A reflection on heaviness, hope, and the quiet power of small things

The day began with the kind of sky that takes your breath for just a moment—endlessly blue, impossibly crisp. A perfect 70-degree Friday in Middle Tennessee, the kind that carries spring on its back and lets you believe, even briefly, that winter might finally be loosening its grip.

The breeze was gentle, the sunshine warm and golden. The air had shifted, and with it came a subtle lifting—like the world itself was exhaling. And for a while, I wanted to believe the world was matching the weather.

But it didn’t.

Fridays are usually lighter in my schedule, fewer clients, a slower rhythm. But not today.
Six sessions. Six sacred stories.
Each one heavy.

There are days when I can hold pain with open hands—attuned, present, but not overtaken.
Today wasn’t one of those days.

Some stories sat deep in my bones after the calls ended. I tried to release them, to shake off the residue, but the ache stayed with me, humming just beneath the surface.

I needed motion. I needed life.
So I ran errands—mundane things, just moving through the world like everyone else. I cracked the windows as I drove, let the breeze wrap around my arms, played music that made me feel a little more alive. It wasn’t a cure, but it helped. Sometimes joy isn’t loud—it’s a cracked window and sunlight on your skin. It’s the sacredness of simplicity.

But then came the news.

Political negotiations between the U.S. and Zelensky had gone poorly. And with a trip to Ukraine just a week away, the news landed like a stone in my chest.
Frustration.
Grief.
The slow kind of despair that doesn’t lead to action—just scrolling. Absorbing. Feeling helpless.

I sat with it for a while.
And then, I did what I could.

I went outside and strung lights across the back patio.
Threaded them carefully. Adjusted. Tweaked.
Stood back. Breathed. Reached again.

It was a simple thing.
But when the sun dipped low and those soft lights began to glow, it felt like something sacred.
A small act of intention in a world that often feels too chaotic to hold.
A reminder that even when everything feels dark and uncertain, we can still create beauty. We can still choose light.

Dinner with Macon helped too.
The kind of evening that lets you step out of your own head for a while. Good food. Easy conversation. Laughter. Presence. Nothing profound—just peace. And after a day like this one, that was profound enough.

Later, I began preparing for tomorrow’s dinner party—setting things in order, making space for connection and warmth. The thought of a full table, of laughter and shared stories, feels like something steady to hold onto.

Tonight, I find myself carrying a strange mix of things:

• The deep trauma my clients entrusted to me.
• The heaviness of international conflict and a personal stake in what happens next.
• The contentment of simple rituals—errands, porch lights, a good meal.
• The anticipation of a shared table tomorrow.

And all of it matters.

The hard things don’t cancel out the good, and the good doesn’t erase the hard. They sit together.
And somehow, both are part of what it means to be human.

Outside my window, the lights on the patio glow gently.
They’re not loud. They’re not spectacular.
But they are steady.

And tonight, that is enough.

If the world feels heavy today, maybe don’t try to fix it all.
Maybe string some lights.
Step outside.
Let someone else make you laugh.
Let the sun warm your skin.
Prepare for a gathering.
Make room for beauty.

Even the smallest lights matter in the dark.