Author: Alyn

Dempsey: Where It All Began

Wow, it’s been eight years since I met you.

Some days it only feels like yesterday. It’s strange how certain moments stay so sharp in your mind. Moments you won’t ever forget. Even if you forget the exact date once in a while, you never forget the feeling of it.

Meeting you was that moment for me.

I was nervous. I was excited. I was scared. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I didn’t know what I didn’t know. You knew a lot more than I did. You already came pre-programmed. I had to learn what you knew. I had to unlearn what I thought I understood about dog behavior.

Before you, dogs were companions. Pets. Family. But you were something different. You were a partner. You had a job. And stepping into life with you meant stepping into something much bigger than I had imagined.

Dempsey was a silly chocolate lab with boundless energy. The kind of energy that filled a room before he even fully walked into it. He was mischievous in that clever, always-thinking kind of way. When he played, he played loud. Vocal. Dramatic. Fully committed. There was no halfway with you. Everything was big.

But when it came time to work, you were ready.

When you first came to live with me, I remember sitting down. I read through the notes from your trainers, your foster family, and even the prison inmates who helped train you. I wanted to know everything about the dog standing in my living room. Who you were before you were mine.

One comment has stayed with me all these years. An inmate wrote that you were eager to work. That you were ready. That you found repetition boring. You didn’t want to keep practicing the job. You wanted to go out and do the job you were meant to do.

That didn’t surprise me.

You were never content just going through the motions. You wanted real life. Real challenges. You faced challenges while working at the largest mall in America. There were lights, crowds, and noise everywhere.

Or you traveled on an Amtrak train eight hours to Chicago. This was less than three weeks after moving into my home. Three weeks. Most dogs are still figuring out where the water bowl is. And there you were, settling at my feet on a moving train like it was exactly where you belonged.

Meanwhile, I was still figuring out how to hold your leash without feeling like the entire world was watching me.

You understood your job. I was still trying to understand mine.

I had to learn how to trust you. Really trust you. I had to learn how to advocate for you. I had to learn how to take up space in public without apologizing for it. Trusting you meant admitting I needed help. And that was something I hadn’t fully made peace with yet.

You pushed me ahead simply by being ready. When I would have stayed home, you were eager to go. When I doubted whether I could handle something, you stood steady beside me like you already knew we could. Your energy didn’t just make you a good service dog—it made me braver.

You weren’t perfect. You were goofy. You got into things. You made me laugh at the worst possible times. But that was part of your magic. You reminded me that partnership didn’t have to be heavy all the time. There was room for joy. Room for chaos. Room for silliness—even in a life that required so much seriousness.

That first meeting in 2018 didn’t just introduce me to my first service dog. It reshaped the direction of my life. It changed how I see disability. It changed how I move through the world. It changed what I believe I’m capable of.

Maybe one of the greatest gifts you gave me wasn’t fully understood until after you were gone. It became clear to me later.

Can Do Canines often says, “Our dogs fetch amazing things.” After everything we experienced together, that line felt deeper. It made me think about the places we went, the fears we faced, the things I once thought were impossible.

So I had these words tattooed on my arm along with your paw print after you passed:

“Together we did amazing things.”

And we did.

We did things I never thought I could do.
We did things I was scared to do.
We stepped into spaces that once felt overwhelming and made them ours.
But we did it together.

You were always on my right side.
And in many ways, you still are.
Working with you made me a better dog dad.

Not just to you—but now to Surley.

You two could not be more different. You were a chocolate lab—energetic, chaotic, vocal when playing. Big personality. Big presence.

Surley is a yellow lab with a completely different rhythm. He’s calmer. Quieter. A little more sensitive. Where you barreled ahead, he reads the room. Where you demanded engagement, he offers steady presence.

At first, that difference took adjustment.

After years of your intensity and eagerness, learning Surley’s softer cues meant slowing down. Paying closer attention. Meeting him where he is instead of expecting what I was used to.

But I wasn’t starting from scratch this time.

You had already taught me how to listen. How to watch. How to respect that every working dog is still an individual first. You showed me that partnership isn’t about molding a dog into a standard. It’s about understanding who they already are. From there, you build trust.

Because of you, I advocate better. I communicate better. I balance structure with play. I know that behind the red cape is still a dog. This dog needs joy, decompression, and room to just be themselves.

Surley benefits from the lessons you taught me.

