There’s a version of this story I almost didn’t share.

Not because it’s dramatic…but because it reveals something I didn’t want to admit about myself.

👉 I didn’t have a boundary problem. I had a self-abandonment pattern.

A Note from PJ

There was a time in my life when I didn’t know how to say no, so I just kept saying yes… and hoping I could manage whatever came with it.

I was a single mom, and I was doing everything I could to do it right. Work all day, be present for Kyle, and make sure he never felt the absence I knew all too well growing up. After work, it was our time, walks to the park, movies on the weekend (his favorites, always his favorites). I didn’t have extra time. I didn’t have extra energy. And I definitely didn’t have time to be dating.

But apparently… that didn’t matter.

Because it was like every single man at work woke up one day and decided, “She’s available.”

I didn’t feel available. I felt tired. But I also didn’t know how to say no. So when Leroy asked me out… I said yes.

Now let me tell you about Leroy.

Leroy was energetic. Not just a little energetic; fisty, passionate, full-body talking Leroy. The kind of man who didn’t just ask you to dinner… he performed it. Flowers. A full speech. My coworkers watching like it was dinner theater. And there I stood thinking, Well, I can’t say no now… because what would that look like?

So I smiled. And I said yes.

He picked me up that night wearing a tie. A tie. This man worked in the warehouse, jeans, work shirt, every day. And now? A tie. So I thought, Oh… this must be serious. Maybe dinner, maybe something fancy… maybe even an opera.

Nope. Italian food.

And Leroy was just as passionate about his spaghetti as he was about everything else. Slurping, talking, gesturing with his fork like he was conducting an orchestra. And at one point… the sauce splattered. On me. More than once.

I remember sitting there thinking, This goodbye is going to be a problem.

Because the energy had already shifted.

And then he leaned in and said, “I could just lick that right off…”

I froze… and then I laughed, because that’s what I did. “Now Leroy… you silly goose.” Like that somehow made it better. But he wasn’t joking. And now I had googly eyes staring at me over a plate of spaghetti.

At that point, I wasn’t enjoying dinner, I was planning my exit. Get through dinner. Get to the car. Get home. So as we walked out, I started laying the groundwork. “I’ve got to pick Kyle up…” “It’s getting late…” “His aunt’s probably waiting…” planting exit signs like my life depended on it.

He opened the car door for me… and then leaned in. Smelled my hair. And said, “You’re intoxicating…”

I blinked.

Then he asked, “Where does Kyle sleep?”

Now I don’t even know what that question meant… but I knew I didn’t like it. Not one bit.

We got to my apartment, and before I could even process what was happening, it felt like he jumped on me, whispering things in my ear, reaching, too close, too much. And something in me finally said, Enough.

I pushed him off.

“I am not like that, Leroy. Did you really think that of me?”

He looked shocked. Hurt. Of course he said no. But as I stood there, buttoning my blouse, because when exactly had that come undone? Something shifted.

Not in him. In me.

Because I had spent so much time trying not to hurt anyone else’s feelings… that I had completely ignored my own.

I had said yes when I meant no. I had laughed when I felt uncomfortable. I had stayed when I wanted to leave.

And standing there in that parking lot, talking to him like a disappointed mother, I realized something I couldn’t unsee:

This wasn’t about Leroy.

This was about me.

About how easy I had made it to be chosen… and how hard it had been to choose myself.

He was embarrassed. Quiet. Didn’t say much after that. And he never spoke to me again. I guess the roses and spaghetti didn’t quite lead where he thought they would.

But that wasn’t the part that stayed with me.

It was what happened when I walked inside.

Back when answering machines were a thing, I pressed “play” and just stood there. Message after message started rolling in.

“Hey… what are you doing tonight?”
“You want to come over?”
“Let’s grab dinner sometime…”

Different voices. Same energy.

I stood there counting.

Twelve.

Twelve messages… from twelve different men.

And I remember just staring at that machine like… What is happening?

Because none of it matched how I saw myself. I didn’t feel irresistible. I didn’t feel pursued.

I felt… available.

And that realization didn’t feel good.

Because it took me back to something I hadn’t thought about in years.

High school.

A boy once told me he preferred girls like me; nice, cute, approachable, over the “gorgeous cheerleaders.” Not because he liked me more, but because he wasn’t afraid I’d say no.

And standing there, listening to those messages replay in my living room, it hit me.

Maybe that hadn’t changed. Not because of them. But because of me.

Because the truth was… I didn’t just struggle to say no to dates.

I struggled to say no to anything.

I didn’t want to hurt feelings. I didn’t want to reject people. I didn’t want to be misunderstood.

So instead… I made myself easy to choose.

Even when I was exhausted. Even when I wasn’t interested. Even when something deep inside me whispered, “You don’t want this.”

I overrode it.

Because saying yes felt easier than explaining no.

And somewhere in all of that… I wasn’t just giving away my time. I was giving away pieces of myself.

Not dramatically. Not obviously.

Quietly.

A yes I didn’t mean. A smile I didn’t feel. A version of me that wasn’t fully there.

And I didn’t call it anything back then.

I called it being nice.

But now… I can see it clearly.

I wasn’t being kind. I was abandoning myself… in small, socially acceptable ways.

And that realization didn’t change everything overnight. But it did something important.

It made me pause.

It made me notice that moment… right before I answered.

And for the first time, I started asking:

👉 Do I actually want this?
👉 Do I even have the energy for this?

And slowly… not perfectly… I started choosing differently.

Not all at once.

But enough… to begin finding my way back to myself.

One moment. One boundary. One honest no… into who I was becoming.

And if you want to hear conversations that go deeper into this kind of shift, the full podcast episode is here → YouTube Channel

Comment and tell me, have you ever said yes when you meant no?

A Note from PJ

This week, I’m sharing a story that still sits deep in me.

As Easter approaches, I’ve been thinking about what it really means to be made new… not in a perfect, polished way, but in the middle of real life.

The kind of moments that don’t feel like beginnings…but end up changing everything.

Today’s story is one of those moments for me.

I opened the pantry and just stood there.

One box of macaroni and cheese. An expired can of pumpkin pie filling my mom had given me… I don’t know, maybe a year ago. And that was it.

I remember gripping the edge of the shelf, staring at it like something else might appear if I just waited long enough.

It didn’t.

I had ten dollars left. That was after rent… after bills… after doing everything I thought I was supposed to do to make life feel… stable.

Ten dollars.

I remember thinking, How does this even happen? How am I right back here?

And then the thought came, uninvited… This must have been what Momma felt like.

But just as quickly, Did she?

Because she was gone a lot. And no matter what her reasons were… all I remember is feeling alone.

Hungry, yes. But more than that?

Alone. Scared. Waiting.

Waiting for someone to show up. Waiting for something to change.

And standing there in that moment, I felt it again. Not just the emptiness of the pantry… but the echo of that little girl inside me who knew this feeling far too well.

And I hated it.

I looked over at Kyle. Sweet boy didn’t have a clue yet… but I did.

And something inside me tightened. Because I knew exactly where this could go if I let it.

And that’s when the questions started flooding in… Why?

Why would his father leave us like this? Fine… he doesn’t want us. But how do you just walk away and not even help? How do you not think about your child standing in a moment like this?

I could feel it rising; the anger, the unfairness, the weight of doing this alone.

And for a second… I wanted to sit down right there on the kitchen floor and just feel sorry for myself.

Because honestly?

It would’ve been easier.

But then something else surfaced.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just steady.

Because of the way you grew up… you know how to do this.

And I paused.

Because that was true.

As much as I hated it… as much as I wished things had been different… the way I grew up had done something in me.

It made me resilient. It made me resourceful. It made me capable of thinking outside the box when there was no box left.

And then the thought came, What would I tell Kyle… if he were in this situation?

I didn’t even hesitate.

“Quit feeling sorry for yourself… and do something about it.”

And that hit me.

Because I could hear it so clearly… and I knew I had a choice.

Stay stuck in the feeling… or move.

So I moved.

I went to Kyle’s aunt—she was a realtor, had rental properties. I asked if I could help clean homes after move-outs.

She said yes.

And the best part?

I could take Kyle with me.

He got to “help.” And if you’ve ever seen a little boy “help,” you know… it’s more heart than skill. But he was with me. Not alone. Not scared. With me.

I cleaned. I painted walls. I did whatever needed to be done.

Cash in my pocket. Food in the house.

And somehow… peace in my chest.

And somewhere in all of that… something else was happening.

Kyle was learning. Not from what I said… but from what he saw.

That when life gets hard, you don’t quit. You don’t stay in the story of “why me.” You find a way.

I didn’t realize it then…

But that moment in front of that empty pantry wasn’t the end of something.

It was the beginning.

Because something shifted in me that day.

Not my circumstances… not right away.

But my willingness to move even when I didn’t feel ready.

And that’s when I started to see it…

Motivation doesn’t come first.

👉 Action does.

I didn’t wait to feel confident. I didn’t wait to feel secure.

I just kept going.

One house. One wall. One job at a time.

And something unexpected happened.

The more I moved, the more capable I felt. The more capable I felt, the more I wanted to learn.

So when I didn’t know something, I stayed curious.

I researched. I studied. I figured it out.

Not because I had to… but because I started to believe I could.

And that didn’t just change how I worked.

It changed how I lived.

Instead of staying stuck in anger, trying to understand why my family had hurt me the way they did…

I got curious there too.

Because anger?

It’s just hurt that hasn’t been understood yet.

So I started doing the work.

I saw a psychiatrist. I read every self-help book I could get my hands on. I started looking at patterns instead of just reacting to them.

And through all of it… there was one thing I kept coming back to.

Kyle.

I didn’t just want to get by.

I didn’t just want to survive.

👉 I wanted to break something.

The cycles. The patterns. The pain that had been passed down from one generation to the next.

I didn’t have all the answers.

I didn’t have a perfect plan.

But I had something stronger than that.

I had a decision.

And maybe that’s what being made new really looks like.

Not everything changing overnight.

But you…

choosing to change what happens next.

One decision.
One action.
One step at a time…
into who you’re becoming.

I stopped at the bank on the way. Not my bank. I didn’t have one. No checking account. No cushion. No safety net. Just a paycheck in my hand that I had to cash in person…because when you’re living that close to the edge, you don’t get the luxury of waiting for anything to clear.

Every dollar mattered. Every dollar already had a place it needed to go before the day was over.

Toddler Pull-ups.
Rent.
Gas.
Food.

I stood there at the counter, watching the teller count it out. Bills sliding across that little ledge one by one. I gathered it up carefully, folded it, placed it in my purse like I was placing something sacred inside.

Because I was.

That wasn’t just money. That was groceries. Gas. A way to make it through the next few days. A way to make sure my boy didn’t feel what I felt growing up.

I walked into the store knowing exactly what I needed. Pull-ups for Kyle. A few things to get us through. Nothing extra. Nothing I didn’t already have a plan for.

I grabbed what I needed quickly, my mind already doing the math. Adding it up as I went. Every item. Every dollar. Making sure I didn’t go over.

Everything had to fit. Everything had to stretch. I held the total in my head like it mattered, because it did.

I had just gotten off work. Tired doesn’t even begin to cover it. The kind of tired that sits in your bones…that follows you from one place to the next without ever really letting go.

But as I made my way through the aisles, something caught my eye.

A display of purses.

Bright. Clean. New.

