THE INKWELL SOUL

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  • The Art of Shutting Up

    I recently stumbled across a quote that hit me like a cold splash of water to the face. It asked : When was the last time you really listened – not just waiting for your turn to talk, or rehearsing what you’ll say next? My immediate, knee-jerk internal reaction? “Oh, I have a great point to make about that!”

    And there is it was. The irony. I was literally “rehearsing my reply” to a quote about how I shouldn’t be rehearsing my reply.

    It made me realize that for a long time, I haven’t been having conversations; I’ve been conducting tactical maneuvers. I’ve realized that most of us (myself very much included) don’t actually listen. We reload. While the other person is talking, we’re back in the kitchen of our minds, chopping up our own clever anecdotes, seasoning our counter-arguments, and waiting for that split-second gap in their breathing so we can serve our masterpiece.

    It’s exhausting. And honestly? It’s why so many of my “connections” have felt about as deep as a parking lot puddle.

    We have this frantic, itchy need to be the “fixer.” When a friend starts venting about their boss or their partner, my brain immediately shifts into IT-Support mode. I start building a three-point plan to solve their life. But I’ve come to realize that “fixing” is often just a polite way of saying, “Your discomfort is making me uncomfortable, so I’m going to give you a solution so we can talk about something happier.” True listening, the kind that actually builds trust, feels a lot more like holding a heavy box for someone. You don’t try to unpack it or tell them it’s not that heavy. You just stand there and hold it with them until they’re ready to put it down.

    I’ve been trying to experiment with this lately, and let me tell you – it’s awkward. There’s this thing called the “pregnant pause” that feels about ten years long when you’re used to constant chatter. But I’ve noticed something wild: when I resist the urge to jump in with a “Me too!” or a “You should try this” and I just… stay there? The other person usually sighs and says the real thing. The thing they were actually worried about. The stuff that was hiding behind the first layer of words.

    I’m learning to embrace the “W.A.I.T.” acronym: Why Am I Talking? It’s a humbling question to ask yourself mid-sentence. Usually, the answer is “to sound smart” or “to stop the silence.” Rarely is the answer “because this is absolutely vital for them to hear.”

    My goal now isn’t to be the most interesting person in the room, but the most present one. I want to be a vessel, not a megaphone. It means quieting the internal chatter, letting the “perfect” comeback die in my throat, and just being there. Because at the end of the day, people don’t really need my “brilliant” advice. They just need to know that for five minutes, they weren’t alone in the room.

  • Why I’m Crashing My Own Funeral

    Seriously, hear me out on this one. I went to a funeral recently. It was lovely, truly. There were tears, beautiful flowers, and grandchildren telling stories that made everyone laugh and cry in equal measure. But as I sat there, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit jealous.

    Not of the being dead part, mind you – I am not in a rush for that. But I was jealous of the honesty and raw emotion.

    We spend our whole lives being polite, nodding at brunch, and sending “thinking of you” texts. But at a funeral? That’s when the real stuff comes out. That’s when people finally admit that your weird obsession with rocks was actually charming, or that the way you made your home made chocolate chip cookies changed their childhood. (At least I am hoping I am remembered by this.)

    And it hit me: Why on earth should I have to be dead to hear the best stories about myself?!

    With this second round of cancer making itself at home, I’ve decided I am not interested in being the guest of honor who can not enjoy the catering. If I am going to be the subject of a eulogy, I would like to be able to fact-check it (sorry, that is the Virgo in me talking).

    The Ultimate Party Plan

    People often spend their later years “planning” their funerals – picking out favorite verses and hymns or poems and songs. It is practical, but let’s be honest, it is a bit of a chore. (I’ve already had to plan a husband’s funeral and I don’t want that chore for my family.) I do not want to plan a service. I want to plan a party. I want to curate the vibe, the menu, and the laughter. There is something incredibly profound about taking the power back from a diagnosis and saying “if we’re going to talk about my life, let’s do it while I am still living it.”