And in that way, your impact didn’t end three years ago. It’s still here. It’s shaping how I lead and shaping how I love. It’s still walking beside me just in a different form.

Eight years ago, you were ready to do the job you were meant to do.

You helped me become ready, too.

And for that, for you, I will always be grateful. 

Levi and his service dog, Dempsey, sharing a happy moment outdoors.

In memory of Dempsey — my first partner, my brave beginning.

02/12/26
When Social Media Was Different

Social media has changed, and not for the better.

With everything going on in the world right now, I have been thinking a lot about social media. I have been reflecting on what it was meant to be and what it has become..

What It Was

I joined Facebook in 2005. Back then, it served a clear purpose. It helped people stay connected as life pulled them in different directions. You shared photos, updates, and small moments without turning every post into a declaration or a fight.

As more people I knew joined, it worked even better. Friends, family, coworkers. It did what it promised.

When pages were introduced, it felt like real progress. People shared lived experiences and built community. I follow pages related to autism, type one diabetes, and hearing loss. I have learned about conditions like Sanfilippo syndrome from families living it every day.

That kind of sharing still matters. It educates, builds awareness, and creates connection. It is one of the few reasons I have not walked away entirely.

When Thoughtfulness Slipped

Somewhere along the way, thoughtfulness started to fade.

Social media began rewarding quick reactions instead of reflection. If you feel something, you post it. If you disagree, you respond immediately, often without pause.

Context is lost. Curiosity disappears.

I am not immune to this. I have reacted in the moment and regretted it later. Words still have consequences, even online.

Or at least, they should.

Too often now, restraint is missing. The screen creates distance, and with it, a loss of basic courtesy. In a world already tense and divided, that lack of care only deepens the divide.

Outrage moves faster than understanding. Certainty is amplified. Nuance struggles to survive.

Choosing Silence Intentionally

I have learned to keep many of my thoughts to myself, especially around current events or politics. When I do post, it is usually to highlight something meaningful within the disability community.

I stay quiet not because I lack opinions, but because thoughtful positions rarely translate well online. Context gets flattened. Intent gets misread. Careful words are easily twisted.

The people who know me understand this. Online, that understanding is often absent.

And that choice comes with trade-offs.

What I Miss

I still enjoy seeing what friends, family, and community members are doing. I value sharing my own experiences, both big and small.

I care about talking honestly about life with a disability, navigating a city, and living with a service dog. I believe education and visibility matter.

It has simply become harder to show up thoughtfully in spaces that prioritize speed over substance and reaction over care.

The Silo Problem

More and more, people are retreating into smaller circles. They unfriend. They block. They remove anyone who does not align perfectly with their views.

I understand the impulse. No one wants to be attacked or misunderstood. But when self-protection turns into isolation, something important is lost.

Removing all disagreement does not build community. It creates an echo chamber.

This Was Not the Promise

Social media was meant to bring people together. It was supposed to help us stay connected across distance, difference, and time.

Instead, it often encourages labeling and dismissal. Disagreement is treated as hostility. Curiosity is mistaken for weakness.

Moving Forward

Lately, I have been seriously reconsidering my place on social media.

I will keep my accounts active for practical reasons. Messaging still has value. I will continue posting occasionally in specific spaces. Beyond that, I am becoming more selective.

Social media can still connect and educate. You must be willing to sift through noise, anger, and impulse. This is how you find what truly matters.

I mute freely. I unfollow without guilt. I post less, not because I have less to say, but because careful words deserve better conditions than this.

I once believed social media would bring us closer together. Watching it push people further apart has clarified something for me.

For now, stepping back feels less like giving up and more like choosing a healthier distance.

01/14/26
A Personal Anthem for the New Year

As I enter a new year, I am realizing how important it is to have an anthem. Not a resolution. Not a slogan. Something steadier than that.
For now, 2025 and 2026 are sharing the same anthem: Tubthumping.

The last few months have been testing.

The weather has made it harder to get out of the house. That kind of confinement wears on you whether you acknowledge it or not.

I have been walking alongside Jason through the struggles he has been having with his eyes. That uncertainty carries real weight.

At the same time, I am still navigating the frustration of trying to find full-time employment. I am showing up and doing the work. I keep going even when progress feels slow and unclear.

This is not abstract hardship. It is daily life. It is patience, waiting, worry, and persistence.

