I keep fretting about a mistake I made.

It’s 10:00 Sunday night. I’m already in bed. But I need to check my email just one more time. I pull my phone off my nightstand and tap the envelope icon.

Still no response from Google.

My problem started exactly 2 weeks ago when I’d signed up for a Google workspace account for a nonprofit disaster response group I volunteer with. There were a few hoops to jump through, but after reviewing my information for several days, Google approved our nonprofit status.

I set up our new email accounts and added them to our website. Everything was connected and worked great.

Until Sunday night around 8:00.

That’s when I receive the latest email from Google. They are letting me know that my 2-week trial period has expired. I can no longer log into our account.

What? I was in a 2-week trial period? I thought I was in for good.

I panic. I send a test email from my personal account to the new nonprofit address.

Delivery failed. Address not found.

I log into Google from a different account. I click the Help button. The answer? Start the whole process over. In 3-7 days, I’ll be notified whether our nonprofit is approved (again).

But what if someone needs us between now and then? Their email won’t go through.

I send a message to Google and hope it will land in the right inbox.

Still Nothing

At 10:10, I check my email again. Still no response. Nothing about my problem. Nothing about our approval.

I start wondering where I’d gone wrong. I had been distracted the past few weeks with many projects, including getting everything done quickly so I could take a week off and be fully present with my family at the beach. (Which, for the most part, I did.)

But I see that in my haste, I must have overlooked the “2-week trial” caveat I had signed up for. To make the account permanent, I needed to finish another registration page that I never went to.

And now I am paying the price for rushing.

A Monday Morning Shift

It’s Monday morning. 6:05.

Still nothing from Google.

I try to get curious about why this is bothering me so much. It’s not as if the nonprofit would be getting a lot of email in the next few days anyway. Or possibly any email.

But we are about to send a team to Florida to help with Hurricane Isaias cleanup, and someone might have a question. Our email is published on our website. And now the email account doesn’t work.

I eat breakfast and go for a walk. That’s when it hits me.

My word of the year is Shift, and my focus for October is starting over. The times that we have to go back to the beginning. Do something again because the first time didn’t work out.

It’s time for a redo.

I need to slow down. That was my focus last February: shift the pace. Intentionally move from one speed I want to go—quick!—to a slower gear. To be more present. To breathe more deeply. And to notice more details (like “2-week trial”).

Finding Relief

9:59 Monday morning. I check my email again.

Ahh, there it is. A mere 14 hours later, I receive the magic message from Google for Nonprofits informing me I have access again. I check our accounts. Everything is there.

Our information has been restored.

So has my peace.

But I want to continue the redo of February. Keep the shift in pace.

Slowing down won’t keep me from making mistakes. I’ll still overlook things, miss some important details, and need to redo some things altogether from time to time.

But maybe my peace won’t shift so drastically when those things happen.

Because sometimes going faster doesn’t mean you get more done. It just means more of you gets taken away.

And that’s a shift I want to avoid.

Share your thoughts in the comments.

We’re rushing. My husband Jeff and I hurriedly grab a seat beside five other participants at the round table labeled “Convo Table 1” under the tent. They’ve already begun.

It’s a hot September day. A fan is blowing air our direction. I settle in as comfortably as I can into my chair for the next hour.

The leader passes us his handout.

I look at the title.

That’s when the first uh-oh hits.

Did we sit at the wrong table?

We Don’t Always Choose the Same

While Jeff and I come to the Wild Goose Festival together—and leave together—we don’t always stay here together. Every hour offers multiple sessions.

And we rarely choose the same ones.

At one hour, you may find me deep in emotional conversations with fellow contemplatives at “Death Cafe,” while at the same hour Jeff is laughing it up with new friends at “Pub Trivia.”

No judgment on either of us. Both tracks are great. No right or wrong.

So when I convince him to join me for the 4:00 session called “Fishbowl Circle Conversations,” I want it to be good. For both of us.

