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I wasn’t expecting the recent winter storm to take me back.

It wasn’t even snow this time. It was sleet, freezing rain, and temperatures hovering in the single digits. The kind of cold that feels extreme for north Texas and instantly stirs up memories of past power outages and bursting city water pipes.

I was raised to believe that knowledge was primary.

If you’ve ever committed to getting “back on track” with fitness — only to watch motivation quietly disappear a few weeks later — you’re not alone.

Lately, I’ve found myself feeling a little nostalgic about Christmas.

This time of year brings a strange contrast. Everywhere you turn, people seem to be celebrating—gathering with family, sharing meals, laughing at holiday parties, posting photos filled with joy and connection. 

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. No gifts, no pressure—just people you care about, gathered around good food, shared laughter, and that comfortable kind of camaraderie that comes from sharing a table together.

When I first started hosting Thanksgiving in my mid-20s, I went all in. I wanted the experience to be perfect, so everyone else could just show up and enjoy. I considered that my gift to the people I love.

We’ve all done it — put off the email we know we need to send, avoided the conversation that’s weighing on us, or suddenly felt an urgent need to organize our desk instead of starting that project with real stakes.

Sixteen years ago, during a long weekend in San Miguel de Allende, I stumbled into one of the most beautiful traditions I’d ever seen. The plaza was alive with color. There were vibrant marigolds, candles flickering in the twilight, photos of smiling faces long gone, favorite foods carefully arranged, and tiny keepsakes that once belonged to the people being remembered.

Maybe you’ve seen it in someone you care about — or felt it yourself. It’s the quiet moment when a person stops believing things can get better. The spark fades. Conversations shift from “This is hard” to “Why bother?”

I recently read a post by poet John Roedel (I really enjoy his work) that made me smile and sigh at the same time. He wrote about self-publishing — how he loves creating but struggles with the business side. Marketing, trends, bestseller lists? Not his thing. His books come straight from the heart, not from chasing what’s hot. And he’s made peace with that.