You’re six years old. You beg your mom to let you go a little deeper. She’s close. You promise not to go too far. The sun is warm. The tide is soft. The water brushes your knees, and you feel brave. You love how it lifts you. Makes you lighter. You lift your feet—just to see what it feels like. It feels like flying.
You bounce with the waves, your laughter lost in the wind. You don’t notice how far you’ve drifted. Not yet.
The waves grow stronger, but you’ve figured out how to ride them. Bend your knees. Time the jump. You’re proud of how good you’re getting at this.
No one else knows how to survive this, but I do. You forget to look back.
When you do, the beach has shifted. Nothing looks familiar. Your towel? Your mom? Gone.
That’s a scary place to be.
Panic slides into your lungs. Do you go left? Right? You don’t know. You really don’t know. You just start swimming—fast, frantic, wrong. The water that made you weightless now fights your limbs. Every stroke feels smaller than it should.
What felt weightless a minute ago,
feels like a force stronger than gravity pulls you down.
That is discomfort.
When you finally reach the shore, your chest is tight. You’re safe. But not really. Because the panic stays.
You weren’t trying to run. You weren’t trying to lose your place. You just didn’t know how far the water could pull you. You didn’t know the tide had a mind of its own.
That’s a lesson no one talks about. Mostly because when you try to explain it, it doesn’t really make sense. How can you be watching? Jumping? Intending to stay in place— and still end up so far from base?
That’s what it feels like.
and before you know it— you’d drifted further than you meant to. And getting back… well, maybe you never really do.
You’re earning the crown. With every push of the pedal, you’re learning to balance—and push through.
The bike is patient. It moves at your pace, but it won’t balance for you. That’s where practice becomes mastery.
It’s okay. We’re all learning to balance. Our checkbooks. Our time. Our eating. The list goes on.
Don’t rush, sweet boy. The moment you master one thing, life hands you something new.
I used to hold the handlebars. Today, I only held the back of the seat. You stepped forward—independent, proud, gauging your success by the lightness of my grip.
You did it. You really rode.
We ended on a good note. A sweaty one, too. The humidity tricked us— 85 degrees in 67% humidity is no joke.
Don’t Believe Everything You Think by Joseph Nguyen
Somehow, Facebook analyzed me and figured out exactly what I needed. Book reviews. Zuckerberg wins.
That’s how I found Don’t Believe Everything You Think by Joseph Nguyen. I knew the moment I saw the post—it was a must-read.
Nguyen explores how much of our emotional suffering is created not by what happens, but by the thoughts we choose to believe. Blending philosophy, mindfulness, and practical insight, he gently nudges readers toward peace by asking them to observe their thoughts—rather than live under their rule.
One idea that hit me hard was this:
Thoughts are healthy. It’s the thinking that destroys them.
That reframing changed something in me.
I once had a beautiful thought—an idea—to start a blog. But I immediately spiraled into everything that could go wrong. That’s what thinking does. A year later, I’m just now starting.
Nguyen’s tone is tender and human. It didn’t feel like a lecture—it felt like a conversation with someone who understood exactly where I was.
Since reading it, I’ve started catching myself mid-spiral. I pause. I ask, “Is this thought even true?” And that small pause? It’s changing me.
I’d recommend this book to anyone who wrestles with anxiety, overthinking, or self-doubt. If you’ve convinced yourself to stay small, this book may help you reconsider. Maybe your thoughts were never the problem. Maybe it’s the thinking that needs a reset.
IDEA DUST Favorite quotes from DON’T BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU THINK
Thoughts are intrinsically neutral, but the moment we begin thinking about our thoughts, we get taken on an emotional roller coaster.
How long are you going to keep holding on to the story you don’t want to keep reliving?
I’d rather face the fear of the unknown than stay stuck in the pain of what I already know.
Most of us change when the pain of holding on to what we’re attached to is greater than the fear of the unknown.
The root cause of our suffering is our own thinking.
Event + thinking = perception of reality, but the event without thinking is the reality—and the event without thinking is peace.
True freedom isn’t having complete control of our minds but in the ability to be unattached to whatever happens in it.
The path to self-actualization isn’t to try to improve ourselves because we think we’re not enough, but to let go of the illusion that we’re not already enough as we are.
Quotes from Don’t Believe Everything You Think by Joseph Nguyen, curated by Idea Dust.
Sometimes it’s losing someone you love. Sometimes it’s leaving a place you weren’t ready to let go of. And sometimes, it’s saying goodbye to a person you never wanted to let go of— but knew you had to.
