I swallow the storm and lock the windows tight, terrified that if I open my mouth to speak the heavy truths of this life, the words will somehow take root in the soil and multiply the wreckage threefold. I have been taught that energy is a current that obeys the call, so I hold my breath, pretending the silence is a shield, keeping a lid on the bitter ash of those who came only to take and the distant grief of one I cannot fix. I play the anchor for everyone else while my own marrow thins, while my arm throbs with the quiet, exhausting war my body is fighting against the thief inside me. I watch the illuminated happiness of friends from the shadows of my own quiet room, aching for a heavy, protective embrace, a simple heartbeat to ground my tired bones, yet I keep the longing locked away in the dark, paralyzing my own voice out of a desperate survival instinct – convinced that to give this pain a name is to give it a permanent home. But a quiet,vital truth is breaking through the silence: giving breath to this grief is not an act of creation, but one of evacuation. To speak these words is not to plant a seed of negativity, but to clear out the stagnant weight of a house that has been sealed too long, acknowledging that energy cannot be destroyed, only transformed. Manifestation thrives on intention and focus, but this is a release, a necessary emptying of the lungs that converts raw pain into poetry, proving that I can speak the dark aloud without making it permanent, and that naming the storm is the only way to finally let it pass through me.
Author: Elizabeth
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A Poem: The Cliff
The air changes first. A subtle shift in the barometric pressure of the soul, A scent of ozone and old, familiar lightning. I was standing on the plateau of my own peace, Watching the horizon I built with steady hands, Until the word – the detail – the shadow Stepped out from the brush.
Then comes the Surprise. The initial jolt of the shove. It’s not a physical hand on my back, But the weight of a ghost from a decade ago. Whispering, “I know this road.” The ground beneath my boots turns to vapor, And suddenly, the gravity of the past Claims its right to my heart.
I am Falling. And I am reaching. A desperate need to grab at the thin, cold air – Clutching for the “what ifs” and the “signs,” Trying to snag my fingernails into the cracks of a potential That was never solid to begin with. My mind is a frantic bird, Beating its wings against the memory of the souls And the wreckage of lives I tried to mend with my own skin.
Then the Fear sets in. It’s a cold, metallic hum in my marrow. My chest tightens, a rebel’s armor suddenly too small, As the physical truth of the descent takes hold. My pulse is the rhythm of the “warning,” A percussion of panic that beats against my ribs, Reminding me of the texture of the stones below.
I can see the Landing. It feel inevitable – The thud of the “fixer,” The bruise of the “believer,” The heavy silence that follows the crash of a dream That wasn’t tethered to reality.
But still… I am. I am the one who measures the wind. And even as the “fall” screams through my nervous system, I realize the Cliff is an illusion Constructed by my own survival. I don’t have to hit the ground. I can simply breathe, Step back into the center of my own quiet land, And realize that I am the earth – And the earth does not fall.
~ Elizabeth Proett
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The Quiet Shift: Why We Are Choosing Peace Over Partnership
There is a collective shift happening right now – a quiet, steady withdrawal from the traditional dating scene. It isn’t rooted in bitterness or a lack of heart; it is rooted in a profound, soul-deep exhaustion.
For many, the modern dating landscape has become a cycle of disappointment. We find ourselves tired of playing roles we were never meant to fill – acting as therapists, peacemakers, or healers – only to receive the bare minimum in return. It isn’t just the big betrayals like lying or cheating that take a toil; it’s the smaller, persistent weights of gaslighting, “bread crumbing,” and emotional unavailability.
The Cost of Settling
We’ve learned through experience that the person you choose as a partner will shape every corner of your life. Their presence – or their absence – affects your mental health, your emotional stability, and the very way your heart beats each day. A partner can either bring peace to your soul or chaos to your spirit.
When effort becomes a foreign language and consistency feels like a rare luxury, the “cost” of being in a relationship starts to outweigh the benefits. We are tired of explaining how we deserve to be treated and weary of reminding grown adults about basic respect.
Choosing Ourselves
As a result, many adults are stepping back from the search for “someone” and stepping up for themselves. This isn’t a loss; it is an act of self-respect. We are choosing:
*Peace over partnership *Healing over holding on *Building a life alone rather than feeling alone in a relationship
We haven’t stopped wanting love, but we have stopped waiting for someone else to choose us because we have finally chosen ourselves. We refuse to settle for something that looks like love but feels like emptiness.