I slowed down without meaning to. Reached out and touched one of them. Soft. Untouched. Not worn down. Not stretched thin from holding everything you own.

Just…new.

I set my purse down to look at them.

For a second, I let myself imagine it. What it would feel like to carry something like that. To not have to think about every dollar. To not have to choose between what you need now and what you might need later. To just…pick something because you liked it.

I stood there longer than I should have.

And then I remembered,

Kyle.

My heart jumped. I was late!

Again.

I pulled my hand back quickly, like I’d been caught doing something I wasn’t supposed to do. Turned. Started moving fast now. Too fast. That hurried, distracted kind of fast where your mind is already somewhere else.

I pushed through the doors, the heat hitting me as I stepped outside, my mind already ahead of me.

Kyle. Late. Again.

I moved fast across the parking lot. I reached my car, grabbed the handle, and in one motion went to swing my purse forward off my shoulder.

Nothing.

My hand hit air.

For a second…my brain didn’t register it.

I reached again.

Nothing.

I froze.

Slowly, I looked down at my shoulder.

Empty.

My stomach dropped so fast it felt like the ground shifted under me.

No. No, no, no…

I spun around, scanning the parking lot like it might magically appear sitting somewhere it didn’t belong.

It didn’t.

My purse. My money. My keys. Everything.

Still inside.

Kyle. Late. Again.

I could already see their faces. The teachers. That look. Frustrated. Tired of my excuses.

What was I going to tell them this time?

I turned and ran back toward the store, my heart already pounding before I even reached the doors.

Please. Please let it still be there.

I pushed through the entrance, the cool air hitting my face, and headed straight for the spot where I had been standing.

Empty.

Of course it was empty.

My chest tightened as I looked around, my eyes scanning every direction at once. People moved past me like nothing had happened. Like nothing had been taken. Like my world hadn’t just slipped out from under me.

I turned and made my way to the front counter, my steps quick, uneven.

“There was a purse,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I set it down just for a second, and now it’s gone.”

The manager barely looked up.

“What color was it?”

“Brown,” I said quickly. “Worn…soft leather…everything I have is in there.”

He shrugged.

“Well, if someone turned it in, it’d be up here.”

“No. someone took it,” I said, the words coming faster now. “I just had it. I was right over there.”

He finally looked at me then. Not concerned. Not alarmed. Just…tired.

“You can look around,” he said. “But there’s not much we can do unless we saw it happen.”

Unless we saw it happen.

I stood there for a second, waiting. For something more. For him to care. For someone to move.

Nothing.

Just the hum of the lights above us. The beep of a register. Life moving on like mine hadn’t just been turned upside down in the middle of a store.

I swallowed hard, nodded like I understood…even though I didn’t.

I turned back toward the floor, my eyes sharper now, scanning everything. Every aisle. Every person. Every movement.

It has to be here. It has to be.

Okay… stay calm. Don’t panic.

Kyle.

The thought hit me again. Harder this time.

I’m late. Again.

I could see his little face…waiting…watching the door every time it opened.

I have to go.

Maybe I just run. Five blocks. I can make it.

I’ll tell them what happened. Maybe they’ll believe me. Maybe they won’t.

I’ll tell Kyle we’re going on an adventure.

We’ll walk back together. I’ll figure it out. I’ll get the car open somehow.

It’s an older car. Maybe, I can hotwire it. Just like the old days.

But what if I couldn’t.

I needed my purse. I needed my keys.

I moved slowly now, my eyes locked in, watching hands…bags…anything that didn’t belong.

Please… just let me see it.

The room started to feel off. Too bright. Too loud. Or maybe I was just fading.

A lightheadedness crept in, slow at first…then stronger. My fingers tingled. My stomach dropped.

Not now. Please not now.

I pressed my lips together, willing myself to stay upright.

Stay with it. Stay with it.

The doors slid open.

And for a split second…everything slowed.

And there she was.

With my purse.

Hanging from her shoulder like it belonged to her.

Like she had always had it.

Like she didn’t just pick it up five minutes ago while I was trying to figure out if I could afford macaroni and cheese and dignity at the same time.

She was big.

I mean… big big.

The kind of big that makes you suddenly understand the David and Goliath story on a much more personal level.

The kind of big that makes you pause and think,
Okay… so this is how we’re doing today?

Strong. Solid. And mean looking.

The kind of presence that made people step around instead of through.

Of course she is.

Of course the woman who has my purse is built like she could bench press my entire life.

Fantastic.

I walked toward her, my heart pounding harder with every step.

My body moving before my brain could catch up.

Which, in hindsight, felt like a design flaw.

Because my brain was somewhere behind me like,
Pam. No. Let’s not do this. We don’t fight people in parking lots.

And yet… here we are.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Like I was walking into a situation I was absolutely not qualified for.

“Excuse me,” I said, my voice tighter than I wanted it to be. “That’s my purse.”

She didn’t move at first. Just slowly turned her head and looked at me.

“This?” she said, lifting it slightly.

I thought, Yes. That.

The one currently hanging from your shoulder like you didn’t just adopt it.

“Yes,” I said, stepping closer now. “That’s mine.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“No,” she said flat. “It’s not.”

Oh.

Well.

That clears it up then.

“That is my purse,” I said, the words coming faster now. “Everything I have is in there.”

She shifted her weight, squaring up just enough to let me know this wasn’t going to be simple.

“You’d have to pull this off my dead body,” she said.

Well… that seemed like a lot of commitment for a purse.

Her voice, it caught me off guard.

Low. Raspy. Deep in a way that made my brain go,
Oh. Oh no.

It made my skin crawl… like every hair on my body just stood up and said, we don’t trust this situation

“Look,” I said, pointing toward the purse. “My wallet’s in there. My driver’s license, my picture, you’ll see.”

And there’s a piece of chewing gum Kyle stuck on the strap that no amount of ice, scrubbing, or prayer could get off…but I digress.

She didn’t even look. Didn’t hesitate.

“I don’t have to look at anything,” she said, a sneer curling across her face.

And that’s when something shifted.

This wasn’t confusion. This wasn’t a mistake.

This was a full-on nope, I’m keeping this situation.

And she meant it.

She turned. Just like that. No hesitation. No explanation.

And started walking toward the doors.

“Hey,” I said, stepping after her. “That’s my purse!”

The doors slid open and she stepped outside into the light, not rushing…not running…just moving like she had already decided how this was going to end.

I followed her out, the heat hitting me as I stepped into the parking lot.

She stopped just a few feet from the entrance.

And then, she started looking around.

Slow. Deliberate.

Scanning the parking lot. Left. Right. Behind her.

Like she was checking to see who was watching.

Or maybe… who wasn’t.

My heart pounded harder.

What is she doing?

I stood just behind her now, close enough to see the worn strap hanging from her shoulder.

Close enough to reach it.

Stay calm. Don’t panic.

Her grip on the strap loosened…just slightly.

And before my brain could catch up, I felt like it was slow motion when

my body moved.

My hand shot out and grabbed the strap.

Hard.

I yanked.

Not graceful. Not planned. Definitely not my proudest tactical move…but also not the time for elegance.

The purse slid off her shoulder faster than I expected, like it had been waiting to come back to me.

And then, everything in me screamed, RUN! 

But I just stood there, frozen.

Not just my body. All of me. Because I knew what came next.

I had lived it before.

That split second right before the first hit…when your body tightens…your breath catches, and you make a silent decision:

Don’t feel it.

My shoulders curled in just slightly. My arms tightened around the purse. My chin dropped a fraction.

Instinct. Old. Worn into me from years of not being able to stop what was coming.

It won’t hurt as bad if you don’t fight it.

That’s what I used to tell myself.

Back when it was daily. Back when there was no escaping it.

You learn how to leave your body just enough… to get through it.

And deal with the pain later.

Always later.

My heart was pounding so loud I could barely hear anything else.

But I could feel it.

People.

Close. Too close.

A shift in the air around us.

That subtle pull of attention.

Like something was about to happen.

Like they were waiting for it.

Circling just enough to see. To witness. To maybe… enjoy?

Fight… fight… fight…

The words didn’t actually come out of anyone’s mouth.

But I could hear them anyway.

Clear as day.

I swallowed hard, gripping the purse tighter.

It’s going to be bad.

I knew that.

I could see it in her size. In the way she stood. In that low, raspy voice that still echoed in my ears.

But here’s the thing, I didn’t care.

Not anymore.

Because this wasn’t just about standing there and taking it.

This wasn’t about surviving it quietly.

This was about my keys. My car. My boy waiting five blocks away.

This was about not walking back into that preschool empty-handed…again.

I will not lose this. The thought came sharp.

Clear.

Stronger than the fear. Stronger than the memories. Stronger than the part of me that wanted to shrink and disappear.

I tightened my grip on the purse, my breath shallow, my body still braced for impact,

fully prepared to become a situation I absolutely did not have time for.

And then…nothing.

No hit. No shove. No explosion.

Just… silence.

I opened my eyes fully, not even realizing I had half-closed them in preparation.

She was still standing there. Looking at me.

And then, she laughed. A low, rough sound that didn’t carry any humor at all.

“Go on then,” she said, waving her hand like she was already done with me. “If you think it’s yours so bad.”

If I think it’s mine? I didn’t respond. Didn’t argue. Didn’t try to prove anything anymore.

Because I already had it.

And I wasn’t about to stand there long enough for something to change.

I took a step back. Then another.

My body still tight, still expecting something to come flying at me from behind.

But it didn’t.

She stayed where she was.

And just like that…it was over. Or at least, that part of it was.

I moved across the parking lot, not running…not yet…just trying to get to my car without dropping anything, without losing it again.

My hands were still shaking. My heart still racing.

Keys.

My fingers fumbled with the zipper, hands trembling as I dug inside.

There. Cold metal. Solid. Real.

And then, the money.

Still there! All of it! Right where I had placed it.

I wrapped my fingers around everything and closed my eyes,

Thank you, Lord.

Kyle.  

My eyes snapped open. Late. I was so very late.

All I could see in my mind was him.

Waiting. Watching the door. Wondering.

I had made a promise a long time ago.

My boy will not grow up the way I did.

Not hungry. Not forgotten. Not wondering if someone was coming for him.

Not today. Not ever.

I pulled out and drove straight there.

Every second felt longer than it should have.

Every stop sign. Every turn.

Too slow.

By the time I walked into the daycare, the room had quieted down.

Only the kids of teachers were left.

And there he was.

Sitting. Waiting.

He looked up at me.

And in that moment…I saw it.

That look.

The one that said he had been watching the door.

Waiting for me. My heart dropped.

“Kyle,” I said, trying to steady my voice as I walked toward him.

He looked up.

And just like that, everything else faded.

No purse. No woman. No fear.

Just him.

“I’m sorry I’m late, baby,” I said softly, brushing his hair back, forcing a smile I prayed looked real.

He studied my face for a second, like kids do…like they can see straight through you if you let them.

And then he smiled.

“Where were you?” he asked.

I let out a small breath…half laugh, half exhaustion.

“Well,” I said, taking his hand, squeezing it just a little tighter than usual, “I was on an adventure.”

An adventure.

That’s what I called it.

Not the fear. Not the fight.

Just…an adventure.

And as we walked out of the daycare together, his little hand in mine, I could feel it.

The adrenaline fading. The shaking settling in.

The pain…waiting its turn.

Later. Always later.

But for now, I had my purse. I had my keys.