The conversations are to center around this: “One thing we’re not talking about, but we should be talking about is…”
Sounds both fun and enlightening.

I look again at this handout in front of me—with its tiny font and words crowded together on front and back pages. I glance sideways at Jeff also looking at it.

I start feeling sick.

The topic listed is definitely something we’ve not been talking about.
But neither is it something I want to spend the next hour talking about.

I whisper to Jeff, “Maybe this is just a sample conversation starter?”

His eyes answer: What have you gotten me into?

I search frantically for the festival schedule.

We’re sitting at Convo Table 1.
The session I had circled for the fishbowl conversation is at…Convo Table 2.

What do we do now?

The Polite Thing to Do

I was brought up to be polite.

Every good Southern girl is trained that “if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” To pull your car to the side of the road when a funeral procession passes by, no matter the hurry you’re in. To offer a “Bless your heart” at the appropriate moment.

So to get up and leave this table midstream just because it’s boring to me?
Unthinkably rude.

But staying here for an hour, knowing I got Jeff into this mess (and he’d be even more bored by this topic than I am!), also seems disrespectful. To him and to me.

I look again at Jeff. I whisper, “Can we just…leave?”

He’s already gathering his things.

I wait for a tiny break in the speaker’s monologue and then announce, “I’m so sorry, but we’re at the wrong table.”

We set our handouts back on the table, stand up, and walk away.

Sometimes, Just Leave

There are many lessons I could have learned that day—including triple-checking the location next time.

But the lesson I’m taking away is that sometimes I am going to end up at the wrong table. (Sometimes it’s even the table I thought I wanted.)

I’ve often stayed too long in places I needed to leave sooner, simply because I didn’t want to appear rude. Or didn’t want to admit I made a mistake. Or I was slow to even realize this table wasn’t for me.

Sometimes that’s been okay. I learned things. Some of them quite valuable things.

But other times, it’s just been wrong. Period. And there was no value in staying.

When those times come, I want to be quicker to admit the error. And leave. Change course. Go a different direction.

I’m happy to report that after leaving Table 1 for Table 2 that Friday, we had amazing fishbowl conversations, experimenting with a format I’ve never used before (and have since used at home!).

But that’s a lesson for another day. . . .

I’m not going to tell you what topic was on the handout at Table 1, lest I offend anyone. What I found terribly boring might be something you could talk about for hours. 😉

Share your thoughts in the comments.

Too Sensitive

I know this about myself: I can be too sensitive. It’s a detriment to me. And a detriment to others.

When I got a phone call about the dishwasher, I was bothered. I was in my 20s. I had recently sold my home to an elderly gentleman.

The following week, he was calling to yell at me that the dishwasher in the home had overflowed. The kitchen floor was soaked. And he was saying it was all my fault.

He was rude.
I was offended.

As we talked, I learned he had put hand dishwashing liquid instead of dishwasher detergent in the dishwasher. It had bubbled to overflowing. Of course it would.

How was this my fault?

Don’t Believe Everything

We suffer unnecessarily when we take things too personally. That’s why I love my third agreement of the four I’ve compiled for myself (See #1, Give the Benefit of the Doubt, and #2, Let Go of Being Right).

# 3. Don’t take it personally.

When we assume someone is being rude to us, we often react badly, defensively. It causes conflict and creates mountains out of molehills.

• How can they do this to me?
• Why don’t they like me?
• Why are they so mean?

And when we get too much praise? We can hold compliments too closely as well, believing every word that is said. We grow proud and haughty and entitled.

When we think everything is about us—good or bad—we’re actually being selfish.

And unrealistic.

The stories we make up in our head are usually just that: stories.

Whose Movie Is This?

We each cast ourselves as the star (and director and producer) in our own movie. All our life’s plots revolve around us. And all the people in our relationships are supporting actors.

But here’s the catch:

The supporting actors in our movies are actually busy starring in their own movies.

We all make ourselves the center of our universes.

So when our plots intersect, there’s always more going on than we realize.

