I’ve been sick these last few days.
But you probably won’t remember it—because it happens a lot, and honestly?… That’s okay.
You don’t have to remember the pain.
You don’t need to carry it.
Today, our mantra is this:
Yes, it remembers pain. Of course it does. But it is also absolutely capable of remembering peace. Of holding on to joy. Of whispering back to us, “You were safe here. You were happy here.”
There are so many moments in our life that brought us peace. So many people, so many places that wrapped us up in safety and wonder. And today, I’m just going to remind us of a few.
The horses—Goldie and George.
The sunlight barely breaking through the trees, casting sparkles through the branches like it was dancing just for us.
We could have sat on that porch forever, convinced we were the world’s next great poet. Or painter. Or dreamer. We were so in tune with our creativity there. With ourselves.
I still remember the smell of hay. The crisp sweetness of apples picked straight off Grandma’s tree—and her pretend-scolding when we’d steal the ones she had plans for. She always forgave us.
Those summers with Sissy and Grandma Great were soaked in joy. In safety. And I remember it so vividly that even now, when I close my eyes, I can feel that porch beneath me. I can feel the joy.
I remember Mr. Lee’s band room.
God, that room scared the shit out of us at first. Mr. Lee was ex-military, strict, and had a reputation for temper and discipline. He quoted generals like they were scripture. He expected perfection.
But what we found there? Was peace. That room became sacred. Because Mr. Lee wasn’t angry. He was teaching us respect—for others, for ourselves. He taught us that if we showed up and listened, he would listen right back. He mirrored whatever we brought to that room.
And we brought our whole selves.
For the first time, we belonged to something. A team. A purpose. A sound bigger than us.
I remember that peace. That purpose. That pride.
I miss living near water.
We were raised by the ocean. The gulf. That wide, living body of salt and sound and wind.
It never made me feel small, even though it was massive. It made me feel grounded. Like I knew who I was and where I stood.
It reminded me that life changes constantly. That it can be wild and beautiful and dangerous— and that all of those things can exist at the same time.
The ocean was never scary to me. It was a teacher. And I remember the sunrise over the water. The wind tangling my hair. The taste of salty air as I breathe in.
And oh—when our first son was born.
I remember staring at him while he slept in that little bedside bassinet and just weeping. Overwhelmed with joy that I got to be his mom.
I thought it was just hormones. But then our second boy came. And it happened again. And again. And again as we watched them grow.
We never stopped being in awe of them.
That joy? That deep, rich, soul-filled peace that comes from being their mom? Every time they do something small or something brave or something kind— we remember.
And today, we lean into that. We’re going to watch silly things that remind us of their childhoods.
Like how our oldest watched Shaolin Soccer four times a day when he was three. His favorite film was a foreign film—we really should’ve known he’d be a precocious little shit.
We’ll watch iCarly or Sam & Cat and remember our youngest, curled up beside us in bed, giggling that loud, contagious laugh.
We’re going to buy sunflowers today. We’re going to look at them and remember Kentucky. Remember that porch. Remember the apples and the horses and the trees that glittered like they were guarding something sacred.
Today, we remember peace. We let it fill us. We close the doors on pain—just for a little while— and sit in what made us whole.
From the one who still cries at sunsets but will deny it if you called her out,
