important roles in life, the more I realize they don’t come to an end.

    They are the most important because they matter.

    And for things that continue to matter, there is no certificate of completion.

    I think that’s the conundrum.

    The problem isn’t that we can’t improve. It’s that even when we do, we don’t get a final verdict.

    The landscape evolves.

    So maybe the answer isn’t an answer at all.

    Maybe it’s changing the question from “Did I do it all?” to “Did it matter to me?”

    Because “Did I do it all?” is unwinnable.

    But “Did it matter to me?”

    What is the evidence of that?

    I didn’t read a book every night, but I read books to them.

    I didn’t snuggle every minute, but I snuggled with them.

    I wasn’t perfect, but I showed up.

    Not because the work is complete.

    Not because I got everything right.

    But because when I look back, I can honestly say these people mattered to me.

    And maybe the goal was never to live every day like it was the last.

    Maybe the goal was simply to live life like it mattered.

  • Work on it on Wednesday: Moving Mountains One Pallet at a Time

    Work on it on Wednesday: Moving Mountains One Pallet at a Time

    Week one, and I haven’t met my goal for blog posts.  But the sun still rose, and the birds still sing.  I know a lot of people get worked up when they don’t meet their goals, but I kind of like being a little unpredictable.  Hehe.

    While I didn’t post on Tuesday, it wasn’t for lack of good reason.  Let’s start with Work on it Wednesday.  

    Right now, we are in the middle of a giant backyard renovation.  We already needed a new pool liner, our wood deck needed repairs and staining, and we also realized a second pool filter would make the upkeep of the pool cheaper and easier.  But that required demolishing the concrete around the pool, so Robert asked if I just wanted to switch to a concrete slab around the pool and deck.  The idea of what we were going to do kept growing.  We decided to add a stone fireplace, outdoor kitchen, and island.  However, to get high quality and stay in budget, it was going to require a little bit of blood, sweat, and tears.  

    We found a website that sells outdoor kitchen kits that you can buy and build yourself.  Check those out here.  They are pretty neat because you don’t have to go pick out of your own stone, pick it up, and use your gas and time.  They get shipped right to your house. If you know me, I love building things myself.  I like working outside in the heat and creating something custom, so this was right up my alley.  The problem is that the project itself didn’t really fit in my alley.  I’m laughing because we had 19 pallets of stone shipped to us, and they ended up in our front yard.  BUT…. We needed it in the backyard.  

    We started slowly and moved three pallets together one night. Then Robert got off work one day and moved five more. To be fair, two of those were our outdoor refrigerator and his new grill, so it wasn’t five full pallets of stone. But even so, he was carrying a lot of the project on his own.  But his mind is already running a million miles an hour with pool coping, pool cleaning, and the logistics of stone going on a concrete slab, because cracked concrete isn’t the ideal outcome here.  

    That night we were lying in bed, and I could tell he wasn’t himself.  I asked him what was wrong.  He told me that he could not do the backyard before the Fourth of July.  We host our neighborhood gathering annually, so that was an important goal for me.  He said he felt overwhelmed and alone.  I assured him that he would never be alone, that I am his ride-or-die, and that I would help get the pallets to the back.  My heart can barely stand to watch him feel so overwhelmed.  If I ever run low on motivation to do better, his distress is the antidote.

    So yesterday, on Tiny Acts of Kindness Tuesday, I was keeping a promise to my husband.  I could see the relief in his breath as we unloaded the last pallet.  We moved 9 pallets.  That means we took 1500 pounds per pallet, picked it up, loaded it on a buggy, and drove it to the back of our yard.  From there, we lifted it out of the buggy onto another pallet in the backyard.  Incase you’re wondering, Robert and I moved 13,500 pounds of stone from our garage to our backyard.

    I love my Oura because I didn’t even have to ask it to log anything.  It instantly picked up the work we were doing.  If you have been thinking about getting an Oura ring, I have had mine for two years now; I wear it as a wedding band.  It is so much easier than an Apple Watch, and I think you should go for it.   You can buy the one I have here.

    1,187 active calories is probably one of the top workouts I’ve ever had. And 115 BPM for 4.5 hours is also a record for sustained elevated heart rate.

    While we were working on this project, something happened earlier in the week that reminded me why this backyard means more than concrete and stone. You can read this week’s Tiny Acts of Kindness here.

