THE INKWELL SOUL

Author: Elizabeth

  • My Miracle and the Weight of the Sword

    I’ve spend a lot of time lately leaning into the quiet of the country, trying to keep my roots deep and my spirit steady. But a few weeks ago, the stillness was tested. A CT scan picked up a spot in my liver. For someone who has already been staring down cancer in over 20 spots on my bones, that news felt like a heavy cloud moving in. My oncologist wasn’t panicking, but we knew the history: my type of cancer likes to travel, and the liver is a frequent stop.

    So, we headed for a PET scan.

    I walked into that room armed with everything I have: my holistic routine, an army of praying friends and family, a Virgo’s determination to stay positive, and the strength and relentless humor of my bestie. But as the machine started up, the anxiety hit. I could feel the energy of the scan – the magnets, the humming – and for a second, I felt like I was going to be sick. My heart raced. I clamped my eyes shut, desperate to find an anchor.

    Then, something shifted.

    A white light appeared above my head. Suddenly, my mind stopped fighting the machine and started re-framing it. This isn’t a scan, I told myself. This is a Med Bed. I am being healed. I repeated it like a mantra for twenty minutes. My breathing slowed, my muscles went limp, and I drifted into a state of peace so deep I nearly fell asleep.

    The next day, sitting in the office with my bestie by my side, the world changed.

    No sign of cancer in the liver.

    And – the words I still can’t say without tears – No cancer on my bones.

    A flipping miracle! A new lease on life! I walked out of there feeling like I’d been handed a gift I couldn’t possibly deserve. I had hope, and I refused to believe anything else, but seeing it in black and white? It is overwhelming.

    But here is the truth of the “warrior” road: joy rarely travels alone.

    As I am celebrating, my heart is heavy for the ones still in the thick of the fight. The ones who prayed just as hard, who stayed just as positive, but didn’t get the same results this time. It is a double-edged sword. How do we shout our gratitude from the rooftops while honoring the quiet, grueling battles of those beside us?

    I’ve realized that the best way to honor them isn’t to dim my light, but use this “extra” life to shine even brighter. To hold space for the sadness, but to never apologize for the miracle.

    I am truly, profoundly blessed. Today, I’m trading the “warrior” armor for a moment of pure, unadulterated peace.

    The Road Ahead

    As much as I want to stay in this bubble of pure joy, I know the reality of this journey. This miracle doesn’t mean I am hanging up my hat. I’ll stay on the Kisqali and the monthly shots, keeping a watchful eye on the horizon. There’s a part of me that will always be looking over my shoulder, knowing that while the coast is clear today, the weather can change.

    But for now? I am breathing. I am living. And I am holding a lantern for everyone else still walking through the dark.

    “We celebrate the victory not because the war is over, but because the light has proven it can break through. For those of us standing in the sun, we hold our breath in gratitude; for those still in the shadows, we hold our lanterns high. May my miracle be your hope, and may your strength be my humble reminder that every day is a gift worth the fight.” – Elizabeth Proett

  • The View from the Fence Line: Finding Hope When the World Whispers War

    The morning air here smells like rain and wet dust. It’s a quiet smell. Out here, where the horizon isn’t interrupted by traffic and tall buildings, it’s easy to trick yourself into believing the world is still simple.

    But then I open my phone.

    The noise is instantly deafening. It’s a symptom of sirens, shouting, and high-steaks warnings. Another border is crossed. Another alliance is fractured. Another headline makes my heart stutter with a terrifying, ancient thought: Could World War III actually happen? Is this how it starts?

    It’s a heavy fear to carry. It’s a vulnerability that lives in your marrow, I am especially feeling it as a woman raising a daughter alone! Every time I watch her accomplish another goal, or laugh at something humorous, a second, darker thought shadows the joy: What kind of world am I leaving her? Can I protect her if the worst happens?

    I am a farmer’s daughter. I was raised to understand the arithmetic of the seasons – that nature doesn’t care about our plans, and that you have to prepare for the storm before it breaks. My father taught me to value the quiet, steady rhythm of the soil. He taught me that resilience isn’t about making the most noise; it’s about having deep roots.

    Right now, my roots feel like the only thing keeping me standing.