We all carry chapters that close. Doors that don’t open again. Final scenes that never got rewritten.
I used to crumble at the sound of “never again.”
Getting older doesn’t make the pain easier. But it does make you steadier. Wiser.
You learn that what’s meant to stay… stays. And the rest? It becomes part of the road behind you. A part of the story— but not the destination.
I used to think anything that mattered would announce itself. That if a door was about to close, I’d hear the hinge moan.
But some things don’t warn you. They don’t creak. They don’t crash. They just go quiet.
And the worst part? You don’t realize what mattered until it’s already folded into the noise of normal life.
Some things wait. Some things knock twice. But the rarest ones? They don’t wait at all.
They arrive and fill a void you didn’t realize existed, unexpected, real— and then they’re gone.
Not because they wanted to leave. But because they had to.
And no, timing doesn’t make something less true. It only decides whether it’s remembered or lived out loud.
And maybe… maybe that’s mercy.
Because not all things are meant to last. Some are just meant to wake you up. To show you what it feels like to be alive, And what it costs to carry it.
Some people don’t lie on purpose. They lie because honesty is costly— and pretending feels safer when the truth has never been welcome. This piece is for those performing perfection because imperfection has never been permitted.
Behind the Mask
5:30 AM: Alarm goes off, but you’re already awake. You grab your phone to scroll. What does normal look like today? Every thumbs up is a signal of approval. Not the persona you want to be, but the performance you hope they will all see.
Show and tell begins at the crack of dawn, influencing the mask you put on. Those who want to stay above reproach don’t permit themselves to feel; it’s someone else’s identity that they must steal.
On the outside, you’re pressed and polished— only wrinkled in your soul. But that’s the part that you can hide behind your role.
It’s a question you wonder but would never dare ask: If they could see past the flesh and into your veins, which ones would stay? You know deep down there aren’t many. And instead of loving yourself, you always choose them.
7:00 AM: You show up looking like a dream, but on the inside, who you are screams. You greet and you smile, trying hard to conceal anything real. You feel so much on the inside that you refuse to share because performance is what you think makes others care.
12:00 PM: Exhaustion sets in. Lunch behind closed doors for refueling. The energy it costs to deny the truth is grueling. Afternoons are made for encores.
A minty ribbon to disguise your breath. A brief smile because you remember where it came from. A breath of fresh air reminds you that you’ll never be the same. As soon as you remember, you force yourself to let it slip through the folds of memory. Duty calls (ring, ring). The feeling of anything authentically affected will cause the line to be disconnected.
You lie to yourself; you lie to them.
In the prison of your life, there is no room for fallible feelings. No—acting responsibly isn’t enough. You must sew up the scenes behind your rib cage because a curated persona can only live if you kill what’s inside.
You know you won’t be loved for doing the right thing. You’ll be shot for even owning just a tiny bit of yourself. And because that’s what’s expected, you put your emotions on the shelf.
Consequently, you punish your identity. You put the truth in the hands that were never meant to hold it. Control dressed in pain took the reins. You traded dignity, respect, and your emotional safety just to survive.
That’s what happens when you play a game of shame to fit in. The opinions of others play so loudly that you never get a voice. You stayed silent while a desire for power, disguised as protection, laid you bare—and never cared. It was rage, not heartbreak, that filled the line. And through the noisy anger, not one tear made a sound.
In that moment, tenderness sat down while perfection put on her crown.
Author’s Note: This post is for every parent lying awake at midnight—brain fried, body done, heart full. It’s for the ones parenting through chaos, guilt, and grace, and finding the courage to stand up again tomorrow. You’re not alone.
Body:
This was my shirt. Eight years ago.
The original HTV shirt from the “Jesus & essential oils” era—eight years and three chaos junkies ago.
A homemade HTV “Raising Tiny Disciples” shirt—peak “Jesus & essential oils” era. I’ll link a newer version of the DIY cutter I used back then (hello, Silhouette Cameo 2016).
It boldly declared my mom mission: “Raising Tiny Disciples.”
And to be fair, it wasn’t wrong… if we’re talking about the original twelve. You know, the ones B.C.—doubtful, chaotic, snack-seeking, and constantly questioning authority.
If I could go back, I’d add some fine print: (…like the one B.C.)
Because let’s be honest: my kids have the spiritual potential of Peter and the behavioral instincts of a gremlin on Red 40.
