Today, I choose gratitude.

Not every dream has already arrived, but regardless, every day offers reminders that I am already deeply blessed.

Thank you for another sunrise.

Another breath.

Another chance to begin again.

Thank you for the home that shelters me, the bed that gives me rest, and the walls that hold my memories, my laughter, my tears, and my hopes for tomorrow.

Thank you for the food in my refrigerator, the meals on my table, and the abundance in my cupboards. May I never lose sight of the privilege of having enough.

Thank you for my family.

For the people who have loved me, shaped me, challenged me, forgiven me, and stood beside me.

May they be surrounded with health, peace, protection, and joy.

Thank you for my friends.

For every conversation that lifted my spirit.

For every embrace.

For every laugh that arrived exactly when I needed it.

For every act of kindness, whether given or received.

Thank you for the health that sustains me today.

For my heart that continues to beat.

For my lungs that continue to breathe.

For my mind that continues to learn.

For my body that continues to carry me through this life.

As I work toward greater strength and wellness, help me honor the body that has never stopped fighting for me.

Thank you for the ability to think, to create, to speak, to listen, and to express what lives within my heart.

May I use my words to encourage.

My hands to serve.

My presence to comfort.

My gifts to make a difference.

Thank you for meaningful work.

For every opportunity to contribute.

For every lesson that has strengthened me.

For every skill I have gained.

For every experience that has prepared me for what comes next.

Thank you for nature.

For birdsong in the morning.

For gentle rain.

For towering trees.

For blooming flowers.

For the warmth of the sun.

For the moon that faithfully watches over each night.

For rivers, lakes, oceans, mountains, and every reminder that beauty asks for nothing except our willingness to notice.

Thank you for music that stirs the soul.

Books that expand the mind.

Laughter that lightens the heart.

Silence that restores the spirit.

Thank you for strangers who smile.

Neighbors who wave.

Doors held open.

Unexpected encouragement.

Safe travels.

Warm coffee.

Fresh air.

Clean water.

A comfortable chair.

A favorite sweater.

A phone call from someone I love.

The freedom to choose.

The privilege to dream.

The courage to begin again.

Help me never become so focused on what I am praying for that I overlook all that I have already received.

Teach me to celebrate ordinary moments, because ordinary moments are often extraordinary blessings in disguise.

May gratitude become the lens through which I greet each day.

May generosity naturally flow from the abundance I recognize around me.

May compassion guide my actions.

May kindness be my first response.

May hope remain my constant companion.

And may I never forget that a beautiful life is built not only from extraordinary milestones, but from thousands of quiet miracles woven into ordinary days.

With a grateful heart, I receive this day exactly as it is.

And with faith, I welcome every blessing still on its way.

Thank you. 🙏🏽

Thank you. 🙏🏽

Thank you. 🙏🏽

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

Good Vibes Only. 💫

I am not writing from the summit.

I am writing from the trail.

I am not reflecting on emptiness after I’ve conquered. 

I am documenting what it feels like while I’m still inside.

I want to be clear about this distinction.

Because there is a temptation when we write about difficult experiences to wait until we have figured them out. I have not!

We wait to write or share experiences until there is a lesson.

A resolution. A tidy ending. Something useful to offer. I just don’t have that.

What I have is an experience that is still unfolding.

What I have are questions that continue to outnumber the answers.

What I have is the growing awareness that something within me has shifted, even though I cannot fully explain what that shift means yet.

Perhaps that’s why I keep returning to this photograph.

It was a mistake, a click of the shutter when in my pocket.  I wasn’t trying to create art.

I wasn’t trying to tell a story.

I wasn’t even trying to document a feeling.

Yet somehow that is exactly what happened, when looking back in my photo library.

At first glance, it looks like almost nothing. And it really is - nothing.  

There is no horizon. There is no destination. No person. No beginning. No ending. Just a field of gray.

But there is a story. My story, in real time.

When I first looked at it, I couldn’t understand why it held my attention. Particularly because it was a mistake.

There was nothing obvious to see. Nothing asking to be admired. Nothing revealing itself.

The longer I sat with it, the more uncomfortable it became. Like looking in a mirror.

There seemed to be a presence. And that presence is absence. My ahaha moment. That's when I self-identified. I'm empty. Emptiness is my feeling. And as daunting as that sounds and is. I felt relief.

This wasn’t just a photograph.

This was the feeling.

This was the experience I had been trying and failing to describe.

Not sadness. Not grief.

Not despair. Not devastation.

Not even depression, at least not in the way people commonly describe it.

Something else.

A loss of edges.

A loss of definition.

A landscape that no longer felt familiar.

The strange experience of looking at your own life and not quite knowing where you are standing within it.

The things that normally create excitement, momentum, curiosity, creativity, and anticipation had become difficult to access.

Gone. Lost. And in my mind devastatingly, destroyed.

At the very least, obscured.

Like looking through fog.

Like reaching toward something that should be within arm’s reach and finding distance instead.

What strikes me now is that the image is not black. It isn’t darkness.

It isn’t emptiness in the way I would have imagined emptiness.

There are layers.

Subtle shifts in color.

Movements hidden inside stillness.

Texture. Variation. Even traces of light.

You don’t see them immediately.

Your eyes have to adjust.

Perhaps that is true of this experience as well.

Maybe part of the discomfort comes from wanting immediate understanding.

Wanting to know where this leads.

Wanting a name.

A reason. A timeline. A solution.

Instead, there is uncertainty.

But there is awareness.

There is the uncomfortable realization that something is changing, before you know what it is, or what it is becoming.

That is where I find myself today.

Not at the end of the story.

Not at the beginning either.

I’m on the trail.

Learning. Learning that recognition often arrives before understanding.

Learning that some experiences refuse to be rushed. And can happen out of nowhere.

The photograph doesn’t offer answers. Neither do I. Gray and empty is the feeling, for now.

Part Two: Self-Discovery

Once I recognized it, I celebrated.

The photograph gave the feeling a name.

Emptiness.

Even writing the word feels uncomfortable. Heavy. Dramatic. A bit excruciating if I’m being honest. Because - "who" is just, empty?!?!

Because emptiness sounds like something has been taken away, removed, discarded.

Like a deficiency. Like a void.

Some of those descriptions feel accurate. But not necessarily - spot on.

“Something is wrong. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know why I can’t access myself.”

Life hasn't stopped.

My responsibilities haven't disappeared. The people I love are still here. Work is still here. The dishes are still in the dishwasher. The bills are still arriving.

The world has not paused to accommodate whatever is happening inside me.

This may be part of what made the experience so difficult to identify. Nothing looked different. Everything looked the same. I looked the same. My days looked the same.

The routines remained largely intact. Yet something fundamental had shifted.

Writing became harder.

I have ideas. I have plenty.

The ideas never stopped.

The connection to them did.

Projects waited. Drafts sat untouched. Thoughts remained trapped somewhere between intention and action.

Conversations required more effort. My desire to be around people waned. Decisions required more effort.

Even things I genuinely wanted to do felt strangely inaccessible. That was perhaps the most frustrating part.

The desire still existed. But not enough to put into action. No execution capability existed any longer. I cared because that's who I am. But I didn't care to act, as it felt inauthentic.

I just couldn’t seem to access the part of myself that knew what to do with that care. And how to give that care movement.

So, I started searching for explanations.

Exhaustion. Burnout. Stress.

Age. Circumstances. Motivation.

Discipline. Attitude. Mindset.

I tried on every explanation I could find. None of them fit completely.

My mind became exceptionally skilled at asking questions.

The answers remained stubbornly absent. And then deep confusion settled in. Frustration followed. Then guilt.

Guilt for not doing more. Guilt for not feeling differently.

Guilt for watching time pass while feeling unable to engage with it the way I wanted.

There was also disappointment. Restlessness.

Impatience. A resentment toward myself for not being able to simply snap out of it.

Most days felt/feel suspended.

Some essential part of me had stepped away from the controls and left me observing from a distance.

Present. Functional. Participating. But disconnected.

There is a particular “empty” in not understanding your own experience.

Especially when the experience is happening inside your own mind.

I want clarity.

I want certainty.

I want a breakthrough. A little bit of a breakthrough did happen.

But I also wanted enlightenment to arrive, tap me on the shoulder, and explain what was happening, without ambiguity.

Instead, what I received was awareness. And the ability to name my dysfunction as "the empty".

There is also the keen awareness that something is changing.

Awareness that some motivations no longer carried the same weight.

Awareness that certain expectations I had for my life, my work, and myself are beginning to shift and loosen, potentially needing rediscovery and some tightening.

I am definitely aware now that I am standing somewhere unfamiliar.

Nowhere I have been.

Not sure where this will lead me. But one thing is apparent, a shift is happening and I'm going to need to pivot accordingly.

I wish I could tell you this story ends with some profound wisdom. It doesn’t.

Not yet.

I wish I could tell you I have solved the puzzle.

I might be moving in the right direction, but identifying is happening in real time. I'm still wading through it all.

The answers remain incomplete. The future remains unwritten. The landscape remains somewhat gray.

What has changed is that I no longer believe I am fighting something invisible.

I can see it now. I can acknowledge it. I can sit beside it.

Some days I move through it.

Some days I simply sit with it.

For now, that is enough.

The well is refilling and not so empty any longer.

For me, the Dear Universe series was born from that pause.

These writings emerge from thoughts, curiosity, and the ongoing experience of being human. They create space for questions, growth, hope, and possibility. For the moments when life feels clear, and for the moments when we are still finding our way. They hold space for wonder, uncertainty, gratitude, and the many experiences that shape us along our journey.

