Anything about Everything

  Home used to mean a place… a  street I could point to. A room with my things in it. A door that locked. Then 2021 taught me how quickly walls can disappear. And somewhere in the rebuilding, I realized home was never just drywall and a roof. Home is the steady presence of my husband at the end of a long day. It’s the way Mike and I choose each other — especially when life feels loud. It’s the inside jokes, the shared routines, the quiet evenings that don’t need to be exciting to feel full. Home is my family — the history, the roots, the people who knew me long before I became who I am now. It’s traditions that ground me and voices that feel familiar no matter how much time passes. Home is also the friends who opened their doors without hesitation. The ones who made space — physically and emotionally — when I need it most. The people who prove that stability isn’t always a structure. Sometimes it’s a circle. Home now feels chosen. Built. Protected. It’s resilienc...

There are plenty of books I remember from childhood — the bright ones, the funny ones, the ones everyone seemed to read at the same time. But the one that lingers in my mind, even now, is Number the Stars by Lois Lowry. I don’t remember exactly how old I was when I first read it. I do remember the shift it created in me. It was one of the first times I realized that a story could feel heavy in your hands. That words on a page could introduce you to fear, bravery, injustice, and sacrifice — all before you were old enough to fully understand them. At the time, I couldn’t have explained the historical magnitude of World War II. I didn’t grasp the scope of what I was reading. But I understood the human parts. Friendship. Loyalty. The quiet courage of doing the right thing even when it’s dangerous. Looking back, I can see how much that book shaped my relationship with history. It taught me that history isn’t just timelines and textbooks — it’s lived experiences. It’s families making imp...

  Lately, it’s the small things I look forward to the most — and some of them might surprise people. I look forward to quiet mornings, but even more than that, quiet evenings. The kind where the day gently winds down instead of crashing to a halt. No plans, no pressure, nowhere to be. Just familiar routines, a comfortable space, and the relief of knowing I don’t have to give any more of myself for the night. I’ve also come to genuinely value alone time. Not because I don’t enjoy company — I do — but because I’ve learned how restorative it is to sit with my own thoughts without distraction. A good book, a show I’ve already seen, a cup of something warm. There’s something grounding about choosing stillness on purpose. Movement has become something I’m learning to look forward to, not something that comes naturally yet. The last year or so has been a struggle when it comes to finding a simple, consistent lifting routine. But even on the days when motivation is low, there’s a qui...

 This year does NOT feel loud or dramatic. It feels almost settled - in a way that's hard to explain unless you've lived through chapters that demanded resilience, reflection, and the willingness to accept support when you need it most (a lesson I am still fighting to learn). There's a noticeable difference in how I move through my days now. Less urgency (ehh a little less.. we're working on it). Fewer emotional spikes (...please see previous parentheses). A clearer sense of what actually deserves my attention (when I can reel it in...). I am not chasing a version of myself anymore - I am refining who I already am.  What feels different most is my relationship with time. I don’t rush it the way I used to, and I don’t feel the same pressure to fill every moment with productivity or proof. Rest feels earned, not justified. Quiet moments don’t make me uneasy — they feel grounding. I’ve also become more intentional with my energy. Not guarded, just aware. I’m better at rec...

In June of 2021, a tree fell into my house after a storm passed through. One moment everything was normal, and the next, my home was no longer safe to live in. It wasn’t just damage to a structure — it was the sudden loss of stability and routine, the kind that stays with you longer than you expect. For a long time after, storms carried more weight than they should have. Thunder wasn’t just noise — it was a reminder. It took a few years before my body stopped bracing automatically, before weather became just weather again. In the immediate aftermath, something else stood out just as clearly: the way people showed up. Friends opened their homes to me without hesitation. Weeks at a time. Spare rooms, couches, meals, and the kind of generosity that doesn’t keep score. I was never made to feel like an inconvenience — only welcomed. Even people I had just met through Bektash offered support if I needed it. No obligation. No expectation. Just kindness. It was a quiet reminder that fa...

  I’ve learned that the way you celebrate your birthday says less about your age — and a lot more about what you value. Growing up, birthdays were simple: dinner and a movie, on or around the actual day. No overplanning, no big production — just time together. It wasn’t flashy, but it was consistent, and looking back, it quietly shaped how I still like to celebrate. The focus was never on making it a spectacle, just making it meaningful. When I was younger, birthdays felt louder. Bigger plans, more people, higher expectations. Somewhere along the way, I realized that the pressure to make the day “special enough” was actually stealing the joy from it. These days, I’m far more interested in how the day feels than how it looks. Now, I like celebrating in layers. A good meal that isn’t rushed. A drink somewhere familiar. A small indulgence I don’t feel the need to explain. I don’t need everything to happen on one specific date — spreading things out makes it feel intentional inst...

  I used to think growth would be obvious — marked by a big moment, a clear turning point, something I could point to and say that’s when everything shifted. I assumed it would be loud. Disruptive. Impossible to ignore. But most of my growth hasn’t looked like that at all. It’s been quiet, steady, and intentional — and I’m okay with that now. It shows up in how I move through my days. I don’t rush myself the way I used to, and I no longer mistake urgency for importance. Not everything needs my immediate attention, my instant reaction, or my energy. Knowing when to engage — and when not to — has become one of my strengths. I’ve changed in how I protect my peace. I’m more deliberate with my time and more selective about what I allow into my space. That isn’t distance or detachment — it’s discernment. I care deeply, but I no longer feel responsible for everything and everyone. I’ve learned that boundaries don’t make me cold, and rest doesn’t require justification. There’s also...