It’s Monday night. Quiet—only because the chaos is finally unconscious. I’m lying in bed, tossing like a hooked trout. My body’s begging for sleep. My brain? She’s just now ready to solve world peace and cereal logistics.
Sometimes I’m sharp when I need rest… and useless when I need function. I’ll lie awake planning tomorrow and then spend the
This letter is written to my daughter, Abigail, but it’s for anyone who wants to understand the quiet power of love that doesn’t leave when it gets hard. The kind that feels like wool socks and coffee—safe, steady, and completely yours.
Dear Abigail,
Today, I’m dreaming about your wedding day. I fight back tears by swallowing the lump in my throat—because I can’t wait to be there. Well… I do want you to wait. Please don’t get married at ten. (Giggling.)
I’m excited to see you glow. To watch you stand steady in a love that holds you. You’re still so young. You don’t even have a favorite flower yet. But I wonder what you’ll choose. You’ve seen me love plants—because they grow. You know how stems make me feel: rootless, wilting, like they need anchoring. But when your time comes, I know you’ll pick what’s yours.
Still, we both know: on that day, the flower won’t matter nearly as much as the person standing beside you.
Right now, I’m in my office, and you’re asleep in the room just above me. It comforts me to know that the part of my heart that breathes oxygen—you—still sleeps nearby. But someday, you’ll go.
And when you do—even with tears streaming down my face—I’ll be happy for you.
But before we go there, let’s start here:
What is love?
It’s more than a feeling. It’s the action (love) that creates the feeling (loved). It’s strength that endures the waves trying to drown you. It’s consistency that grounds you when the world tilts.
Here’s what makes it rare and powerful: You can’t earn it. You can’t make someone feel it for you. You can give it. You can show it. But you can’t force someone to return it.
The truth is— Love isn’t a feeling. It’s a choice the feeling might inspire.
But real love? It still shows up on the days when the feeling doesn’t.
That feeling you crave? That’s admiration. Respect. Affection. But it’s only a passenger sometimes. The real driver? That’s commitment. And it keeps going—cargo or not.
So what does that mean?
It means love lets you be painfully human—and still believe you’re worthy. It sees the truth of who you are, and yet… you don’t feel exposed. You feel known.
The world may see flaws. Love sees the traits that make you you. The world says you’re late. Love says, “You must’ve taken extra time—because wow, you look good.” The world replays your past. Love sees a misstep, not a sentence. No stones—just grace.
You hate to cook? Suddenly—look! It’s love’s new favorite hobby. The world might call you spoiled. Love calls you its best investment.
It doesn’t need a bow or the roar of applause. It’s that safety in wool socks and a cup of coffee. It lets you walk around like no one’s watching—because it is.
It doesn’t announce its arrival with a megaphone. It quietly whispers: “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. And I don’t care who sees—or who doesn’t.”
When you try to leave, it guards the door. Not to control—just to say, I love you.
When it’s disappointed, it doesn’t keep score. It tries more.
To understand. To live without expectation. To avoid bond assassination. To find the darkness— sit with you in your shame— and still love you the same.
Some things are easier to say in metaphor. This piece isn’t about one person. It’s about what happens when silence grows heavy and stories start slipping through the cracks. When whispers grow teeth. When someone holds back the truth, not to deceive, but to protect what’s left of something that mattered.
If you’ve ever tried to stay kind while holding a match that could burn down a thousand towns… If you’ve ever stayed quiet, not out of fear, but to spare someone pain… If you hate gossip and wish you could torch it at the source— You’ll feel this one.
Emotional Betrayal
In the middle of September, I held it in my hands. Uncertain whether it was soaked in truth or kerosene.
It didn’t matter. Gossip is never clean.
Masterfully crafted to tear someone down, Devotion worn like gold— But precise enough to slide a knife between the lines.
A stab in the back, a grip ice-cold.
It’s the betrayal of safety. The smell of smoke.
All the hard work it took to overcome the shame. Once the source is revealed, You’re never the same.
Said with a grin, like it wasn’t a blow Separate accounts. I’m the one in the hole
Like covering bills makes a heart more kind, But martyrdom’s just control redefined.
It wasn’t the checks that told the tale; It was power disguised beneath the veil.
Injections in the quiet, Drawing lines in hopes they would heal. Blooms on the sleeve, Meant to distract or conceal.
A frame reshaped, But the weight never leaves.
Resentment begins. A sense of autonomy Threatens the facade.