  • Tuesday’s Act of Kindness: Through the Bedroom Window

    This week’s act of kindness wasn’t something I witnessed myself.

    In fact, I didn’t even know it happened until two days later.

    Right now, we are in the middle of a major backyard renovation. Between concrete work, stone, a pool liner, an outdoor kitchen, and a fireplace, there has been no shortage of activity around our house.

    At the same time, I was underwater with a transcript deadline. Most of my attention was focused on getting pages edited and delivered, so I wasn’t paying much attention to what was happening outside.

    A few days later, my daughter Abigail asked me if we could buy some Gatorades for one of our contractors.

    At first, I thought it was an odd request.

    “Why?” I asked.

    She told me that she had seen him eating breakfast outside through her bedroom window.

    Curious, she asked Robert what he was eating.

    That’s when Robert told her he had brought him a plate of breakfast.

    I just sat there for a second.

    Then I started crying.

    Abigail instantly ran and told Robert, “You made mom cry.”

    Kindness is the way to my soul, and sometimes it just strikes me like a bow in the heart.

    Not because Robert made breakfast.

    Robert makes breakfast every Saturday. It’s one of those routines that has become part of our family life.

    What touched me was that he thought to share it.

    While I was buried in work and focused on a deadline, Robert saw a man working hard on our project and decided to make enough for one more person.

    He didn’t ask for recognition.

    He didn’t tell me about it afterward.

    He had nothing to gain by that. If anything, it put the contractor further behind. But Robert doesn’t weigh kindness like that.

    As far as he was concerned, it wasn’t a big deal.

    He was making breakfast anyway, so he simply carried a plate outside and shared it.

    The contractor never mentioned it.

    Robert never mentioned it.

    The only reason I knew about it was that Abigail happened to see it through her bedroom window.

    What made the story even sweeter was what happened next.

    Abigail wanted to buy him Gatorades.

    She had seen a small act of kindness and immediately wanted to join in.

    As parents, we spend so much time hoping our children will learn the right things.

    We teach lessons.

    We have conversations.

    We correct mistakes.

    But sometimes the lessons that stick aren’t the ones we intentionally teach.

    Sometimes they’re the ones our children quietly observe.

    A dad carrying a plate of breakfast outside.

    A contractor eating on a job site.

    A little girl watching through her bedroom window.

    And a reminder that kindness has a way of multiplying when someone else sees it.

    This is Robert the day that our contractor didn’t have any help and he offered to help. He even had a little bit of sense of humor and wore his Entergy volunteer shirt. He told me he thought it fit the occasion. I love to laugh, so that was perfect.

  • The Life I Used to Dream About.

    Happy Summer.

    The sunshine season is my favorite.

    Today, I am sitting on my porch in a chair with a glass of sweet tea because that was my dream when I was little. Not a fancy house or car or a name-brand purse. Nope. I wanted a porch, and I wanted to sit on that porch every chance I could get with a wedding ring on my finger and sweet tea in my hand.

    I know a lot of people love to travel, and I won’t pretend I don’t enjoy the beach, but honestly, nothing compares to my porch.

    When I was thirteen, we had a back porch, and I would sit out there listening to music and dreaming about my future. It’s no surprise that I got married young. I spent a lot of my teenage years journaling, imagining, planning, and hoping.

    Now, somehow, I’m living the life I used to write about:  I’m sitting right here on my front porch, listening to crickets and watching the ferns hanging from the posts sway in the breeze.

    Lately I’ve been thinking about how quickly life moves. Summers come and go. Kids grow up. Gardens bloom and fade. Projects begin and end. Before you know it, the season you wanted to remember has become a distant memory.

    That’s one of the reasons I write.

    Last year this blog was a blender of thoughts fueled by emotion. This year feels different. I feel different. More settled. More intentional. More aware of the things I want to remember.

    So this summer, I’m going to hold myself accountable by giving each week a little structure.

    ✨ Move Me Monday
    Something that inspired me, challenged me, touched my heart, or changed my perspective.

    ❤️ Tuesday’s Tiny Acts of Kindness
    A small act of kindness I witnessed and don’t want to forget.

    🛠️ Work On It Wednesday
    Something I’m building, growing, fixing, creating, or learning.

