Tag: Reflective Writing

Personal essays, observations, and meditations on everyday life, identity, and experience.

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 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
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
The Name Between the Lines

Becoming Myself, One Letter at a Time

There’s a strange gravity in a name.

It’s the first thing we’re given, often before we take our first breath. Names come with stories, family histories, hopes, even inside jokes. They can be reminders of who we come from, or quiet promises of who someone hoped we’d become.

Sometimes, we grow into them. Sometimes, we grow around them. And sometimes, if we’re really lucky, we realize we need a name that fits where we’ve been. If we’re really brave, we choose a name that fits where we’re going.

That’s what this post is about.

I’ve always liked my middle name.

Allen. It’s simple, unassuming, it’s always felt right. It carries a softness, a steadiness that felt like home.

It’s not loud or dramatic. Allen felt like a foundation, something I can rest on. And in ways I couldn’t fully name at the time, it felt like me.

I’ve realized something interesting. I’m not the only one in my family who felt this pull toward a middle name. My grandpa Garfield was not actually born Garfield at all. His given name was Oscar Garfield Dokken.

From what I’ve pieced together in conversations with family, he chose to go by Garfield. He already had an uncle named Oscar and probably did not want the two of them to be confused.

That makes perfect sense. When I was a kid, I had a friend named Levi. When our families got together, there were two Levis in the same space. Every time someone called out “Levi,” there was that moment of uncertainty: which one? Looking back, I think that would’ve been a perfect time for me to lean into Allen.

Maybe Grandpa understood something I’m only just beginning to. Sometimes a name is about more than identity. It’s about clarity, belonging, and creating space for yourself.

That’s how I landed on Alyn. I know it’s a different spelling from my true middle name. Then again, I am a little different, so my name should be too.

It’s not a world apart from who I’ve been it’s just… closer to who I am. A little softer around the edges. A little more neutral, a little more fluid. It’s Allen with a twist. It lets me breathe.

I haven’t decided yet if I’ll change it legally. For now, this isn’t about paperwork or government forms it’s about alignment. About answering to something that feels a little more like me. About hearing a name and not flinching because it doesn’t quite match the reflection I see in my mind.

Of course, it’s not that simple.

Names carry meaning, not just for us, but for the people who gave them to us. For family, it isn’t just a label it’s something they chose with care. It could be tied to memory, a legacy and love.

I understand that. I honor that. Part of me worries that in choosing something new, I’ll seem ungrateful, or like I’m rejecting something sacred.

But here’s what I want those people to know: I’m not erasing anything. I’m not undoing the name I was given. I’m just building on it. Adding a chapter. Letting myself evolve.

I’m still me. Still your kid. Still your friend. Still your cousin, your sibling, your grandchild. Just… more me-shaped now.

Trying on Allyn, Becoming Alyn

I started experimenting with a small change spelling Allen with a y. “Allyn.” It looked different, felt different. Like trying on a jacket that just fits better.

At first, it was just between me and my therapist, then a small circle of friends. The more I used it, the more it felt like breathing freely.

Later, I tried another variation: Alyn.

I started using it with the same small group of friends. It became a place where I could test the waters. I could hear “Alyn” out loud or in text. I felt how it settled into my bones.

Now, I’m taking that step into the light with this name. Like coming out in the LGBTQIA+ community, this takes a great amount of courage. To come out in this way, in a public setting, takes an even greater amount of courage.

Some people will adjust quickly. Some might need time. And that’s okay. I’m still getting used to it too. Every time someone uses it, it feels like a little internal click, a quiet “yes.”

And when people still call me Levi, I understand. That name still holds truth, too. This isn’t about perfection. It’s about becoming.

When the Name Comes Out Before You Do

Like I said earlier, I was only sharing it with a small group of people. I was changing it on my streaming platform profiles seeing how it looked to me. I wasn’t ready to share it beyond my small circle just yet. Then, about a few days ago, that changed.

I recently made a small change on my iPhone. I updated my contact information to show the name I’d been trying on. What I didn’t realize was that Apple shares those changes with anyone in my contacts who also has an iPhone. Suddenly, my new name was in front of friends and family I hadn’t told yet.