It’s Not Personal

So don’t take it personally.

The way someone treats us reveals less about us and more about them. Less about our life and more about theirs.

Knowing that others aren’t centered around us keeps us humble.

• It frees us from arrogance.
• It reduces conflicts.
• It stabilizes our relationships.

We are more free to love others with no strings attached when we are less dependent on their approval for our self-worth and when we’re less disturbed by their disapproval.

Emptying ourselves of taking everything personally helps us live with more peace, more joy, and definitely more grace.

What You Think

The motivations we attach to others’ thoughts may have portions of truth in them, but they also contain large doses of our imagination. (Don’t take your own thoughts too personally either—you may just be tired or hungry or stressed.)

I later learned more truth about the gentleman and the dishwasher and his soap suds. I met one of his daughters. She told me how concerned they were about him. His dementia was getting worse. They weren’t sure he should even be living alone.

Dementia? I hadn’t known that.

Now it made sense. His rant to me wasn’t about me at all. It was about him.

I didn’t need to take it personally.

I rarely should.

It’s not about me as much as I think it is.

* * *

When have you been too sensitive? Do you ever take things too personally? Please share your thoughts here.

~ * ~ * ~

See all 4 agreements (click on individual infographics)

1-Give the benefit of the doubt | 2-Let go of being right | 3-Don’t take it personally | 4-Just show up

revised from the archives

On July 1, I pulled the little frame out of my One Word jar.

I rested it against the outside of the jar. It’s a simple gesture—this monthly change of symbols—but an intentional one.

The July focus for my One Word, Shift, is Reframe—specifically, shifting identities that no longer fit.

Because what we frame is what we preserve.

What We Choose to Frame

The following week, I (finally!) got my turn with the popular novel Theo of Golden from my library. When I came across this passage, I had to pause.

“How is it,” Theo wondered, “that a piece of paper—a letter, a photo, a ticket stub, a sketch, a painting—is suddenly transformed by placing it in four bits of wood beneath a pane of glass? What does it mean that we place permanent boundaries around transient moments? What does it say of humankind that we take such trouble to freeze specific memories, that we devote such energy to capturing and preserving the ‘minute particulars’ of our lives?”

Yes, Theo. I also am wondering.

When we love something so much that we put it behind glass and surround it with a frame, we’re immortalizing it. We’re saying, This matters to me.

For a long while—maybe for decades—this may hold true.

But sometimes? That immortalizing might keep us from noticing what we’ve been outgrowing. And what new things want to come to light.

I’ve been asking myself these questions this month.

• What have I framed about myself that no longer fits?
• Which interests have faded away?
• What stories do I tell myself that are no longer true?

Loosening the Back of the Frame

I started a list: Things I No Longer Need to Be.

At the very top is a role I’ve desperately wanted to keep. But it’s one I can no longer fully inhabit, for reasons beyond my control.

I’ve resisted that reality for a long time. Part of me still does. I don’t want to let it go. Maybe one day the opportunity will return, and I can wear the identity of that role once more. So for now, I don’t throw away the frame.

But I do make a shift.

I loosen up the little tabs on the back of the metaphorical frame. I toy with reframing this piece of my identity a bit differently. Place it on a higher shelf. At least for a little while longer.

I leave space for the story that is still unfolding.

Leaving the Frame Empty

Then I made a second list: New Things to Try—Without Defining Myself by Them.

I jotted down a handful of possibilities. Some small. Some large. But with no pressure. No permanent tying of my identity with them. Just curiosity.

I’ve seen how the world shifts. And how it shifts me.

So I won’t rush to place these new possibilities behind glass either.

Maybe someday.
Maybe never.

For now, I simply hold the literal empty frame in my hands and imagine all the photographs it has displayed over the years.

Today it holds none.

Not because there are no pictures to place inside it, but because there are still so many possibilities.

Perhaps that’s what reframing really is—honoring the past, while leaving enough space for the next picture to emerge.