That is why this song fits. Not because it is clever or nostalgic, but because it is honest.

I get knocked down. That part is not hypothetical, it is simply life. But I get back up. Again and again. No dramatics. No victory lap. Just the steady decision to keep going.

Some days that looks like loud defiance. Other days it is quiet grit. Either way, I am still here.

Still moving forward.

Still standing my ground.

That anthem may change someday. But for now, it fits this season exactly. If these years are about anything, they are about endurance. And for the moment, this song says it better than anything else I could choose.

01/08/26
Still Becoming, Still Moving Forward

A Season of Reflection

I know I have not written in a while. The end of the year is always been difficult time of year for me. It is a season of reflection, whether I want it to be or not.

There is a line from Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas that comes back to me every year:

Faithful friends who are dear to us
Gather near to us once more
Through the years we all will be together
If the fates allow.

The older I get, the heavier that line feels. It holds gratitude and truth at the same time. Some people are still here. Some are not. None of it is guaranteed.

That song carries personal history for me. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas was the first song I sang on our family Under the Tree holiday CD. It was the very first song I sang. This was back in 1999. It has quietly followed me ever since.

A lot of people send out polished Christmas letters listing accomplishments and milestones. I have never been good at that. This year brought change, not trophies, including quieter, more personal ones.

Still Becoming

This past spring, I wrote about the idea of always becoming. It was about growth that does not arrive with neat endings or clear resolutions. That theme followed me all year, often in uncomfortable ways.

Part of that becoming meant choosing honesty. I wrote about going by the name Alyn, not as a reinvention, but as recognition. Outwardly, it was a small change. Yet, it reflected something deeper about my self-understanding. It also showed how I want to move through the world.

Partnership and Home

Jason and I are still steady. We passed fifteen years of living together, and at some point you stop counting.

It is like age. I turned forty-two this year, technically, but numbers matter less than continuity. What matters is that we are still here, still choosing each other, even when things are heavy.

The animals are still holding strong. Surley remains happy, eager, and ready to work. Kalo, who seems determined to live forever, is slowing down but still very much himself. He is older now, a little stiffer, a little clingier. He has started sitting with me more, something that once belonged exclusively to Spaz. I do not question it. I take it for what it is. Even when I am playing video games, and he is draped across my arm while chaos unfolds on the screen. I feel grateful for the quiet companionship.

Work and Worth

Work continues to be complicated. I am still employed, and I enjoy what I do and the people I work with. The problem is consistency. Months can pass without shifts. Disability income keeps me afloat, but barely. Earlier this year, I wrote about being more than qualified and still overlooked. That experience is not abstract. It lives in unanswered applications and interviews that go nowhere. It is frustrating, but it is also familiar.

There is also the longer view. I also wrote about moving from being a visible symbol to an invisible adult. The attention fades. The needs do not. That reality has shaped how I have moved through this year, even when I did not name it outright.

After months of trying to find something more reliable, I started working with vocational rehabilitation. I have had interviews. Nothing has landed yet. Maybe the new year will bring something different. Maybe it will not. I am still trying.

Uncertainty and Care

There is uncertainty ahead. Jason’s vision remains a concern. His degenerative eye condition means there may come a time when he cannot work. If that happens, our financial reality could change dramatically. It is one of the key reasons I have been more actively looking for work.

Jason has carried more than his share this year. He lost his father late this summer, a loss that reshaped everything. On top of that came serious eye complications unrelated to Usher syndrome. Surgeries followed. Complications followed those. We talk about it daily. I go to appointments. I listen when frustration takes over. Earlier this year, I wrote about passengers on the journey, and that idea feels especially true now. Support is often quiet. It looks like showing up and staying.

Love, Loss, and What Remains

Earlier this year, I wrote about quiet reminders, the small things that steady us when life feels loud. That idea has stayed with me. As the years pass, the awareness of who is still here and who is not becomes sharper. None of it is guaranteed, and that truth carries more weight than it once did.

I think about those who remain, the ones who show up and stay. I also think about those who are gone. Earlier this year, I wrote about holding onto love after loss. Grief does not replace love. It reshapes it. That truth lives with me when I think of my friend Colleen. I also think of Jason’s dad Harold. There are so many people I never had enough time with.

I think about Dempsey. Three years have passed, and I still miss that stubborn, energetic chocolate Labrador. Surley is here and wonderful, but loving him does not erase the love I still carry for Dempsey. There is not a day that goes by that I do not think of my chocolate boy.

