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.

Years before my mother died, she wrote letters to each of her children. To be read after she died. I didn’t wait.

But she also left other writings behind. Last week, I finished reading the final page that I have of my mother’s journals, mostly centered in 1991. She knew her thoughts might be read one day, so she began with a disclaimer: these were simply her unfiltered thoughts, written to help her survive a difficult season.

As I turned those last few pages, I was surprised by the sadness that overcame me. Reading her thoughts had brought back a piece of her—she’s been gone since 2010—and renewed a conversation (albeit only one direction) that death had interrupted but not fully erased.

Words In Time

Because I was reading her journals, I started wondering about my own journals.

I’ve kept journals off and on my whole life. They’ve always been private—a secluded space to process life. But as I read my mother’s reflections, I couldn’t help wondering: if my own daughters read my journals one day, what story would they hear? What kind of ripples am I leaving behind?

So, I’ve decided to take a year and at least glance through my old journals, if not read them thoroughly. It’s an undertaking I may or may not get through, but here I go.

To start, I randomly pulled one from my shelf. On the first page, I saw the date: 1991.
The same year I had just finished reading about in my mother’s journals.

Two women, two generations, living side by side in time on the pages.

Same Year, Different Worlds

In 1991, my mom was struggling as a daughter herself to care for her aging father, my granddaddy, while balancing her other roles of wife, mother, and grandmother.

That same year, I was a newly single mom, caring for my toddler, and trying to figure out how to create a new life that was totally different than what I’d imagined it would be.

We were both hurting in our own worlds.

And even though we loved each other deeply and talked to each other often about many things in our lives, our private journals revealed an unspoken truth: we were protecting each other from the full weight of each other’s pain.

Me with my daughter, mother, great-grandmother, and grandfather

The Quiet Legacy of Ripples

As I read through my mom’s pages, I saw things that were both familiar and strange. I recognized the basic outline—I had known back then when she was traveling and what had been hard or easy each week—but I hadn’t known how much agony she was experiencing through the decisions she was having to make. (I would feel that same agony years later when we had to make similar decisions about her care.)

In my own pages, I’m reading things I both remember and have forgotten. Some things cause me to laugh out loud; other things make me cringe (I’ve ripped up and thrown out several pages already that I definitely don’t want my daughters to read).

Reading both journals at once is shifting the way I think about legacy.

Not the grand, headline-making kind that we often hear about—“Create your own legacy!”—but the quieter, more ordinary, and maybe more human kind.

We each create tiny ripples every day—through our words, choices, and even our silences about the heartaches and joys we share, and the ones we keep close.

Lessons from the Ripples

Here’s what I’m learning from reading both my mother’s and my own words:

• Our words matter, even the unspoken ones.
  Not all words have to be spoken—sometimes writing the words gives us power enough to uncover complex truths, things we may not verbalize, but things that make a difference nonetheless.
• We are both senders and receivers of ripples.
  My mom couldn’t have known that her scribbles from 34 years ago in 1991 would one day help me see both of us more clearly in 2025.
• Pain can be a bridge of connection.
  Even though the specifics of my mom’s struggles and my own were different, the ache running through our stories was similar and universal.
• The past voice can comfort the present self—and vice versa.
  Hearing my mom’s voice and rereading my own has shown me the progress I’ve made in some areas, but also revealed how some things remain just the same. I can be compassionate toward each of those selves.

The Work of Words

I wish I could, but I can’t go back in time and be more aware of my mother’s hardest days, or be kinder to the fragile woman I was myself in those years.

But I can honor both of them now.

I can thank them—the woman she was, and the woman she raised—for doing their best with what they knew then.

Without realizing it, we were both rippling through time—catching old waves and creating new ones. Offering grace, making memories, and spreading love in the ways we knew how.

The Ripples Continue

Whether words in a journal are ever read again or quietly fade away through time, we can trust they’ve done their work.

They’ve met their purpose—helping shape who we are, who we’re becoming, and what we’re sending out into the world.

One sentence at a time, they continue to ripple throughout time, whispering:
We were here. And we mattered.

Who has rippled the most into your life—and who do you want to ripple into? Share your thoughts in the comments.

Read more:

• Before you box up the past, ask yourself this one question first
• Letters from Mama

“When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.”
—Viktor E. Frankl

Sitting in the Bleachers

Sometimes I have dreams that I’m sitting in some bleachers. Just watching a game. A spectator. Maybe cheering, maybe emotional about who is winning or losing.

In some of those dreams, the bleachers begin to tip backward, and we all begin to fall out (although I usually wake up before I hit the ground). Other times, I almost drop something through the cracks beneath my feet.

I awake from these dreams feeling uneasy—because even in waking life, sitting in the bleachers doesn’t always feel safe to me.