Is there an identity or label you wear that could use a reframe, too? Share in the comments.

When Panic Takes Over

My friend answers the phone. It’s a stranger in distress.

The caller is having a medical emergency. His words overflow in a panic—fear, confusion, details that don’t quite matter.

I’d be tempted to interrupt with, “Calm down. I can’t understand you.”

But that’s one thing my friend does NOT say.
Because she knows it doesn’t help.

This is her job. She works for a medical answering service. She knows exactly what to do.

She also knows that people in crisis usually can’t “just calm down” merely because someone tells them to.

When our nervous system gets flooded with stress hormones, the emotional part of our brain takes over. It’s biology. In those moments, people don’t need someone to tell them to be rational. Hearing that advice might actually make it worse, causing more frustration, making them feel dismissed.

What they need is someone who can remain steady alongside them until they can think clearly again on their own.

A Steady Presence

So on the call, my friend falls back on her training. She shows empathy, but she remains focused on her role: get help for the person in need.

In a reassuring tone, she asks the right questions about the caller’s symptoms so she can determine if this is a life-threatening emergency that should go directly to 911 or if the situation needs another solution. She makes sure they understand any next steps they need to take. She gathers their callback information.

She gently but firmly keeps the conversation focused on what matters most.

I’ve never heard her on one of these calls, but I can imagine why she’s so good at her job. I know how well she listens to me when I’m upset. She asks good questions. She gives me reassurance. She doesn’t dismiss my feelings.

She never tells me to “just calm down.”

She simply stays with me until I do.

Some Things Don’t Need to Shift

As I continue to work this year with my One Word—Shift—I’m looking at the many things that change in life. Some shifts we make ourselves; others happen without our permission.

But some things don’t need to shift.

Some things are worth protecting, kept just as they are.

My friend’s ability to stay focused on what matters most in a crisis reminds me of the kind of person I want to be.

I want to listen well.
I want to ask good questions.
I want to stay focused on the main thing.

And I want my presence to communicate what my friend’s steady presence communicates to me: even when life keeps shifting, love doesn’t have to.

What helps you when you’re overwhelmed? Share your thoughts in the comments.

The Final Buzzer

It happens every year. In almost the exact same way. And yet every year I am equally moved by it.

It’s the body language after a basketball game.

One weekend a year, my husband Jeff and I travel to Birmingham, AL, to spend the weekend watching high school basketball state finals, one game after another. (It’s our annual lead up to watching college’s March Madness on TV.)

And after each game, once the final buzzer sounds, without looking at the scoreboard, it’s always obvious who won and who lost.

The bodies tell the score.

Expansion and Contraction

On one side of the gym, arms fly up. Legs leap up and down. Loud hoots and hollers spill out of mouths. Everyone hugs everyone near them. Exhilarated.

Complete expansion.

But on the other side of the gym, hands cover eyes. Heads go down. Everybody is quiet. Individual bodies may crumple onto the floor, solitary, alone. Exhausted.

Complete contraction.

It’s so human of us.

What Our Bodies Reveal

Sometimes we remain in tight command of our bodies, disguising what we’re feeling, but often our bodies give us away.

Happiness and sorrow we feel on the inside have a way of showing up on the outside. And again this year, I’m amazed as I watch it. Over and over and over.

Bessel van der Kolk may have said that the body keeps the score.

But we all demonstrate that the body shows the score, too.

Texas women celebrate win in Round 2 of the NCAA college basketball tournament, Sunday, March 22, 2026 (AP Photo/Eric Gay)

What’s one small way your body reveals how you feel? Did you pick a winner for the NCAA tournament? (I chose Purdue; my bracket is in bad shape, but I still have a chance.)

Share in the comments.

Read more:

• How Present Are You in Your Happy Place?
  I was literally in my happy place. Yet my mind wandered off anyway. Was my body still keeping the score?
• What If Your Body Has Been Doing Her Best All Along?
  A simple assignment led me to an unexpected realization—my body, although imperfect, has always been the best place for me to be.
• When Compassion for Others Takes a Sharp Turn
  Our mother/daughter experience donating blood took an unexpected turn, reminding me how fragile we really are.