And most importantly…I had my boy.

I got him buckled into his car seat.

Handed him his favorite toy. A little bag of Goldfish.

Then I walked around to the driver’s seat and sat down.

For a second… I just stared at my hands on the steering wheel.

Still. Quiet.

Like they didn’t belong to me.

Like they hadn’t just reached out and taken back something I wasn’t willing to lose.

And then, I started laughing.

Not a little laugh.

Not a polite, “that was something” kind of laugh.

No.

A deep, uncontrollable, can’t-catch-your-breath kind of laugh.

The kind that comes from somewhere so far down you didn’t even know it was there.

It just kept coming. Wave after wave.

Because the only thought I could land on was,

No one is ever going to believe this.

I shook my head, still laughing, tears forming in the corners of my eyes.

But I know.

I know what just happened.

I know what I was willing to do.

I know how close it all felt…how thin that line was.

And sitting there in that old car, hands still trembling, laughter still spilling out of me,

a thought crossed my mind.

This would be a great story for someone to write about one day…

When I was little, there was a patch of clover that grew in the strip of grass between our house and my Granny’s.

Not just a few clovers either.

A whole bed of them.

On warm afternoons I would flop down on my stomach right in the middle of that patch, the cool earth beneath me and the soft clover leaves brushing against my arms. Then the hunt would begin.

I’d push the clovers aside one by one, studying each tiny leaf like a scientist on the verge of a major discovery.

Three leaves.

Three leaves.

Three leaves.

Then suddenly…

Four!

If you’ve never found a four-leaf clover, let me tell you something: the moment you see that fourth leaf, your heart does a little flip. It feels like the universe just tapped you on the shoulder and said, “Well now…look what you found.”

I would pluck it carefully and run straight to Granny.

Now Granny believed in luck… but she also believed in rules.

The first rule was simple.

“You can make a wish,” she’d say, “but don’t you dare wish for money.”

Naturally I asked why.

“Because if you wish for money,” she told me very seriously, “some poor leprechaun has to take it out of his pot of gold.”

Apparently this pot lived at the end of a rainbow.

Now that sounded like a pretty reliable banking system to me.

So one day, when I saw a rainbow stretching across the East Texas sky, I did what any determined child would do.

I followed it.

Across the yard. Past the trees. Down the road.

And you know what I found?

Absolutely nothing.

No pot. No gold. No leprechaun.

Now I figure two things could explain that.

Either the rainbow moved… or somebody before me had already wished for money.

And somewhere out there, I imagine one very irritated leprechaun checking his empty pot and saying,

“Well that’s the last time I fund someone’s new bicycle.” Because that’s exactly what I would get if I found gold!

These are the things I think about when lying on a hospital table.

Years later, I found myself stretched out under bright lights getting ready for an endoscopy so the doctor could check on an ulcer that had been giving me trouble.

Not exactly the moment you hope your childhood luck kicks in.

The nurse placed a little plastic bite block in my mouth.

It had a hole in the center so the tools could pass through, and just before they gave me the medicine to send me off to sleep, I took a slow breath out.

And it whistled!

Not a quiet whistle either.

A sharp little whooooooo.

The medical team looked at each other. One nurse tilted her head and said,

“Well… that never happens.”

I remember thinking through that bite block, Of course it does. It always happens to me.

Those four-leaf clovers never seem to work when I really need them.

But then I had an idea.

If the thing was going to whistle, I might as well make it worth their while.

So with the little air I had left before the anesthesia kicked in, I whistled the most important tune known to mankind:

Shave and a haircut…

The anesthesia hit, and the room faded while the nurses burst into laughter.

And as I drifted off to sleep, I remember thinking one thing very clearly.

Those doctors may have done thousands of endoscopies…but they had probably never met anyone who played a whistle solo on the equipment before.

Now somewhere out there, I hope that old leprechaun heard it.

Because if luck has anything to do with laughter…I might finally be getting my money’s worth!

And maybe that’s how luck really works.

Not in pots of gold at the end of rainbows…and not always in four-leaf clovers pressed inside a book.

Sometimes luck shows up as a room full of nurses laughing at a tune you whistled through a piece of medical equipment.

And sometimes the best wish you can make…is simply hoping you gave someone a good story to tell later.

Authors Note

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, friends! 🍀

If you happen to find yourself wandering through a patch of clovers today, take a moment to slow down and look closely. You never know when a little four-leaf surprise might be hiding there, waiting to remind you that a bit of luck can still be found in the simplest places.

And don’t forget to wear green. Trust me on this one.

Because if you forget, someone will absolutely try to pinch you… and let me save you the trouble of attempting the classic defense.

Nobody believes your panties are green.

Really…I’ve tried.

PJ Hamilton

Funerals have a way of gathering people you haven’t seen in years.

Some arrive with familiar faces softened by time. Others appear like distant branches of the same tree, people you somehow belong to but never really knew.

Today was one of those days.

My husband’s family had gathered to say goodbye to someone I always found to be one of the kindest souls in the room.

In many ways, though, the gathering itself felt different than the family gatherings I remember from years ago.

Because when the matriarchs and patriarchs of a family pass on, the ones who used to host the holidays, call everyone together, and somehow keep the threads tied, the rhythm of a family can change.

The gravitational pull weakens. The phone calls slow. The reunions become fewer.

It’s not that love disappears.

It’s just that the center of the circle is gone.

After the service, I found myself talking with a friends of family I had never met before. As it turns out, they live in Nacogdoches, deep in the Piney Woods of East Texas, the very place where I was born and grew up.

The moment they said the name of that town, something inside me lit up.

“Oh, that’s home,” I said, probably a little too enthusiastically.

One of the teenagers with them wrinkled her nose and said something that made me laugh.

“I hate the pine trees.”

Now, if you’ve ever lived in East Texas, you know those pines. They grow impossibly tall, shoulder to shoulder, like soldiers standing guard over the winding highways.

My brother-in-law chuckled and added something his dad, Jack, used to say whenever they drove through those roads.

“Dad always said driving through East Texas felt like going through a tunnel,” he said. “The trees are so tall and thick you can’t see anything but the highway.”

Then he paused and smiled a little.

“He didn’t like it much. Said he didn’t like not being able to see the horizon.”

That sentence lingered in the air longer than the conversation.

Not being able to see the horizon.

I understood what Jack meant. When you’re surrounded by those towering pines, the sky narrows. The road curves. Your view is limited to what’s directly ahead of you.

But here’s the thing about East Texas.

The horizon is still there.

You just can’t see it for a while.

Standing there at a funeral, surrounded by stories of a life that had reached its final chapter, I realized how much that truth mirrors our own journeys.

Sometimes life feels like driving through those pine tunnels.

You can’t see very far ahead.
The future feels hidden.
The horizon disappears behind the trees.

You lose people you love. Families drift into new seasons. The road bends in ways you never expected. But there’s something else about those East Texas pines that most people forget.

They’re evergreens.

While the seasons change around them; spring blossoms, summer heat, autumn winds, winter frost, the pines remain tall and steady.

Now, they do shed their needles. If you’ve ever walked through the Piney Woods, you know the forest floor is thick with them. Layer after layer of rust-colored needles settling quietly year after year, soft beneath your feet.

And the smell…

That deep, earthy scent of pine and damp soil that seems to hold decades of seasons in it.

Those fallen needles don’t disappear. They become part of the ground itself. A quiet record of every season that has passed. And maybe that’s what life is like too. We shed parts of ourselves along the way.

Old fears.
Old versions of who we used to be.
Memories that settle gently into the layers of our lives.

But the roots remain.

And every now and then, if we’re lucky, we find a few people who are like those evergreens.

People who remain.

People who stand steady through every season of your life.

My granny used to say something that came back to me today as we stood there remembering someone’s life.

She said,

“If you have a handful of people show up at your funeral who really knew you and still wanted to say goodbye, you were a lucky soul.”

Not because life was perfect. But because those people grew with you.

They saw your hard seasons.
Your mistakes.
Your changes.

And they stayed anyway. That kind of connection doesn’t come from staying the same.

It is from becoming.

Becoming more honest. More compassionate. More yourself with each passing mile.

Funerals remind us of something we often forget while we’re busy driving through our own tunnels of life. The horizon matters. Not because we can always see it. But because it reminds us we’re still headed somewhere.

So if your view feels blocked right now…

If the road feels narrow…

If the trees feel too tall and the future too uncertain…

Keep driving. The horizon is still there. You just haven’t reached the clearing yet.

And when you do, I hope there are a handful of people standing beside you who knew the real you, every mile of the journey, and loved you anyway.

The kind who stayed through every season. The kind who stood like evergreens along the road of your life. Because when the miles are finished and the journey is done…those are the souls who prove the horizon was there all along.

It all started when I became a single mother in my twenties.

Before children, I never once gave a second thought to a public restroom. I walked in, did what I needed to do, washed my hands, and left.

Then my son started crawling.

And suddenly bathrooms became strategy sessions.

I remember standing in a public restroom stall one afternoon, looking down at the tile floor and thinking, there is absolutely no way I am putting my child down there. The floor was sticky in places, damp in others, and I didn’t want to know why.

But when Mommy has to go, Mommy has to go.

So I improvised.

I loosened my bra strap as far as it would go, lifted him up under my shirt, and held him tight against me while I sat down. He faced me, blinking in confusion, little hands pressed against me while I tried to balance both of us without dropping him or losing my dignity.

It wasn’t comfortable.

But he was off the floor.

Victory!

When he got older and started walking, it got more complicated. Walking toddlers want to touch everything, the latch, the hinge, the stall wall, the mysterious metal box that no one understands.

That’s when I introduced “bugs.”

“There are bugs all over everything in here,” I’d whisper with great exaggeration.

His hands would freeze mid-air.

And to keep them frozen, I would turn him toward me and sing.

Not quietly.

Full songs.

“Twinkle, Twinkle.”
“The Wheels on the Bus.”
Sometimes with choreography.

I’d catch other women smiling in the mirror. A few would laugh softly. Once someone actually said, “You’re doing great, Mama.”

I’d nod like this was normal.

Because in that season, it was.

My daughter got the same training.

You wipe.
Then you flush.
Then you wash your hands.

And you never, never, ever, touch the handle.

We flush with our foot.

Always.

So when she came home crying from first grade because she got in trouble for flushing with her foot, I had to call the teacher and explain this was sanitation, not rebellion. Germs are NOT a game.

Soon all the girls were doing it.

Public service…your welcome!

Somewhere along the way, though, something else began happening.

Every time I went to a public restroom, something unusual occurred.

It became so predictable that my husband and kids would wait when I left the table.

They weren’t waiting because they missed me.

They were waiting for the story.

The one that sealed it happened the day we arrived at the beach.

We had just arrived for vacation. After hours in the car and entirely too much water, because hydration feels responsible, I had to go badly.

The burger place was packed. The smell of fries hung heavy in the air. Sand trailed across the tile floor. Every table was full.

The line for the women’s restroom stretched nearly to the soda machine.

I shifted from foot to foot, silently blaming belts and buttons for why it takes women so long.

When it was finally my turn, I rushed into the stall without inspection.

That was my first mistake.

The toilet seat had a deep crack running straight through the back of it, a jagged split I hadn’t noticed in my urgency.

Normally, I am careful.

Normally, I line the seat with layers of toilet paper like I’m upholstering a throne. I do not sit bare on public plastic. I’ve learned that if you skip that step, you may stand up with a mysteriously damp backside and spend the next several minutes spiraling.