This year has been a lot. I am not complaining. Life does not ask permission before it happens. We deal with what is in front of us and keep moving.

Writing, Play, and Practice

Not everything I wrote this year was heavy. I allowed myself a lighter side project, telling parts of my story through music in a life in songs. It was playful and nostalgic, but also revealing. Music has always been a quiet companion. Revisiting it reminded me that reflection does not have to be solemn to be meaningful.

I also took a writing class this year. The pieces that came from it gave me permission to experiment and wander. The pieces were tributes to both Dempsey and Surley. They were imaginings of what Kalo and Surley would do if left alone. They reflected a traveler in a journey through a wasteland. Finally, they were quiet explorations of a life well lived. Writing them reminded me why I write at all. I write not only to educate and inform. Sometimes, I write to process, remember, and imagine.

Choosing Quiet

I have taken a slight step back from social media. I wrote about the tug-of-war between thinking and speaking. That awareness has stayed with me. Not every moment needs commentary. The people who matter know what is going on, and that is enough.

I do not know what the coming year will bring. I know there will be uncertainty, and I know there will be moments of steadiness too. Time spent reflecting in the woods taught me that clarity often comes when noise fades.

For now, I am still here. We are still here. I will keep moving forward. I carry both the past and the present with me. I am still becoming. I am still rolling down the road as best I can. I will move forward together, if the fates allow.

12/26/25
A Thanksgiving Day’s Journey

The Thanksgiving day is winding down. The last traces of warmth linger in my home. I find myself reflecting on everything today held. There’s a special kind of quiet at the end of a holiday. It is the soft exhale after the cooking, the conversations, the memories, and the moments of stillness. And in that quiet, gratitude has a way of rising to the surface.

Today felt like another stretch of my journey. It was another few miles traveled down a road. I’m still learning to appreciate its twists and turns. I’ve always believed that life is a path we walk or, in my case, wheel down without a perfect map. We discover the route only as we go. Sometimes we glide forward with ease, and other times, the road tests us. Detours appear when we least expect them—some difficult, some joyful, all of them meaningful.

And today, as I look back, I’m reminded of just how much I have to be grateful for. This journey has been winding and unpredictable.

This morning began with Jason, whose presence is one of my greatest blessings. His support and companionship anchor me, especially on the days when the road feels uneven. I’m thankful for him every single day, but today I felt that gratitude a little deeper.

Surley, my incredible service dog, was by my side as always—calm, loyal, and wonderfully intuitive. He doesn’t just help me navigate the world; he shares the journey with me. Watching him relax today between tasks reminded me of how much trust and love we share.

I cooked a simple Thanksgiving dinner, and even in its simplicity, it felt like an accomplishment worth celebrating. There was something comforting in preparing food for myself and Jason, something grounding in the warmth of the kitchen. It reminded me that gratitude lives in small things just as much as grand ones.

I sat in my apartment. It’s the same building I’ve been fortunate to call home for more than 15 years. I felt an immense wave of appreciation for the stability and familiarity around me. Home isn’t just a place; it’s a feeling, a continuity in a world that is always shifting.

Throughout the day, I found myself thinking of my friends and family. We may not always see each other or talk as often as my heart wishes. However, the connection is still there. It is steady and meaningful. Gratitude doesn’t ask for perfection; it asks for presence, even if that presence comes in quiet ways.

And today, I was especially thankful for my health. I appreciate the good days. I am grateful for the privilege of having access to doctors and care when the days are harder. It’s something I never take for granted.

Most of all, as the day draws to a close, I’m grateful. I am thankful for the opportunity to continue living my true, authentic life. This journey has taken me through smooth stretches and sharp detours alike, but each moment has shaped me. Every day teaches me something new—about myself, about others, about what it means to grow.

We don’t know how long our road is or where it ultimately leads. But today reminded me to treasure each mile. To honor the people and companions who travel beside me. To appreciate the stillness and the chaos, the clarity and the confusion. To celebrate every moment I’m lucky enough to live authentically and fully.

And tonight, I’m grateful that you are here—sharing a part of this journey with me.

Happy Thanksgiving.

May the road ahead bring you gratitude, warmth, and the quiet magic of unfolding possibilities.