    More than anything, I want this blog to be a record of this season of life. The people. The projects. The lessons. The beauty hidden in ordinary days.

    And if you’re here reading along, I’m glad you’re on the porch with me.

  • When Perfection Becomes Shame

    Recently, I shared how I discovered that many of my relationship patterns were rooted in a fear of abandonment. What looked like contradictory behaviors—clinging too tightly in some relationships and wanting to run from others—turned out to be different responses to the same fear.

    If you haven’t read that story yet, you can find it here:

    → Different Birds From the Same Nest

    That discovery gave me something I had never had before.

    A map.

    For years, I spent my energy trying to change behaviors without understanding where they came from. Once I understood the root, everything started making more sense.

    A few weeks later, Robert unexpectedly asked me a question that made me wonder if the same process might apply to him.

    We have a major backyard renovation underway right now. Contractors, concrete, pool liners, schedules, budgets—the whole thing.

    If you’ve ever met my husband, you already know this is exactly the kind of project that activates every anxiety circuit he has.

    One day he asked me:

    “Do you think some people are just more bothered by imperfection than others?”

    I told him yes.

    Then he asked:

    “Do you think it’s okay that things bother me when they aren’t perfect?”

    I told him that I thought it depended on how much it affected his life.

    If noticing imperfections helps you catch problems before they become disasters, that’s a gift.

    If it keeps you from enjoying your life, that’s a different conversation.

    Then I told him about my own discovery.

    For years, I thought my tendency to emotionally check out, pull away, or occasionally feel like running from my marriage had something to do with what my marriage lacked.

    I thought maybe I needed more reassurance.

    More connection.

    More attention.

    But after years of counseling, reading, and self-reflection, I discovered something uncomfortable.

    The fear wasn’t really about Robert.

    It was older than Robert.

    When I finally understood my fear of abandonment, so many things started making sense.

    So I told him something simple.

    “I don’t think I can tell you why you’re a perfectionist. But I wonder if there’s a reason.”

    Because once you discover that your own behaviors have roots, you start looking at struggles differently.

    Instead of being judgmental, you start wondering why.

    The truth is, I don’t think Robert’s standards are the problem.

    Some of the things I admire most about him come from those standards.

    This is a man who was captain of the football team.

    Captain of the soccer team, despite not even liking soccer.

    A 4.0 engineering student.

    An engineer.

    A leader.

    A problem solver.

    A person who has spent most of his life setting goals and reaching them.

    High standards have served him well.

    But as we talked, I realized something.

    I don’t think perfection becomes a problem when it pushes us to do our best.

    I think perfection becomes a problem when it keeps us from taking the next step because we haven’t already reached the finish line.

    I told Robert that I know he values his faith.

    How do I know?

    Because I’ve watched him live it.

    I’ve seen him read his Bible.

    I’ve seen him turn to Scripture for comfort.

    I’ve watched him cling to God during seasons when life felt impossible.

    I’ve found Bible verses scribbled on pieces of paper.

    I’ve watched him seek God when nobody else was looking.

    So when he tells me he doesn’t like where his spiritual life is, I believe him.

    But I also told him something I’ve noticed.

    Sometimes when we miss church, he feels like he’s failing spiritually.

    And yet from Monday through Saturday there are dozens of opportunities to nurture that relationship.

    A devotional on the way to work.

    Five minutes in Scripture.

    A prayer during lunch.

    Listening to the Bible while driving.

    Small things.

    Micro wins.

    But it seems like sometimes those opportunities get overshadowed by the feeling that he isn’t where he wants to be.

    And then I realized I’ve done the exact same thing.

    One week we missed church.

    A few days later, I found myself emotionally depleted and desperately needing comfort.

    I knew exactly what I needed.

    I needed God.

    I needed my Bible.

    But when I reached for it, I felt resistance.

    Not because I didn’t want God.

    Because I didn’t want the guilt.

    Somehow, I had convinced myself that because I missed church on Sunday, opening my Bible on Tuesday wouldn’t matter.

    As if five minutes with God couldn’t possibly count because I had already missed the bigger goal.

    But eventually I had to remind myself that I don’t think God only wants to hear from us on mountaintops.

    I think He wants to hear from us in valleys too.

    Maybe especially in valleys.

    So I opened my Bible anyway.