Is it water?
Is it not water?
Whose moisture is this?
Was she clean?
Why did I rush?

But this time?

No ceremony.

I sat.

And when I shifted my weight, the cracked plastic snapped together like a hinge, and pinched the back of my thigh.

Hard.

Not a gentle pinch.

A sharp bite that made me gasp out loud.

I froze.

Carefully, very carefully, I reached back.

My fingers brushed the back of my leg and came away red…BLOOD!

The cracked seat had actually sliced a small cut into the back of my thigh.

A toilet seat had cut me.

I was still sitting there, stunned, trying to reposition without making it worse, when the next catastrophe struck.

The stall door did not lock.

Someone else, clearly in a hurry, pushed it open.

Hard.

The door slammed directly into my nose.

I grabbed my face.

With the same hand that had just touched the cut on my thigh.

So now there was blood on my nose.

Blood on my hand.

And I was still sitting on a broken toilet seat.

The woman in the doorway froze.

“Occupied,” I said.

She whispered, “Oh my God,” and ran out.

And I’ll be honest, I felt relieved.

Not because of the blood.

But because I didn’t just have to pee.

I was mid-crisis on multiple levels, and the sudden absence of witnesses felt like mercy.

I took a breath and tried to focus.

That’s when I heard it.

A knock.

Two sets of feet outside the stall.

“Ma’am? I’m the manager here and need to know if you’ve been injured.”

Of course she does.

I was holding the broken stall door shut with one hand, because it still didn’t lock, and attempting to preserve modesty with the other.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Well, we need you to sign a liability form.”

“Can I please finish going to the bathroom?” I asked.

My East Texas roots had a stronger version of that sentence ready to go, but I heard children in other stalls and chose restraint.

Instead of waiting, she slid a clipboard and pen under the door.

Under the door.

Why can’t this lady just wait?

I stared at it for a moment, briefly considering signing a square of toilet paper and placing it neatly on top just to make a point.

But I was a good girl.

This time…

So I picked up the clipboard and signed it.

From the toilet.

I slid it back under the door.

Surely we were done.

Nope.

“Ma’am, I need to see the injury.”

Silence.

“It’s my backside, ma’am.”

A breath.

“And I just signed your paper.”

“I am not going to sue you.”

“YOU NEED TO GO BACK TO YOUR BURGER AND FRIES!!!”

There was a pause.

Then very fast footsteps retreating across tile.

Silence.

When I finally opened the stall door, the room went quiet.
Women stood frozen mid–hand wash.
I gave a small nod and said, “Show’s over, ladies.”

A few awkward laughs floated through the room.

I washed my hands, because I have standards, and walked back out to my family.

They were all watching the restroom entrance.

Apparently I’d been gone nearly an hour.

My husband raised his eyebrows.

“Well?”

And I told them everything.

To this day, if I get up to use the restroom at a restaurant, someone inevitably says, “We’ll wait for the story.”

And somehow…

There usually is one.

Note from PJ:

If this story stayed with you, I’d love to know. Just hit reply!

I’ve recorded a few of my short stories on YouTube, reading them the way I hear them in my head. Sometimes the voice adds something the page can’t quite hold.

If you’d like this one or another favorite read aloud, just reply and tell me. If enough of you ask, I’ll record it.

And if you’re curious, you can listen to the others here.

Playlist Link

There is a very particular kind of exhaustion that comes from moving your child to another state. It isn’t simply physical fatigue, though there is certainly plenty of that. It’s a layered exhaustion, emotional, mental, and somewhere deep in your bones, especially when you are Texans attempting to haul a trailer full of furniture through actual snow.

Not the polite, decorative snow Texans like to romanticize. Real snow. The slippery, nerve-rattling, confidence-eroding kind that turns every overpass into a potential life event.

We crept along icy highways like cautious tourists in our own survival story, hauling a trailer packed with furniture, boxes, and at least a dozen containers labeled “miscellaneous,” which is universally understood to mean “things we were too tired to sort.” Every slight drift of the trailer sent my heart racing. Every passing semi felt like a test of faith. And every weather report felt smugly satisfied with itself.

By the time we arrived, my nerves were frayed, my spine had permanently molded to the passenger seat, and my body felt like it had aged at least five years during the drive. But then we saw her apartment.

Cute. Perfect. Entirely hers.

And just like that, the stress softened into pride, that strange, swelling pride only a mother truly understands. Of course, pride rarely travels alone. Heartbreak sat quietly beside it, because watching your child build a life of their own is both beautiful and deeply unsettling. You celebrate their independence while silently wondering how the house will ever feel the same again.

We carried boxes up stairs, maneuvered furniture through doorways clearly designed by someone wildly optimistic about couch dimensions, and assembled various items using instructions that felt less like guidance and more like psychological endurance tests. Somewhere between unloading lamps and debating the structural integrity of particleboard, the emotions caught up with me.

Not in Target, as one might expect.

But in Home Depot.

Because motherhood, apparently, is best punctuated by quiet tears between power tools and lumber. I was so proud of her I could hardly stand it, yet my heart ached with that familiar maternal contradiction, joy and sadness occupying the exact same space.

Duty, however, is notoriously insensitive to emotional complexity. I had a talk scheduled back home, so while my husband and son bravely volunteered for the long drive back, I, the delicate keynote princess, would fly. As I hugged them goodbye, I had one lingering thought: this should be interesting.

Every family has a mediator. And I am ours.

Without me in the vehicle, I imagined hours of passive-aggressive music selection, competitive thermostat adjustments, and deeply meaningful debates that begin with phrases like, “I’m not trying to argue, but…” Still, I headed to the airport confident in my travel plans.

Or rather, I attempted to.

Because Eastern Time, as it turns out, is not Central Time, and my Texas-trained brain refused to acknowledge this betrayal. I arrived at the gate just in time to watch my aircraft gracefully pulling away from the terminal like a slow-motion breakup scene. My luggage had already boarded. I had not.

There are moments in life when dignity quietly exits the room.

This was one of them.

Thankfully, airline magic intervened, and I secured another flight, which earned me several bonus hours wandering the airport, a uniquely disorienting experience when you are exhausted, slightly emotional, and surviving entirely on overpriced snacks.

By the time I finally landed, it was close to midnight. The airport had that eerie after-hours stillness where every rolling suitcase echoes like thunder and every fluorescent light feels vaguely accusatory. My luggage, however, was nowhere to be found. Not lost, exactly, but locked away in what felt like a mystery bunker requiring directions that sounded suspiciously like a scavenger hunt.

After navigating deserted corridors and questioning multiple life choices, I was reunited with my suitcase. Emotionally depleted and deeply ready for my own bed, I ordered an Uber since every human I knew was conveniently out of town.

That is when the evening shifted from exhausting to unforgettable.

The driver pulled up and stepped out, and as he walked toward my luggage, I noticed the metal leg. Perfectly engineered. Gleaming under the parking lot lights. My brain immediately issued emergency social instructions: do not stare.

So naturally, I stared.

Then snapped my eyes away with the guilt of someone caught peeking at a birthday gift. I felt terrible watching him lift my suitcase. Here I was, able-bodied and tired. He was one-legged and cheerful. Life has a peculiar sense of humor.

I slid into the back seat, determined to behave like a socially competent adult. He hopped in with an easy smile and bright energy, driving a brand-new Tesla, which somehow added another layer of intrigue to the situation. He enthusiastically launched into a detailed presentation about battery range, proudly explaining how many miles the vehicle could travel on a single charge.

I nodded politely, still processing the leg, the hour, and the general absurdity of the day.

Then, casually, like we were discussing traffic patterns, he said, “I saw you looking at my leg.”

Time froze.

My soul briefly left my body.

I burst into embarrassed laughter and replied with the only honest response available. “Well, how could I not?”

He laughed, genuinely laughed, and proceeded to tell me his story. A drunk driver. A devastating accident. He almost died. But what struck me most was not the tragedy. It was his perspective.

“I have more friends now than before the accident,” he told me.

During recovery, his friends had signed his prosthetic leg with a special marker. Messages. Encouragement. Signatures. Smiley faces. A rolling tribute to survival and connection.

And before my brain could fully prepare itself for what happened next, he unclipped the leg, removed it with impressive efficiency, and handed it to me in the back seat.

Just like that.

I was now sitting in a Tesla at midnight…

Holding a stranger’s leg.

There are moments when reality becomes negotiable.

This was one of them.

I smiled with what I can only describe as survival-level composure while examining the signatures, internally convinced that no human being would ever believe this story. Then he handed me the marker.

“Would you like to sign it?”

Were we that close already?

How many of those signatures had been written by passengers just like me - polite, stunned, silently negotiating disbelief? But honestly, how different was this from signing one of my books? A stranger. A story. A moment of connection.

So I signed the leg.

Like a perfectly reasonable midnight activity.

At the next red light, I gently returned both leg and marker over the seat. He clipped the prosthetic back on with a confident, resounding click that was both efficient and oddly theatrical. Where that marker disappeared to remains a mystery I chose not to investigate.

Only then did I become aware of another issue.

My bottom was overheating.

Tesla heated seats, I quickly learned, are not subtle background luxuries. They are aggressive, full-body experiences. The warmth escalated with such enthusiasm that I found myself quietly negotiating survival strategies in the back seat.

If this story were being told live, which, frankly, it should be, this is the part where I would demonstrate how I began lifting one butt cheek at a time like a woman attempting a very dignified seated dance. Left cheek up, right cheek down. Right cheek up, left cheek down. A slow rotation of thermal management.

All while maintaining polite conversation.

Because nothing says “social grace” quite like silently roasting while pretending everything is completely fine.

Just as I was debating whether it would be socially acceptable to ask him to turn down what felt like a personal space heater, he cheerfully asked how I liked the heated seats.

“It’s a bit warm,” I admitted.

And I swear they became hotter. What the heck?

Perhaps he adjusted them. Perhaps anxiety has temperature control. Either way, I arrived home lightly toasted and deeply confused.

As I stepped out of the car, one thought echoed in my mind.

No one is ever going to believe this story.

But sometimes, life looks at your plans, smiles politely…

and hands you a prosthetic leg.

I spent the weekend surrounded by family, as we celebrated a family member and his milestone birthday, seventy years of a life fully lived!

There is something about gatherings like that. They have a way of softening the noise of daily life. You start noticing things. Not the surface-level things we so easily comment on… but the deeper ones. The layers that time quietly reveals.

Age, I’ve learned, does not simply make us older.

If we are paying attention, it makes us wiser.

And wisdom, at least for me, has become the art of seeing beneath the surface, especially in the people we love.

Family we may not always agree with.
Family who may not always see their own beauty.
Family whose contradictions tell the most fascinating stories.

And so, this one is for him…

He was born on Valentine’s Day, a day devoted to love and tenderness. Which somehow makes perfect sense. Because beneath his unmistakable steel, there has always lived a heart of velvet.

His mother said it years ago, almost in passing, as though she were offering a simple observation:

“My son is velvet and steel.”

But some descriptions are not casual at all. Some are revelations disguised as sentences.

At first encounter, you notice the steel. A voice firm with conviction. Edges that do not soften for comfort or politeness. Opinions delivered plainly, without ornamental cushioning. There is a strength about him that feels immovable, unapologetic, certain.

But steel alone does not explain a man.

Time does.