Shitty card to play But it ensures things will stay, so
It’s time to start handing out matches. Whisper by whisper, Confidence turns to ashes.
December was too cold for a picnic. Tomato soup to warm things up. Clouds formed with each breath, A history lesson about Twin Currents
But the water was already muddy. We both played naive to death.
A warning sent, Slipped between the lines—like a match in a sealed envelope.
Not to ignite, Just to signal the truth.
Hoping you’d feel a chill where warmth should’ve been.
Thought you might want to know before the hallway turned colder.
I wasn’t asking for anything. Just trying to steady the air So it didn’t collapse around you.
Discerning who stays quiet And where should you run It challenged what you thought you knew.
You panicked. Now all that’s left, Just the embers from what you blew.
This post isn’t just for my dad—it’s for the daughters whose dads aren’t here anymore, especially the ones who comforted me while carrying their own loss.
A year ago, my dad’s life was hanging on by a thread. He wasn’t telling many people how serious it was, so I carried the weight quietly. I felt like I was slowly falling apart inside. I pushed people away. I gave up things that usually brought me peace—music, running, friendships. I didn’t know how to say I was emotionally drowning.
Robert, who I love and who loves to cook with music playing in the background, would be in the kitchen making dinner. But I’d leave the room, put in headphones, and try not to feel anything. That became my coping mechanism—shut it down, shut it out.
When you think you’re going to lose your dad young, it feels like life skipped you. Like everyone else got more, and you got left with less. You feel like something was stolen. Like a piece of you will go missing if they go.
To the girls and women who have already lost their dads—I see you. I don’t know your pain fully, but I’ve felt enough to know it changes everything. Grief doesn’t leave you the same.
The season my dad was sick felt like being tossed in a storm—rain, thunder, waves constantly crashing. I was just trying to stay afloat, bruised and exhausted. The moments of peace were rare.
There was a song I clung to, even though it had nothing to do with my dad. It said, “It only hurts when I breathe.” That line became my reality.
Then one night, I had a dream. In it, the cancer was gone. My dad was healthy. He was older. He had lived.
I woke up sobbing because it wasn’t real. But I ran to get my iPad and wrote everything down, wanting to live in that future for just a little longer.
That journal entry is what I’m sharing today. I didn’t give it to my dad right away. I didn’t want him to feel pressure. If he had to go, I wanted him to feel peace.
But I was lucky. That wasn’t our story.
So to every daughter missing her dad today—I’m thinking of you. Your grief is real. It matters. I may not fully understand it, but I carry it with me when I think of what could’ve been.
The Future I Dreamed, The Miracle I Got
April 27, 2024
I pictured your hands covered in wrinkles. Your hair would be peppered by time with shades of gray. You would trade out your cargo shorts and polos for button-down sweaters and khaki pants. Maturity would have taken hold of you, and gentleness would have come naturally.
You would live in the guest house as a single widowed man, and I would give you a hard time for eating Cocoa Crispies cereal for dinner. Robert would be close to retirement. Matthew would be starting his first post-college job, and Abigail would be off at college but would come home every weekend to see you. I would send Jonah and Kaleb off to high school in the mornings, then spend my days with you.
You would have grown out of all your resistance to rules. A beat-up leather Bible would sit on your coffee table—the one I gave you the day you got saved. Time would have authorized you to freely express your opinions about parenting young adults, making me all the wiser. I would resist interrupting you because, by then, I would know time was growing shorter. I would soak in every piece of advice you offered and thank you for imparting your opinions to me.
We would spend summer vacations at the beach. We would laugh together in the shade under the pop-up gazebo, remembering when you used to take us there. There we would be—me finally taking you to the ocean. I would beg you to wear an old-man flat cap for family pictures. You would hate it, but you would do it anyway.
Then, at night, we would get back to the resort. I would be tired, but you would speak to me about an offer I couldn’t refuse:
“I’m going for my nightly walk. Do you want to join?”
We would walk along the ocean, reminiscing about when my kids would search for crabs. You would tell me you love me, and I would do the same. You would begin to tear up, like always, when you talked about how proud you are of me.
I would utter, “Dad, don’t get emotional.” But deep down, I would be smitten by your love.
As we finished our walk, I would hug you goodnight. My body would communicate to go to bed and shut my eyes, but instead, I would fold my hands and thank God for this time with you.
I would believe miracles exist.
The day I was able to send this to my dad, Fall 2024, was an answered prayer. A broken heart made whole again. A woman able to witness a real-life miracle.
