A reflection on presence, patience, and the quiet work of staying grounded

The day began with sunlight—bright and clean—the kind of clear sky that stretches wide over Middle Tennessee and makes the world feel a little more alive. But the air? The air still held a bite. A firm reminder that winter isn’t quite done, no matter how much I want it to be.

I stepped outside with a jacket pulled tight, bracing for the contrast between the sun’s golden light and the chill that clung to everything. The trees, still mostly bare, looked like ink sketches drawn across the sky. The red maples that had bloomed so bravely last week seemed stunned by the sudden cold, their tiny buds curling inward, hesitant.

I get it.
Sometimes, I’m hesitant too.

The work of the day was full.
Nine clients.
Nine stories.
Nine distinct ways trauma shows up and shapes a life.

It’s sacred work—and some days, it feels like standing on the edge of a vast ocean, watching wave after wave of sorrow roll toward me. The temptation is always to brace or retreat, but I’ve learned something better: to stay anchored.

Today, my anchor was simple.
Crocheting.

The quiet loop of yarn in my hands during sessions, the feel of soft fiber slipping over my fingers—it’s more than a habit. It’s a tether. A rhythm that holds me steady so I can keep holding space for others.

By afternoon, I knew I needed a shift.
So I took two sessions outside, wrapped in an afghan, settled on the porch.

Maci curled beside me, her small, warm presence grounding me in the moment. The air was brisk, but the sunlight on my face was soothing. I listened to the wind rustling through the trees and the faint sound of squirrels rustling through the leaves—remnants of autumn still clinging to oak branches, stubborn in their own way.

And in that stillness, I noticed something: the conversations outside felt different.
Softer.
Less heavy.
Maybe because the sky was above us.
Maybe because the earth was holding us too.

Late in the day, a shift in my timeline threw everything off.

The kind of unexpected change that doesn’t quite feel like a crisis, but still leaves you a little unsteady. A plan I had been preparing for—mentally, emotionally—suddenly delayed. The uncertainty wrapped itself around my chest, tight and unwelcome.

Was I relieved? Frustrated? Tired?
Yes.
All of it.

Macon and I went out for dinner to our usual spot. The sun had dipped, and the air had turned sharper again. Still, it was good to be out. To eat something warm. To let the day settle.

As I sat there, I reminded myself:
This is just another wave. It will come, and it will pass.

Tonight, I feel… not resolved exactly, but steady.

I’m learning that contentment doesn’t always arrive with clarity.
Sometimes it comes in small reassurances:
The warmth of the sun on your face.
The weight of your dog resting beside you.
The simple comfort of doing meaningful work, even when the outcome is uncertain.

Spring is still coming—
Hesitant. Slow.
But coming.

And for tonight, that’s enough

If you’re in a season of waiting…
If you’re walking through cold days while hoping for warmth…
If the work is heavy and the way is uncertain…

Let the small things steady you.

The sun still rises.
The trees still bud.
The next season is making its way toward you, even if it hasn’t quite arrived.

Hold fast.
Breathe deep.
And remember: this wave, too, will pass.