Because beneath the gruff exterior lives something far more delicate. A heart wired for deep feeling. Sensitivity concealed not by absence… but by protection.

A tenderness that rarely announces itself, yet reveals its presence in unmistakable ways.

You see it in the way he speaks of animals - not sentimentally, not casually - but with respect. A deep regard for the balance of nature, for the discipline of the hunt, for the responsibility it carries. He walks into the wilderness with patience, skill, and an unwavering code.

Taking only what is needed.
Never more.
Never carelessly.
Always with respect.

Velvet… woven seamlessly through steel.

Strength wears many disguises. His has always been sacrifice, responsibility, and an unwavering devotion to those he loves, even when devotion demands inconvenience, requires cost, or asks him to place his own needs quietly aside.

Perhaps one of the rarest forms of strength is the willingness to give without certainty. To help without guarantees. To extend generosity into situations where outcomes remain unwritten.

Because grace often lives in quiet acceptance. In choosing love even when appreciation is imperfect, understanding incomplete, or the story unresolved.

Life has shaped him through difficulty. Loss. Battles fought on uneven ground. Dreams rerouted. Entire paths rebuilt through determination few people ever witness.

One career constructed with discipline, only to be dismantled.

Reimagined.
Rebuilt.
Strengthened by the very storms that might have hardened another.

There are moments when I think I remember him saying he would have loved being a ranger, somewhere deep in a forest.

Perhaps I’m misremembering.

But somehow… it feels true.

Where strength is measured not in titles… but in presence.

Because it reveals the velvet beneath the steel. The man drawn not to recognition, but to stillness. To solitude. To landscapes where strength is measured not in achievement…

But in patience.
Presence.
Quiet endurance.

To know him well is to recognize the contradiction.

Blunt, yet deeply sensitive.
Unyielding, yet profoundly loyal.
Gruff, yet capable of extraordinary generosity.

Steel in posture. Velvet in heart.

And beneath both lives something even steadier, a faith as grounded as the forests he loves. Not loud. Not performative. But woven quietly into who he is. A deep, unwavering relationship with God that does not waver with circumstance or applause.

His love for Jesus is not spoken as much as it is lived.

In his generosity.
In his patience.
In the quiet grace with which he walks through both joy and hardship.

Some people harden with life. Others soften.

And then there are those rare souls who manage, somehow, to become both.

Velvet and steel.

Soft enough to feel deeply.
Strong enough to sacrifice anyway.

✨ Author’s Reflection

Happy Birthday, my brother.

The world is better for your strength…
And softer for your heart.

Sometimes help hurts.

I didn’t understand that as a child. Back then, I thought poverty meant having nothing, no food in the pantry, no shoes that fit, no lights glowing in the windows at night. I thought it looked like emptiness. Like absence.

But poverty doesn’t always arrive empty-handed.
Sometimes it shows up in a grocery cart.

My momma was a single parent, which meant she carried everything, bills, worry, decisions, like a sack permanently slung over one shoulder. We went to the same grocery store every time. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The cart wheels squeaked no matter how many times she tried to straighten them. The air smelled like produce and floor cleaner and something sharp I could never name.

I watched other people pull out cash. Checks. Credit cards.
My momma pulled out food stamps.

I didn’t know the word dignity then.
I just knew my face burned with embarrassment.

I stared at the conveyor belt, watching cans and boxes inch forward, praying the cashier wouldn’t say anything. Sometimes they did. Sometimes they didn’t. Either way, it felt like everyone in line could see straight through us, past the groceries, past the cart, into the thing we were trying so hard to survive.

One question looped in my young mind, relentless and unfair:
Why can’t she just pay for it?

I never asked it out loud. But shame has a way of showing itself anyway. One day, my momma noticed. She always noticed before anyone else did.

We were outside, the sun glaring down, grocery bags rustling as she loaded them into the car. She paused, turned, and asked me softly, but straight on, no escaping it:

“Are you ashamed?”

I told the truth.
“Yes.”

Her face didn’t harden. It fell. Not angry. Not sharp. Just tired. The kind of tired that comes from holding too much for too long.

Then she said, “How do you think I feel? I can’t even feed my own kids.”

She turned back to the car after that. Conversation over.
But something inside me split open.

At the time, I thought the shame belonged to us, to her, to me.
I didn’t yet understand that shame had been placed on her long before we ever reached that checkout line. I didn’t know she wasn’t failing, she was surviving. That accepting help wasn’t weakness; it was devotion in its rawest form.

What I know now is this:
Poverty isn’t just about going without.

It’s about standing at a counter, doing the best you can, and still feeling like it isn’t enough. It’s about loving your children so fiercely that you’ll swallow pride, endure stares, and accept help that hurts, because hunger hurts worse.

And sometimes, what struggling families need most isn’t food or money at all.

It’s easy to write a check. Easy to drop something off and walk away feeling generous. But generosity that doesn’t linger, doesn’t listen, can still leave people alone inside their struggle.

What would have changed things for my momma wasn’t just groceries. It was someone willing to sit at the table, papers spread out, and say, Let’s figure this out together.
Someone who taught instead of rescued. Someone who asked, How are you really doing? Staying long enough to hear the answer.

Kindness is time.
And time is the most expensive thing we can give.

To this day, I carry that lesson with me.

When I stop at a traffic light and see someone standing there, sun beating down, cardboard sign curled and soft from being handled too much, I don’t look away. I notice the dust on their shoes. The way their shoulders brace when cars slow, then speed past.

If I have money on me, I give it.
If I don’t, I give something else.

I roll down the window. The heat rushes in. The noise. The moment.
I look them in the eye.

I smile, a big, honest smile. The kind that says I see you.
And I say hello.

Sometimes I tell them, quietly but clearly, “You are not a failure.”
“You’re surviving a hard season.”
“This moment doesn’t get to define you.”

I don’t know their whole story.
But I know what it feels like to be reduced to a moment. To be seen as a problem instead of a person.

I know how much it matters when help comes with dignity.
When kindness stays human.

Maybe the money helps.
Maybe it doesn’t.

But I’ve learned that what feeds a person most isn’t always what’s in your hand, it’s what you’re willing to offer with your presence. With your voice. With your time.

Because poverty isn’t just the absence of resources.
It’s the absence of being seen.

My momma didn’t need pity.
She needed partnership.
She needed compassion that didn’t carry shame.

I didn’t know it then.
But now I do.

A Reflection: When Help Hurts, What Actually Heals?

Most of us want to help.

We give money.
We donate goods.
We write checks and move on, hoping we’ve done our part.

And sometimes, that matters.

But there’s a quieter truth many people never consider:

Help can still hurt if it costs someone their dignity.

When support arrives without listening…
When help feels rushed or transactional…
When it solves a moment but ignores the story behind it…

The need might be met, but the person can still feel unseen.

What if kindness looked different?

What if helping meant staying long enough to ask,
How are you really doing?
And listening without trying to fix everything.

What if generosity included time, not just money?
What if dignity mattered as much as provision?

Because sometimes people don’t need rescuing.
They need partnership.
They need respect.
They need to know shame doesn’t get the final word.

You don’t have to save anyone.
You don’t have to solve poverty.

But you can offer presence.
You can offer compassion.
You can remind someone, through eye contact, a smile, a few honest words, that they are not a failure.

Sometimes help hurts.
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I’ve been chasing something my whole life.

Not success.

Not approval.

Something quieter, and harder to explain.

A sense of arrival, maybe.

That feeling you expect at the summit, when you finally stand still and think, “This is it. This is what I was meant for.”

I’ve reached a lot of summits.

Different roles. Different seasons. Different versions of myself I believed would finally settle me.

Each time I climbed with hope. Each time I reached the top, looked out, and felt the same quiet emptiness in my chest. So I would pivot.

I told myself it was wisdom, not failure. Growth, not disappointment.

But starting over again and again teaches you to overanalyze yourself. When every road leads back to you, the questions get personal.

What am I actually looking for?

What is God preparing me for?

Why does nothing feel like the final place?

For a long time, I thought the answer was purpose. Or certainty. Or impact that stayed. But underneath all of it was something simpler. I was looking for a place where I didn’t have to ration myself. Where loving deeply wasn’t a liability. Where giving didn’t require explanation. Where I could pour out without quietly exhausting myself in the process.

The strange thing is, even growing up the way I did, joy was never absent.

That surprises people. There was hardship, yes. But there was also laughter.

Curiosity.

An instinct to notice goodness, even when life didn’t offer much of it. Hope wasn’t something I learned later. It was something I carried early.

I didn’t know it then, but I was being trained. Learning how to pivot without losing my heart. How to begin again without becoming bitter. How to keep softness alive in a world that teaches you to harden.

Someone once told me we all carry a “sliver” of God within us.

I believe that. And I believe mine is love.

Not the kind that demands return. Not the kind that keeps score.

But the kind that shows up fully and trusts God with the outcome.

I was born to love others without expecting anything in return.

That sounds simple, until you live it. Because loving like that requires preparation. It requires discernment. It requires learning how to give without disappearing.

And then, almost without trying, I discovered writing.

Or maybe it found me.

I didn’t chase it the way I chased everything else. I didn’t climb toward it. I didn’t reach a summit and feel empty. It felt right in a way nothing else ever had.

For the first time, I wasn’t trying to be useful. I was being faithful. On the page, I could love without apology. Teach without defending. Give without being told it was too much.

Writing gave my past a language. My pivots a purpose. My joy a place to rest.

Every lesson mattered. Every restart counted. Nothing was wasted.

God wasn’t confusing me. He was preparing me. Preparing my eyes to see deeply.

My heart to stay open. My words to carry both truth and tenderness.

I wasn’t failing my way forward. I was being formed.

And now, I’m walking in the work I was prepared to do, the work God was quietly shaping me for all along.

Not to arrive. Not to be chosen. Not to be enough on my own.

But to carry what was never mine to create.

Love.

To let it move through me, onto the page, into the hands of whoever needs it.

I am not the answer. I am the offering.

A willing vessel for a love far bigger than my story, spoken gently, one story at a time.

There was a chair in our house that nobody liked.

That’s not the same as saying it was broken, though it might’ve been. Or dirty, though that was also a strong possibility. Or haunted, which, frankly, was never ruled out.

All I know is this: we would rather sit on the floor than sit in that chair.

Bare legs against cold linoleum.

Dust sticking to the backs of our thighs.

Pins and needles creeping in, still better than the chair.

Not one of us could tell you why.

Which was saying something, because chairs in our house were rarely just chairs.

They held piles of laundry waiting to be folded.

Stacks of mail no one had opened.

Coats, purses, half-finished projects, grocery bags we meant to reuse.

If something didn’t have a place, it landed on a chair.

All of them, except that one.

That chair stayed empty.

It looked harmless enough. Wooden legs worn smooth where hands had grabbed and dragged it. A woven seat that smelled faintly of old hay, spilled coffee, and something sour you couldn’t quite name. The kind of chair that pretended it belonged in a kitchen.

No obvious stains.

No loose legs.

No warning label.

And yet… nobody trusted it.

Maybe one of the hundred dogs or cats had claimed it in a way that could never be undone.

Maybe something spilled and soaked in deep enough to live there forever.

Maybe it was uncomfortable in a slow, sneaky way, the kind of chair that waits until you relax before betraying you.

We didn’t know. We just knew.

No one ever warned you about it; you just learned by watching.

That was true of more than the chair.