11/27/25
When the Season Shifts

When I first became a soccer fan, I never thought much about the weather. It was just part of the experience. The game and I have evolved. I’ve started thinking about how changing seasons shape what accessibility really means for fans like me. Changing bodies also influences this meaning.

I’ve been reading about Major League Soccer’s proposed move to a fall–spring schedule. I understand the reasoning behind it. Still, I can’t help but think about how it will change the fan experience. This is especially true for those of us who feel the seasons differently than we used to.

When I first became a fan back in 2015, the cold didn’t bother me. I was just excited to be there to feel part of something alive and electric. I remember going to a game one chilly October and bringing one of my aunts along. She thought I “looked cold,” even though I swore I was fine. By halftime, she’d bought me a hot chocolate, a hat, and maybe even a sweatshirt.

I still remember that small act of care. The steam rose from the cup. Her laughter cut through the cold air. I didn’t think much of it then. Yet, looking back, I realize it was one of those simple, human moments that stay with you.

A couple of years later, at our first home game in MLS, the weather turned on us fast. Heavy snow fell throughout the match, thick, wet flakes that clung to your eyelashes and soaked your gloves. The snow was coming down so fast that they had to use leaf blowers to clear the lines.

My toes went numb halfway through, but it didn’t matter. The atmosphere was electric, the crowd united in equal parts misery and joy. We were there together, and that was enough.

Those were different times. I was a different person. I was more willing to push through the discomfort just to be part of the moment.

These days, I’ve noticed that the same weather affects me differently. I attend fewer matches as temperatures drop, and this year I didn’t opt in for playoff tickets at all. It’s not that my passion for the team has faded far from it. It’s just that Minnesota’s fall weather is unpredictable. This unpredictability makes it hard to plan. I find it difficult to feel confident that I’ll be comfortable or safe. The wind cuts a little deeper now. The cold lingers a little longer.

Supporting a team with an outdoor stadium like Allianz Field comes with that territory. Still, it’s made me think more about what “accessibility” really means. We often talk about it in physical terms, ramps, seating, transportation, and those things matter deeply.

Accessibility can also mean something softer, more personal: being capable of participating fully without discomfort, fear, or exhaustion. Weather affects this aspect, particularly for fans with mobility challenges. It impacts those with chronic pain or other health conditions, making the cold more than just an inconvenience.

For some fans, colder games are part of the charm. They enjoy layers of scarves and hands wrapped around coffee cups. There is a sense of endurance that becomes almost a badge of honor. But for others, it’s not that simple. The cold can turn joy into endurance, and that can change the whole experience.

As I’ve grown and my needs have shifted, I’ve noticed some changes. I’ve started to see how sports, something built on togetherness, can sometimes overlook the quiet ways inclusion matters.

The fan experience isn’t just about ticket sales. It isn’t solely about crowd energy either. It’s about whether everyone can share in those moments equally. That’s true for people of all kinds.

This includes those experiencing changes due to age. It also includes people with disabilities, sensory needs, or simply changing bodies who experience the world differently than before. Accessibility isn’t one-size-fits-all, and weather adds another layer to that reality.

I still love this sport, this team, and the community it builds. Soccer has been a steady thread through so many seasons of my life, literally and figuratively. But my relationship to it has evolved as I have. The same stands that once made me feel unstoppable now remind me to listen to my body. To respect its limits. To show up in ways that make sense for where I am now.

If MLS does move to a fall–spring schedule, I hope clubs and stadiums will think creatively. They should consider what that means for all fans.

Maybe that looks like expanding covered seating in some venues. It could also mean improving heat access. Or it could simply involve offering more understanding around accessibility options in cold weather. Sometimes inclusion begins with small acts. It could be a staff member who notices. It might be a space to warm up. Or it could be the willingness to ask, “What do you need to feel comfortable here?”

For many of us, being a fan isn’t about braving the elements anymore. It’s about connection: to the game, to the people around us, and to ourselves. It’s about finding warmth in community, even when the temperature drops.

Seasons shift, people change, and that’s okay. What matters most is finding warmth in the stands. We need warmth in the community. It is essential in the spaces that still make us feel like we belong.

11/12/25
Thirty-Three Years Later

Disclaimer: What follows in this post contains my thoughts and my recollection of childhood memories. They are 33 years old and may not be the full truth, but they are my truth.

I have written about death and loss before. Grief can reshape us. It can bring love and pain together in unexpected ways.