The questions came quickly: “Who’s Alyn?”

In that instant, I was outed in a way I hadn’t planned. But maybe that’s the thing about names — sometimes they refuse to stay hidden. Sometimes they insist on being seen, even before we’re ready. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe a name knows the right time better than we do.

A Name Doesn’t Have to Be Legal to Be Real

There’s this idea that identity only counts when it comes with documentation. That it only matters once you’ve filled out a form, paid a fee, stood in line. But I don’t believe that.

My name is real the moment I say, “this is what I want to be called.”

It’s real the first time someone uses it gently. The first time someone says, “Hi Alyn.” The first time I say it in the mirror and smile.

There’s power in naming yourself. Quiet, grounded, liberating power. And you don’t need permission to do it.

If You’re Struggling With This…It’s Okay

If you’re reading this and feeling a little unsettled, I see you. Maybe you’re someone who’s known me as Levi for a long time. Maybe you’re trying to make sense of how this fits with the person you thought you knew.

I am still the person you know. I haven’t changed all that much from the person I was the last time we talked. I am just finally deciding how best to live my true authentic self.

You don’t have to get it all at once. You don’t have to understand everything to respect it. You don’t have to stop loving who I was to also love who I’m becoming.

Just keep showing up. Keep asking if you have questions. If you call me Levi, I won’t get upset. I’ll just gently remind you if you forget.

For Me, For Now

I don’t know exactly what’s ahead. Maybe I’ll legally change it someday like grandpa Garfield did. Then again maybe I won’t.

What I do know is this: I get to choose. I get to be honest. And I get to love myself enough to ask for something that fits.

So…hi. I’m Alyn.

It’s nice to meet you (again).

10/08/25
Forever United: Reflections at Season’s End

As I write this, it’s the day after the final regular season home game. As the final whistle blew under the bright lights of Allianz Field, I felt that familiar mix of gratitude. I also felt nostalgia and quiet pride. The last regular season home game always carries a special weight. It’s more than just a match. It’s a celebration of everything we’ve shared over the months.

Even though Minnesota United made it to the playoffs, I’ve decided not to get playoff tickets this year. The main reason is cost. I already struggle to afford the regular season. I am already making payments on my season tickets for the 2026 season. As much as I’d love to be there, I just couldn’t justify the extra expense.

The other reason is the unpredictable Minnesota weather. As the years go on, I find myself less tolerant of the cold. We’ve been blessed with a warmer-than-usual fall. Still, there’s no guarantee it will stay that way. Sometimes practicality wins out, even when the heart wants otherwise.

The Heart of the Game

Soccer has always been more than just a game to me. It’s community, connection, and pure emotion wrapped into ninety minutes. Every season brings new stories, new faces, and new memories that stick with you long after the final whistle. This year was no different. I didn’t make it to as many matches as I’d hoped. Yet, the moments I did experience reminded me why I fell in love with this team. Those moments showed me what made this team special in the first place.

Sometimes life has other plans. Sometimes disability makes things harder than they should be. There are days when energy fades, when logistics get tricky, when even passion has to wait its turn. But that’s okay. We do the best we can with what we’re given, and that’s something to be proud of too.

The games I did make it to were nothing short of incredible. The roar of the crowd excites me. The rhythm of the chants energizes me. The pulse of the drums reminds me every time why I love this sport. There’s something almost sacred about being part of a crowd that breathes in unison. Hearts beat for the same goal. Voices rise together under a canopy of light.

Surley’s Season

Surley didn’t make it to as many games this year either — for a wide variety of reasons. There were days that were simply too cold, and others that were far too hot. Then there were nights like the last game, when they launched pyrotechnics. We’ve made a lot of progress on his fear of fireworks, and I didn’t want to risk a setback. Still, there were plenty of good moments. On a bright note, Surley did make an appearance on the jumbo screen this season. It was akin to what Dempsey did back in the day. A proud moment for both of us.