What made it worse was this: the chair moved.

Not dramatically. Not enough to call a meeting over. But enough to notice.

One day it would be by the table, angled just enough to catch your shin in the dark.

The next day, pushed closer to the wall like it had been scolded.

Sometimes it showed up in a room where no one remembered putting it, breathing quietly, minding its business.

And at night, I swear, I heard scooching.

A soft scrrrch… scoooch across the floor.

Wood on linoleum.

Slow. Deliberate.

Like the chair was stretching.

Or thinking.

Or choosing.

The holidays were when the chair really earned its reputation.

The house filled with noise, forks scraping plates, adults talking over one another, kids running through with sticky hands. The air thick with the smell of fried food, coffee that had been reheated too many times, cigarette smoke clinging to coats by the door.

Family came from everywhere…cousins, aunts, uncles, and occasionally someone brought a new person. A friend. A girlfriend, maybe number four. A boyfriend who didn’t know about the other boyfriend. The kind of guest who smiled too much and tried too hard.

Chairs disappeared fast.

And there it would be.

The chair.

Waiting.

If the new person sat down, and they often did, we’d all go quiet. Not obvious. Just still. Watching from across the room while pretending not to.

Would they shift?

Would they wrinkle their nose?

Would they stand up suddenly like something had gone terribly wrong?

Because surely… something had to happen.

But nothing ever did.

They’d sit there just fine. Eat their food. Laugh. Stay planted like the chair was no different from any other.

We’d exchange looks.

Huh.

And the minute they stood up, the chair went right back to being avoided. Sometimes, mysteriously, in a different spot.

No questions. No explanations. No second chances.

To this day, I couldn’t tell you what was wrong with that chair.

But when you grow up learning by watching, learning what to avoid, where not to sit, when to disappear, you stop needing explanations.

You trust what your body knows.

And if a chair scooches at night, you don’t argue with it.

You just sit on the floor. 😉

She’s asleep in the backseat as the miles roll by.

Her head leans gently against the window, bundled in blankets and sweaters, the way you do when you’re tired in a way sleep doesn’t quite fix. I look at her and see every version of her I’ve ever known, the tiny flutter inside me that changed my life forever, the little girl who reached for my hand without thinking, the woman brave enough to build a life far from what’s familiar.

We’re driving her toward a new beginning.

She’s thirty now. And somehow, she is still that little girl who stole my heart the first moment I felt her move early on in my pregnancy.

This move is exciting, she’s stepping into work she is deeply gifted at, guiding international students who are far from home, learning how to belong in a new place. She learned a great deal in her last role, about responsibility, resilience, and what it feels like to grow under leadership that didn’t always know how to lead with kindness.

This next chapter is bigger.

More responsibility. More students. More trust placed in her hands.

And yet, what I notice most isn’t the scale of the job. It’s the quiet courage required to leave what’s known.

We don’t talk enough about how growth carries grief alongside joy. How becoming often means letting go, of proximity, of ease, of the comfort of being able to show up at the kitchen table unannounced.

Watching your child move into her calling is a humbling thing. It reminds you that preparation rarely announces itself while it’s happening. The hard seasons, the unfair ones, the stretches that almost broke her, they were shaping her all along.

There is a tenderness in this kind of moment.

You celebrate. You ache. You trust.

And you learn, again, that bravery doesn’t always look bold. Sometimes it looks like sleeping in the backseat while the road hums beneath you, conserving strength for what comes next.

If you are standing at the edge of something new, a move, a decision, a season you didn’t quite plan, let me say this gently:

You don’t have to feel ready. You don’t have to have it all figured out. You only have to be willing to take the next mile.

So maybe this is the invitation, to pause long enough to notice the moments as they pass.

To gather them gently, the joy and the ache, the pride and the letting go.

Not to rush through them. Not to explain them away.

But to let them shape us into people who love more intentionally, listen more closely, and choose to do good with what we’ve been given.

Because every season leaves something in our hands.

And when we slow down long enough to feel it, we just might learn how to carry it forward for ourselves, and for others.

My sweet Kelsey,

Please give yourself permission to pause.

Honor the moments that shape you, even the bittersweet ones.

And, carry what you’ve lived into the world with quiet courage, choosing, again and again, to do good with it.

P.S. In this season of transition, I hope you know this, you’re not behind. You’re becoming.

I was in my twenties when I took a job at Charlie’s Training Stables, home of some of the finest Arabian horses in Texas.

Now, “fine” is a polite word.

“High-maintenance, expensive, dramatic, and dusty” is more accurate.

And me?

I knew absolutely nothing about horses.

I just knew they were beautiful and bigger than me, which, in hindsight, should’ve been my first clue this job would be trouble.

6 A.M. and the Smell of Reality

Every morning, the barn hit me like a wall:

that thick mix of warm hay, sweet feed, leather, and a smell Charlie called “good horse musk” but I called “Lord Jesus be near.”

My job began with feeding, the clatter of metal grain buckets echoing down the aisle, the horses snorting clouds of steam in the morning light, every stall door rattling like they were all auditioning to be fed first.

Then came mucking.

Picture shavings, poop, more shavings, more poop, and me: sweating, swearing, and trying not to lose a boot in the mess.

The hay lived in a stack so tall it deserved its own zip code.

I had to climb it like a toddler scaling a department-store Christmas tree, hay scratching my arms, dust getting in my eyes, that prickly smell of dry grass filling my nose.

At the top, I’d shove a bale off and watch it tumble down in a glorious itchy avalanche.

And then… a horse named “Proud…the stallion worth more money than I would earn in a decade.

Proud was striking, sunlit copper coat, black mane, nostrils flaring like he was smelling trouble (usually me). But he had a temperament somewhere between a dragon and a teenage boy who’d been told to clean his room.

He snapped. He lunged.

He kicked the back wall so hard the whole barn shook.

When I mucked his stall, the air became electric, like the moment before a thunderstorm. His hooves scraped the floor. His breath hit the back of my neck like a warning.

“NO, PROUD! BACK UP!”

I’d yell, sounding about as intimidating as a Girl Scout selling cookies.

Charlie told me, “Show him who’s boss.”

Which was rich, because the boss was clearly Proud.

One day, while I was bent over cleaning, I felt him come up behind me and, may God strike me down if I’m lying…but he was either ready to strike me down, or could it be…trying to mount me?!

I decided then and there that Proud was possessed.

The Breeding Program: My Origin Story for Lifelong Therapy

Charlie eventually assigned me to assist with the breeding.

This meant standing in front of a mare with a “twitch”, a giant clamp that goes on her soft muzzle so she focuses on that instead of kicking Proud into the next zip code.

I can still feel the warm velvet of her muzzle under my hand, her breath puffing out against my wrist, her whole body quivering with tension.

Behind me, Proud pranced, strutted, and made ungodly roaring noises like he was announcing himself to the universe.

I squeezed the twitch.

The mare widened her eyes.

Proud made sounds that should never come from an animal.

And I questioned all my life choices at once.

Bath Time and the Enemy Hose

Most horses loved a bath, the warm water running over their sweaty coats, their muscles relaxing, the smell of wet horse rising like humid barn incense.

Not Proud.

Every time the cold spray hit him, he’d snort, shake, and whip his head around to nip at me. The water mixed with dust and sweat and turned into a gritty film on my skin.

Ironically, the only time he was calm was when I had to clean his sheath.

Men…

The Tractor That Hated Me Back

Every day, we filled the manure spreader with heaps of used shavings from the stalls, a sour, earthy smell that stuck to my clothes long after I got home.

I’d drive the tractor out to the pasture, bouncing over every rut, praying it stayed upright.

Backing it into the barn?

Impossible.

The spreader would jackknife like it was trying to fold itself into origami, and Charlie eventually said, “PJ…maybe not the tractor today.”

Bless him.

Foals, Freezing Water, and One Very Hydrated Mare

The foals were adorable, all knobby knees and baby fuzz, smelling like sunshine and milk.

Until you tried to halter them.

Then they turned into chaotic pinballs, kicking, biting, dodging, definitely the offspring of Proud.

Winter was another level.

The air bit at my face, ice forming on the water troughs.

I had to swing a sledgehammer to break the surface, cold shards splashing my jeans, my fingers going numb, breath fogging like smoke.

At night we blanketed the horses. The blankets smelled like wet wool, dust, and horse sweat, and trying to buckle them under a cranky mare was basically CrossFit.

Speaking of mares…

There was one who turned her stall into a marsh every night.

I’d open her door each morning and the smell, the steam, the squelch under my boots, I wanted to lie down and give up on life. She rolled around in it so not only did I have to gut the stall but had to bathe her, too! I think she knew…

The Night Proud Escaped

I finally earned my way to groomer for the horse shows, Charlie had me sleeping on a cot right next to Proud’s stall.

I drifted off to the sounds of horses shifting, snorting, chewing hay.

Then, chaos.

“LOOSE HORSE!”

“GRAB THE GATE!”

“WHO LET HIM OUT?!”

I sat up so fast my neck popped.

Proud’s stall was wide open.

He was gone.

My blood turned to ice.

I imagined headlines:

“Million-Dollar Stallion Lost by Girl Who Can’t Back a Tractor.”

By miracle, Proud had only gotten a few stalls down and stopped to impress a mare with his signature roar-growl-chest-puff routine.

That was the moment, the exact moment, I realized this career had an expiration date.

Not because I didn’t love the horses…but because Proud was absolutely going to kill me.

The Heart of It

Looking back, those days smelled like hay and sweat and ambition and fear and dusty sunshine.

They tested every muscle I had, including the emotional ones I didn’t know existed.

Those horses, especially Proud, toughened me and softened me at the same time.

They taught me grit.

Patience.

Presence.

And the deep importance of stepping back and taking a pause when something intimidates you.

But the truth is, I was in the best shape of my life, covered in sweat, dust, and stories.

Who needs a gym when you can work at a horse stable?

Those horses worked me harder than any treadmill ever could, body, mind, and heart included.

Authors Note

Before any seasoned horse folks come after me:

Yes, I probably did everything wrong.

Yes, Proud probably sensed fear, confusion, and sadness from three barns away.

And yes, I understand now that horses are angels with anxiety.

But hey, I lived, I learned, and I left with quads of steel and stories for days.

So I’d call it even…

 PJ Hamilton

The New Year didn’t knock.

It never does.

It just showed up, clipboard in hand, posture confident, fully expecting an empty room and maybe a standing ovation.

Instead, it walked into… this.

A room full of years.

Not seated.
Not organized.
Not remotely interested in making a good impression.

The hardest years were there first. You could tell by the way they didn’t bother introducing themselves, or making eye contact.

One year smelled like hospital sanitizer and sleepless nights. Another kept checking its phone, still waiting on news that never came. A thin year hovered near the window, translucent around the edges, like it had almost faded out entirely but forgot to finish the job.

“Well,” the New Year said, flipping its clipboard a little faster than necessary, “this is… more than I expected.”

A year from the back laughed. Not kindly.
“Sweetheart, no one ever expects us. That’s kind of our brand.”

“That one,” another year said, pointing, “is when she learned endurance.”

“And that one,” said a different voice, “is when she learned resentment.”

A small year raised its hand. “I’m the one where she smiled through everything.”

Everyone groaned.

“I told her to,” said a louder year. “We had deadlines.”

“I told her to stop,” said another. “She didn’t listen.”