    A Gift for Both Sides

    I know, some might say it is a bit “main character energy.” But I have realized that this isn’t just for me. It is a weirdly beautiful, healing gift for everyone involved.

    For me: I get the rare treasure of closure. I get to see the ripple effect of my life. We all wonder, “Did I matter? Did I do okay?” I get to hear the answer in the voices of my children, my family and my friends.

    For you: It is a release valve. Usually, we carry our best tributes to the graveside, heavy with the regret of “I wish I’d told them.” By showing up to my own send-off, I am letting you off the hook. You get to say it to my face. You get to cry on my shoulder instead of a headstone. We get to trade the “if onlys” for “I’m so glad we dids.”

    Celebrating the Presence

    Death is a thief, but it doesn’t have to be a party pooper. Most ceremonies are about a person who WAS. I want this to be about the person who IS.

    I want to see the tears, but I want to be able to hand you the tissue. I want to hear the “remember whens” so I can say, “Actually, it was even funnier than that!” I want to say my goodbyes not through a legal will or a pre-recorded video, but with a hug that lingers… just long enough.

    So, consider this my “Save the Date” for the ultimate “Life Premiere.” There will be laughter, there will be stories, and yes, it might be a little awkward – but the best parts of life usually are.

    I have spent my life doing my best to show up for the people I love. I’ll be damned if I’m going to miss the biggest party they ever throw for me.

    So til then…. let’s go make some more memories!

  • Intentions Over Expectations: Living Purposefully

    We’ve all been there: the clock strikes midnight on New Year’s, and we suddenly find ourselves under the crushing weight of a “New Year, New Me” checklist. We set massive expectations – hit the gym every day, double our income, finally master that hobby – and the moment life gets messy, we feel like we’ve failed.

    But what if we stopped chasing outcomes and started cultivating intentions?

    This year, I’m inviting you to join me in a radical shift. Instead of obsessing over where we’re going, let’s get deeply, beautifully obsessed with how we’re traveling.

    The Weight of “Expectation” vs. The Wing of “Intention”

    Expectations are rigid. They are pass/fail. They focus on a future result that we often can’t control, leaving us anxious and disconnected from the now.

    Intention is different. It’s the soul’s GPS. It’s about the energy you bring to the present moment. While an expectation says, “I must lose ten pounds,” an intention says, “I intend to honor my body with movement and nourishment today.”

    One feels like a chore; the other feels like a choice.

    Turning the Mundane into the Meaningful

    When you live with intention, nothing is “ordinary” anymore. Every decision becomes an opportunity to align your outer world with your inner values.

    *Mindful Moments: It’s pausing before you open your laptop to decide that today, you will lead with curiosity rather than frustration.

    *The Power of Growth: It’s recognizing that a “bad day” isn’t a failure of your plan, but a chance to practice the intention of resilience.

    *Gratitude as a Compass: When we stop looking for what’s missing (expectation) and start noticing the blessings already in our hands (gratitude), the magic starts to unfold.

    Designing a Life That Feels Good on the Inside

    Remember: Every choice you make is a vote for the person you are becoming. You have the incredible power to create a life you desire, but it doesn’t happen in one giant leap. It happens in the tiny, deliberate steps. It happens when you choose kindness when you’re tired, or when you choose to believe in your dreams even when the path isn’t perfectly clear.

    This year, let’s stop waiting for the “perfect life” to arrive and start creating a meaningful life right where we stand.

    A Little Challenge for You…

    Close your eyes and ask yourself: What is one intention I want to carry through this week? Not a goal to achieve, but a way of being. Is it “patience”? Is it “boldness”? Is it “rest”?

    Write it down. Carry it with you. And watch how the world shifts when you stop expecting and start intending.

  • The Glass Partition

    “The tension between needing solitude and wanting to be seen is like standing behind a one-way mirror: I feel protected because I can see out but no one can see in, yet I find myself pressing my palm against the glass, hoping someone notices the smudge I left behind.”