Forever United

Even when I can’t be there, my connection to this team doesn’t fade. It simply finds new ways to shine. Whether I’m watching from home, the love remains constant. It stays strong when I’m checking updates on my phone. I carry their spirit in my heart, unwavering.

Because love for the game isn’t measured in seats filled or screens watched. It’s found in the stories we tell, the memories that linger, and the quiet hope that refuses to fade.

It lives in the roar of the crowd that still echoes in your mind. You hear it in the rhythm of the chants you can’t help but hum. You feel the pride that stays with you long after the lights go out.

Minnesota United is more than a soccer team. It’s a community and a shared heartbeat. It serves as a reminder that belonging can take many forms.

Whether in the stands, at home, or cheering from the heart, I’ll always carry that unity with me.

Go Minnesota United. Forever United. 💙🖤⚽

10/05/25
Passengers on the Journey: Reflections on Loss and Memory

As I get older, I find myself more aware of death. I am more aware than I ever was in my twenties or even thirties. It feels like more and more people I’ve known, whether from childhood, family, or community, are passing away. Each loss isn’t just about the person; it’s about the piece of my own history that goes with them.

A Friend of Garfield’s

Just this past week, I learned that one of my grandpa Garfield’s friends passed away. This man used to drive for the Heartland Express bus in my hometown. He would sometimes pick me up and take me to school when I was in early elementary school.

Although I didn’t know him closely, I knew he had a friendship my grandpa. Watching his funeral service online, I felt the depth of their friendship. It reminded me that the people who shape our families’ lives, even at the edges, help shape our own too.

Saying Goodbye to Colleen

This summer, the loss came much closer. I said goodbye to my friend Colleen, who passed away after a battle with cancer. Last month, I attended her memorial service and had the honor of speaking. In preparation, I had written a eulogy.

I didn’t end up delivering it in full. I made sure to share it with her daughter. She told me how much it meant to her. For me, that was just as important. Writing those words wasn’t only about what I needed to say. It was about preserving what Colleen meant to me and sharing it with those who loved her most.

Here is the eulogy I wrote for her:

There’s a part of me that feels like an outsider here today. It’s been so long. So many of you knew her in ways I didn’t. You saw chapters of her life that I missed. But I hope you’ll let me speak from the part of her story that I did know the years when she was a steady presence in my life, helping me grow into the person I am.

It’s probably been over twenty years since I last saw Colleen. Life took us in different directions, as it does. We lost touch. But coming together now to honor her memory, I’m reminded that the connections that shape us don’t always follow a straight path or come with a tidy ending. I realized that even after all this time, the lessons she left me with, the care she gave, the way she made me feel like I mattered—those things are still with me. And maybe sharing that is one small way to honor her.

It’s hard to put into words what someone like Colleen meant to me. We met during a season of change in my life when everything felt new and uncertain, and I didn’t quite know what I needed.

I had just moved to Hutchinson and had recently started receiving PCA services. I remember the first time I met her. Frazzled hair, green sweatpants, sweatshirt the picture of someone who had already lived through half a day’s chaos before 9 a.m. But right away, she brought something into my world that I didn’t know I was missing: understanding. Patience. The kind of grounded presence that makes everything feel a little less overwhelming.

She helped me learn how to navigate the system, yes—but more importantly, she helped me find confidence in myself. She didn’t just do her job; she showed up as a person. A kind, no-nonsense, fiercely loyal person who stayed by my side through some of life’s hardest transitions.

Over time, Colleen became more than a caregiver. She became a friend. As time went on, our relationship grew beyond the usual roles. That’s where I met Lizzy—her daughter. At the time, Lizzy was this awkward teenager who probably wanted nothing to do with this random kid her mom had brought into their world. And now, she’s become an amazing young woman and a mother herself. I know Colleen would be proud. No—is proud. That much, I have no doubt.

Colleen always took care of people. That was just in her nature. She made sure people had food to eat, a place to sit, and if you needed to crash on the couch—well, rules were more like suggestions. I’m sure letting me stay over more than once probably broke some kind of policy, but I don’t think she cared. Colleen wasn’t one for letting bureaucracy get in the way of doing the right thing.