Whether you think of the universe as energy, faith, possibility, connection, spirituality, or simply a conversation with yourself, there is something meaningful about speaking our intentions aloud. About giving shape to what matters. About acknowledging where we are while remaining open to where we may go.

Each Dear Universe declaration explores a different theme: trust, harmony, courage, kindness, healing, abundance, perspective, joy, and more.

Together, they form an evolving collection of reflections centered on growth, compassion, curiosity, and the shared experiences that connect us all.

The Dear Universe declaration shared below, within the image accompanying this article, is one part of that collection.

If these words resonate with you, I invite you to spend a few moments with the image and the declaration it holds.

Should you find yourself wanting more, you’ll discover an entire collection of Dear Universe reflections throughout my Notes.

Perhaps one will offer encouragement.

Perhaps one will spark reflection.

Perhaps one will simply meet you where you are today.

Some of the most meaningful conversations we have are the ones that help us better understand ourselves, each other, and our place in the world.

Thank you for reading, reflecting, and sharing this journey with me.

And thank you for sharing a few moments of your journey with mine.

Honor the vastness of womanhood in all the ways it exists: fierce and soft, nurturing and ambitious, instinctive and intellectual, grounded and evolving. There is no singular way to be a woman and that truth alone is worthy of reverence.

Celebrate the women who carry entire worlds within them. The ones who lead with wisdom, create with imagination, protect with instinct, rebuild after heartbreak, and continue forward even while carrying invisible weight.

Recognize the depth of emotional intelligence women so often bring into the world. The ability to sense what is unspoken. To notice what others miss. To comfort, organize, anticipate, adapt, and hold space for both joy and grief at once.

Hold gratitude for the women who have shaped lives quietly and profoundly through friendship, mentorship, caregiving, artistry, advocacy, labor, listening, healing, teaching, and love.

Acknowledge that womanhood is not perfection. It is contradiction and becoming. It is strength beside tenderness. Exhaustion beside perseverance. Confidence beside doubt. It is learning how to rise again and again without losing softness entirely.

Revere the instincts women have long been taught to question despite how often those instincts protected, guided, warned, nurtured, and illuminated the path forward.

Honor the unseen labor women carry every day. The emotional balancing. The remembering. The planning. The comforting. The endless calculations made for the well-being of others while still trying to care for themselves too.

Embrace the beauty of women who evolve openly. Women who outgrow old versions of themselves. Women who choose healing. Women who begin again. Women who refuse to shrink simply to make others comfortable.

Behold the courage of women who continue to love in a world that has not always handled them gently. Who continue to hope, create, nurture, lead, speak, protect, and dream despite disappointment, injustice, exhaustion, or fear.

Cherish the way women bring humanity to the world around them. Through intuition and intellect. Through resilience and grace. Through fierce protection and quiet compassion. Through laughter, wisdom, creativity, and care.

Honor womanhood not as something fragile, but as something enduring, adaptive, brilliant, layered, and deeply powerful.

And women everywhere remember this; who we are has always been enough.

Every season carries its own personality.  Its own mood. Its own way of leaving fingerprints on our spirit.

Spring arrives as an exhale after a long weary winter. Tender and awakening. She softens the edges of us with rain-soaked mornings, budding branches, muddy paths, and the slow reemergence of color.

We notice the changes and welcome the shift. The birdsong. The warmth sneaking back into the air. The cool breezes. The way hope begins to stretch her limbs after months of hibernation. Spring still tests us, though.

Summer approaches like she already knows she’ll be welcomed.

Bold and unapologetically alive. Offering her lush green landscape. Golden light spilling late into the evening. Skin warmed by the sun. Open windows. Bare feet. Laughter carried farther into the night air.

Summer feels like a statement, an offering to surrender to joy. An invitation to linger. To wander. To gather. To become untethered from all the heaviness we carried too long.

I welcome and embrace the richness these seasons offer.

Every fleeting scent after rain. Every breeze brushing against sun-kissed skin. Every ache of nostalgia. Every spark of joy. Every reminder that life is still moving, still unfolding, still revealing her glory.

Seasons do more than arrive; they give us permission.

They draw out hidden parts of ourselves into the light. Revealing character that lingered in the shadows, now awakened beneath summer’s warmth and wild delight. She has emerged. And at last, we have too.

Lately, rage has been following me around like a loyal dog. Like a dog that is obsessed with its owner.

Not just occasionally. Not after particularly difficult days. Not only when something dramatic happens. I mean consistently. It has been sitting beside me in traffic, standing behind me in grocery store lines, moving through conversations with me, showing up while scrolling the news, listening to political commentary, watching people mistreat each other casually, watching cruelty become normalized, watching violence become daily background noise, watching people weaponize dishonesty while demanding trust and grace from everyone around them.

Some days it feels like rage arrives before I do.

And I think the hardest to recognize is how physical, internal rage can feel, even when externally you appear completely composed. My rage is loud internally. Externally, it is suppressed, managed, swallowed whole, redirected into functionality and politeness and emotional regulation.

Meanwhile, internally, I can be having a completely normal interaction while thinking: I want to punch this person in the throat.

Not because I am actually going to. Not because I condone violence. Not because I have lost control of myself.

Because frustration, emotional exhaustion, disappointment, grief, overstimulation, restraint, and accumulated anger collide all at once inside my body and create something volcanic.

And I am tired of pretending this is not my experience.

People are expected to remain emotionally responsible no matter what is happening around them.

The phrase "emotionally responsible" has been living inside my head.

I do not actually believe emotional responsibility itself is the problem. What becomes exhausting is carrying rage while still choosing responsibility. Carrying disappointment while still choosing decency. Carrying grief while still choosing restraint. Carrying anger while still trying to communicate thoughtfully instead of detonating emotionally all over everyone around you while simultaneously imploding inside yourself.

That is exhausting.

Being the person who absorbs tension instead of creating it is suffocating.

Being the person who regulates themselves while surrounded by people committed to remaining emotionally reckless is draining.

Being expected to stay compassionate while being mishandled is exhausting.

Being expected to communicate perfectly with people who intentionally misunderstand you is exhausting.

Being expected to remain emotionally mature enough for everyone in the room eventually starts to feel less like growth and more like unpaid emotional labor performed for the comfort of other people and for my direct discomfort. Some days, I feel like I am losing.

After repeated madness, something starts happening internally.

Anger starts stretching beyond language. It starts pressing against the walls of my restraint. At first, anger still believes it can explain itself clearly enough to be understood. It still believes honesty, vulnerability, communication, and accountability might repair something.

Unanswered anger does not just disappear. It accumulates. It hardens.

It starts and continues replaying conversations long after they ended. It starts living in your core being. It starts showing up before your rational mind can intercept it. It starts turning disappointment into instinct.

And eventually, anger stops asking politely to be acknowledged.

That is where rage begins for me.

I do not think rage appears out of nowhere. At least not for me. I think rage is what happens when anger goes unanswered, unaddressed, dismissed, suppressed, mocked, minimized, redirected, or swallowed for too long.

Anger still has its own language.

Anger still wants to sit down at the table and say; this hurt me. This matters. This crossed a line. Please hear me before this becomes something worse. Before the I want to punch you in the throat thoughts begin surfacing. Anger still believes repair is possible.

But when anger keeps running into walls, eventually it stops asking politely.

Eventually it evolves into something heavier. Rage.

And the truth is, I understand exactly how I got here. I understand how humans get here.

I look around at this country and our state of being and feel rage.

I look at political ideologies that have become more invested in power than humanity and feel rage. I look at both political parties behaving like competing criminal enterprises while ordinary people drown financially, emotionally, psychologically, spiritually, and physically beneath systems neither side seems truly interested in repairing, and I feel rage.

I look at the normalization of violence and feel rage.

The fact that mass shootings have become so common people absorb them for six minutes before moving on to dinner plans.

The fact that people can watch suffering unfold in real time and continue scrolling.The fact that cruelty has become entertainment. The fact that outrage has become profitable.The fact that division has become identity.

The fact that human beings now speak to one another with levels of contempt that would have once been considered alarming, and now it is just called discourse.

I feel rage watching greed disguise itself as success.

I feel rage watching billionaires accumulate unimaginable wealth while working people can barely breathe beneath rent, groceries, medical debt, childcare, and even basic survival itself.

I feel rage watching manipulation marketed as patriotism.

I feel rage at racism, misogyny, corruption, exploitation, dishonesty, emotional negligence, hypocrisy, performative morality, and people demanding empathy they refuse to extend to others.

And then there is the more intimate rage. The personal rage.The rage born from disappointment.

The rage born from giving people softness they handled carelessly.

The rage born from realizing how often people expect emotional access to you while contributing very little emotionally themselves.

The rage born from betrayal.

From abandonment.

From dishonesty.

From being misunderstood repeatedly.

From carrying relationships.

From carrying conversations.

From carrying emotional weight for people who barely notice they are handing it to you in the first place.

Then society tells people to “drop expectations” as though expectations themselves are the problem. Like people shouldn't expect things of themselves or others. Oof!

Some expectations are ego. But some expectations are dignity.

Expecting honesty is not unreasonable.

Expecting reciprocity is not unreasonable.

Expecting accountability, communication, effort, integrity, care, emotional safety, consideration, respect, and truthfulness are not outrageous demands.

These are relational and rational standards.

These are the things that allow people to remain emotionally connected to one another without destroying each other in the process.

And when these things are repeatedly absent, anger mutates.

At first anger wants resolution.

Then anger wants distance.

Then anger wants consequences.

Then anger wants witnesses.

That is the part people rarely admit out loud. We cannot confront what we refuse to witness.

There are days I want my silence to sting.

There are days I want my absence to feel loud.

There are days I want people to feel exactly what they handed me without me softening it first so they can digest it more comfortably.