    The world is just so loud. It is too busy, too panicked, too filled with manufactured outrage and very real suffering. Living in a rural area used to feel like a complete sanctuary, but today, technology brings the chaos directly into the kitchen. We are marinated in anxiety, and our nervous systems weren’t built to carry the weight of global instability 24/7.

    But out here, I am also learning something about hope.

    Hope in a volatile world is not about toxic positivity. It’s not about ignoring the headlines or pretending the threat isn’t real. That’s dangerously naive.

    True hope – rural hope – is grittier. It’s practical.

    It’s the understanding that while I absolutely cannot control what happens at the United Nations or in foreign capitols, I can control what happens inside my own fence line. I can control the atmosphere of my home. I can choose whether I allow the 24-hour news cycle to steal the peace of my breakfast table.

    The Quiet Rebellion of Peace and Love

    When the world insists on loudness, choosing quiet is a form of defiance.

    When the world screams about power, doubling down on the simple pleasures – the warmth of a mug, the feel of a favorite book, the specific song of the wind through the pines – is a sacred act.

    By focusing on this smaller, tangible world, I am not retreating; I am fortifying. I am creating a lighthouse of sanity for my daughter, a sanctuary where she knows that no matter how chaotic the “Big World” becomes, the “Small World” of our home is safe and grounded.

    This is my act of resistance:

    I will keep planting the garden. I will keep fixing the fence. I will keep teaching my daughter the names of the trees. I will keep showing her that love is stronger than fear.

    The world may be at unrest, but history shows us that even in the darkest times, ordinary life continued. People loved. People created. People planted seeds. They refused to let the storm win.

    So, I will sit on my deck as the sun dips below the horizon, feeling the solid land beneath my feet. It is a frightening time, yes. But it is also a time to remember what is real. And what is real is this quiet, this love, and the enduring hope that, just like my father’s crops, we are tougher than the storm.

  • PRAIRIE MADNESS

    *The ultimate Midwest cardio: the Trash Can 500! There is nothing quite like sprinting down a gravel road, hair horizontal, yelling at a bin of plastic that has suddenly developed a soul and a desire for freedom!!!

    The Wind That Whispered (And Shouted) Madness

    Hey there, fellow Midwesterners and wind-battered souls!

    I was just catching up with a friend from Kansas – another state that knows a thing or two about wind – and the conversation naturally drifted (see what I did there?) to the constant, relentless force that is the prairie wind. We were laughing about how it could drive a person crazy, and then it spiraled into talk of schizophrenia or at least a sudden case of Tourette’s.

    It turns out, I wasn’t just being dramatic. I looked it up, and there’s actually a historical term for this: “Prairie Madness.”

    What exactly is Prairie Madness?

    Back in pioneer days, “The Great Solo” of the plains wasn’t just about the loneliness of the wide-open spaces. It was the noise. Imagine a low, constant, vibrating howl that whistles through the floorboards and rattles your windows for seventy-two hours straight.

    This phenomenon resulted in documented cases of high stress, insomnia, and anxiety. Pioneers reported feeling like the wind was trying to peel the skin off their houses! When you’ve been listening to a whistle that never hits the “off” switch for a week, your grip on reality starts to get a little….breezy.

    The Modern Struggle: The Trash Can 500

    While we have insulation and modern comforts today, the wind still finds ways to test our sanity. Take the other day, for example. I watched my friend’s trash can decide it was tired of the driveway life. It took a high-speed trip across our rural road, aiming straight for the ditch like it was auditioning for a stunt in an action movie.

    I had to pull off the ultimate Midwest cardio: chasing a piece of plastic in a gale. Thank goodness it was empty, because if I’d had to fish individual soup cans out of a dusty ditch while the wind slapped me in the face, the “Tourette-like” outbursts would have been legendary! The neighbors would have learned vocabulary words they didn’t know existed.

    While we may not be suffering from full-blown Prairie Madness these days, the prairie wind is still a force to be reckoned with. It’s the reason our hair looks like a wind-blown tumbleweed after five minutes outside. It’s the reason we’re constantly yelling “WHAT?” when someone tries to talk to us outdoors while leaning at a 45 degree angle. And it’s definitely the ultimate enemy of the perfect selfie!