I remember one specific time, right before I moved to the Twin Cities for college. I had a campus visit coming up, and the logistics were… complicated. My dad was going on the visit with me. He would’ve had to drive all over creation from Benson to Hutchinson to Minneapolis and back again. Colleen just looked at the map and said, “I’ll drive you.” And she did. On the way home, she even offered to take a detour so I could visit my grandma, who was in a nursing home in Minneapolis at the time. That’s who she was—always thinking about how to make things easier for the people she cared about.

The last time I saw her before I moved we promised we’d stay in touch and we did for a while I even remember calling her on my 21^st birthday a little tipsy and she got mad at me because I shouldn’t be mixing alcohol with the meds I was on.

Even though we eventually lost touch, the impact she had on my life didn’t fade. You don’t forget someone who shows up for you when you’re still figuring out who you are—who makes space for you in their home and their heart without asking for anything in return.

Colleen was more than my PCA. She was a guide, a protector, and a friend. And even all these years later, the memories of her kindness, her humor, her complete disregard for red tape when someone needed help they’ve stuck with me. And I suspect I’m not the only one who could say the same.

She took care of people. That was her gift. And the world is better for it.

Even though I didn’t read the entire eulogy aloud, writing it felt like my way of saying goodbye. Sharing it was also my way of bidding farewell.

Family Losses

Of course, loss doesn’t stop with friends. My family has been touched by death too. All of my grandparents have passed. Grandpa Garfield in 1992. Grandpa Roger followed in 1994. Grandma Jonnette in 2004. Grandma Marlys in 2022. Over the years, I’ve also said goodbye to aunts, uncles, and cousins.

I’m fortunate that both of my parents are still alive. That’s not the case for my partner. In August, he lost his father after a long struggle with dementia.

Watching him walk through that grief has reminded me that loss affects us differently. It depends on timing, relationships, and the battles fought along the way.

The Four-Legged Companions

And grief isn’t reserved for humans alone. Over the years, I’ve also had to say goodbye to the four-legged friends who shaped my life. My black cat, Spaz. My first service dog, Dempsey. My childhood horse, Comanche. Even my first hamster, Sir Henry Lipton, and my second hamster, Bert.

Riding with my buddy Comanche.

Sir Henry and Kalo meeting.

“Hello my name is Bert thank you for bringing me home.”

Spaz and Dempsey hanging out together.

Each of them carried their own kind of love, their own kind of presence. Their roles in my life were different from the humans I’ve lost, but their impact was no less meaningful. Their loss is still noted, still acknowledged, still woven into the fabric of who I am.

What Grief Has Taught Me

When I step back, what strikes me most is how loss accumulates over time. At nearly 42, death isn’t an abstract idea anymore. It’s a thread woven through my own story. Sometimes this happens in small ways, like a bus driver who was briefly part of my life. At other times, it affects me in deeply personal ways. These include Colleen, my grandparents, and the animals who gave me unconditional love.

I don’t pretend to have answers about how to handle death. What I do know is this: the people and creatures we lose remain with us in the stories we tell. They are also present in the habits we keep.

Additionally, they stay with us in the ways they shaped us. That’s what makes memory so sacred—it refuses to let death have the last word.

Closing Reflections

Life is a lot like that old Heartland Express bus. People get on and people get off. Some rides are long and some are short. But every passenger, whether human or animal, leaves an imprint on the journey.

I’ve come to see loss not as an ending but as part of the fabric of living. Each goodbye, whether to a grandparent, a friend, or a four-legged companion, stitches another thread into who I am. And the road ahead is stronger because it carries all of them with me.

09/14/25
Writing What Moves Me

This was supposed to be just a Facebook post…

I didn’t plan on writing this post.

It started as a quiet, reflective moment. You realize just how much you’ve been writing lately. You start wondering why. Not just why you write, but why certain things strike that spark in the first place. Lately, it’s been the little things: a headline, a thought, an unexpected experience.

Sometimes it’s something I’ve been chewing on for a while. Sometimes, it’s something that hits me in the moment. Either way, it always starts with curiosity and ends with a need to put it into words.

