What I'm Learning These Days

It’s been a while since I last wrote here. Seriously. My last post was July 2024. (Remember how quaint the world was back then?!)

That probably says something already.

Lately I’ve been paying attention to the things that are teaching me... not in a “perfectly curated lesson plan” kind of way, but in the quiet, lopsided, occasionally laugh-out-loud ways that life teaches all of us. Some of these lessons have come through grief. Some through joy. Most through just trying to be a halfway decent human in a time of chaos and pain.

​So, in no particular order, here’s what I’m learning these days:

1. “Enough” is not a dirty word.  I don’t have to be brilliant or profound to be worthy. I don’t have to chase productivity to justify my presence. I don’t have to meet every need, solve every problem, or have every answer. Sometimes, enough really is enough. Some days, the win is getting out of bed, sending the email, showing up with a decent attitude and a generous spirit. Enough might not get a standing ovation, but it’s a lot more sustainable than perfection.
   
   
2. Breathing helps. I wish that sounded more profound. There are moments when anxiety creeps in before I realize what’s happening. My shoulders tighten, my jaw clenches, my breath gets shallow. So lately, I’m learning to stop and just… breathe. Slowly. On purpose. It feels too simple to be spiritual, but I think it is. Inhale peace. Exhale pressure. Inhale grace. Exhale whatever I was holding too tightly. I’m not trying to be a guru about it. I’m just trying to make it through the day without turning into a human corkscrew. Breathing helps.
   
   
3. People will surprise you—in both directions. Someone will say something impossibly kind when you least expect it. Someone else will let you down in a way you didn’t see coming. And I’m learning to hold both realities without letting either one define the whole story. I want to be the kind of person who leaves room for grace (for myself and for others) without pretending that harm never happened or trust is instantly restored. But surprise, in the best sense, is still possible. And sometimes that surprise feels a lot like hope.
   
   
4. Grief doesn’t follow a calendar.  This past year, I became older than my brother ever got to be. That’s not a milestone you plan for, and it doesn’t come with a cake. It comes in quiet waves... birthdays, photographs, shared memories that no longer feel symmetrical. I’m learning that grief doesn’t respect timelines or tidy stages. It lingers, shapeshifts, waits in strange corners. And yet… it also reminds me that love mattered. That he mattered. That I still do.
   
   
5. Even now, God is not done with me.  Or with the church. Or with this messy, marvelous, often maddening world. I believe that resurrection isn’t just a one-time event, it’s a pattern. And I’m trying to lean into the possibility that what’s dying isn’t the end of the story. New life doesn’t always look like what I expected. Sometimes it’s quieter. But it’s there.
   
   
6. There’s courage in joy.  Joy is not the absence of pain. It’s not naïve or fluffy or careless. It’s deeply grounded, especially when it shows up in communities that have every reason to despair. I’ve been thinking a lot about Indigenous communities and their stewardship of land and memory. About enslaved people who sang songs of liberation while bound in chains. About queer folks—especially Black and brown trans folks—who created joy through ballroom culture in the face of rejection and violence. These aren’t feel-good stories; they’re survival stories. Joy isn’t just happiness. It’s resistance. And it teaches me to keep going.
   
   
7. I still believe in community.  Not just the kind where everyone knows your name and your coffee order, but the kind where you can exist without explanation. Where you can sit among strangers—at the farmers market, in book club, on a park bench—and feel like part of something bigger. I’m learning to appreciate anonymous community: the sacredness of being with others, even when there’s no obligation to lead, teach, or fix anything. These ordinary moments are restoring my faith in humanity, slowly. And maybe even restoring my faith in myself.

I’m sure I’ll have more to learn tomorrow. And next week. And next year. Maybe I'll post more tomorrow. Or next week. Or not till next year.

But for now, this is what I’ve got.  Thanks for reading.