    Survival of the Fittest

    We Midwesterners are a hearty bunch. We’ve been dealing with this relentless force for generations. It might wreck our hair, hijack our trash cans, and occasionally make us question our sanity, but at least is keeps life interesting.

    So, the next time the wind starts howling around your siding, just remember: you aren’t crazy. You’re just participating in a long-standing historical tradition of prairie-induced grit!

    Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go check to see if my mailbox is still in Nebraska!!!


  • A Poem: The Earth’s Soft Wisdom

    The oak stands tall in quiet decree, That time is the root of the reaching tree; Do not rush the branch or the widening ring, For seasons must turn before wood can sing.

    Listen when the wandering wind begins to blow, You are allowed to shift, to stall, or to go; Your pace is a prayer that you’re free to change, Across the valley or the mountain range.

    The flower bows low in the garden’s bed, “Nothing blooms forever,” is the truth it spreads; But the fading petal and the falling leaf, Are the grace of a beauty that is meant to be brief.

    The ocean cradles the moon on its breast, Holding the hurricane and the hour of rest; You are the tide, both the soft and the grim, With a storm in your heart and a stillness within.

    When the clouds turn gray and the air grows cold, Let go of the weight you were never meant to hold; Like the rain that falls to the thirsty floor, Release what you cannot carry anymore.

    The stars only speak when the shadows are deep, A silver promise that the Heavens keep; For only when the day has ceased, Is the hidden light of the dark released.

    And though you’ve been hidden or lost in the night, The sun returns with its gold and its might; No matter the depth of the valley you’ve trod, You will rise again from the silent sod.

    ~Elizabeth Proett

  • The 48-Hour Reclamation: A Memoir of Scent, Strength, and Survival

    The Baseline (The Last 5 months)

    For five months, I’ve been the architect of my own routine. Navigating my second round of cancer – this time with breast cancer mets to the bones – means I don’t take my health for granted. I’ve lived in the discipline of a low-carb, low-sugar lifestyle and a steady 14 to 18 hour fasting window. It’s my way of telling my body, “I’m still the one in charge here.” But I wanted more. I wanted the deep-clean. I wanted to see if I could push to 72 hours and give my cells the ultimate “factory reset.”

    Day 1: The Quiet Warrior

    I started the clock with the quiet confidence of a woman who has already stared down much scarier things than an empty stomach. The first 24 hours were surprisingly peaceful. By hour 20, my mind was laser-sharp. In the silence of my home in the country, I felt a sense of control that felt like a gift. My kitchen was no longer a place of “shoulds” and “musts” – it was just an area I passed through on my way to a deeper focus.

    Day 2: The Tavern Dream & Popcorn Ambush

    Then, the “Fasting Brain” kicked in, and my quiet country life turned into a sensory minefield. Being low carb by choice means I’m used to saying no to sugar and grains, but at hour 30, my brain started projecting a very specific movie: “Thin-crust tavern-style pizza.” I could see the crispy, cracker-like edges, the heaps of grilled chicken and roasted veggies, and a layer of golden, bubbly cheese so thick it looked like a warm blanket.

    But the real test wasn’t the pizza in my head; it was the daughter in the kitchen.

    My teenage daughter – my teammate in this life – decided it was the optimal moment to pop a bag of popcorn. In the stillness of our home, that pop – pop – pop sounded like a drum roll for a feast. The scent of salt and butter wafted through the rooms, a literal “butter-trap” designed to test my resolve. I stayed strong, but let’s just say that popcorn almost became my undoing.

    Hour 40-48: The Cellular Deep Clean

    By hour 40, I knew the internal work was happening. Autophagy was in full swing – my body’s way of identifying the old, the damaged, and the “no-longer-useful” and clearing it out. For a woman fighting a second round of cancer, there is something deeply poetic about cellular housecleaning. I felt light, clear-headed, and incredibly accomplished. At hour 48, I listened to my body. It told me I had reached my summit for this climb. I had done two full days. I had reset my system.

    The Breaking Point (and the Epiphany)

    I broke the fast with the precision of a scientist. First, the warm, salty embrace of bone broth. Then, after guiding my system back to the world of solids, I have the vegetables.