From Flags to Elevators: Finding Meaning in the Everyday

Last weekend, I read an article in the Star Tribune. It was about how some Minnesota cities are choosing not to fly the new state flag. That small decision triggered a lot of big questions for me: Why this flag? Why now? And why are local governments opting out? That led me to explore Minnesota’s flag history. More importantly, it prompted me to consider what symbols truly mean to the communities they are meant to represent.

Flying Forward: Let’s Talk About the Flag Controversy

During the same reading session, I came across another article. This one was about Elon Musk floating the idea of starting a third political party. Will he actually do it? I doubt it. But it opened up a much more interesting rabbit hole: what could a serious third party mean for the U.S.? Have we really been a two-party country forever? (Spoiler: not exactly.) I knew it wasn’t the post designed for clicks, but I wrote it anyway. Because it made me think.

Not a Fan, Like the Plan

Then came something a lot more personal. Jason got stuck in our apartment building elevator. In the basement. No way to get out. No easy way to communicate. That moment shook me, and not just because of the immediate concern for the person I love. I realized how fragile safety is when systems fail. It is easy for someone to be literally and metaphorically trapped without a voice.

Trapped Without a Voice

Time, Connection, and the Quiet Things

A few days later, it hit me that the week was already flying by. I blinked, and it was suddenly Friday. When I was younger, time felt like it moved through molasses. These days, it barrels ahead like it’s trying to break a land speed record. It’s unsettling. But also a reminder: if we don’t stop and notice our days, we miss them completely.

The Speed of Time

And then there was my neighbor, John. I hadn’t seen him in a while, but I’d been thinking about him just the day before. He’s in his nineties. He is still sharp. He still tinkers with classic cars. He still carries that calm, measured way that reminds me so much of my grandfather. There’s a quiet connection there, the kind you can’t explain but feel all the same. It reminded me how relationships, even the subtle ones, shape us.

A Quiet Reminder

So… Why Do I Write?

Because I need to.

Not for clicks. Not for likes. Not to chase trends. I write because something stirs in me. The only way I know how to make sense of it is by turning it into a story. A question. A shared moment.

I write to reflect. To connect. To offer something real.

If even one person reads what I’ve written and feels seen, my purpose is fulfilled. If they become curious or feel a little less alone, I’ve accomplished what I came here to do.

What about you?

What little things have made you stop and think lately? What everyday moments have sparked something deeper?

I’d love to hear.

07/13/25
The Speed of Time

There’s been so much happening this week that I didn’t even realize tomorrow is Friday.

Wasn’t it just Tuesday?

Next thing I know, summer will be over. The sun will dip behind the trees a little earlier each night. The evenings will turn crisp. And soon enough, we’ll be brushing snow from our coats and wondering where the warm days went.

I’ve only gone camping once this year. Once. And I’d like to go again before the snow flies and the long stillness of winter sets in.

Time is strange like that.

When you’re young, it drags. You want to grow up so badly to reach that next milestone. You want to finally be old enough to drive, to graduate, to move out.

It feels like everything worth having is just out of reach, waiting on some distant shore.

Then you get there.

In college and those early years afterward, time starts to pick up. It begins to move at a steady jog instead of a crawl. You’re chasing things: jobs, rent, friendships, maybe love. You’re figuring things out. Some days still feel long, but the years start to feel shorter.

And then you hit 30.

At least, I did. And from that point on, it’s like time strapped on a pair of rocket boosters.

Now I’m 41. Almost 42. And I can’t help but wonder what is the speed of time going to feel like when I’m 60?

Or 70?

Or…God help me…90?

Will it keep accelerating until months feel like days and years like a blink?

I don’t know. But what I do know is this: moments are all we really get.

Little flashes. Fireflies in a jar. A dog curled up beside you. The crunch of gravel underfoot on a summer walk. The way the air smells before a storm. A cup of coffee in the early morning sun. A smile from a stranger.

That’s all life is, in the end. A string of fleeting, fragile moments.

So I’m trying, really trying, to enjoy them. To notice them. To breathe them in before they vanish.

Because time doesn’t stop. But I can.

Even if just for a moment.

07/10/25