Anything about Everything

  I’m not becoming someone new. I’m becoming consistent. More disciplined with my time. More protective of my peace. Less available for things that drain me. I’m becoming the kind of woman who keeps promises to herself. Who shows up even when motivation doesn’t. Who understands that strength and softness aren’t opposites. I’m becoming steadier in my marriage. More present in my friendships. More rooted in who I actually am. Not louder. Not busier. Not chasing. Just clearer. Becoming isn’t dramatic. It’s quiet decisions made daily. And I trust where they’re taking me.

  Love used to feel like fireworks to me. Big gestures. Big feelings. Big moments. Now it looks steadier. It looks like my husband reaching for my hand in the middle of an ordinary day. It looks like hard conversations that end in understanding instead of distance. It looks like choosing each other — especially when it would be easier not to. I’ve seen that kind of love before. In my grandparents. In my parents. Not flashy. Not performative. Just consistent. Love looks like friends who show up without needing an invitation. It looks like family who keeps rooting for you as you grow and change. It looks like people who make space for your becoming. It’s not loud most of the time. It’s consistency. It’s patience. It’s staying when things get hard. Love, to me now, looks like safety without shrinking. Like loyalty without losing yourself. Like peace that doesn’t feel temporary. Fireworks burn bright — and fade. The love I want, stays.

  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...