    It is the “Solitude Paradox” – the fear that being known will ruin your peace, combined with the fear that staying hidden will eventually erase you.

    I am the architect of my own island, I’ve dredged the sand and raised the cliffs until the horizon is nothing but my own reflection. There is a profound mercy in this distance; no one can misread my silence here, no one can clumsy-foot through the garden of my grief. Here, I am the Queen of a quiet country, uninterrupted, unburdened, and untouched.

    But the walls that keep the storm out also keep the warmth from coming in.

    I sit by the window of my own making, watching the world move in blurred streaks of color, and a treacherous thought begins to bloom: Does anyone see the light left on in this room? I want to be discovered, but I don’t want to be hunted. I want someone to find the secret door, but I’m terrified of what happens when the hinges creak open and the dust of my decades is exposed to the air.

    It is an exhausting dance – to pull the blanket of anonymity over my head while secretly praying someone notices the shape I make beneath the covers. I want to be “seen” without having to explain, to be understood without the autopsy of conversation. I am waiting for a ghost who speaks my language, someone who knows that when I say “I need to be alone,” what I am really saying is, “Please stay close enough to hear me if I change my mind.”

    Bravely, I am admitting I want to be “found” while I am actively hiding. It is not a contradiction; it’s a search for a very specific kind of safety – the safety of being truly known by someone who won’t try to “fix” the solitude out of me.

  • The Unbroken Thread: Why I Would Not Change A Thing

    There is a quiet, persistent temptation to look back at the map of our lives and point to the detours. We see the jagged lines of our mistakes, the heavy shadows of the people we should have walked away from sooner, and the silent spaces where we let opportunities slip through our fingers. We imagine that by erasing those moments, we would emerge more polished, more successful, or perhaps more whole.

    But the truth is far more profound: If I were to reach back and pluck out a single regret, I would be erasing the very person I am today.

    To the people who were not good for me: I no longer look at our time as “lost.” You were the hard lessons that taught me the shape of my own boundaries.Through the pain of those connections, I learned what it means to be truly seen, and more importantly, I learned how to see myself. You were the friction that polished my spirit, teaching me the value of my own peace.

    To the careers I didn’t pursue and the jobs I let go: For a long time, I called those “missed opportunities.” But as I look at the children I raised and the home I built, I see they weren’t missed opportunities at all – they were choices. Every hour I spent pouring into my family was an investment in a different kind of legacy. I traded the climb of a corporate ladder for the steady, sacred rhythm of a life lived for others. I didn’t lose my way; I chose a different destination, and that choice has made me rich in ways a paycheck never could.

    To the friends who faded into the background: You were the chapters that had to end so the story could continue. Some of us were meant to walk together for a mile, and some for a lifetime. I carry the echos of our laughter and even the sting of our drifting apart, because both taught me that life is a series of seasons. You taught me how to hold on and, eventually, how to gracefully let go.

    This is the beauty of a life fully lived: We are not static monuments; we are ever-changing landscapes. I am proud of the person who survived the dark nights and the person who thrived in the morning light. I am proud of the mediocre days, the “perfectly imperfect” moments, and the failures that felt final but weren’t.

    We must remember that we are never finished. If there are parts of your reflection today that you do not yet love, take comfort in the fact that tomorrow is already reaching out to change you again. Our experiences are the alchemy that turns our past into wisdom.

    So, I offer no apologies to my past. I ask for no do-overs. I would not erase a single tear or a single stumble. Every “mistake” was a stitch in the fabric of my soul. I am here, I am whole, and I am exactly who I was meant to become.

  • The Double Bind: Fighting for Certainty in Limbo

    The air is thick here, heavy with unspent possibility and the dust of plans that might never settle. This is limbo, the strange, unscheduled stop between breaths. It is not a place on any map, but a cavern dug deep within my heart, a silent, echoing chamber where the future refuses to send back an answer.