    I eat a healthy diet every day, but this? This was a revelation. Those vegetables didn’t just taste good; they tasted vibrant. It turns out that when you quiet the noise of constant digestion, you can finally hear how incredible real food actually is.

    The Aftermath

    I didn’t hit 72, but I conquered 48. In the middle of a battle for my health, I proved to myself that I am disciplined, capable, and still the boss of my own biology. I’m back to my 14 to 18 hour routine now, nourishing my body for the fight ahead. But that 72 hour mark? It’s on the map. And next time, I am hiding the popcorn!


  • The Tired Heart

    We are often taught that effort is a currency – that if we deposit enough sweat and sacrifice, we can eventually buy the life we imagined. But for many of us, this transaction didn’t work that way. We waited for the applause of success, only to find that survival is a silent victory.

    If you find yourself mourning the person you “could have been,” understand that grief is actually a form of respect for your own potential. But don’t stay in that graveyard too long. The person you are today – the one who is tired, wiser, and still breathing – is a much more impressive feat of engineering than the polished version of you that never had to face a storm.

    When the weight of “figuring it out” becomes a burden too heavy to carry, it is time to change your frequency. Our minds are designed to solve problems, but our hearts are designed to sustain meaning.

    The Mind asks: Does this make sense? Is this efficient? What if I fail?

    The Heart asks: Does this feel like home? Can I breathe here? Am I at peace?

    Sometimes, the most productive thing you can do is concede the argument. When the blueprints of your life fail you, stop looking at the map and start feeling the ground beneath your feet.

    Dreams often arrive dressed as promises, but when they leave as lessons, they leave you with something far more durable than a fantasy: character. Success might not clap for you when you survive a hard year, a broken relationship, or a lost career. But you don’t need the world’s applause when you have your own self-respect. There is a profound, sacred dignity in choosing to walk forward when you have every reason to sit down.

    Today, let your “quiet courage” be enough. You don’t need to have the answers; you just need to keep the rhythm. Take a deep breath, hand the heavy lifting over to your heart, and trust that what feels right is often more honest than what makes sense.

  • A Poem: The Sovereign

  • The Departure

    We are taught to listen for the thunder – the slamming doors, the sharp words, the jagged edges of a visible argument. We think that as long as the house is quiet, the foundation is still holding. But the most permanent departures don’t make a sound.

    When you hurt a person of depth, they don’t meet your fire with their own. They don’t reach for the weapons of manipulation or the theatrics of a scene. Instead, they reach for clarity.

    It isn’t a “silent treatment” designed to punish you or make you crawl back. It is the silence of a well running dry. It is the realization that they have been pouring water into a cracked vessel, and they are simply too tired to keep trying to seal the leaks.

    The End of Explanations: They stop telling you why they are hurt because they realize you already know; you simply don’t care enough to change.

    The Loss of Access: They don’t block you out of spite; they remove the bridge because the crossing has become too dangerous for their peace.

    The Shift in Vision: They no longer see you through the lens of your potential; they see you through the reality of your actions.

    There is a specific line that, once crossed, transforms a person’s warmth into a polite, distant chill. It isn’t a grudge. A grudge requires energy – it requires holding onto the heat of the hurt. A good hearted person doesn’t want to carry that weight.

    They choose peace over being right. They decide that their internal stillness is worth more than the satisfaction of a “final word.” They don’t need to win the argument because they have already won back their autonomy.

    “They still wish you well; they just no longer need to be close enough to watch it happen.”

    The tragedy of losing someone like this is that you often don’t realize the loss in real time. Because there was no explosion, you assume the status quo remains. You mistake their quiet for forgiveness, and their lack of revenge for weakness.

    But one day, you’ll reach for that warmth and find only a draft. You’ll look for the person who used to defend you, who used to explain the world to you, who used to fix what was broken – and you’ll realize that while they are still “around,” they are no longer there. They haven’t moved to a different city; they’ve moved to a different frequency. A place where your chaos can no longer reach them.

  • The Essence of “I Am”

    “I used to think that to ‘find myself’ meant adding things – more wisdom, more experiences, more achievements. I thought I was building a masterpiece. But I’ve realized that enlightenment isn’t an addition; it’s a radical subtraction. It’s peeling back the layers of who the world told us we are until all that’s left is the raw, unshakable pulse of being.”