This reflection feels different. This isn’t just about loss. It’s about understanding what that first loss meant. It’s also about how my relationship with it has changed over time.

Thirty-three years ago, I lost my first grandparent. My grandpa, Garfield Dokken, passed away suddenly. It’s interesting how distinctly I remember that life event. Maybe it’s because it was my first experience with death as a child. Maybe it’s because of other reasons.

The Day I Learned About Death

November 3, 1992

That night is etched in my mind.

I had undergone a selective dorsal rhizotomy a surgery meant to help reduce the tightness in my legs. It was an intense surgery, and I was still sore, tired, and trying to heal.

I remember the phone ringing. My mom was staying with me at the hospital so my mom answered it. My mom was talking on the phone. I don’t recall who she was speaking to. I remember her face when she hung up. She turned to me and told me that my grandpa had passed away.

I don’t remember what I said after she told me.

My parents asked the doctors if I could go home for the funeral, but they strongly advised against it. I was still recovering.

My parents suggested that I write him a note something my dad could tuck into his pocket. So I did.

When you’re young, you don’t really understand death. You don’t grasp what it means when someone won’t walk through the door again or call you on the phone. I didn’t know what it truly meant that he was gone.

After grandpa passed this picture was above my hospital bed.

“When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child.
When I became a man, I gave up childish ways.”
1 Corinthians 13:11

Growing into Grief

As I was writing this I thought of the verse from 1 Corinthians. As a child, I grieved as a child. For a long time, I carried his passing in a unique way. I saw it through the eyes of the boy in that hospital bed.

That chapter of my life always felt unfinished, the story incomplete. There was a recording of the funeral service that exists. Still, I don’t believe I have ever sat down to watch the whole thing. I don’t know if I would even want to watch it.

It took decades to realize that I needed to grieve differently, not to forget, but to forgive.

To forgive the child who couldn’t yet understand.

After years of therapy and reflection, I’ve learned to process loss with more compassion especially toward my younger self.

I’m not perfect at it, but I’m getting better everyday.

Writing Allows Grief to Evolve

In, “Passengers on the Journey”, I wrote about how the people we love are like fellow travelers. Some ride with us longer than others, but all leave an imprint on our path. My grandpa was one of my first fellow travelers to step off the bus early in my life. I didn’t understand it then, but he helped me see that love and loss are part of the same journey.

In “Holding Onto Love”, I wrote about how love doesn’t disappear when someone dies. It transforms. It changes shape. I think that’s what I’ve come to understand now, too. My love for my grandpa has transformed. It’s quieter, steadier, woven into who I am rather than something I reach for.

Questions Without Answers

Now, as an adult, I find myself wondering:
What would he think of the person I’ve become?
What would he think of the life I am leading?
What would he think of my hair, my name, my humor?

Growing up, I often heard that question used as a moral compass:

“What would your grandpa think if they saw that report card?”

“What would he say about your behavior?”

It’s something people say to motivate, to guide, or to remind us to be our best. But sometimes, it can have the opposite effect.

Instead of inspiring, it can carry shame. This is especially true when it’s tied to someone we loved deeply and would never want to disappoint.

I don’t believe those words are spoken with bad intentions.

Still, they overlook something important: the people we invoke in those moments aren’t here to speak for themselves.

We can’t know what they would think. We can’t know how they might have grown. We can’t know how their love for us might have changed over time.

Love evolves. People do too. Love remains after loss. It deserves to be carried forward. It should not be used as a measure of guilt or worth.

Closing Reflections

Thirty-three years have passed since that night in the hospital. Yet, in some ways, I’m still that child learning what it means to say goodbye. The difference now is that I can hold both the pain and the gratitude together. I can look back and see how that moment shaped me, not just in loss, but in love.

In Passengers on the Journey, I wrote about the people we love. They travel alongside us for a time. They leave their imprint even after they’ve stepped off the bus. And in Holding Onto Love, I reflected on how love doesn’t fade when someone dies. It changes shape. It becomes part of who we are.

That’s what I feel now. My grandpa is no longer a passenger beside me, but his love remains part of the path beneath my wheels. His laughter, his kindness, his presence—they continue to move with me in quiet, unseen ways.

Grief shows up differently for all of us. Sometimes loud and raw, sometimes quiet and unseen. It doesn’t leave us; it transforms. It teaches us to carry memories with gentleness. It teaches us to live in a way that honors those who came before us.

