life lessons

Father Time

Leave a Comment / Poetry / By

I see his lips moving
I know he’s speaking out loud

It’s the shock and horror of what he is saying
That hovers over me like a black cloud

His love for me has left him
He wants to move-on to someone new

My pride stops me from pleading
That this simply can not be true

As I watch him walk out my front door
I feel sick to my stomach
My soul bruised to the core

My heart is physically sore
True sorrow is so consuming
Daily living a chore

I remind myself of, loves lost in the past
That I too survived those heartaches
That this pain will surely not last

I pace at the window, looking outside

I search Him out in a crowd
I know He can’t hide

He’s dodging me, what a cruel trick
I have to take a deep breathe and remind myself
That HE isn’t really a dick

He’s watching me closely, and seeing me heal
My tears have dried up
I once again feel

When I least expect it, I realize He’s mine

My healing has finally arrived, it comes in the shape of my dear friend
Father Time

 

The Elevator Incident

Leave a Comment / Parent Chronicles / By

It was a lazy Saturday morning — the kind that actually recharges you after a long week.

Three-year-old Jack and I had been laying and playing in bed for hours. He was toggling between his Cars CD player and his iPad, and I was catching up on Vanity Fair articles. We had snacks, took breaks to wrestle and tickle — it was a good time.

And then grief hit.

No warning, no warm-up — just bam.
It slammed into me when I realized that in all that time, I was the only one talking. My beautiful, angelic boy was still completely non-verbal.

The vibe shifted. I tried to brush it off, to compose myself, but Jack felt it instantly. He always did.

He grabbed his talking app — his way of punching in words or pictures to say what he was thinking. With a mischievous grin, he started tapping away, pausing to laugh, glancing up at me like he was writing a masterpiece. When he finished, he looked up, eyes bright, and pressed play:

“I want to poop in an elevator!”

We laughed until we couldn’t breathe.

And in that laughter, something cracked open.
He didn’t just shift the mood — he shifted me.

At three years old, barely a year after his diagnosis, I still lived in fear, panic, grief — every terror emotion you can imagine. But that moment? That absurd, perfect line? It reminded me that this journey would be hard, yes. But it would also be funny.

Hot-damn, it would be funny too.

Because Jack wasn’t just communicating — he was connecting. He was reading the room, feeling my sadness, and deciding to fix it the only way he knew how: with humor.

That’s the thing about parenting a neurodiverse child — the milestones don’t always look like what you expect. Sometimes they sound like a fart joke in an elevator. And sometimes, that’s exactly what saves you.

Unexpected Kindness

Leave a Comment / Essays / By
Unexpected Kindness The café was small, packed, and unmistakably Portland — hip, loud, and buzzing with Sunday‑brunch energy. Music pulsed from the back room, servers wove through the crowd with trays of mimosas and Bloody Marys, and the place was filled with a colorful mix of patrons.

That’s when I noticed Guy. He sat alone at the bar, completely out of sync with the café’s artsy vibe. Heavy‑set and overflowing the edges of a small barstool, he wore dirty jeans, an oversized red flannel shirt, and a jean jacket. His long, greying hair and beard made him look as if he’d stepped straight out of the mountains after a week of logging and landed, inexplicably, in the middle of this trendy brunch scene.

I was thrilled to be with all four of my cousins — it had been far too long since we’d been together. We huddled near the front door waiting to be seated, trying to catch up over the noise. Meanwhile, my son Jack, age three and autistic, was already on sensory overload. He twisted in my grip, desperate to break free.

In a flash, he did.

Jack darted straight toward the bar — straight toward Guy — and before I could reach him, he had crawled underneath the counter and begun banging his head. Jack doesn’t twirl or flap like many autistic children; he head‑bangs. Hard. And repeatedly.

My stomach dropped. I’m used to explaining Jack’s behavior, apologizing for the startle, bracing for the looks. By the time I reached him, he was winding up for his fifth head‑bang.

But he didn’t hit the wall.

Guy had leaned in, one huge hand placed gently between Jack’s forehead and the hard surface. Jack had been banging his head on Guy’s hand — and Guy hadn’t stopped eating, hadn’t flinched, hadn’t pushed him away. He simply protected my son from hurting himself.

For a moment, everything in the café went quiet. All I could see was this stranger, calm and steady, shielding my child without hesitation.

I touched Guy’s back, wanting him to look at me so I could thank him.

“Thank you. I really appreciated that,” I said.

He looked up, smiled, and went right back to his breakfast. His kindness was quiet, almost invisible — the kind that stays with you long after the moment passes.

Until My Heart Stops Beating

Leave a Comment / Tree of Life - Family / By
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I’m still thinking about the profound, deeply heartfelt conversation I had with my 11‑year‑old niece this past weekend. She amazes me in ways I don’t always have words for. We sat together and talked about the things most adults avoid — mental health, family dynamics, insecurities, letting go, hopes, dreams. It was raw and honest, the kind of conversation that shifts something inside you.

Somewhere in the middle of it, I realized our relationship is changing.

Not fading — evolving.

Not drifting — deepening.

She’s growing into herself, and I’m growing into the version of me she needs now.

At one point, I looked at her and said softly, “I am going to love you until my heart stops beating.”

She paused, eyes wide and vulnerable in that way only kids can be, and whispered, “And even more after that?”

I nodded. “I will find a way.”

Her serious, exquisitely beautiful face broke into the smallest smirk, and we locked eyes. She nodded back — not questioning, not hoping, but knowing. She trusted me. She believed me. She 100% knows that I will find a way. That I will never leave her.

Moments like this are the roots of our family tree — the quiet, powerful ones that shape who we become. The ones that remind me that love isn’t just something we give; it’s something we build, generation by generation.