    And I found exactly what I needed.

    Not condemnation.

    Comfort.

    That’s when I realized that shame has a way of moving into spaces where growth was supposed to live.

    And the more I thought about it, the more I realized I see this pattern in other areas of Robert’s life too.

    Sometimes with finances.

    Sometimes with projects.

    Sometimes with goals.

    Sometimes with risks.

    If he thinks something might fail, he often doesn’t want to start.

    He’ll even tell me that I push him toward things he doesn’t feel qualified to do.

    Yet many of the things he says he isn’t qualified for are things I genuinely believe he could accomplish.

    That’s what made me wonder if perfectionism isn’t really the issue.

    Maybe the issue is a fear of failure mixed with a very high standard of achievement.

    And that combination can be dangerous.

    Because it can create anxiety.

    It can create avoidance.

    It can even create complacency.

    Not because you don’t care.

    But because you care so much that failing feels unbearable.

    The more we talked, the more I realized this wasn’t really about church.

    Or finances.

    Or projects.

    Those were just examples.

    The deeper question was this:

    Why does the standard matter so much?

    Who are you trying to impress?

    And does that audience even exist anymore?

    That’s when I told Robert something I’ve wanted him to understand for years.

    I reminded him of something I told him when I was struggling with postpartum depression.

    I asked him if he remembered me telling him that sometimes the simple sound of him walking through the door made me feel better.

    He said yes.

    I told him that’s still true.

    That’s all I’ve ever really needed from him.

    His presence.

    His heart.

    His willingness to show up.

    Emotionally.

    Physically.

    Consistently.

    He’s already won my approval.

    The kids feel the same way.

    For years I’ve watched them run to the door yelling:

    “Daddy! Daddy!”

    They weren’t running because he had a perfect GPA.

    They weren’t running because he was captain of anything.

    They weren’t running because of a promotion, a savings account, or a completed project.

    They were running because he was their dad.

    Which made me wonder if the measuring stick he’s using belongs to the people sitting around his table.

    Because I don’t think he’s achieving for me.

    And I don’t think he’s achieving for our children.

    So maybe the better question isn’t whether the standard is too high.

    Maybe the better question is:

    Who set the standard?

    And does it still serve the life you’re trying to build today?

    Because sometimes the very thing that helped us succeed becomes the thing that keeps us from enjoying the success we’ve already achieved.

    Understanding the root changed my life.

    Not because it excused my behavior.

    But because it gave me a map.

    And maybe that’s where growth starts.

    Not by judging the behavior.

    But by becoming curious about the story behind it.

    So I told Robert that I think instead of worrying about whether his perfectionism is okay, I would be more interested in understanding where it comes from.

    I was actually hesitant to offer too many answers because I think some discoveries are more meaningful when we make them ourselves.

    Books helped me.

    Counseling helped me.

    Self-reflection helped me.

    But nobody could simply hand me the answer.

    I had to discover it.

    So my best advice to him was simple.

    I think somewhere along the way achievement became associated with something important.

    Maybe it was approval.

    Maybe it was security.

    Maybe it was identity.

    Maybe it was proving something.

    Maybe it was all of those things.

    I don’t know.

    But I suspect there was a reason that achievement became so valuable.

    The question isn’t whether that reason was right or wrong.

    The question is whether it still matters.

    Because what I learned through my own journey is that sometimes we keep carrying lessons long after we’ve outgrown the circumstances that created them.

    For years, I lived as though abandonment carried the same threat it did when I was a child.

    It didn’t.

    The fear was real.

    The lesson was outdated.

    Maybe achievement works the same way.

    Maybe the meaning it once held isn’t the meaning it holds today.

    Maybe the standard that once helped build a life becomes the standard that keeps us from enjoying it.

    And maybe growth isn’t always about becoming someone new.

    Maybe sometimes it’s about examining the beliefs we’ve carried for years and deciding whether they still belong in the life we’re living now.

    Because once I understood where my fear came from, it lost some of its power over me.

    And I wonder if the same thing might happen when we understand why we feel such a strong need to achieve.

    Not because achievement is bad.

    But because understanding the root gives us a choice.

    And choice is where freedom begins.

  • Different Birds From the Same Nest

    For years, I thought I had a contradiction in my personality.