Long Time, No See

Jeff and I walk into the funeral home in Mississippi. I spot my cousin Mike immediately. He’s four years older than me and has always been much taller than me.

Mike and I haven’t seen each other in years. But I would recognize him anywhere. On this day we’re here together because his dad—my uncle—died a few days earlier.

Mike and I hug. Then we sit on the couch in the lobby to talk.

That’s when Mike says the oddest thing to me:

“You know what always ticked me off about you?”

I have no idea what is coming next.

I respond:

“I have no idea, Mike. Tell me.”

2022

What I Remember About Mike

Looking back, I remember three things about my cousin Mike as a kid:

1. Mike had an incredible memory for historical trivia
2. He made funny, clever jokes
3. He wore the thickest eyeglasses I’d ever seen.

At some age I finally realized why Mike wore such thick glasses.

Mike was born with a sight disorder that caused deteriorating vision.

As much as Mike was treasured by his family members, I somehow understood that the outside world was not as kind to him. Children don’t always respect those who are different.

And Mike was special. I remember that.

1972

But to me, Mike was different in a good way.
He was intelligent.
He was witty.
He was fun.

As an adult, Mike chose a career serving other members of the seeing impaired community through the Alabama Public Library system.

And after 35 years of good service, Mike retired.

This Is What Mike Remembered

Back at the funeral home, I ask Mike what it was he remembered about me.

Mike says, “The thing I remember about you as a kid is you never liked your food to touch. That really ticked me off.”

Whew. I laugh. That’s what Mike remembers.

We chat some more. We attend the beautiful ceremony honoring my uncle. We gather at the cemetery near my grandparents’ country church for the burial. Then we all lunch on a delicious spread provided by the family’s church friends in the fellowship hall.

Mike and I eat at different tables.

Before I take my last few bites, though, I need to do one more thing.

I need to find Mike’s table.

I need to show him my plate. As an adult. Not a kid.

Is what Mike remembered about me still accurate? I let him decide.

On my plate, there is no distinct line between the corn and the peas, but neither are they jumbled up together. The chicken may have rubbed against the potato salad, but not enough to blend together.

My food now touches a little. But still not a lot.

Mike and I both laugh about it.

We can’t always control which facts people will remember about us. But maybe we can influence the sentiment.

What I remember most about Mike is how he made me smile.

And he still does.

What does your family remember about you as a child? Share in the comments.

revised from the archives

A Longer Wait

It’s early Monday morning. I’m sitting in the doctor’s waiting room. I’m listening for my name to be called.

Then a new family walks in.

And I know.

I look at my watch. I mentally add 30 minutes to my wait. That’s how much longer I estimate my wait has just increased.

Because the young boy with his mom and siblings is visibly nervous. Like me, he’s here to have his blood drawn. He is not happy about it.

And if his name is called before mine, there’s going to be a long time of hand-holding and reassurance from the nurse before it’s ever my turn.

The Good Nurse

The mom signs in her family and sits down with two of her children while the young boy makes a dash for the restroom. He stays. And stays.

The nurse opens the door behind the counter and calls the boy’s name.

But he’s still in the bathroom. The mother says it could be a few more minutes before he’s ready.

I feel bad for him.

But relieved that they now call my name instead.

I get the good nurse. I’m so glad. Several times in the past she’s been the one to draw my blood. She’s so proficient at her job that I barely feel the prick.

Today is no exception.

I tell her so. She’s used to hearing this praise. But she’s still humble in her acceptance of it.

Be Good at Your Thing

We’re finished, so I grab my wallet and head for the door to drive home. But in the waiting room, the young boy’s name is being called again. With fear in his eyes, this time he’s going with the nurse instead of the restroom.

If only he could understand that he’ll get the good nurse, too. I hope things go well for him and for her.