There are days I want to stop translating my pain into language that protects other people from fully confronting the damage they caused.

There are days I want to answer coldness with coldness. Neglect with neglect. Cruelty with cruelty.

And if I am being fully honest, there are moments where becoming mean feels justified. Almost like a natural response.

Not always sophisticated mean. Sometimes loud mean.

Sharp mean. Scorched-earth mean.

The kind of mean that wants to humiliate instead of communicate. The kind of mean that wants people to regret underestimating your capacity for damage. The kind of mean that fantasizes about emotional indifference because caring has become too expensive.

The kind of mean that knows exactly where to place the knife emotionally and has to consciously choose not to twist it.

And I think pretending humans never think these thoughts is emotionally dishonest.

Because beneath a lot of “I’m fine” is RAGE.

Beneath a lot of forced positivity is exhaustion. Beneath a lot of emotionally detached people is often someone who once cared deeply before disappointment hollowed something out inside them.

Sometimes rage feels cleaner than grief because grief requires vulnerability. Grief admits something mattered. Rage feels armored. Rage feels clarifying. Rage creates the illusion of power when powerlessness has exhausted you.

And honestly, there are moments rage feels almost holy to me.

Not righteous. Not good.

But understandable.Justified.

After enough disappointment, becoming harder can start feeling like survival instead of dysfunction.

That realization scares me more than the rage itself.

Not because I think I am secretly monstrous. Because I understand cruelty more than I want to. I understand how people arrive here. I understand how I arrive here.

I understand how pain, humiliation, fear, exhaustion, loneliness, unresolved anger, economic pressure, emotional neglect, betrayal, political division, and accumulated disappointment can slowly distort a human being until hardness starts feeling safer than tenderness.

I understand why people stop responding warmly because warmth stopped feeling safe.

I understand why people become emotionally unavailable on purpose.

I understand why people fantasize about indifference.

I understand why people stop explaining themselves because they are exhausted from explaining basic human decency to fully grown adults.

I understand all of it.

And still, despite everything inside me that sometimes wants to become harder, there is another truth I keep running into over and over again:

I DO NOT WANT PAIN AUTHORING MY CHARACTER.

I refuse to become someone committed to spreading suffering simply because I have suffered.

This does not mean I will tolerate disrespect.

It does not mean I will abandon boundaries.

It does not mean I will continue offering softness to people committed to mishandling it.

But it does mean I have to remain accountable for the human being I am and the human being I am becoming in response.

Pain explains behavior. It does not absolve it.

And at some point every single one of us has to confront the same uncomfortable question:

What are we allowing our suffering to turn us into?

The question matters to me because I know rage unattended can become identity.

And once that happens, people stop recognizing the difference between honesty and cruelty.

Between discernment and bitterness. Between boundaries and emotional punishment. Between accountability and vengeance.

I do not want to become someone who enjoys hurting people simply because I understand exactly how to do it.

I want to be the kind of person who can acknowledge betrayal without becoming betrayal.

Someone who can remain compassionate without becoming naive.

Someone who can tell the truth without weaponizing it.

Someone who can remain emotionally alive in a culture constantly encouraging emotional numbness.

This is not fragility. This is intentional discipline.

Many days the discipline can exhaust me. Many days kindness feels natural and prevails.

Other days kindness feels like a conscious act of resistance against everything trying to harden me.

Some days empathy flows easily.

Other days I have to drag myself back from emotional shutdown and remind myself that becoming unreachable is not the same thing as becoming healed.

But I keep returning to the same realization:

After the rage passes through me, I still have to live with the choices I made while carrying it.That responsibility belongs to me. I am accountable.

Not my trauma.

Not my disappointment.

Not the people who hurt me.

Not this country.

Not this world.

Me.

And despite everything I have written here, despite the rage, despite the exhaustion, despite the temptation to become colder, sharper, harder, and emotionally unreachable, there is still another part of me fighting to stay alive too.

The part of me that still wants joy.

Real joy.

Not performative happiness.

Not forced positivity.

Not pretending everything is beautiful when it clearly is not.

I mean the kind of joy that feels earned because you survived yourself long enough to reach it.

The kind of joy that exists when your nervous system is no longer constantly at war with your own mind.

The kind of joy that comes from knowing you had every reason to become cruel and consciously chose not to.

That matters to me deeply.

Because I do not want rage becoming the loudest thing about me.

I do not want bitterness becoming my permanent emotional posture.

I do not want to spend the rest of my life emotionally armored, suspicious of softness, disconnected from people, disconnected from hope, disconnected from my own ability to experience wonder, intimacy, warmth, trust, laughter, peace, and love.

I want more than survival.

I want a life that still feels emotionally alive. Emotionally possible.

And I think part of what has become painfully clear to me is that our choices ripple outward constantly.

The way we speak to people matters.The way we carry pain matters.The way we handle disappointment matters.The way we regulate our anger matters.

Because unresolved rage does not only live inside individuals. It spreads into families, friendships, relationships, workplaces, communities, and entire cultures.

People hurt people. Then hurt people hurt more people.

And eventually cruelty starts reproducing itself so efficiently that nobody even remembers where the wound originally began.

I do not want to contribute to that cycle any more than I already have.

I want to be accountable for my energy, my words, my reactions, my presence, and the emotional environment I help create around other people.

Not perfectly. Not flawlessly. But intentionally.

Because there is enough violence in this world already.

Enough humiliation.

Enough contempt.

Enough emotional abandonment.

Enough cruelty disguised as strength.

I do not want to add more poison to a world already struggling to breathe.

And maybe that is what emotional responsibility actually means.

Not suppressing emotion.

Not pretending anger does not exist.

Not becoming endlessly accommodating or self-sacrificing.

But recognizing that every single day we are making choices about whether we become safe places for other human beings or additional sources of harm.

This realization changed something in me. It made me address it. It made me understand further that kindness is not weakness. Compassion is not foolishness. Gentleness is not fragility.

Sometimes they are evidence of enormous internal discipline.

Sometimes they are evidence of survival. Sometimes they are evidence that a person stood face-to-face with their own rage and decided not to let it become their entire identity.

And honestly, I think there is something profoundly encouraging and beautiful about that.

Not perfect.

Not polished.

Not enlightened.

Just human.

Human beings trying to carry unbearable things without becoming unbearable themselves.

Human beings trying to remain emotionally open in a world constantly incentivizing numbness.

Human beings trying to create homes, friendships, relationships, families, and communities where people feel safe enough to soften instead of constantly preparing for emotional impact.

It all matters.

That is the kind of world I want to help build. One where accountability and compassion coexist. One where honesty does not require cruelty.

One where people are allowed to admit their rage without being consumed by it.

One where emotional responsibility is not viewed as weakness but as one of the hardest and most necessary forms of discipline there is. And maybe this is where I finally land.

Not cured of rage.

Not free from anger.

Not magically healed into permanent peace.

But aware.

Aware that I am constantly being given opportunities to decide what kind of human being I want to become in response to pain.

And despite everything inside me that sometimes wants to punch someone in the throat, disappear emotionally, shut down, harden completely, or stop caring altogether…

I still want to be someone capable of love…

Capable of joy.

Capable of warmth.

Capable of laughter.

Capable of tenderness.

Capable of building something beautiful with other people.

To me, that is the reward. Not perfection. Not sainthood.

Just the ability to look at yourself honestly and know that despite your rage, despite your disappointment, despite your suffering, you fought to remain human anyway.

A reflection of how we relate to something that gives without asking, sustains without negotiating, and continues without needing permission.

Earth responds to what is done, not what is said.

Care, in its most honest form, is intentional and consistent.

It looks like choosing differently when no one is watching.

It looks like interrupting habit, not just talking about it.

It looks like small decisions that compound over time.

If Earth Day represents anything, maybe it’s, recalibration and deliberate action of care that is meaningful.

Daily ways we can practice, without performance:

• Use what we already have before reaching for something new

• Pause before convenience becomes default

• Pay attention to waste, not just in materials, but in habit

• Step outside long enough to remember what we're part of

• Choose slower when faster isn’t necessary

There’s also a truth we don’t often recognize. The planet will always self-correct.

It always has. It always will.

With or without us.

For me that's comforting and also clarifying.

This shifts the question.

Not how do we save the Earth.

But how do we remain part of it.

Care for the Earth isn’t separate from care for ourselves. The same patterns show up.

Overconsumption.

Neglect.

Disconnection.

Short-term thinking.

And the same solutions apply.

Awareness.

Restraint.

Intention.

Repair.

Care.

Earth Day, at its core, is an invitation to be better, do better.

Awareness. Preparedness. Consistency.

In the end, we don't have to save something outside of ourselves. It’s about deciding how we exist within and that includes the planet in which we live.

We must decide whether we’re willing to care for ourselves and the earth in a way that allows both to continue.

Let’s not pretend this is about manners.

This is about ego.

This is about entitlement.

This is about the intentional decision, over and over again, to move through the world as if other people don’t deserve acknowledgment.

Why are we so committed to being less and calling it more?

We’ve dressed it up as efficiency. As confidence.

As not needing to perform for anyone. Like being polite is a performance.

Somewhere along the way, basic decency got recategorized as optional.

And that should bother us.

Because being polite and courteous isn’t about rules. It’s about awareness. It’s about recognizing that we are not the only person occupying space, time, energy, or effort.

These are simple things. Free things.

Things that cost nothing and still somehow feel too expensive for some of us to give.

“It’s not that serious.” That’s the line, right?

Except it is. It shapes so much.

What you consistently choose not to do says more than what you occasionally get right.

It is not a flex to be rude.

It is not a flex to skip “thank you.”

It is not a flex to bulldoze past “excuse me.”