    I hit the pause button myself, or maybe the world did it for me. Life, which once rushed forward in a torrent of deadlines and five-year plans, is arrested. The usual, comforting momentum – the feeling that I am the captain charting the course – is gone. Now, I stand on the shore, the compass spinning wildly, and the waiting itself has become the main, exhausting act.

    The Tyranny of the ‘Right’ Attitude

    And here is where the deeper struggle lives: the relentless, suffocating pressure of attitude.

    *If I just think positive enough….

    *If I visualize my healing vividly enough…

    *If I maintain that warrior mindset….

    They tell you, everyone tells you, that attitude is everything, that it will manifest the cure. I am doing the hard work – mentally, physically, nutritionally. I am reading the books, choosing the affirmations, saying the prayers, forcing the smile. I am working as hard on my mind as I am on my body, convinced that my will alone can rewrite my cellular structure.

    But then, the quiet, cynical voice whispers: Is that enough?

    I know the answer. I do the work, not because I know it guarantees success, but because to not do it feels like surrendering. It’s a way to feel some semblance of control when the real outcome is dictated by forces I cannot see, bargain with, or command.

    The Problem with Faith and Blame

    When the fear creeps in – when I falter in my resolve – the blame is immediate. If the scans come back wrong, is it because I didn’t believe hard enough? Did I not have enough Faith?

    The weight of this expectation is crushing. It places the failure, if it comes, squarely on my own shoulders, on the quality of my spiritual life, on the depth of my optimism. It turns the fight into a moral test, and I hate it. I hate feeling torn between the hope that fuels me and the cold terror that one bad day, one moment of doubt, will be the thing that seals my fate!

    This is the misery of this limbo. It is not just the disease; it is the double bind – the obligation to feel joy and certainty when I feel utterly terrified and uncertain.

    Suspension, Not Failure

    I am so tired of being suspended in this state. I need to move forward, to know the result, to stop living between sentences. I need the numbness to lift so I can feel what is real, but I need the numbness to stay so I don’t collapse under the weight of the “what ifs.”

    I am living in an ellipsis (…). But perhaps, in this exhausted suspension, I can choose a different kind of strength. Not the fierce, demanding strength of manifestation, but the quiet, humble strength of acknowledgement. I acknowledge the fear, I acknowledge the exhaustion, and I acknowledge that I am fighting my absolute best, regardless of what the scales of Faith or attitude are supposed to demand of me.

    I am not stuck; I am suspended, fighting for today.

  • Shovels Down, Spirits Up: A Snow Day Blessing

    The thermometer was doing its best impression of a single digit, and the sky was the color of old cement. Outside, our mile-long world was a pristine, drifted fortress, and its drawbridge – our driveway – was sealed shut.

    It started with a grumble and the scrape-scrape-THUMP of the shovel on the deck. Being the only house on the mile means we’re either the shovelers or the snow angles are just going to have to wait for the mail. The cold dug into my bones, chased by a few choice words aimed squarely at the flat side by side tire that refused to cooperate. This time of year always brings that peculiar mix of memory: the quiet joy of a daughter’s birth, shadowed by the ache of her father’s passing, all wrapped up in a blanket of winter white.

    But there’s work to be done. Soon, my snow-fighting sidekick was out, tackling the garage doors with the focus only a teenager facing frozen obstacles can muster. We worked in a chilly rhythm, pushing, lifting, and swearing (mostly me) until a strange warmth began to bloom. It felt good. A deep, satisfying sweat. A reminder that my body is still a machine, capable and strong. “This disease,” I muttered to the sky, “does not have me.”

    The last of the heavy snow near the road gave way, and the moment the work was done, the shift happened. My daughter – my glorious snow baby – didn’t walk away . She threw her shovel down like a mic drop and launched herself into the nearest, fluffiest ditch-drift.