The New Year shifted its weight. “Look, I’m not here to judge. I just need to know what stays and what goes.”

That’s when the most recent year stood up.

It wasn’t loud.
It didn’t glow.
It looked… unfinished. Like it still had tabs open.

“No one leaves,” it said.

The room went quiet.

“But we don’t get to pretend anymore,” it added. “Not about what we cost her. Or what she gained.”

A ghost-year scoffed. “Gained? I wrecked her.”

“Yes,” the recent year said. “And she learned how not to wreck herself the same way again.”

Another year crossed its arms. “I made her productive.”

“And hollow,” came the reply.

A year that had taken everything leaned back. “She’ll forget me.”

“No,” the recent year said. “She’ll finally understand you. Big difference.”

The New Year opened its mouth to speak,

and stopped.

Something else had entered the room.

No footsteps.
No announcement.
Just the sudden sensation that rushing felt… embarrassing.

“Oh no,” muttered one year. “It’s that thing.”

The Pause leaned against the doorframe like it had been there the whole time and everyone just now noticed.

“I’m not here to fix this,” it said casually. “Relax.”

The New Year blinked. “Then why are you here?”

“To interrupt,” the Pause said. “Specifically the urge to sprint into a fresh start and call it healing.”

Several years shifted uncomfortably.

“She doesn’t need a clean slate,” the Pause continued. “She needs room. And maybe a minute.”

The New Year glanced down at the clipboard. Half the boxes suddenly felt… aggressive.

“So what do I do?” it asked.

The Pause smiled. “Nothing dramatic. Just don’t overwrite the parts that actually taught her something.”

Outside the room, someone paused before defaulting.
Someone delayed an old habit.
Someone didn’t abandon themselves just to feel relief.

Inside, the years didn’t disappear.

They didn’t clap.

They simply settled, less demanding now, less desperate to be explained.

The New Year closed the clipboard.

“Okay,” it said. “I can work with this.”

The Pause nodded. “You always do. Eventually.”

And January 1st arrived, not with fireworks, not with certainty,

but with space.

I live in the back of the closet.

Not hidden, just waiting.

I am plain. Black. Simple. White piping tracing my sleeves like quiet borders. I am chosen not for beauty, but for steadiness. I am worn when words fail and breath comes shallow. I am the dress she reaches for when goodbye feels too close.

She took me down this time with trembling hands.

I felt the pause before the hanger slid free, the hesitation of someone who doesn’t want to believe she’ll need me. She brushed the dust from my shoulders gently, almost apologetically, as if waking me too soon might make the fear real.

It was Christmas Day.

The house had been full of voices, laughter, wrapping paper, the sound of life moving forward. Then the phone rang. And everything changed.

Her sister, Karen.

Strong Karen. Stubborn Karen. The nurse who had spent her life caring for everyone else. The woman who didn’t bend easily, who didn’t ask for help until her body finally demanded it.

They said she might not make it.

They said come now.

So the celebrations ended early. There were hugs that lasted longer than usual. Promises spoken softly. A daughter’s milestone, thirty years old, approaching without her mother there. She will start a new job in a new state. A year already shifting in ways no one expected.

They borrowed a car with better tires and drove sixteen hours from Texas to Iowa, through the long dark stretch of winter roads. Mile after mile of silence, prayer, fear, hope, none of it loud, all of it heavy.

When they arrived, she went straight to the hospital.

And when she saw her sister, I felt her heart break.

Karen was small. Frail. So thin she barely seemed to take up space in the bed. Ninety-two pounds. Rheumatoid arthritis stealing her hands. Memory slipping away, piece by piece. A body that could no longer absorb what it needed to live.

She looked like their grandmother had looked at the end.

That recognition, the way loss repeats itself in familiar shapes, settled deep.

Later, in the hotel room, she unpacked.

She pulled me from the suitcase carefully. Hung me where the wrinkles could fall out. Smoothed my sleeves. Stood back and looked at me longer than usual.

She wondered if she would wear me before returning home.

I know that look.

I have been there for funerals filled with people and funerals held in quiet rooms. I have absorbed tears, held steady through eulogies, stood beside graves and hospital beds. I carry the weight of grief without complaint.

But this time felt different.

This time, I could feel her asking a question she was afraid to speak:

Will I lose her?

I wanted to tell her that I am not only a dress for death.

I am also a witness.

I am present when love refuses to leave, even when the ending feels near. I am there when hands are held through machines and monitors. When whispers of “I’m here” matter more than any medical chart or diagnosis.

She didn’t put me on.

Not yet.

Instead, she sat beside her sister. Talked to her. Told stories. Held her hand with hands that remembered childhood and shared history and a bond that doesn’t weaken, even when bodies do.

And something unexpected happened.

Karen stabilized.

That word reached me secondhand, carried back on tired shoulders and quiet breaths when she returned to the hotel room at night. Stabilized doesn’t mean healed. It doesn’t mean safe. It means the edge moved, but didn’t disappear.

I felt it in the way she stood in the doorway before turning on the light. In the way her hands hovered, undecided. In the way she looked at me, not as something she needed yet, but as something she feared needing soon.

I know her that way.

I have learned her through years of rituals. Through the nights she unzipped suitcases slowly. Through the careful way she always hangs me first, as if preparing for the worst while hoping I won’t be called forward.

I don’t need to be in the hospital to understand what she carries.

Fear has a weight.
Grief has a temperature.
Love leaves fingerprints on the air.

Karen stabilized, but the fear did not.

There was fear that this pause wouldn’t last. Fear of how long they could stay away from work, from responsibility, from the lives waiting back home. Fear that old family wounds, long scarred over, were stretching open again under the strain of crisis.

Each night, she returned to the room and checked on me with her eyes.

Still here.
Still waiting.
Still untouched.

She wanted me ready, but not chosen.

And for the first time in a long while, I felt something shift.

I have always been a dress for endings.

But this time, I became a marker of restraint.

A symbol of hope that didn’t need to shout.
Of grief that didn’t get to lead.
Of love that stayed even when the outcome was uncertain.

I am the black dress.

I hang in silence.
I listen to what isn’t said.
I carry the stories she is afraid to finish.

I am not just for mourning what is lost.

I am for the waiting.
For the not knowing.
For the courage it takes to keep living while fear sits beside you.

And this time, this time…

she did not reach for me.

I stayed on the hanger.

And in that small, quiet victory,
I celebrated by simply. being. still.

Author’s Note
Every once in a while, I like to share a story straight from the heart. Most of my tales carry a bit of humor, a wink, a grin, or a tumble through life’s lighter moments, but underneath them all, there’s always a lesson or two. Just like the stories I tell my grandchildren, the laughter often makes way for truth. This one is a little quieter, a little heavier, but just as full of love.

Rejection has a sound.
It’s not the slam of a door or the shatter of a word.
It’s quieter, like a breath drawn in but never released.
It’s the pause that lingers too long after you say, “I love you,” and no one says it back.

My story is full of those pauses.

My father’s love was something I studied from a distance. I watched him pour it out like warm honey for my sister, his laughter came easy with her, his pride shone bright. I waited my turn, hoping maybe one day he’d see me the same way. But that day never came. He knew how to love; he just didn’t choose me.

Then came the man I thought would never leave. We had been together since I was fifteen, grew up side by side, built a family, brought a child into the world. But one day, he put me and our baby on a bus and said he didn’t want me anymore. I remember watching him fade from view through that dusty window, his goodbye buried in silence. A week later, he moved another woman into our home.

If you’ve read From the Piney Woods, you’ve seen where it all began, how those patterns of longing and loss wove themselves into my early years. Rejection didn’t start in adulthood; it grew roots deep in the soil of my childhood. I carried it like a shadow that followed me through every chapter.

And just when I thought I had learned to live with the ache, it happened again. This time, it was my brother, the one I adored, the one who once made me laugh so hard I forgot to be sad. He stopped answering my calls. No explanation. No argument. Just silence. He still talks to the others, still shows up at family gatherings. Just not for me.

For a long time, I tried to understand it all. I asked what I did wrong, replayed conversations, searched for clues. But sometimes there’s no reason that satisfies the heart, only the truth that people love the way they’re capable of, not always the way we need them to.

I used to believe rejection defined me.
Now I see it shaped me.

It taught me compassion.
It taught me faith.
And most of all, it taught me how to love without needing to be loved back.

Because that’s the quiet miracle of healing, realizing you can forgive without an apology, and wish happiness for those who turned away.

I can love them still.
Even if they never loved me the way I thought.

Because God loves me that way.
Even when I turn away, He never does.
His love is the ultimate example, steady, unconditional, and full of acceptance.
And when I remember that, I know I’ve never really been rejected.
I’ve been chosen all along.

We didn’t have much growing up, but we did have a purple bowl!

It sat right in the center of Mama’s kitchen table like it owned the place, long and oval, deep as a secret, resting on four tiny glass feet that always made me nervous. It glowed a fluorescent purple you could spot from two rooms away. And if the light hit it just right, greens and blues shimmered across it like spilled gasoline on pavement, a quiet kind of magic in a house that didn’t see much sparkle.

Every night after Mama’s shift at the Kettle Restaurant, she’d come home smelling like coffee, fried eggs, and the kind of tiredness that sticks to your bones. She’d tuck her folded dollar bills into an envelope we weren’t supposed to touch, then she’d pour every last coin into that bowl. The sound of it rattling around told you everything you needed to know about how her night went.

Some nights, the clink-clink-clink was bold and bright, like applause.

Other nights, it barely whispered.

Either way, we never touched the bills.

But those coins?
Those coins fed us.

Every morning before school, we’d grab a handful, quarters if we were lucky, nickels and dimes if we weren’t, and march down to the bus stop with pockets full of possibility. Lunch money. Emergency snacks. Bubble gum that lasted half a recess. Those coins were freedom.

And on the days Mama was gone longer than expected, when the pantry held nothing but condiments and hope, we’d tiptoe to that purple bowl and ration out silver like it was gold. We pretended the pennies didn’t count. It wasn’t personal. Pennies were just… slow.

Eventually, the silver ran dry, and the pennies sat there like the last kids picked for kickball. So, Mama stopped at the bank and came home with stacks of empty paper tubes.

“Fifty to a roll,” she said, dropping them on the table. “Don’t let ’em fall out. Fold the ends tight.”

Lord, you’d think she’d handed us the keys to the U.S. Treasury.

We counted those pennies with military precision.
50-by-50.
Blocking the end with a finger.
Holding our breath until the rim reached the top.
Folding the ends like we were sealing treasure.

It took forever.

But something happened while we worked:

We learned that 50 pennies make a roll that equaled $.50.
We learned that 40 nickels do too, $2.00.
We learned 50 dimes adding up to $5.00 in a snap.
We learned 40 quarters feel like wealth in your palm because that’s $10!
We learned math without flash cards.
We learned patience without worksheets.

And we learned that responsibility has weight…
especially in your pockets.

We’d strut down to the corner store with our copper bounty, drop those penny rolls on the counter with pride, and wait for the cashier to marvel at our brilliance.

Instead, she sighed. Rolled her eyes. Tapped her nails like we’d personally offended her schedule.

We couldn’t understand it.

Didn’t she see the work?
The counting?
The folding?
The excitement?
Didn’t she feel the weight of this wealth?

We walked out disappointed every time.

And here’s the truth I didn’t have words for back then:

Some people will never know the weight of what you carried to the counter.