It is not a flex to treat “please” like it’s beneath you.

That’s not confidence. That’s a deficit.

And yes, let’s talk about customer service for a moment.

There are very few scenarios where a transaction happens and gratitude shouldn’t follow.

“You’re all set.”

“Have a nice day.”

Those are conclusions.

They are not acknowledgments.

They are not appreciation.

They are not interchangeable with “thank you.”

Because, I am not “all set” until you recognize that I had a choice and I chose you.

Every transaction is a decision. Every decision is an opportunity. And every opportunity deserves acknowledgment.

If your business has not trained people to say “thank you” with intention, then it has trained them to overlook the very people keeping it alive.

And as consumers, we reinforce what we tolerate.

So choose better.

Choose the places that see you. Choose the places that acknowledge you. Choose the places that understand that appreciation is not extra, it is baseline.

Now bring it back to us. Individually.

What are we doing?

No money is required to thank someone for holding a door.

No effort is depleted by acknowledging a compliment.

No status is lost by saying “excuse me” when you move through someone’s space.

And if we’re being honest, most of the time we don’t forget.

We decide. Deliberately, and sometimes with malicious intent.

We decide it’s not necessary.

We decide it doesn’t matter.

We decide they’ll get over it.

But that’s not the point.

The point is what you are practicing. The point is what you are reinforcing. The point is the version of yourself you are rehearsing in small, what you deem to be forgettable moments, define you.

Politeness is not weakness.

Courtesy is not submission.

They are signals.

Of awareness.

Of discipline.

Of respect.

And if that feels like too much to extend, then the question isn’t about manners.

It’s about you and how you choose to treat people.

Making the world better does not require grand gestures.

It requires consistency in the smallest ones.

A thank you.

An excuse me.

A please.

A you’re welcome.

These are not scripts.

They are choices. Choices that build and positively make a difference.

So what is the resistance?

What is it costing you to acknowledge another human being?

Because whatever answer you come up with, it’s not higher than the cost of becoming someone who doesn’t.

Choose intentionally.

Choose with care.

Not because the world demands it, but because it changes who you are within it. It changes those who you extend it to.

The smallest acknowledgments carry the greatest weight.

A thank you.

An excuse me.

A moment of presence where indifference could have lived.

These are not minor acts. They are signals of humanity in motion.

When we choose them consistently, we raise the standard not just for ourselves, but for everyone we encounter.

We become easier to live with.

The world becomes more tolerable. More tolerant.

Within practicing this behavior, we give legitimacy to the small things that shape better humans.

Early bloom against bare branches. A little chaotic. A little uneven. Not fully arrived.

I wait for this every year, in anticipation, like I’ve forgotten it happens. And still, the excitement finds me the same way.

That first sighting.

Green, pushing through.

There’s a part of me that wonders if winter might just decide to stay this time. Like the trees might not come back to their full expression.

I don’t trust the process as much as much as I should.

I want the full bloom.

I want the certainty.

I want the moment where everything is obvious and undeniable.

But that’s not how it shows up.

It never is.

It starts like this...

Messy.

Uneven.

Half one thing, half another.

Branches still bare in places.

Leaves showing up where they feel like it.

No announcement. No grand arrival. Just… persistence.

I catch myself wanting to rush the process.

Always wanting more.

More green. More fullness. More proof.

As if the moment isn’t enough to stand on its own. As if becoming isn’t allowed to be seen in pieces.

Standing there, looking up at it, something shifts and changes for me.

Not patience. Let’s not pretend.😉

But something close.

Respect.

Appreciation.

Awe.

The timing I don’t control. The unfolding I don’t get to accelerate.

It's my reminder that not everything shows up all at once just to make me comfortable.

I am impatient.

In life. In change. In becoming anything I’ve decided I’m ready for - NOW.

I want it immediately.

Or at least sooner than it arrives.

This is the unspoken argument against that mindset.

Because when it does come fully through, when the leaves take over, when the branches disappear into green; it will feel like an exhale.

It was always going to happen.

But it started in this in-between.

I'm sure this is the lesson I resist the most.

Not just noticing the bloom…

but learning to stay with what comes before it, during the process, before it arrives.

Because even now, before it’s complete, before it’s undeniable

I feel it. The pull. The lift.

That dizzy, almost childlike reminder that hope and wonder are still very much alive in me.

And Still asks something of me.

Gently. Passively. And with a kind of certainty I can’t ignore. I shouldn't ignore.

Wait.

Watch.

Trust.

Because the payoff always comes. And it's always worth it.

We’ve been taught to tone it down.

To measure our joy.

To soften our reactions so we don’t seem like “too” much.

Too loud.

Too expressive.

Too over-the-top.

Somewhere along the way, we decided joy needed to be Monitored. Contained. Managed.

And we started calling people “extra” as an insult.

Like feeling deeply…

Like expressing freely…

Like celebrating openly…

was something to feel shame.

WHY?

We side-eye people who feel things fully. Who don’t edit their excitement to make others comfortable.

That’s not maturity. That's judgement. That’s self-editing.

Apostrophize anyway.

The big moments.

The small moments.

The ordinary ones that catch you off guard.

Refuse to be quiet to please others and meet their comfort threshold.

Stop rationing your joy like it’s limited. It’s not.

Feel it. Say it. Show it. Fully.

Unapologetically.

You don’t need permission to live with exclamation.

Apostrophize your life!

We are already living inside something that hasn’t happened yet.

That’s the part most of us won’t admit.

Not because it isn’t true.

Because it requires ownership.

Prolepsis is not just a literary device. It’s a behavioral pattern. A mindset. A gentle, often unconscious decision to treat the future as if it’s already here.

We do it all the time.

We pre-live failure before effort.

We rehearse rejection before expression. We assume endings before beginnings even have a chance to take shape.

That’s one version. Fear wearing the mask of foresight.

But there’s another version. The one most of us never fully step into.

The deliberate kind.

The kind where we decide, with clarity and backbone,

that what we are building, becoming, claiming already exists in us in a finished form. With positive impact.

Not wishful thinking. Not delusion. Alignment. Discernment. Truth.

We move differently when we stop treating our future as hypothetical.

We speak from it.

We choose from it.

We walk into rooms already acquainted with the version of ourselves that belongs there.

That’s prolepsis with intention.

And then there’s the second definition. The structure.

Setting something out in summary before unfolding the details.

We do that in life too.

“I’m not the kind of person who…”

“This never works out for me…”

“This is just how it goes…”

A conclusion declared before the evidence ever arrives. Accepting negative impact.

Convenient. Efficient. Limiting.

Because once we summarize our life too early, we stop allowing it to surprise us.

So here’s the question to ponder...

What are we prematurely concluding? And what are we prematurely claiming in doom?

Both are prolepsis. Only one builds something worth living into.

We don’t need to wait for proof to begin.

Whatever is already in motion,

make sure it’s motion with a conclusion we actually want to arrive in.

Choose the options that expands.

I step outside, and something begins to reorganize itself within me.

Gently. Intentionally. Deliberately.

Earth.

Restorative.

The ground beneath our feet does something extraordinary to both body and mind.

It holds. It is bold.

Physically, it absorbs impact, weight, movement, imbalance

without asking to be anything other than what is in that moment.

Walk barefoot and you can feel it not just beneath me, but drawing something out of us that we didn’t realize we were carrying and returning something we didn’t know we needed.

Wind.

At times, it sounds unsettling. Almost eerie. And yet, there is comfort in it. You sense a shift before you see it.

It clears. It makes way.

It carries something out and invites something new in.

It interrupts stillness and demands awareness. You can feel yourself caught in it, almost lifted by it.

It moves through you the way it moves through trees

unapologetically, without permission.

Not all healing is gentle. Some healing appropriately rearranges everything.

Wind reminds us that stagnation is not peace. It can be stillness that stayed too long.

Water.

It does not hold on. It moves.

It releases. It rushes.

Sometimes with force. Sometimes with restraint. Always with purpose.

Whether rain, ocean, or the steady rhythm of a stream it is always in motion, always advancing even when it appears calm on the surface.

There is something in it that commands attention.

Water adapts. It shifts. It carves new paths over time without resistance to where it is. It teaches continuity.

Water is life.

Dirt.

The kind that settles under your nails is not clean. That is exactly the point. Origin comes to mind.

Everything grows from dirt/soil

and everything returns to it.

There is humility in touching dirt, letting it move through your hands and under your feet.

A reminder that not everything meaningful is polished. Mess is part of the design.

Some of the most necessary transformations happen in places that are dark, gritty, and porous.

Trees.

They do not rush growth.

They root first.

Grounded. Steady. Patient.

They change with the seasons without resistance and without explanation.

What you see above ground

is only possible because of what is anchored and rooted below it.

There is intelligence in them. A language that exists whether we listen or not.

They stabilize. They endure.

There is strength in not needing to prove you are growing every single day.

Sun.

Not always seen. Always present.

There is no apology in how or if it shows up. No negotiation.

Sometimes it gives just enough.

Sometimes more than we want.

Sometimes, nothing at all.

It does not promise comfort.

It does not offer control. And yet still, we depend on it.

It arrives on its own terms

unwavering, necessary.

Not everything that sustains us requires acknowledgment to continue.

Grass.

It softens what would otherwise feel harsh. It creates space for pause.

For attention. For awareness.

Grass between your toes

is a special kind of magic.

It invites us to stay longer than we planned.

Not everything that supports us

needs to be rigid. Some things hold us better because they give.

Gravel.

Uneven. Rough. Unforgiving at times. It demands intention.

Each step considered.

Each movement deliberate.

There is awareness in the steps.

Not every path is meant to feel easy. Some are meant to wake us up to how we are moving through the world.