    Her laughter – bright, and utterly carefree – was a magnet. One second I was the weary adult, the next I was rolling myself backward into the snowbank like a runaway toddler. Two grown-up bodies acting like total fools, laughing until the single-digit cold was completely forgotten. It was a pure, simple, physical joy reset.

    That moment, the one where the burden of the chore vanished and we were just two playful souls surrounded by quiet, white beauty, is the one I’ll bottle up and keep forever. The memory I want to hold: that the hardest work always earns the most ridiculous, heart-swelling fun.

    And then, the cherry on top of our perfect, gritty, snowy day: a brief visit from Grandpa, who brought the holy grail of midwest comfort food – kolaches. Warm, sweet, and delivered by a loving hand.

    Some days are measured in accomplishments – a clean driveway, an un-drifted mailbox. Other days are measured in moments: a blast of laughter, a shared sugary treat, and the profound realization that our blessings arrive in the most unexpected, snow-covered ways. What a perfect, unforgettable day.

  • On Aging, Not Growing Old

    The question came, quiet and earnest, from someone whose love for me is a palpable thing: “Do you see yourself beating this? Do you see yourself growing old?”

    The second part of that question settled in my chest like a misplaced stone. It’s the kind of query you immediately recoil from, not because the truth feels irrelevant, even insulting, to the life you are actively living. I have thought about it, of course – who wouldn’t? – but I usually stop myself. The answer, if I’m honest, is No.

    And yet, that “No” feels like a lie, or at least a misinterpretation of the terms.

    It’s a strange thing, this definition of “old”. I look at people in their seventies and eighties and they do not look “old” to me. They look like people who have lived longer, whose faces are simply maps of resilience, joy, and sorrow. They are still learning, still loving, still doing. Maybe if you reach your nineties, you earn the title, but anything less than that just feels like a magnificent middle ground.

    Perhaps that’s why the question troubles me. It’s not about the years.

    I know I will age. I will gain new lines around my eyes from laughter, or maybe from sleepless nights spent in wonder. My hair will go silver. My body will change. This process – this aging – is a gift of continuous experience, a slow, beautiful becoming. It is the texture of a life lived, and I claim every year of it that I can have.

    But growing old? That phrase carries a different weight. To me, “growing old” sounds like a surrender. It implies a kind of internal shutting down, a retreat from curiosity, a dusty acceptance that the best days are behind you. It suggests a time when you start simply waiting for the end.

    And that is what I refuse to see. That is the answer I cannot provide.

    I will not grow old. I will age. I will age with defiance, with passion, and with the full, vivid knowledge of how precious and brief and utterly present every moment is. I don’t see a distant, faded future; I only see the next morning, followed by the one after that, each one a chance to live fiercely.

    Maybe its a good thing that I can’t picture the traditional image of being “old”. Maybe that refusal is my own small act of rebellion, my way of saying to this disease, or to fate, or to the cultural expectation of what a long life should look like: “I am not done being vital. I am not done being me.”

    The question still bothers me, perhaps it implies a choice between ‘beating this’ and ‘growing old,’ when what I truly want is to simply live, right here, right now, as fully as possible, for as long as I am able. I don’t know the end of my story, but I will make the words I’m writing today count.

  • A Poem: With Quiet Sound

    • A Shadow stands where a friend once stood, Casting lies in a neighborhood. Each shouted word, a stone to throw, A garden of rumors where nothing can grow.
    • My quiet life is now a stage, For someone else’s bitter rage. I stand and watch a story told, A twisted tale, careless and cold.
    • Each day, a promise, a held-in breath, Waiting for the shout of death – The next cruel lie, the public claim, To tarnish a long-held, trusted name.
    • But my truth is not a thing to buy, Nor one to win with a crafted lie. It lives in my heart, in my quiet grace, A sanctuary in this frantic space.
    • I yearn for peace, a simple ease, A life unburdened by this disease. To live and love, and not to fear, The shadow that follows year after year.
    • For this peace, I’ll stand my ground, Not with noise, but with quiet sound. My voice is a wish, a hope, a plea, For the quiet life that waits for me.

