The Quiet Kind of True
Not everything needs to be a milestone.
Some things just stay.
These are those.
Whitney Lane
A story of sweetness, willfulness, and letting things be what they are.
I got her to bless people.
That was the plan:
She’d be a therapy dog.
We trained. I passed. She passed.
All that was left was the final test.
But I knew.
She wasn’t made for it.
Whitney Lane, an English Lab, is gentle, yes—
and she’s also her own woman.
She swims like she owns the pool.
She greets every dog in the neighborhood like a local official.
She’s kind, deeply sweet, and wonderfully opinionated.
And somewhere in my spirit, I heard:
don’t force this.
So, I didn’t.
She never became a therapy dog.
Not in a structured way. Not on command.
Just in the way she shows up.
Still blesses people—our family, our friends, the woman across the street who now keeps dog treats in her pocket.
Some of us were never meant to pass the test.
Not because we couldn’t.
But because we weren’t made for it.
We were made for something else.
And for me,
some love arrives with a plan.
Some love arrives—
and gently rewrites it.
Gardenias in the Morning
The kind of legacy that fits in a sandwich bag.
She’ll hand a friend a flower
in a Ziploc bag like it’s a diamond.
No note. No reason.
Just: I thought of you.
Every spring,
the house smells like gardenias.
Floating gardenias.
Always has.
As far back as I can remember—
through every season of her life—
around this time of year,
my mom’s up extra early,
breaking off the blooms by hand,
because someone will be on her heart
to share them with.
She floats them in vases:
by the kitchen sink,
on the table,
on someone’s desk.
She never said it would matter to me someday.
But it does.
I hope I bring beauty into the world
in the same small, thoughtful ways—
because it matters
to let people know
they’ve been seen.
Now I’m the one
picking gardenias in the morning.
Sharing them.
Blessing people.
And when I catch myself doing it—
I realize:
Oh. I’m doing what she did.
Maybe I’ll keep doing it
after she’s gone.
Or maybe I’m doing it
because one day she won’t be.
It’s about witnessing
a life of gentle, intentional beauty—
and quietly realizing
that’s part of me.
When you realize
what you inherited isn’t a thing.
It’s a way of being.
Interlude
Not a story. Just something I noticed.
We spend so much of our lives looking for clarity
when what we’re really craving is connection.
Not answers.
Not efficiency.
Not perfection.
Just to feel that we’re not carrying the question alone.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about how relational we actually are.
You don’t want to know the meaning of life
so much as you want to know if your life has meant something.
If your presence shifted the air in a room.
If someone looked at you and thought,
"I'm better for having known her."
And the wild thing is—
most people will never say it.
Not out loud.
Not in time.
So we live wondering,
and second-guessing,
and quietly carrying our depth like it’s a secret.
But if I could leave something on the table, it would be this:
How some of the loudest truths
are carried quietly.
And the ones who question themselves the most
often have the most to offer.
Not because they’re unsure—
but because they care enough not to bulldoze.
So if you’re still wondering
where you belong,
what it means,
if it matters—
don’t rush the answer.
Stay with the ache.
That’s where the real work is.
That’s where I keep finding people.
Christmas Trees, Birthday Cakes, and Fourth of July
A mother-daughter tradition in five words or less.
That’s what we say when we mean joy.
Christmas trees, birthday cakes, and Fourth of July.
It’s shorthand between me and my mom.
A way of saying: this matters.
This is the good part.
Not because it’s flashy—
but because it shows up:
glowing, sweet, or a little wild.
It’s how we remind each other
to notice what’s still worth celebrating—
what still lights up the sky,
even if it only lasts a moment.
An heirloom doesn’t always sit on a shelf.
Sometimes, it's a thread that holds memory and meaning.
And when I say it—
even to myself—
I can hear her voice in it.
Full of love for life.
Because joy doesn’t always arrive wrapped in a milestone.
Sometimes, it looks like something small but shining.
A sparkler on the porch.
A bakery cake with your name in frosting and hand-picked candles.
A tree that smells like the childhood version of home.
Christmas trees, birthday cakes, and Fourth of July.
A way of remembering what counts.
And who we count it with.
Turquoise
A story of color, inheritance, and what lasts longer than shine.
In my family,
turquoise is the stone we reach for.
My grandmother wore it
the way some wear diamonds—
my mom wears it
simple, warm, every day.
I wear it
when I want to feel close.
Not for show,
but for love.
For beauty.
For remembering.
She was born in Gallup,
where trains run through red rock
and the sky goes on forever—
a woman who could fill a room
with laughter first, turquoise second.
Three sisters and a brother stayed behind.
Two came west—
and the color never left us,
finding its way
to Los Angeles kitchens
and California wrists.
The women before me
didn’t need anything that sparkled
to know their worth.
They just needed something honest,
something that could hold its own in the sun.
Some jewelry catches the light.
Ours keeps it.
The Balcony That Faced the Street
A story for Amada.
Evenings drifted long there—
smoke curling above the chatter,
the air still soft from the day.
Amada leaned over her balcony,
waving to the same neighbors,
laughing at something
you couldn’t quite hear.
No hurry.
No agenda.
Just the small rhythm of being seen.
Years later,
you find yourself doing the same—
standing by a window,
hands resting on the frame,
the world carrying on below.
You smile,
because some part of you stayed in Sevilla—
learning that presence
doesn’t have to travel far
to feel new again.
More Get To Than
Got To
A story for mornings when meaning comes slow.
A half turn awake, eyes still closed,
before your feet touch the ground,
before day asks anything of you,
your mind starts anyway.
Got to get up.
Got to get through.
Got to keep it together.
And then, from somewhere in the past,
a professor’s voice drifts in:
more get to than got to.
It doesn’t change the weight.
But it changes the angle.
You breathe a little deeper.
You look toward the light.
And for a moment,
you remember—
you’re here.