Air.

Unseen. Often unnoticed. And yet, essential beyond measure.

We do not think about it

until we need it.

Breath is the simplest return.

Inhale. You are here.

Exhale. You are letting go.

Again and again without effort, without permission. Air gives continuously.

Mother Nature does not have an agenda. She does not intend to fix us. She self corrects. And within that, we benefit.

She is restorative. She reminds us that we were never separate from her to begin with.

And in that remembering

there is balance. There is grounding. There is healing. There is truth.

Say the good thing out loud.

Encouragement & Praise has a way of multiplying. These acts allow us to become more whole beings, in all the grandest of ways.

There is something surprisingly simple that we forget how to do as adults.

We forget to say the good things out loud.

The compliment we think but never share. The admiration we quietly hold. The recognition someone deserves but never hears. A simple "Hey, you're amazing."

As toddlers we are taught to share in the sandbox. Toys, crayons, space. It is one of the earliest social lessons we learn.

Yet somewhere along the way many of us stop sharing the easiest things of all.

Encouragement.

Kindness.

Recognition.

Praise.

Almost as if generosity were a limited resource instead of something that multiplies the moment we give it.

Giving someone their flowers is one of the simplest acts of generosity available to us. It means acknowledging someone while they are here to receive it. Not years later. Not privately in our thoughts. Not after they have passed. But in real time.

A simple truth sits underneath it.

"Supporting another’s success won’t dampen your own."

"A candle loses nothing by lighting another candle."

"There is room for everyone to glow."

Recognition is not something that runs out. There's plenty to share if we are ready to release it. Admiration is not a currency that must be protected or rationed. In fact, the opposite is often true. When we acknowledge the effort, talent, and presence of others, something expands.

Rooms get larger.

Conversations open.

Connections deepen.

And yet, many of us still hesitate.

"When you lift others up, you rise as well."

The Ridiculous Habit of Saying Nothing

Most of us have done it. We notice something admirable in another person.

A piece of work done well.

A moment of courage.

A talent someone carries naturally.

The way someone shows up for others.

The thought appears clearly in our mind.

“That was impressive.”

“They handled that well.”

“I admire the way they carry themselves.”

And then we move on without saying a word.

Not because the thought was not sincere. Not because the person did not deserve to hear it. Because something inside us paused.

Sometimes it is subtle insecurity. Sometimes it is comparison. Sometimes it is simply conditioning.

We are not used to or sometimes comfortable speaking those thoughts out loud, so we keep them to ourselves.

And if we are honest, most of us can recognize this moment when it happens. I believe it's even become a daily ritual. It's like we've convinced ourselves we will win the lottery if we keep praising others silently.

How absurd is that? Wild. Right?!?!

We have all seen someone doing something remarkable and chosen silence instead of acknowledgment. Not maliciously, at least I hope not. Just unconsciously, and sadly, sometimes consciously.

An Honest Reflection

I would love to say I always give people their flowers without hesitation. The truth is, I do not.

I tend to be more generous with compliments than many people I observe around me. Recognizing effort and naming the good I see in others feels natural to me.

And yet, even with that belief system in place, there are moments when I pause.

I notice the admirable thing.

I feel the compliment forming.

I know it would likely brighten someone’s day.

And still, there is a moment of hesitation.

Lately I have been sitting with that pause. Not critically. Curiously.

Why would I ever hold back something so simple and meaningful? Truthfully, I enjoy giving people their flowers.

I convince myself...

The hesitation is practical.

Will it sound awkward?

Will the person receive it the way I intend?

But there is another truth that occasionally appears, one that is harder to admit.

Sometimes the hesitation is rooted in disappointment.

An envious voice says:

“I didn’t get mine. Why should I give theirs?” Or "They're shining too bright; I want to shine that bright too." As if their shine won't allow us to shine bright too.

It is not something we say out loud. But many people have felt it.

The moment where recognition you hoped for never arrived. The moment where your effort went unnoticed. That kind of disappointment can settle deeper than we expect.

And sometimes, without realizing it, it makes us hesitate before celebrating someone else’s moment.

Out of disillusion.

Out of hurt.

Out of exhaustion.

Out of the weight of wondering if our own efforts will ever be seen.

But withholding recognition does not heal that disappointment. It does not materialize the anticipated and sometimes expected praise from others we yearn for.

It only keeps the silence going. And over time, that silence becomes loud.

I did some research. And there is actually science behind this behavior.   

Researchers have found that people consistently overestimate how awkward it will feel to give someone a compliment and underestimate how positive the impact will be for the person receiving it. And even the positive impact it has on the giver.

In other words, we worry far more about the moment than the recipient actually experiences. And how we will actually feel when articulating the thought and giving the compliment.

Psychologists point to several reasons this happens.

Social anxiety plays a role. Many people worry the compliment might create an uncomfortable moment. We hold back based on our own self-doubt and how we perceive ourselves internally.

There is also outcome uncertainty. We are not always sure how someone will interpret what we say.

Some fear a compliment may sound insincere or manipulative. Others assume praise is unnecessary because someone was simply doing what was expected.

Psychology also describes patterns like self-verification, where people maintain consistent beliefs about themselves, even when those beliefs are limiting.

If someone already doubts their abilities, praise can create internal tension, leading them to deflect or minimize it.

Another concept, cognitive dissonance, explains the discomfort people feel when new information challenges their existing beliefs about themselves.

These patterns appear in everyday situations.

A manager skips praising a team member because the work is expected (part of their job).

Someone notices a stranger’s style but decides speaking up might feel awkward.

A partner receives a compliment and brushes it aside.

None of this comes from cruelty or dismissiveness.

It comes from misunderstanding how meaningful encouragement actually is. Or, holding back as we don't want someone to shine more, more than we are in the moment.

Sometimes it’s not that we don’t have the compliment or fearful to say it. It’s that we’re still waiting for ours.

Everyone Deserves Flowers

Some people wear their struggles where the world can see them.

You notice their exhaustion. You recognize the difficulty they are navigating. Their sadness is present. You understand immediately that encouragement might help them keep going.

There are others who appear strong, are strong. Strength does not eliminate someone’s desire to be recognized and acknowledged.

They show up steady.

They solve problems.

They carry responsibility without much visible strain.

They stand tall and walk with poise and confidence.

And because they appear capable, people often assume they do not need encouragement, praise, compliments.

That assumption is rarely true.

Strength can be armor.

Sometimes the strongest person in the room is carrying pressures we cannot see. Sometimes the strongest person in the room is carrying the heaviest load. Responsibilities. Expectations. Private worries they rarely share because vulnerability is risky.

In that way, the strong and the struggling are not so different.

Both are human. Both are carrying weight that is too much to have to manage. Both deserve flowers. Everyone deserves their garden to grow.

When Flowers Multiply

There is something remarkable that happens when people begin giving recognition freely.

Encouragement spreads. The person who receives genuine acknowledgment is far more likely to offer it to someone else. Recognition moves through teams. Through friendships. Through families. Through communities.

What begins as a single compliment can become a chain reaction of encouragement and kindness that becomes contagious.

People become more willing to give more effort, even through their fears. More willing to create. More willing to show up fully. Because someone noticed.

Recognition does not weaken people. It strengthens them. It reminds people they are not invisible. They are seen.

A Small Experiment

Lately I have been trying something simple. When the good thought appears, I say it.

Not perfectly.

Not in some polished way.

Just honestly.

A quick message.

A passing comment.

A moment of acknowledgment.

A "Datta boy."

What I am noticing is something I suspected all along. The world becomes noticeably warmer when we say the good things out loud.

People soften. People smile. And often they carry that encouragement forward.

There has never been a shortage of room for things to grow. Only moments when we chose not to nurture them.

Give people their flowers.

Give them to the person who is struggling and trying to keep going. Give them to the person who appears steady and strong but may be carrying more than anyone realizes.

Say the good thing out loud.

Offer the compliment you almost kept to yourself.

Acknowledge the effort.

Name the strength you see in someone else.

Because recognition does more than brighten someone else’s day.

It reminds people they matter.

It strengthens the connections between us. It creates a kind of generosity that has a way of finding its way back.

The garden grows larger, greener, more colorful every time we celebrate what is blooming in someone else.

The good you don’t say doesn’t count. Don’t be stingy. Be generous.

Share the compliment. Express the praise. Watch goodness expand.

There are seasons when our sense of power feels steady and unquestioned.

And then there are seasons like the one I have been walking through recently.

Moments where the mind starts to measure what is missing instead of what is present. Where small wins get overlooked while the losses and the constant little hiccups begin to take up too much space in the conversation inside our own heads.

I caught myself there.

Questioning progress. Second guessing effort. Letting noise speak louder than truth.

Something important lives underneath all of that. Something steady that does not disappear simply because we forget to acknowledge it.

Power.

Not the loud kind.

Not the kind that needs permission or applause. The kind that comes from remembering who we are and choosing to stand there again.

So this is a declaration to myself.

A moment of reclaiming the ground beneath my own feet.

A reminder that the voice in my head that diminishes me is not truth.

And from this moment forward, only thoughts that offer true allyship to myself are welcome here.

These words begin with “I am,” and they are not only mine.

If you read them quietly to yourself, or out loud, they become yours too.

Whether you are rebuilding your strength, navigating a difficult stretch, or already standing firmly in your own authentic power, I hope something here meets you where you are.

Sometimes we simply need a reminder of what has been ours all along.

Our power.