    The Power of “Quiet Sound”

    The “quiet sound” is the sound of your character. It’s the truth that echoes in the hearts of those who know you, not because you’ve announced it with a megaphone, but because you live it. It is the integrity that shines through your actions, the kindness you show, and the grace with which you carry yourself. This sound doesn’t need a stage or an audience; it resonates in the small, meaningful moments of your life. It is the peace you cultivate, the strength you find in silence, and the resilience that doesn’t need to explain itself.

    It’s the unspoken understanding among your friends and family. It’s the confidence that comes from knowing who you are, regardless of what others say you are. This is a sound that cannot be slandered, because it is not based on words, but on your very being.

    This concept can be a beautiful and empowering way to frame your experience. It’s not about being passive; it’s about being powerful in a different way. It’s about choosing not to engage in a noisy battle, but instead to let your life be your loudest statement.

  • My New Life: Where Everything Is A Carbohydrate Conspiracy

    “Eat to live, not live to eat.” That’s the new mantra now. It sounds so noble, doesn’t it? Like a line from a black – and – white movie starring someone with impossibly perfect cheekbones. The reality? It feels more like a full-time, unpaid detective job where the criminal is Sugar, and the scene of the crime is… well, Everything!

    I used to think of a grocery store trip as a casual outing, maybe a chance to snag a free sample. Now, it’s a terrifying, fluorescent-lit labyrinth. My hand hovers over a box of something innocent-looking, say, “All Natural, Gluten-Free, Artisan Crackers.” I flip it over, my eyes scanning the ingredients list like a seasoned bomb disposal expert. Suddenly, “Dextrose,” “Maltodextrin,” or some other sneaky ‘ose’ pops up, and my internal alarm blares: Carbohydrate!!! It’s everywhere! It’s in the spice rub, the salad dressing, the canned tuna, and probably the air freshener in aisle seven!

    I’m exhausted. My brain, once used for contemplating things like world peace or what show to binge-watch, is now solely dedicated to calculating net carbs and wondering if a single radish is going to throw me into a sugar-fueled freefall.

    The little things – oh, the glorious, spoiled – society little things – are ghosts of a past life. The siren song of a Dairy Queen drive-thru on a hot day? Might as well be a viper pit. My beloved mid-afternoon Scooter’s coffee? That mocha latte is basically a milkshake in disguise, a sugary betrayal. Now, my “splurge” is a meticulously sourced, grass-fed ribeye, or maybe – if I’m feeling really wild – a second handful of raw spinach. Yay! I’ve become the person who brings her own unseasoned, unadulterated food to every social gathering. I look at a slice of beautiful, fluffy artisan bread and feel the same way a vampire must look at a clove of garlic. Tragic.

    And wine? Forget the comforting, contemplative glass of Riesling after a long taxing day of, you know, battling cancer. Now, my unwinding ritual involves sitting quietly, perhaps communing with the universe in a sauna until I’m a puddle of detoxified determination: Who needs a Moscato when you have the quiet hum of an infrared heater? (Okay, I still want the Moscato, but my mitochondria have veto power now.)

    It’s frustrating. It’s ridiculous. It’s a culinary prison guarded by nutrition facts. But then, as I chew thoughtfully on a stalk of celery – a vegetable I once relegated to the “dip delivery vehicle” category – a wave of something profound washes over me.

    Gratitude

    Every single label I read, every beloved indulgence I refuse, every hour I spend in stillness, is a choice. It’s purposeful, deliberate, and sometimes a humorous act of war – a fight not just for more time, but with more quality, more awareness, and a hell of a lot more raw vegetables. I no longer live to eat. I eat to live. And honestly, that’s the sweetest thing left on the menu.