    At the heart of every human life, there is a phrase that acts as both the foundation and the horizon: “I Am.” We spend our entire lives trying to finish that sentence. We tether it to labels like a boat to a dock – I am a parent, I am a worker, I am tired, I am successful. But if you have the courage to cut those ropes and let the labels drift away, you are left with a truth that is as terrifying as it is beautiful. You are left with the “I Am” that has no end.

    The Beginning and the End

    This statement is the absolute Alpha. It is the beginning because no thought can be thought, and no world can be perceived, without the “I” to witness it. Before you knew your name, you were “I Am.”

    Yet, it is also the Omega. When the stories of our lives eventually fade – when the titles we’ve earned and the roles we’ve played are stripped away by time – this pure existence is the only thing that remains. It is the silent witness that was there at your first breath and will be there at your last. It is the only part of you that never ages, never breaks, and never changes.

    The Mirror Presence

    Think of your consciousness as a mirror. Our labels – our happiness, our grief, our temporary identities – are merely reflections passing across the glass. The labeled self is fragile; it is stuck in the past or worrying about the future, constantly changing based on the world around it.

    But the pure “I Am” is the mirror itself. It does not become “broken” because it reflects a broken image, and it does not become “golden” because it reflects the sun. It simply IS. While the world of definitions is a world of boundaries and limitations, the “I Am” is a state of boundless potential.

    The End of Becoming

    Most of our lives are a frantic race toward “becoming.” We believe that if we gather enough labels, we will finally be “enough.” But the realization of “I Am” is the end of that struggle. It is the ultimate arrival.

    In this space, you are no longer a noun – a fixed, static thing to be judged or categorized. You are a verb. You are the very act of existence. You are the ocean recognizing its own depth, realizing that while the waves on the surface (our emotions and roles) may toss and turn, the depths remain in a state of eternal, unshakable peace.

    To stand in the center of “I Am” without an anchor is to realize that you aren’t just a part of the universe. You are the space in which the universe is happening.

    ———————————————————————

    The Final Step: Returning Home

    “We spend our lives traveling the world in search of a destination, only to realize that the ‘I Am’ was the ground we were standing on the whole time. It is not a place you arrive at; it is the truth of who you have always been beneath the noise.

    Tonight, before you fall asleep, try a radical experiment. As the roles of the day fall away – the employee, the parent, the friend – don’t reach for a new label. Don’t try to be anything at all. Just be the witness. Breathe into that space where the journey ends and you finally, simply, are.”

  • The Weight of the Unspoken

    This feeling – that my history is a vast, dark forest where others might get lost or flee – is a heavy burden to carry. It makes me treat my voice like a secret weapon that I have dismantled for safety, worried that if I reassemble it, the sound would be too loud, too jagged, , or too “much” for the world to hold.

    The truth is, we often quiet our voices because, at some point, the world or the people in it taught us that our complexity was a “complication.”

    I have swallowed my history like stones, one for every year, one for every scar, until my throat is a dry well and I’ve forgotten where the bucket and the rope are. I ask: Where is my voice? And the silence answers back in my own tone – I have traded my speech for a fortress, thinking it better to be quiet that to be known and then rejected.

    There is a phantom fear that my past is a flood, a dark water of “too much” and “too long ago,” that if I opened the floodgates of who I am, the people I love would have nowhere to go but away. I worry my history is a map of dead ends, a collection of flaws too sharp to be touched, that if they see the wreckage behind the curtain, they would realize they didn’t love me that much.

    So I keep the volume at a whisper. I prune my edges to fit into their frames. I hide the chapters where the ink is smeared and the characters have no names. I have learned to be a “soft” version of myself, a ghost in the corner of my own life, terrified that the “real” me – the loud, the hurt, the raw – would be a fire that cuts like a knife.

    But how can I be loved if I am a shadow? How can I be held if I am made of mist? The flaws I fear will drive them away are the very things that prove I exist. Maybe the voice isn’t lost, just waiting for a silence that feels safe enough to break – for a heart that doesn’t see a “burden” but a soul with a story it’s finally ready to take.