1. I am the steward of my power, directing it with clarity, intention, and unwavering self-trust.

2. I am rooted in my own authority; I no longer hand my power to doubt, fear, or the expectations of others.

3. I am fully capable of shaping my life through conscious choice, disciplined action, and courageous ownership.

4. I am aware of the strength that lives within me, and I choose to stand in it with calm confidence.

5. I am powerful in my decisions, my boundaries, and the way I move through the world.

6. I am the source of my direction; my power flows from within and guides the path ahead of me.

7. I am expanding into deeper levels of personal power, wisdom, and self-leadership each day.

8. I am unafraid of my own strength; I welcome it, embody it, and allow it to shape my life.

9. I am generous with my power, uplifting others while remaining firmly anchored in myself.

10. I am strong enough to share influence, insight, and encouragement without ever losing my center.

11. I am the guardian of my energy and the architect of the life my power is building.

12. I am living proof that true power begins within and radiates outward with purpose and integrity.

Power is not something we find once and keep forever without effort.

It is something we remember.

Something we return to.

Something we reclaim again and again throughout a lifetime.

There will always be moments when doubt tries to speak louder than truth. Moments when the mind wanders toward lack, loss, or comparison. That is part of being human.

But we are not required to build a home there.

Each time we choose thoughts that honor our strength, protect our energy, and stand in true allyship with ourselves, we return to our rightful place.

Power does not require perfection.

It requires awareness.

It requires ownership.

And most of all, it requires the courage to believe our own voice again.

So if you read these words and felt something shift, even slightly, hold on to that.

Your power was never gone.

It was simply waiting for you to recognize it again.

And once you do, it has a remarkable way of growing stronger every time you choose to stand in it.

Some people offer a hand while quietly removing the ladder.

Sometimes the people standing closest to the edge of our daily lives appear as though they are reaching out to help.

But not all perceived help is actual help.

This illustration has stayed with me for years because it captures a truth many of us eventually learn through lived experience.

Some people offer a hand while quietly removing the ladder.

No real intention of helping at all. Only the performance of help.

Designed to create the appearance of support while ensuring you never actually climb out of the hole.

And if we are not paying attention, we mistake proximity for support. We mistake the extended hand for sincerity. We assume the gesture means safety.

One of the most important life skills we can develop is learning to recognize the difference.

Red flags disguised as help:

• They position themselves as the only solution.

• Your progress somehow depends on their control.

• They keep you in the hole rather than helping you climb out of it.

• Their advice leaves you smaller, more confused, or more dependent.

• They present themselves as rescuers while quietly moving the real tools out of reach.

• Your energy drains every time you interact with them.

• You feel a subtle undercurrent of jealousy or competition.

• They question your ability and subtly blame you for your circumstances.

• You walk away doubting your own judgment or self-worth.

These are the people often called energy vampires. You might also call them anti-helpers, false allies, or performative rescuers.

They feed on access, attention, and influence while presenting themselves as heroes. As helpers. As people who supposedly have your best interests at heart.

But real, honest help looks very different.

Green flags of genuine support:

• They hand you the ladder.

• They want you standing beside them, not beneath them.

• They give you tools, information, and guidance.

• Your independence is the goal, not your dependence.

• You leave the interaction feeling clearer, stronger, and more capable.

• They celebrate when you no longer need their help or require assistance.

• They cloak you in encouragement rather than control.

• They show up when you need them most.

• They notice when help is needed, even when it has not been expressly spoken.

Real helpers and allies do not need you trapped to feel valuable. The value is seeing you succeed.

Over time I have learned that protecting your peace and your energy is not selfish. It is paramount. It is wisdom.

Paying attention to who removes ladders and who brings them is one of the most important forms of self-respect, self-worth, and self-preservation.

And perhaps the deeper lesson in this image is not simply learning to notice the difference.

It is choosing who you will be in the story.

Lift people up.

Offer real tools.

Bring the ladder.

Support their climb.

Be the voice that encourages instead of the one that quietly undermines.

The world already has enough pretenders. Be the person whose help is authentic and not performative.

The last half of Tuesday and all of Wednesday was one of those days.

The kind where the universe seems to look directly at your calendar and think,

Yes. Today feels like a good day to test her.

It started innocently enough. A normal Tuesday. One of my consulting days. I juggle two consulting roles during the week, and Tuesdays begin with a standing sync with a colleague. A quick Teams call. A routine check-in. Thirty minutes of aligning on candidates, roles, progress.

Ordinary.

Until suddenly my colleague stopped responding.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

Turns out it wasn’t her.

TEAMS had mysteriously died in the middle of the meeting. Not an uncommon occurrence.

At first I thought it was just a glitch. I’d reboot and keep things moving.

WRONG.

Turns out my internet had quit. No access was the message as I tried to sign back on to my WiFi.

No big deal, I thought. Internet outages happen. Usually an hour or two. Maybe three if the universe is feeling particularly theatrical.

So I finished the call on my phone and waited.

As the internet provider kept promising timelines that were ceremoniously missed.

I waited.

4:30 PM came and went.

I waited further.

Then 9:30 PM came and went.

No more updates from the provider of missed deadlines.

But of course my brain goes into overload.

The midnight check-ins began.

One of those strange rituals we perform when technology breaks, where we wander back to the computer like it’s a small glowing altar that might suddenly grant mercy.

I played this head game with myself throughout the wee hours of the morning.

Still nothing.

Meanwhile, my body had decided to stage its own rebellion.

I had started a prescribed medication for digestive issues a few days earlier. By Tuesday afternoon it had apparently decided that subtlety was overrated.

Apparently my body had decided productivity was optional that day.

The spicier play was to indulge in every possible side effect known to the medication. Just for shits and giggles.

The side effects arrived with enthusiasm. And they weren’t playing around.

Pain.

The kind that makes you pace, because that’s what you do when you’re spiraling. The kind where you suddenly resemble the Hunchback of Notre Dame because standing upright feels wildly optimistic.

Then you feel it coming.

You’re about to cry.

Not from sadness.

Just because your body would like to express a very strong opinion about what is happening.

So now we had two simultaneous plotlines.

No internet.

And a digestive system that had clearly chosen violence.

Neither of which I could control.

Which is when the mental negotiations begin.

You know the ones.

Okay. It’s fine.

This will be fixed soon.

You’re losing work hours, money, but maybe everything will fix itself any minute.

Don’t panic.

Wednesday morning arrived.

Still no internet.

Still feeling terrible.

My body continuing its rebellion.

Now add a third element.

Confusion.

Because somewhere buried in a previous email from my apartment complex was a vague announcement about an “upgrade.”

The kind of message that sounds informational but turns out to be a puzzle you didn’t realize you needed to solve.

Apparently this was not "just" an upgrade.

It was a cutover.

One service would end.

Another service would begin.

Except they failed to mention there was a deadline.

They failed to clearly identify that new equipment was required.

All the notice really said was: Call this number.

No urgency.

No timeline.

No explanation.

So here we are.

The old service had quietly been turned off, and unless you had new equipment you simply… ceased to exist on the network.

One representative I spoke with was lovely.

I, however, was reaching the emotional range of a thunderstorm.

She finally said,

“You’ll need to go to the store and pick up new equipment.”

I stared at my phone like it had personally betrayed me.

So let me understand this correctly.

The system was switched without properly informing residents.

The internet had already been down for over a day.

And now I needed to drive across town and hunt for equipment that might not even be available.

Fantastic.

She even called ahead to confirm the store had the equipment.

Except when I arrived…

They didn’t.

Of course they didn’t.

Apparently they couldn’t "hold" inventory, nor did they receive the call, and had spent the entire day explaining the situation to other confused residents as they piled into their store.

A man from my same complex walked in while I was there holding a single device.

I looked at it and said, “Yeah, that’s not going to work.”

You could see the shared realization pass between us like a silent neighborhood support group.

So there we stood.

Two people with no internet, no equipment, and no idea why this entire situation had been designed like a scavenger hunt.

The Spectrum store CSR confirmed that about 85 people from my complex had shown up that same day, equally confused and enraged.

There is a strange solidarity in collective technological failure.

Eventually one of the Spectrum reps gave me another number to call.

So I did.

On the way home.

That call finally resulted in someone agreeing to send a technician to drop off the equipment directly at my apartment.

Although initially the representative suggested mailing it.

Which would take another two days.

I’m sorry.

No.

No.

No.

I was told a technician could bring it.

I work from home.

Internet is not optional.

So here we are.

Internet still pending.

Tech supposedly arriving between 1 PM and 2 PM today.

Wish me luck. 🍀

But something interesting happens during days like this.

At first there is frustration.

Then anger.

Then exhaustion.

And eventually something else arrives.

Perspective.

Because when everything hits at once, the brain runs through its entire catalog of reactions.

Disbelief.

Dramatic internal monologues.

Mild existential commentary about the fragility of modern infrastructure.

And somewhere in the middle of all that noise another voice shows up.

The calmer one.

I truly wish calm would arrive sooner.

The one that quietly says:

Okay.

This is a bad day.

Not a bad life.

Not a catastrophe.

Just a thoroughly inconvenient, physically uncomfortable, technologically ridiculous day.

Bad days happen.

They are messy.

They are uncomfortable.

They can even enrage us.

They include pacing the kitchen, arguing with computers and customer service representatives, and drinking mushroom coffee at odd hours in an attempt to regain bodily peace and coherence.

But bad days also pass.

Eventually the nervous system exhales.

The pain subsides.

The internet gets restored.

And the day, like water running off your shoulders in the shower, begins to rinse itself away.

We don’t talk much about what happens internally during those hours in between.

The negotiations.

The attempts to stay calm.

The small pep talks we give ourselves simply to keep functioning.

But maybe that’s the real work of adulthood.

Not avoiding bad days. They are unavoidable.

Just learning how to move through them without throwing ourselves over the ledge.

Bad days seem random while we’re living through them. But looking back, they tend to follow a strangely familiar emotional pattern.