So on this anniversary, I don’t just remember his passing. I remember his life, his laughter, and the lessons that continue to guide me.

And in that remembering, I find peace.

11/03/25
Today

There are moments when words come quietly, unexpectedly. This piece came to me on a day when I was reflecting on loss.

I thought about those who have loved me. I also thought about those I’ve loved and lost. Grief is never something we finish; it becomes a part of who we are. But within that grief, there’s also growth.

Each day, I try to hold space for both. I miss those who are gone. I become a little stronger, a little more grounded, and a little more myself.

Today

Today, I grieve the passing of those who have loved me and I them.

Today, I grow into a better person through growth and understanding.

Today, I rise to greet the dawn.

Today, I am stronger than I was yesterday.

Each of us has our own version of today—a place where remembrance meets renewal. I invite you to take a moment to reflect: what does today mean for you?

11/03/25
Embracing Change, Creativity, and Consistency: A Personal Reflection

Ever take one of those personality quizzes and think, “Huh…that’s oddly precise”?

I recently did. It got me thinking about how I tick. It also made me ponder on how I work, collaborate, and navigate change.

Turns out, I thrive on new ideas and variety. Give me a fresh challenge or a different way of doing something, and I’m all in. I like having a plan, sure, but I also know when it’s time to pivot and go with the flow. That balance between structure and spontaneity is what keeps projects moving without killing the fun.

I’m a private person by nature, loyal to a fault once someone earns my trust. I try to be flexible and cooperative, but I’ll stand my ground when something really matters. Being consistent and reliable has helped me stay steady. This steadiness persists even when everything around me feels chaotic. It is especially helpful when change affects others more.

One big takeaway?

Not everyone moves at my pace when it comes to change—and that’s okay.

My job, whether in a team or leading a project, is to help others see the bigger picture. I support them through transitions. I also think about what works and what doesn’t. Reflection is the secret sauce that turns lessons into growth.

At the end of the day, knowing yourself isn’t just a buzzword it’s a roadmap.

For me, it means staying curious, dependable, and reflective. I use those traits to make work, and life, a little smoother for myself and the people around me.

10/21/25
What If Columbus Never Found America?

Reflecting on imagination, history, and the worlds that might have been.

Today is Columbus Day or, as many now call it, Indigenous Peoples’ Day. Every year, this day reminds me how much history depends on who’s telling the story. It also makes me think about which voices have been left out.

As a writer, I find myself wondering: what if Columbus had never “discovered” America? What if the Europeans had never crossed the ocean at all? How would North America appear in 2025 if it were still solely inhabited by the Indigenous peoples? These people lived here for millennia. How would Europe appear if it had never gone west?

I imagine a North America. Ancient trade routes and alliances evolved into something like modern nations. They were guided by very different values. Forests might still stand where highways now run. Rivers might remain clean and central to community life. Cities, if they existed, might be built around natural cycles. They would be shaped by harmony with the land rather than dominance over it. Technology could exist. It might be woven from a different kind of intelligence. This intelligence values balance over speed. It prioritizes sustainability over conquest.

And Europe? Maybe it would have turned inward instead of outward. Without the wealth and resources drawn from colonization, kingdoms might have fallen or transformed sooner. The Renaissance might have taken a different shape. Europe’s hunger for expansion could have redirected east. This change might have led to deeper ties or conflicts with Asia and Africa. Industrialization might have come later, or not at all. My ancestors from Norway and Sweden might have stayed as farmers. They might have tended the same land for generations. They might have not ventured west to settle Minnesota.

It’s all speculation, of course — a story that can’t be told without imagination. But as fascinating as these possibilities are, I have to remind myself: this isn’t my story to tell alone. I’m descended from the people who came here, not from those who were already here. The truth and texture of that alternate America would belong to its original storytellers.

Maybe those stories already exist. If they do, I’d love to read them — and if anyone knows of them, please share in the comments. And if they don’t, maybe it’s not my place to start them. I wouldn’t know where or how to begin without the voices that truly know what might have been.

Still, I’d love to hear what others think. How do you think North America might look today if Columbus had never made that voyage? What changes do you imagine for Europe? What kind of world do you picture?

Until then, I’ll keep that question close. It serves not as a fantasy, but as a reminder of how one voyage reshaped the world. It also reflects on how different it all might have been if the winds had blown another way.

10/13/25