The Power of “No”
Your future depends on who you hand your heart to. A partner should be someone who shows up, leads with love, and adds peace to your life rather than pressure. Until someone comes along who adds to our peace instead of our problems, staying single isn’t just “fine” – it’s a sanctuary.
Don’t rush, and don’t over-romanticize potential. If the foundation isn’t built on respect and safety, it isn’t worth the sacrifice of your own well-being. We are pouring back into ourselves now, and that is exactly where our energy belongs.
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Becoming The Right Person
We’ve all been there. That first date, filled with hopeful smiles, witty banter, and an underlying current of anxious anticipation. The quiet question hangs in the air, heavier than any silence; “Is this the right person?”
It’s a question that follows us through life. The right person to date? The right person to marry? The right person to build a life with? We spend countless hours, energy, and emotional bandwidth searching for this elusive “perfect match.” We read books, we ask friends, we scroll through endless profiles on dating apps. But Jay Jay Douglas offers a profound and eye-opening shift in perspective: “Become the right person and the right person will recognize you.”
Think about that for a moment. It shifts the focus from an external search to an internal transformation. And Douglas dives deeper into this concept, offering insights that are both a bit challenging and liberating.
The Problem With Chasing Love
We’re so focused on finding the right person that we often neglect a more fundamental question: Am I becoming the right person?
The truth is, your ability to attract and sustain a healthy relationship is directly linked to your relationship with yourself. As Douglas rightly points out:
*”The truth is, you can not recognize healthy love when you are not healthy yourself.” If your inner landscape is full of insecurity, self-doubt, or unresolved baggage, you’ll struggle to appreciate genuine love when it appears.
*”When you don’t respect your own boundaries, you will keep entertaining the people who ignore them.” Without self-respect, you’re prone to tolerating behavior that is beneath you.
*”When you don’t know your worth, you will keep negotiating it with the people who benefit from your debt.” Knowing your worth is not about arrogance; it’s about a solid understanding of your value. If you don’t have it, others with inevitably undervalue you.
*”If you don’t have peace within, you will keep confusing intensity with connection.” This is a powerful one. We often mistake the roller-coaster of intense, dramatic situations for a deep connection, when real connection is often grounded in peace and stability.
Be The Rooted Tree
Douglas uses a beautiful analogy: “A good tree produces good fruit but a tree does not go looking for fruit: It focuses on being rooted well. When the roots are healthy, the fruit follows.”
Relationships work the same way. The “fruit” – a healthy, fulfilling, lasting relationship – isn’t something you chase down. It’s something that naturally flourishes when you, the “tree,” are healthy and well-rooted.
What does it mean to be a well-rooted person?
~Grounded in Who You Are: This means having a strong sense of self-identity that isn’t dependent on external validation. You know your strengths, your weaknesses, your values, and your passions.
~Steady Character: Your principles don’t sway with every passing trend or the opinions of others. You act with integrity and consistency.
~Identity Rooted in Integrity: Your self-worth comes from within, from living authentically and with honor, not from seeking approval or status.
The Shift Inside You
When you make this internal shift, something magical happens. You stop the desperate chase. You start BECOMING the right person.
This isn’t about striving for some abstract ideal of perfection. It’s about a commitment to self-growth. It’s about becoming:
<Someone who knows how to love without losing themselves. You understand that a healthy partnership involves two whole individuals, not one person trying to complete another.
<Someone who knows how to give without abandoning their values. You are generous and compassionate, but you also have strong healthy boundaries that protect your well-being.
<Someone who can recognize peace when it shows up instead of mistaking chaos for chemistry. You develop an emotional intelligence that allows you to value genuine, calm, and supportive connection over dramatic, emotionally turbulent situations.
Preparation Over Pursuit
And here’s the crucial piece: “The right person for you is not just someone you find, it is someone you are prepared for.”
You could be standing right in front of your ideal partner, and if you haven’t done the internal work, you won’t even recognize them. You might misinterpret their kindness for weakness, their stability for boredom, or their peacefulness for a lack of excitement.
So instead of a desperate plea to the universe for “the one,” Douglas suggests a different prayer: “Before you ask the ‘Universe/God’ to send the right person into your life, ask ‘it’ to shape you into the person who can sustain the relationship you are praying for.”
This is the ultimate shift in power. You are no longer a passive participant waiting for happiness to be delivered to you. You are an active creator, cultivating the inner landscape that makes you a magnet for genuine, healthy love.
When you become the right person, something fundamental changes inside you. You stop chasing love and, in that place of quiet strength and self-acceptance, you actually recognize it when it arrives.
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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
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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.
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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!!!
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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
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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!