Over time I’ve started noticing the stages almost every difficult day moves through.

Not scientific.

But surprisingly accurate.

I call them The Anatomy of a Bad Day.

The Anatomy of a Bad Day - in seven stages.

1. The Disruption

Something small breaks.

Internet.

Plans.

Schedule.

You think: This will be quick.

Tool: Pause before reacting. Most problems still feel manageable here.

2. The Denial Phase

You convince yourself it will resolve any minute.

“I’ll reboot.”

“Maybe it’s temporary.”

You refresh.

You wait.

Tool: Gather real information instead of hopeful assumptions.

3. The Escalation

Now additional things start going wrong.

The internet is still down.

Your body decides to revolt.

Customer service scripts begin repeating themselves.

Frustration spikes.

Tool: Slow your breathing. Your nervous system is now entering the problem.

4. The Rage Window

Everything suddenly feels absurd.

You are now giving imaginary speeches to corporations.

Your inner monologue becomes colorful.

Tool: Humor helps. Sarcasm helps. Movement helps.

5. The Exhaustion Stage

Eventually the energy required to stay angry runs out.

Your system forces a reset.

Tool: Rest. Hydrate. Eat. Step away briefly.

6. The Perspective Shift

Your brain recalibrates.

You realize:

This is inconvenient.

But temporary.

Tool: Ask yourself: Will this matter next week?

7. The Reset

Things stabilize.

Pain fades.

Solutions appear.

Life resumes.

Tool: Reflect. Extract the lesson. And keep things moving.

Bad days don’t define us.

But how we move through them eventually does.

And if nothing else, this one reminded me of something simple.

Even when everything briefly falls apart…

We survive.

And somehow, eventually, we figure it out.

A short reflection on the breathtaking moments hiding in plain sight.

A sky painted in colors that disappear minutes later. A moment of kindness between strangers. A line in a book that feels like it was written just for you.

These moments happen more often than we realize. They slip into our days while we are busy, distracted, or rushing toward the next thing.

The world is astonishingly full of breathtaking things.

Not only in the places we expect to find them, but in the moments that often pass without recognition.

Sometimes it is the moment the first fireflies appear in the summer dusk, flickering like tiny lanterns someone scattered across the evening.

Sometimes it is the ocean at sunrise, when the horizon looks almost unreal, as if the world has been painted again overnight.

Sometimes breathtaking is not scenery at all.

It is watching someone show kindness when it would have been easier to walk away. It is witnessing courage that no one applauds. It is seeing someone rebuild a life after loss.

Those moments take the breath away in a different way.

Nature does it often.

A sky so wide it makes you feel small in the best possible sense. The quiet geometry of a snowflake resting on a sleeve. Dragonflies hovering over still water as if time itself paused for them.

Breathtaking also lives in what people create.

A sentence in a book that stops you mid-page because it understood something about life before you did.

A painting that holds emotion without needing to explain it.

A piece of music that opens a memory you didn’t know was still there.

Humans are breathtaking.

Not always because of beauty. More often because of presence. Integrity. The way someone carries wisdom without announcing it.

I believe breathtaking moments are really moments of bewilderment in the best sense of the word.

They interrupt us.

They remind us that the world is far larger, richer, stranger, and more miraculous than the narrow tunnel of our daily routines.

They stop us long enough to notice.

Perhaps that is the real miracle. Not that breathtaking things exist. But that we are here to witness them.

May something breathtaking find you today.

The dictionary offers a few straightforward definitions of ego.

1. The self, especially as distinguished from others.

2. The part of the mind that mediates between instinct and reality.

3. A person’s sense of self-esteem or self-importance.

Clear enough on paper.

And yet the word ego carries far more weight in everyday life than a few dictionary lines can capture.

Ego has many facets. Some keep us strapped in place. Others expand our wings and invite us to move through life with a kind of healthy boldness.

Ego is one of those words that carries a lot of weight. Good, bad, and sometimes simply misunderstood.

Most of us hear it and immediately think of arrogance or self-importance.

But ego is far more complicated. It shows up in many different forms.

Pride.

Insecurity.

Ambition.

Fear.

Ego can protect us.

Ego can mislead us.

And without us even recognizing it, ego can shape the way we move through the world one step at a time.

The truth is that ego wears different masks.

Some are helpful.

Some are limiting.

And some we inherit long before we begin to understand what is happening and how it has taken over.

Once I began to pay attention to ego, I started to notice how many different forms it can take in my own life.

Not necessarily in dramatic moments or defining events. Mostly in the simple, everyday spaces where decisions, reactions, and assumptions unfold without much thought.

Sometimes my ego shows up as pride.

Sometimes as fear.

Sometimes as the subtle need to prove something that probably did not need proving.

There are moments when my ego has helped me move forward with courage. It has encouraged me to speak up, take risks, and pursue opportunities that might otherwise have remained just ideas.

There are also moments when my ego has worked quietly against me.

Moments when pride made it harder to be listened to.

Moments when fear disguised itself as certainty.

Moments when protecting my perspective mattered more than truly understanding someone else’s.

If I am honest, there have been times when ego has served me well and times when it has come at my own expense. And yes, occasionally at the expense of others. Not a good look. That realization is not comfortable.

There are also moments when I recognize something else entirely. Moments when ego becomes armor. I wear it without even realizing it.

And suddenly I am a warrior in a game no one else knows they are playing. Sometimes not even myself.

For me, this is not about judging ego or trying to eliminate it. It is about understanding it better and noticing how it shows up within myself and others.

Recognizing the ways it shapes my reactions, my decisions, and sometimes even my identity.

Like most things worth examining, it feels less like a finished conclusion and more like a work in progress.

Which, I suspect, is exactly where real awareness begins.

Once we begin paying attention to ego, we start to notice how many different forms it can take.

Ego as Self Protection

Ego often begins as a survival mechanism.

Noticing ego is only the beginning.

The more interesting work is understanding the many forms it takes and how they shape our decisions, relationships, and growth. If this reflection resonates with you, the rest of the essay explores the many ways ego show up in our lives, from self-protection and pride to insecurity and awareness.

You can unlock the full piece for $3 or become a paid subscriber for access to this article and all future essays, like this one.

As children and young adults, we build identities that help us navigate the world. We learn how to protect ourselves in social settings, within families, and later in workplaces.

Ego helps us find footing when we feel uncertain. It creates confidence when we have not yet developed it naturally.

In this sense ego is not the villain. It is a shield.

But like many protective tools, it can remain in place long after the original threat has passed.

What once helped us survive can eventually prevent us from evolving. A behavior that once served us well can continue repeating long after it has shifted from helpful to harmful.

Ego vs Alignment

Ego and alignment rarely speak the same language.

Ego tends to ask questions like:

How do I appear?

How do I win this conversation?

How do I protect my image?

Alignment asks something entirely different. Does this feel true to who I am becoming?

Ego seeks validation. Alignment seeks truth.

The tension between the two is something many of us begin to notice as we mature. And often ignore when ego wins the moment.

Peace tends to arrive more often when our choices are guided by alignment rather than by ego’s need to be right.

Ego Masked as Pride

Pride can be healthy. It can represent dignity, accomplishment, and self respect. Often pride becomes a disguise for ego.

When pride prevents us from apologizing, learning, or reconsidering our position, ego and pride may quietly begin steering the wheel.

Healthy pride allows room for growth.

Ego driven pride insists on being right.

The difference between the two can be subtle to some and obvious to others.

Ego Born from Insecurity and Fear

Not all ego looks like confidence. Sometimes it looks like defensiveness. Sometimes it appears as comparison.

Sometimes it shows up as the need to dominate a conversation or prove a point.

Underneath those behaviors is often something far more human: insecurity.

Fear of being overlooked.

Fear of not being enough.

Fear of losing status or control.

In those moments ego becomes armor. But armor also limits flexibility, curiosity, and connection.

It is surprisingly easy to get lost inside this version of ego.

The Inherited Nature of Ego

Ego is not created in isolation. It is shaped by family dynamics, cultural expectations, societal norms, and personal experiences.

Some people inherit ego patterns rooted in achievement and competition. Others inherit ego shaped by survival and scarcity. The result is that ego shows up differently for everyone.

For some it appears as dominance. For others it appears as people pleasing or avoidance.

The underlying mechanism is often the same. Protection of identity.

The Good, the Bad, and the Useful

Ego is not entirely negative, despite how often it is portrayed.

A healthy sense of self allows us to advocate for ourselves, pursue meaningful goals, and establish boundaries. Without some form of ego we might struggle to define who we are.

But when ego becomes rigid it blocks learning and connection.

Unchecked ego resists feedback. It prioritizes being right over being aware. Healthy awareness does something different.

It observes ego without allowing it to run the entire show.

Ego vs Egocentric

There is an important distinction here. Having an ego is human.

Being egocentric is something entirely different. Egocentrism occurs when everything is filtered through the lens of self.

Other perspectives disappear.

Other experiences become secondary or disappear altogether.

Where healthy ego helps us understand ourselves, egocentrism prevents us from understanding others. Often disguising itself just enough that we miss the nuance of truly being self aware.

Using Ego for the Common Good

Perhaps the goal is not to eliminate ego. That would be unrealistic.

Instead the work may be learning how to place ego in its proper role. Becoming more deliberate and intentional about how it shows up.

Ego can help us develop confidence, advocate for ideas, and step forward when leadership is required. But awareness must remain in the driver’s seat.

When ego serves purpose rather than control, it becomes something useful rather than limiting. A tool rather than a master.

And that shift can change the way we relate not only to ourselves but to everyone around us. Ego may be part of being human.

Awareness is what allows us to grow beyond it in ways that are healthy, constructive, and meaningful.