Maybe this will be the positive experience he needs to release some of his fear.

There are many things we can be good at in this world. Each person has several talents.

But on this morning on this day, this nurse being good at drawing blood might make all the difference to this young boy.

Whatever you do today, if you can, do it well.

You never know whose day you might change. 

revised from the archives

The Struggle of Choosing the Right Gift

I’m not ready for Christmas yet.

My house looks ready—the tree is lit, the stockings are hung, the mantel is decorated—but under the tree, there’s not much.

The hardest part for me isn’t buying gifts—it’s deciding what to buy.

Just yesterday, I spent awhile searching online for the right gift for someone I love. I found what I thought they’d want. Then I saw the shipping fees. Outrageous. I clicked away, pleased that the company wouldn’t get my money.

But also displeased that I’m no closer to having the gift to give.

That moment, as silly as it sounds, is an apt metaphor for my gift-giving struggle: I think of something, but then I talk myself out of it.

The Myth of the Perfect Gift

My desire is to find the perfect gift for each person. The one thing that they wouldn’t buy for themselves, but that they’ve been wanting.

But there is no perfect gift. Not really. And even if there were, it would only be perfect for a season. The new always wears off, the excitement fades away, and the object eventually becomes, well, just another object.

Finding Joy in Imperfection

Still, I hope the gifts I give are received with my good intentions. Used and enjoyed. I hope they bring a moment of joy, however fleeting. I try to remind myself that even if the thought counts more than the item itself, the item can still carry joy—and isn’t that what we want for those we care about?

I’ve never felt like a great gift-giver. Maybe it’s because I’m a minimalist at heart.

I talk myself out of buying things for me all the time because…Do I really need that thing, after all? Why would I want more clutter? And do I want to be responsible for adding more junk to the landfill one day?

Letting Yourself Off the Hook This Christmas

So every Christmas I sit with this tension. I have a desire to give, yet a fear of getting it “wrong.”

I want to let myself off the hook these remaining two weeks before Christmas. I’ll wrap the gifts I’ve already bought, hope the gifts I’ve ordered will come in soon (!), and finish shopping for things that might put a smile on someone’s face at least for a moment, even if not forever. The moment is enough.

And maybe that thought actually does count for quite a lot.

Share your thoughts in the comments.

Related reading:

• Don’t Compare; Just Create
  I went to a unique competition last night to watch Barry. But was it about comparing or creating?
• Progress Over Perfection: Lessons from a Squeaky Floor
  Renovations (and a squeaky floor) reminded me that life isn’t flawless—and it doesn’t have to be. Discover why progress matters more than perfection.
• Let Go of This to Make Quicker Decisions
  Want to make quicker decisions? Let go of this and you will.
• 5 Ways to Let Go of Unrealistic Expectations
  It’s normal to get our hopes up, but it’s unhealthy to cling too tightly to results out of our control.

Some days, I forget.
I expect more from myself than I can give.
And more of others, too.
I get grumpy when things go wrong.
As if perfection is ever attainable.

Then I remember:

I’m not perfect.

Neither is my partner.
Nor my friend.
My boss.
My child.
My parent.
My neighbor.
My coworker.

But I am human.
And so are they.

That gives me room to laugh.
And play.
Apologize,
Pivot.
Heal.
Forgive.
Mess up.
Live.
Love.

We’re all carrying invisible loads:
A worry that vibrates inside our bones,
A regret for conversations past,
A hope we’re barely clinging to.

So be kind to fellow humans.
To your coworker.
Your neighbor.
Your parent.
Your child.
Your boss.
Your friend.
Your partner.

And most of all, be kind to yourself.
You deserve it.

Tomorrow, we may forget again.
We may get frustrated, impatient, tired.
That’s okay.
Just begin again.
Start another ripple of kindness.

Because kindness is always possible.
It’s always within reach.
Even for the imperfect.

How often are you intentionally kind to yourself?

Share your thoughts in the comments.