    In some relationships, I would stay far too long.

    I would overlook red flags. I would excuse behavior that hurt me. I would ignore my own needs. I would bend until I barely recognized myself. Sometimes I would even sacrifice my own self-respect trying to preserve a relationship that wasn’t healthy for me.

    All because I couldn’t tolerate the ending.

    It was that simple.

    Ending a relationship, no matter how much peace it might bring, felt like failure.

    But then there was the other side of me.

    The side that would sometimes run.

    Even in my marriage, there were moments when I felt an overwhelming urge to pull away when I felt disconnected, hurt, or emotionally unsafe.

    “I can’t stay,” I would tell myself.

    And that confused me because I love my husband.

    How could someone go to extraordinary lengths to maintain some relationships while wanting to escape others?

    How could I spend years enduring unhealthy dynamics in one area of my life and then feel tempted to walk away from another relationship without fully understanding why?

    And truthfully, the relationship I sometimes wanted to run from was the healthiest one of them all.

    Those behaviors seemed completely opposite.

    One version of me would break my own heart trying to prevent an ending.

    The other would start looking for the exit, even though truly leaving my marriage would have broken my heart too.

    For years, I thought those were two separate problems.

    Eventually, I realized they were different birds from the same nest.

    Fear of abandonment.

    That realization changed everything.

    I had spent years looking at the people involved. I analyzed their behavior, their intentions, their actions, and their impact on my life.

    What I wasn’t looking at was myself.

    Why was I reacting this way?

    Why did endings feel so unbearable?

    Why did distance feel so threatening?

    Why did I sometimes sacrifice my own peace to keep a connection alive?

    I remember one of my closest friendships ending in 2021.

    Walking away from that friendship felt devastating, but I knew I had to do it.

    Then, in 2023, my marriage was hurting deeply, and I remember feeling ready to email a divorce attorney.

    Looking back, one question stands out:

    How could ending a friendship feel harder than the possibility of ending my own marriage?

    At the time, I thought the answer was the people involved.

    I thought one relationship must have mattered more than the other.

    But that wasn’t true.

    The friendship wasn’t more important than my husband.

    If anything, I often held Robert to a higher standard because I loved him more deeply and because his opinion carried more weight than anyone else’s.

    There were even times when I would tell myself:

    “If I’m willing to tolerate this behavior from other people, then why can’t I tolerate it from Robert?”

    But that wasn’t really the issue.

    The issue wasn’t the relationship.

    The issue was the silence.

    When friendships struggled, there were usually still conversations.

    Arguments.

    Explanations.

    Attempts.

    Sometimes those conversations were painful, but they still carried something important:

    Hope.

    Words meant there was still engagement.

    Words meant there was still movement.

    Words meant there was still a chance to repair what was broken.

    With Robert, it wasn’t the conflict that made me want to give up.

    It was the silence.

    The silence felt louder than any argument.

    My friends could be talking and still not understand me.

    Meanwhile, my husband often understood me better than anyone else in the world, but when he became quiet, it felt as though he had already left emotionally.

    And because I thought the person was the answer, I completely missed what was actually happening.

    I wasn’t responding to the quality of the relationship.

    I was responding to my fear of abandonment.

    But the answer started much earlier than my friendship in 2021 or my marriage 18 years ago.

    While reading psychology books and spending years in counseling, I came across a concept that stopped me in my tracks.

    When children are forced to remain in relationships that are unhealthy, they often learn to survive by focusing on the good in the person or relationship.

    If you think about it, it makes perfect sense.

    A child can’t always leave.

    A child often can’t change the situation.

    A child is dependent on the very people who may be hurting them.

    So what is left?

    Endure.

    Adapt.

    Find the positive.

    Look for reasons to stay.

    Learn to survive the reality you have.

    You cannot safely protest a dynamic when your survival depends on maintaining it.

    So what happens?

    The unhealthy dynamic stays in place because the child has no power to change it.

    Over time, that survival strategy becomes a habit.

    Even deeper, if speaking up threatens the relationship, a child can become conditioned to believe that abandonment threatens safety itself.

    The lesson becomes simple:

    If people leave, I’m not safe.

    Children become very good at making associations.

    A bell rings.

    The cheese appears.

    Eventually the bell means cheese.

    In much the same way, children learn emotional associations.