Awareness changes everything.

The more I observe ego, the more I realize it is less of an enemy and more of a teacher. Sometimes a difficult one. But awareness, over time, has a way of loosening its grip and expanding the space in which we grow.

A few months ago, a friend said something to me that made me stop mid-conversation. Not because it was shocking.Not because it was controversial.

Because it was unexpected.

She looked at me very calmly and said, “Every time I see you, you illuminate orange.” Before I could even process that sentence, our mutual friend, who was also part of the conversation, chimed in and agreed.

Apparently this was not a new observation. It was simply new information… to me.

Now, I have been described many ways over the years. Driven. Curious. Determined. Reflective. Sometimes intense. Occasionally hilarious depending on the audience. Sometimes "a little extra".

But orange was a first.

And when someone tells you that you glow a color, your brain does one of two things. You either laugh it off. Or you go down a rabbit hole.

I chose the rabbit hole.

So What Exactly Is an Orange Aura?

If you wander into the world of energy fields, spiritual symbolism, and aura interpretations (whoa), orange shows up a lot. And interestingly, the themes are surprisingly consistent across traditions.

An orange aura is commonly associated with:

• High energy

• Creativity and passion

• Emotional intelligence

• Social warmth

• Risk-taking and adventure

• A zest for life

In many belief systems, the color orange is linked to the sacral chakra (Svadhisthana-huh), which governs creativity, pleasure, emotional balance, and expression.

In other words, it is the energetic neighborhood of creation, connection, and movement.

I find this interesting.

But the deeper I went, the more the descriptions began to sound less like mystical abstraction and more like… personality traits.

Apparently Orange People Are a Whole Thing

People who are described as having an orange aura are often characterized as:

• Energetic and expressive

• Creative problem solvers

• Comfortable taking risks

• Socially magnetic

• Motivated by experiences and growth

They tend to move toward things. Ideas. Projects. Conversations. Possibilities.

Which, if I am being honest, tracks.

Orange energy is also often described as the color of momentum. It appears when someone is creating something, building something, exploring something, or stepping into a new phase of life. That part made me laugh a little.

Because if there is one consistent pattern in my life, it is that I am almost always building something.

A project.

A thought.

A story.

A new direction.

Sometimes all at once!

But There Is Also a Shadow Side (of course there is)

Here is where the research got even more interesting.

Orange energy, according to most interpretations, is not just enthusiasm and creativity. It also has a potential downside.

A muddy or dull orange aura is often associated with:

• Creative burnout

• Restlessness

• Emotional overload

• Overextension

• Overindulgence

In other words, the very same traits that drive creation can also drive exhaustion. Which felt… uncomfortably accurate.

Creative people often live close to that edge. The same spark that fuels momentum can also burn a little hot. The trick, it seems, is learning how to manage the fire.

The Part That Actually Matters

Whether you believe in auras or not is almost beside the point. What mattered to me was something much simpler. Two friends saw something in me and felt compelled to say it out loud. And that moment made me pause long enough to ask myself a question I might not have asked otherwise.

What do I actually project into the world?

Energy is a funny thing.

You cannot measure it the way you measure height or weight. But you can feel it. Everyone can.

We walk into rooms carrying invisible signals about how we move through life.

Curiosity. Warmth. Stress. Calm. Enthusiasm.

People pick up on it more than we realize.

The Unexpected Gift of Being Seen

The real lesson in that conversation was not about chakras or aura colors. It was about reflection and awareness.

Sometimes other people see pieces of us more clearly than we see ourselves.

They notice our patterns. They feel our energy. They observe the way we move through the world. And occasionally, if we are lucky, they tell us. Those moments are small, but they can be powerful.

A single observation can send you exploring ideas you never considered before.

It can make you pause long enough to ask:

Is that really how I show up?

And more importantly…

Is that how I want to show up?

Maybe We Should Say These Things More Often

The world has plenty of criticism. Plenty of noise. Plenty of reasons to doubt ourselves.

But a simple, unexpected observation from someone who knows you can create a ripple effect of curiosity and self-reflection. Sometimes all it takes is one sentence.

“You illuminate orange.”

It might be mystical.

It might be metaphorical.

Or, it might simply be someone’s way of saying:

You bring energy into a room. Either way, I will take it.

And if orange really is the color of creativity, curiosity, and motion…

Then I suppose I am okay with glowing a little.

It makes me wonder how often we notice something wonderful about someone and never say it out loud. Too often, I suspect.

Maybe we should.

You never know what kind of rabbit hole it might send them down. And sometimes, those rabbit holes lead somewhere surprisingly illuminating.

Not abruptly. Not all at once. One would start, then another would answer, until the fields and land around our house were humming with that steady rural rhythm that meant dusk was settling in. Night did not flip on where I grew up. It unfolded. The air cooled against bare legs. The scent of cut grass lingered. Gravel still held the warmth of the day.

And above us, the sky stretched wide and unfiltered.

The stars were bright and massive and everywhere. The kind of sky that teaches you early that trillions is not theoretical. Vastness is real time. It envelopes you. It makes you small in the most comforting way.

We would stand in that widening dark, the crickets rising, the world softening.

And then…

A flicker in the tall grass.

Then another.

Then a scattered constellation hovering just above the field.

Fireflies.

We chased them with whatever we could find. Old coffee cans with holes punched carefully into the lids so they could breathe. Breath mattered to us, even then. We would poke holes in the tin so we could see them flicker without letting them escape. The real treasure, though, was my mother’s clear canning jars. Glass meant visibility. Glass meant we could watch without fear of them slipping instantly back into the night.

There was something mischievous and sacred about it. Lifting the lid just enough to peek inside. Giddy laughter as the light pulsed on and off, as if responding to our delight. Years later I would learn their glow was not random at all. It was coded. A precise language of light, each species speaking in its own pattern. But at the time, it felt like magic. Like the night itself had decided to wink.

We were never trying to own them. It was always catch and release. A borrowed moment. A ritual repeated summer after summer that somehow never grew ordinary.

Because the crickets were always playing.

Because the sky was always vast.

Because the darkness felt safe enough to hold light.

And then, over the years, there were fewer.

One of the quieter heartbreaks of adulthood is realizing that some abundance was seasonal. I now understand more about habitat loss, artificial light, and the fragility of ecosystems. I know that light pollution disrupts their communication. That pesticides and disappearing wetlands matter. But the body remembers something else.

It remembers orchestras.

There was a farmhouse on a busy road where the front yard heard traffic, but the backyard stretched deep and wooded and wild. Every summer, as dusk gathered and the crickets began their nightly overture, an orchestra of fireflies would reveal itself. Not synchronized. Not rehearsed. Their intermittent flashes felt like a silent symphony unfolding in the grass.

I would grab my three-year-old daughter’s hand and walk her outside in anticipation. At first there was hesitation in her small body. Wonder sometimes brushes up against fear. But children take their cues from us. My amazement became hers. My open-palmed joy gave her permission.

Her eyes followed the flicker. Her small body turning in circles trying to track the light she was witnessing for the first time.

Years later, when she was seven or eight, she brought a friend home for a summer sleepover. We ushered them outside just as the sky began its slow descent into darkness. What unfolded felt almost theatrical. Two girls chasing light across the lawn for the better part of an hour. Catch and release. Catch and watch. Laughter weaving itself into the cricket song.

The yard was musical. You could almost dance to the rhythm of it.

Even now, I remain unapologetically giddy when a firefly appears. This summer, sitting on lawn chairs at an outdoor performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream during Shakespeare in the Park, I saw the first flicker just as the stage forest filled with illusion and mischief. Then two. Then three.

The boundary between performance and reality thinned. The evening felt charged. Heightened. As if the air itself had conspired to participate.

Fireflies flicker in darkness. Nearly heatless light produced with astonishing efficiency. Illumination without burn. Communication without sound.

They do not demand attention. They invite it.

Dragonflies arrive differently.

They do not belong to the chorus. They do not gather in scattered constellations. They appear alone. Intentional. Almost deliberate.

If fireflies belong to dusk and laughter, dragonflies belong to still water and quiet steps.

I only ever encounter them when I am already walking in nature. Near ponds. Along wooded trails. Close to water where the air feels heavier and the world softens at the edges. They hover in front of me as if suspended in thought, wings beating with a faint, steady buzz.

Their colors are metallic and iridescent. Blues. Greens. Sometimes copper. They shimmer more than they glow.

And I always do the same thing.

I reach for my phone.

The instinct to capture the moment is immediate. Proof. Preservation. As if holding an image might extend the encounter. But dragonflies are elusive. They dart forward, backward, sideways with precision that feels almost ancient. They have been here for hundreds of millions of years. Most of their life happens underwater, unseen, before they ever take to the air. What we witness is only the final emergence.

I rarely get the perfect photo.

And maybe that is the point.

There is something about their rarity that deepens the experience. They appear only when I am already outside. Already moving. Already paying attention. They give me pause.

Not the giddy delight of childhood fireflies, but a steadier, quieter awareness.

I wish they were around me more.

But I also know that constant presence would dull the reverence.

There are seasons of life that look like fireflies.

Abundant. Musical. Communal. Flickering moments of shared joy that feel almost orchestrated.

And there are seasons that look like dragonflies.

Solitary. Reflective. Hovering long enough to remind you that something deeper has already taken place beneath the surface.

Both are brief.

Both are luminous.

Both disappear before you are ready.

Perhaps the lesson is not to hold them captive in jars or in photographs.

Perhaps the lesson is simply to notice.

To let the crickets rise.

To feel the vastness overhead.

To allow the flicker.

To welcome the shimmer.

And when they move on, to remain still long enough to remember that they were here at all.

Such is life.