When You Can’t Get in the Game

When I’m a spectator in the bleachers, I have no control over how the game is played. I can’t advise the players. I can’t referee the calls.

I can only sit and watch.

Our culture shouts, Get in the game! And often, that’s good advice. I’m currently even memorizing Teddy Roosevelt’s “Man in the Arena” speech to remind myself that courage belongs to those who show up and participate.

But not every game is ours to play.

Not every work is ours to do.

Some games we simply can’t play right now—whether by choice or circumstance. Sometimes the best we can do is sit in the stands and watch and cheer for those who actually are on the field.

Finding Purpose from the Sidelines

It’s humbling. It can feel powerless.

Yet I’m learning that being in the bleachers doesn’t mean I’m disconnected. I can still pay attention.

From the stands, I can see the whole field. I can notice things I’d miss if I were on the field. Distance sometimes bring clarity that can’t be achieved close up.

Sitting out also can be a time of healing. A place to rest, to regain strength for when it is our turn to play again. The bleachers may be the safe place we need to recover from previous grueling games. Protection, not punishment.

And sometimes? Sitting in the bleachers means I can turn away from the game and talk to my friends; I can go to the concession stand and get popcorn; I can leave early if the game is too slow or a blowout.

While the bleachers may feel torturous when we want to play, with a reframing of perspective, maybe the bleachers can become exactly where we need to be. At least for now.

And when a new game begins that is ours to play, maybe we’ll be more ready than ever to get in the game.

When have you found yourself sitting in the bleachers—watching instead of playing—and what did you learn from it? Share your thoughts in the comments.

It’s the strangest road sign I’ve seen yet.

Jeff and I are driving on I-40 East in North Carolina, where several roads are still a mess after Hurricane Helene barreled through with all her water in September 2024.

Seeing digital road signs along this stretch isn’t unusual.

But this one? Definitely is.

A Road Trip Flashback

It takes my mind back to an earlier drive . . .

I am driving alone to spend the weekend with friends in Chattanooga. I am completely dependent on GPS.

If it says, “Turn left,” I turn left. “Go right,” and I go right.

But at one intersection when it says, “Go straight,” I balk for the first time.

The Scary Road Ahead

The road ahead looks impossibly steep—a road straight out of my nightmares. My toes tingle; my fear of heights kicks in.

Thankfully, the traffic light is red. I have a minute to think.

Do I:

• Obey the GPS and go straight when the light turns green?
  Or
• Venture off on my own, turn left (or right?), and risk getting completely lost?

The light changes. My foot taps the gas—but my hands won’t stay steady.

Going Rogue

I won’t go straight.
I take a hard left turn.
I can’t take orders this time—I’m going rogue.

But as I do, questions flood my mind:

• Will my ETA slip into the next hour?
• Will I run out of fuel if I have added mileage?
• Will I end up hopelessly lost in the hills of Chattanooga?

I wait for the GPS voice to chime in with its scolding: “Rerouting…rerouting…”

Listening to Me

Sometimes we just have to listen to our own voice instead of an external authority.

Self-trust is a valuable resource. And even though it can sometimes lead us astray, over time it can also become wisdom—earned the hard way.

Ultimately, we’re each responsible for our own decisions.

While we may occasionally share the blame of a bad choice—with a faulty app or stinky advice or simply poor judgment on our part—in the end, trusting our eyes and following our values usually gets us where we’re meant to go . . . even if it takes a few extra turns.

The Surprising Outcome

I look back at my GPS again.

Before the turn, my ETA was 3:41 p.m.
After the “wrong” turn? Still 3:41.

My heart rate slows again.
My blood pressure goes down.
My confidence goes up.

That scary, steep road hadn’t been necessary after all. I didn’t need it. I could reach my destination just fine without it.

I follow the GPS for the rest of the trip though—grateful for its guidance, but now knowing I don’t have to obey it blindly.

Back to the Present

Now, driving through North Carolina, that Chattanooga memory makes me laugh. The digital sign we just passed isn’t meant to be funny, but it makes me laugh, too.

I pull out my phone for a quick photo, but I’m too late.

Still, Jeff and I will remember it—and laugh about it—for a long time.

What did the sign say?

“Do not follow GPS!”

Have you ever blindly followed GPS into a field or around in circles? Sometimes it’s best to *not* follow directions—like trying to drive down a closed road on I-40E (though I hear it’s partially open again!).

Share your thoughts in the comments.

Read More:

• GPS and Our California Road Trip
  When we lost GPS, the trip suddenly became quite stressful.
• What Would Bewitch Benjamin Franklin Today?
  I wonder what Benjamin Franklin would think if he visited our century. Imagine it for yourself. Practice positive curiosity.
• Do You Say Thank You to AI? The Bots Are Listening
  Are we trusting AI too much? In Nexus, Yuval Noah Harari says to stay aware of how computers are shaping us.