    Confrontation means abandonment.

    Abandonment means danger.

    And even when you become an adult and logically know your safety no longer depends on another person, those old associations can still become your default settings.

    When I read that, I immediately grabbed a pen and paper.

    Because suddenly my behavior made sense.

    I wasn’t overlooking red flags because I couldn’t see them.

    I was overlooking them because I had spent years practicing endurance.

    I had learned to find the good.

    I had learned to understand.

    I had learned to empathize.

    I had learned to forgive.

    What I had not learned was that sometimes the healthiest response is to leave.

    But that still didn’t explain why I sometimes wanted to run.

    Then another piece fell into place.

    The answer was hidden in what abandonment looked like to me.

    Growing up, silence was rarely neutral.

    Silence meant something was wrong.

    Silence was often followed by withdrawal.

    Silence was what happened when a relationship was breaking down.

    In my experience, silence meant someone had stopped fighting for the relationship.

    Silence meant I didn’t matter.

    So when I got married, I brought that understanding with me.

    The problem was that Robert brought a completely different understanding.

    In my family, conflict was loud.

    People argued.

    People cried.

    People fought things out.

    It wasn’t always healthy, but one thing was certain:

    Engagement meant the relationship was still alive.

    Silence was what happened when people gave up.

    In Robert’s family, it was almost the opposite.

    Silence wasn’t surrender.

    Silence wasn’t abandonment.

    Silence was a way to prevent escalation.

    Silence was a way to calm down.

    Silence was a way to avoid saying things you couldn’t take back.

    To them, creating space was often the healthier choice.

    To me, it felt terrifying.

    Of course, neither system was perfect.

    My family’s version of conflict often escalated too quickly. Sometimes emotions drove the conversation more than wisdom.

    But the strength of that system was that problems were usually out in the open.

    People knew where they stood.

    Robert’s family had a different strength.

    They were less likely to escalate. More measured. More restrained.

    But every strength has a shadow side.

    The risk wasn’t yelling.

    The risk was that silence could become permanent.

    The risk was that problems could remain unresolved because no one wanted to make anyone uncomfortable enough to address them.

    One family risked too much confrontation.

    The other risked too little.

    One feared escalation.

    The other feared disconnection.

    And somewhere in the middle is probably where healthy conflict lives.

    What looked like safety to Robert looked like abandonment to me.

    What looked like connection to me sometimes felt like escalation to him.

    Neither of us arrived at those conclusions by accident.

    We learned them.

    We learned them in the homes that raised us.

    So when conflict entered our marriage, we weren’t just dealing with each other.

    We were dealing with years of conditioning that told us what conflict meant.

    When Robert became quiet, my nervous system wasn’t hearing:

    “I need a little time.”

    It was hearing:

    “You don’t matter.”

    And when I pushed harder for connection, reassurance, or repair, Robert wasn’t necessarily hearing:

    “I love you and I’m scared.”

    Sometimes he was hearing escalation.

    Two people.

    Two coping mechanisms.

    Two definitions of safety.

    And both of them made perfect sense in the environments where they were formed.

    That’s when I realized something important.

    The same fear that made me cling could also make me run.

    Because if abandonment is the thing you fear most, there are two ways to protect yourself.

    You can hold on too tightly.

    Or you can leave before someone else has the chance to.

    Different strategies.

    Same fear.

    Different birds.

    Same nest.

    That single realization solved a lot of problems in my life.

    It also gave me a map.

    Understanding that changed everything.

    It helped me see that I wasn’t reacting to the present moment as much as I was reacting to old fears.

    It helped me recognize that engagement does not always mean a relationship is healthy.

    And silence does not always mean a relationship is over.

    Especially in my marriage.

    Most importantly, it helped me understand something I wish I had learned much earlier:

    Some relationships are worth saving.

    Some are not.

    And I am no longer responsible for maintaining relationships that hurt me.

    The child version of me didn’t have a choice.

    The adult version of me does.

    Today, I still deeply value relationships.

    I still believe in forgiveness.

    I still believe in empathy.

    But I no longer believe that every relationship must be preserved at any cost.

    Sometimes walking away is wisdom.

    Sometimes distance is healthy.

    And sometimes what feels like abandonment isn’t abandonment at all.

    Maybe it’s freedom.