They’ll never understand how long you saved, how carefully you counted, how tightly you folded the ends to keep your hope from falling out.

They’ll sigh anyway.

They’ll prefer bills.
Or fiction.
Or a different genre altogether.

And today, as a writer, I understand pennies in a brand-new way.

I pour my heart into pages.
I stack chapters like rolls of copper.
I tuck the ends, polish the message, and step to the counter feeling rich with purpose.

And sometimes… the world sighs.

Not because my story isn’t valuable.

But because some people just don’t like pennies.
Or memoirs.
Or truth told in first-person past tense.

Now, folks tell you to develop thick skin, to toughen up, shrug it off, pretend you don’t feel it.

But thick skin numbs everything.
It keeps out the hurt… and the growth.

So instead, I’m learning to absorb it:

To feel the weight of rejection, turn it in the light, and see how it shimmers, just like that bowl. To learn from it. To use it. To write again with better words and deeper purpose.

Because pennies add up.
Small things matter.
And just because someone prefers dollars…

…doesn’t make your copper any less valuable.

And to this very day?
I can still tell you exactly how many coins go in every single roll.

Which is impressive…
considering I haven’t seen change since 1998.

I was driving down the road when I saw an old man struggling to pick up trash that had blown out of his can. The bags had split, the wind carried it everywhere, and he was feeble and unsteady. Without thinking twice, I pulled over and bent down beside him. It was messy, it was yucky, but it was the right thing to do.

As we worked, he told me stories from his younger days. For a moment, the trash didn’t matter; it was just two people sharing life. When we finished, he looked at me with tired eyes and said, “Thank you for helping me.”

I smiled. “No need to thank me, sir. Where I’m from, we’re born that way.”

He paused, then shook his head. “No,” he said softly. “Kindness isn’t born. It’s learned. And it’s a gift.”

Those words stayed with me as I drove away. Tears filled my eyes as I thought about East Texas, the place I once hated being from. For so long, I rejected it, but now I yearn for it. Because that’s where I learned kindness. If I went back today, every person I met would smile, tip their hat, and greet me like family. That’s East Texas. That’s me.

And I thought about my mama. She wasn’t always there the way I wanted, but she was the mama God chose for me. And through her, I became who I am: compassionate, quick to help, someone who stops without a second thought. That’s when I realized, we’re all vessels for God to teach others, even when we don’t know it. Sometimes we’re the ones learning. Sometimes we’re the ones showing someone else what love looks like.

Later that week, I was with my grandkids. I told them, “When you’re mad, you can still choose joy. Count to three and wait for it.”

Big brother wasn’t buying it. He crossed his arms and blurted out, “Well, my brain can’t do that when I’m angry! Especially when she —” and he pointed at his little sister, “— won’t stop poking me and making me mad!”

I looked at him and said gently, “You’re right. She might have poked the bear. Little sisters know how to do that. But that still doesn’t give you the right to roar back at her. Yelling at her is no different than hitting her, except instead of hurting her arm, you hurt her heart.”

His little sister’s eyes got big, and she nodded quietly. Big brother thought about it, his fists loosening just a little.

So I told him, “When you feel that anger rise up, your brain might be too hot to stop it on its own. But your heart can step in. Your heart knows you don’t want to hurt your sister, not really. That’s when you let your brain and your heart work together, like teammates on your baseball field. One keeps the rules, the other reminds you why you play. Together, they’ll help you choose better.”

Life is one long lesson. And God uses every single one of us, whether it’s an old man picking up trash, a mama doing her best, or a child speaking truth without even realizing it. We are all His vessels, and through us, He teaches kindness, compassion, and joy.

And when you do this, you will feel the joy and happiness as I do when…my front door opens, my grown children walk in, and their children run straight into my arms.

In that moment, my heart whispers, this is the forever I always prayed for, while feeling God’s hug through my precious little vessels.

There are a lot of things in life I’ve had to learn the hard way. Most of them fall under the category of: “Well, how was I supposed to know?”

Take lobster, for example. The first time I ever had it, I treated it like the fried catfish I grew up eating in East Texas, with hushpuppies, fries, and of course, ketchup. So naturally, I poured ketchup all over my fancy lobster tail. You’d have thought I’d broken a sacred law from the horrified gasps around the table. But really, how was I to know lobster came with rules about melted butter?

Or the time I decided the fastest way off the roof was just to jump down instead of climbing carefully. Spoiler: the ground was a lot farther away than it looked. My foot went numb, burned like fire, and I hobbled around for days convinced I’d broken it. (I hadn’t. But my pride sure limped a little.)

Then there was my attempt at sterilizing baby bottles. I boiled them so long they didn’t resemble bottles anymore, just a melted plastic blob in the pan. That was an expensive lesson in “less is more.”

And let’s not forget my hockey puck biscuits. Nobody warned me that over-mixing biscuit dough was a crime against humanity. I could’ve played a whole game of street hockey with those biscuits and not chipped a single one.

Maybe my most heroic “how was I to know” moment came in church. My little one suddenly turned green, and before I knew it, he threw up. Without thinking, I caught it in my shirt to avoid making a mess in the pew. What I didn’t realize is: if you catch someone else’s vomit, the smell will make you vomit too. Right there in church. Double the blessing.

But the grand finale? My wedding day. Hundreds of guests I didn’t know, my East Texas family staring at me as I walked down the aisle, and me, petrified. The night before, the girls had gifted me some pretty lingerie to wear after the wedding, and I thought it was so nice I wore it under my dress.

Problem was, the panties had a tiny button on the back that played “Here Comes the Bride” when pressed. So there I was, walking down the aisle in my heavy gown, and suddenly the tune started playing from under my dress. Oh, my Lord. Did everyone hear it? Maybe not… but judging by the snickers and giggles, I’m pretty sure the joy in the room wasn’t just from the ceremony.

Here’s the truth: life doesn’t come with a handbook. Sometimes you eat lobster with ketchup. Sometimes you melt bottles or misjudge rooftops. Sometimes you even play wedding-day music with your underwear.

But you laugh, you learn, and you move forward a little wiser. And if you don’t know any better? Well… at least you’ll have a great story to tell.

Last week, while Kyle and Sarah were away on business, Tim, Kelsey, and I got a little taste of what their everyday life looks like, and let me tell you, it took all three of us to do what they do every single day!

Between baseball practices and games, basketball practices and games, soccer practices and games, and even gymnastics, our days were full from sunrise to bedtime. By the end of the week, I had a whole new level of respect for how much heart and hustle goes into raising three busy kids.

But my favorite part of every day came when the uniforms were tossed in the laundry, the snacks were done, and it was finally time for bedtime stories. That’s when the chaos turned into calm, and the magic came out.

Tucker and Tavin, the eleven-year-old twins, are all energy and imagination. And then there’s little Natalin, five years old, full of spark and curls of gold, who just wants to play right alongside her big brothers. Sometimes that ends in laughter, sometimes in tears, but always in love.

That’s why this story is for her, a gentle reminder that feelings are okay, even the hard ones, and that they can bloom into something beautiful when we give them a little time, a little grace, and a little magic.

So tonight’s story is for my starlight girl, with curls of gold and a heart full of magic.

Nighty Night story:

There once was a little girl named Natalin who had a secret only a few people in the whole world knew, especially her Grammy.

When she was born, the stars themselves leaned a little closer to peek at her. And when Grammy held her for the first time, their eyes met, and something invisible clicked, like two puzzle pieces made from the same song. From that moment on, their hearts beat in sync, like a quiet little drum only they could hear.

Natalin was no ordinary girl. Her hair curled like wild morning sunshine. Her voice could turn into a song at any moment. And her imagination? Oh, her imagination could build whole kingdoms in the backyard, where she ruled as Princess, Mommy, Doctor, and sometimes even a flying unicorn.

But the real magic started one cloudy afternoon, just before bedtime, when Grammy tucked Natalin in and sang their special song:

“One, two, three, you and me,
Jumping in a cloud,
One, two, three…”

Natalin closed her eyes… and opened them again in the sky.

She was standing on a soft, pink cloud.

The wind was sweet, the air sparkled like glitter, and ahead of her stood a shimmering gate made entirely of floating music notes and tiny golden feathers. A sign read:

WELCOME TO THE CLOUD GARDEN
Where feelings grow into flowers.

Natalin stepped through the gate and gasped. The whole garden bloomed with flowers that changed color based on how she felt. When she giggled, bright yellow daffodils popped up. When she remembered her favorite song, bluebells chimed a soft melody. When she thought about her Daddy’s hugs, big pink roses opened their arms wide.

But then she remembered something that had happened earlier that day.

Tucker and Tavin had been playing together, and when she asked to join in, they told her she was too little. They teased her and said she was spoiled, again.

Her heart sank. The flowers around her wilted slightly, their colors fading to soft grays. The sky above the garden dimmed, just a little.

Natalin crossed her arms and turned away. She didn’t want to look at anyone or talk. Not yet.

And that was okay.

Because Grammy had told her something important once: “You don’t have to bloom all the time. Even flowers take breaks.”

So, she sat on the cloud for a while. The wind sang softly around her. And after a little bit, a tiny violet bloomed by her foot. Then another. Then another.

She took a deep breath, and when she was ready, she stood up again. “I feel better now,” she whispered.

Suddenly, a small, feathered creature zipped toward her, it looked like a mix between a bunny and a bird, with a golden harp on its back.

“Grammy sent me!” it squeaked. “You’ve unlocked the Forgiveness Flower! Not everyone can do that!”

Natalin smiled. “It’s not hard once I’m ready.”

“Would you like to sing the sky back open?” the little creature asked.

So, she sang.

“One, two, three, you and me,
Laughing in the sun,
One, two, three…
Our cloudy day is done.”

The sky bloomed with light. The garden burst into color. And at the very center of it all, a tall, glowing flower appeared, its petals were the same golden color as Natalin’s curls when the sun touched them.

She touched the petals gently.

“You’re ready,” the bunny-bird whispered. “To be a Cloud Keeper. To help feelings grow and fade and bloom again.”

“But I’m only five,” Natalin said, blinking.

“Ah,” the creature said. “But that’s exactly the right age for magic.”

Just then, a soft breeze carried a new voice across the clouds. It was Grammy, singing in the distance.

“One, two, three, you and me,
Jumping in a cloud, One, Two, Three…”

Natalin yawned. The cloud beneath her curled like a blanket. Her golden flower swayed with the wind as her eyelids fluttered closed.

Back in Grammy’s house, in the soft, early morning light, Natalin stirred beneath the covers. Her curls were a little wild, like a sleepy bird’s nest. Grammy smoothed them gently with her fingers and whispered, “Good morning, my Cloud Keeper.”

Natalin smiled but didn’t say anything yet. She wasn’t quite ready.

But when she was, she opened her eyes, wrapped her arms around Grammy, and sang,

“One, two, three, you and me,
Jumping in a cloud…”

And Grammy sang the rest… always.

PJ’s thoughts…

Watching the three of them this week reminded me that emotions are like seasons, they change, they grow, and they always come back to light. Whether we’re five or fifty, we all have cloudy days that need a little patience before the colors return.

And maybe that’s the real gift of storytelling, to remind us that love, forgiveness, and imagination are the bridges that carry us through those moments.

So wherever you are tonight, may you find your own cloud to rest on, your own story to remind you that it’s okay to pause… and that every feeling, just like every flower, has its time to bloom. -PJ Hamilton