There are some chores in life that feel… well… like chores. The kind you procrastinate. The kind you sigh about. The kind you tell yourself you’ll “get to later.”

And then there are the chores that become memories.

Recently, I was talking with a friend as she shared what felt like the tangled mess of her life. She spoke of work deadlines, family responsibilities and health concerns. The constant hum of pressure. As she talked, her words came quickly, layered on top of one another like vines growing in every direction. “I know I should be practicing self-care,” she said with a weary smile. “But I don’t even know where to begin.”

February arrives draped in red and pink. Store windows sparkle with heart-shaped boxes, bouquets line the grocery aisles, and love songs find their way back onto every playlist. It’s easy to assume this month is about romance, chocolate, and candlelit dinners. But what if February held a quieter invitation? What if this month wasn’t only about loving someone else… but about remembering how to love you?

There are moments when you step into a room and can almost feel your nervous system soften. That’s how it felt walking into the Lake County Joy Summit last weekend. There was a hum of anticipation, but also a gentler energy, like people were ready to set their bags down, loosen their grip, and simply receive.

There’s a quiet moment that arrives for me every January, a pause between what was and what’s about to be. That’s when I sit and listen, not for a list of things I should do, but for a feeling, a nudge, a word.

For many years now, I’ve let go of New Year’s resolutions in exchange for something gentler and far more meaningful: a word of the year. I don’t chase it. I don’t force it. I let it find me. And every year, it does.

With playoff season in full swing, it feels like everyone is watching the same thing unfold, the thrill of a big win, the heartbreak of a tough loss. One team celebrates, with confetti flying and arms raised high. Another walks off the field, heads bowed, dreams deferred. It made me think there is a story worth honoring on both sides.

The holidays have a way of inviting us back to the table, not just for the food, but for the laughter, the stories, and the moments that become memories before we even realize it. This year, at my brother Jeff and sister-in-law Dee’s house, the air was filled with that unmistakable post-dinner glow. Plates pushed aside, glasses refilled, bellies full, and hearts wide open. It was the perfect setup for something fun. And I had something up my sleeve.

It started quietly, the way so many meaningful things do, a simple decision and shared intention. Last year, as I stepped into my strength training journey, I knew I didn’t want to do it alone. I wanted support, encouragement, and someone who understood that showing up for your health isn’t always glamorous, sometimes it’s hard, messy, and deeply personal. That’s when my friend Kitty decided to join me.

There’s a certain kind of magic that settles in on Christmas Eve, the glow of twinkle lights, the hum of familiar voices, the smell of good food lingering in the air. This year, as I walked into my brother Greg’s and sister-in-law Pat’s home, I could feel it right away. Laughter bubbled up easily, coats were piled by the door, and there was that unmistakable feeling of togetherness that only family gatherings seem to bring.

As the year begins to gently wind down, I find myself drawn into a familiar rhythm, a quiet pause where reflection naturally rises to the surface. There’s something about this time of year that invites us to look back, not with judgment, but with curiosity. To notice where we’ve been. To acknowledge what we’ve carried. To recognize what we’ve grown through. And yet, so often, when we take stock of a year, our minds race straight to what didn’t get done: the unfinished projects, the goals still waiting, and the ideas that never quite took shape. We’re quick to overlook the courage it took just to keep going.

There’s something about this time of year that feels sacred, as if the air itself holds memory. And right there, in the stillness of a December morning moment, I felt him. My Dad. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a soft, familiar presence, the kind that settles into your heart before you even realize it’s arrived.

The other evening, I sat at my dining room table with a cup of soup warming my hands, the soft glow of the lamp casting a golden circle of light around me. Outside, the world was already dark, and inside I could almost feel the season shifting, that quiet whisper of winter approaching, of gatherings, traditions, and expectations slowly waking up for another year.

There are moments in life when we can almost feel the pages turning. Not the chapters we read in a book, but the ones we live, the ones filled with change, courage, and the desire to rediscover who we truly are. Over the last year, I felt myself standing right in the middle of one of those moments.

The other night, I opened the calendar on my phone and stared at the colorful dots filling each day. How could we already be nearing the end of the year? It feels like just yesterday I was setting goals, mapping out dreams, and writing intentions for what I wanted this year to hold. And yet, here we are.

Lately, every time I open the calendar on my phone, I can’t help but notice the growing patchwork of colored dots and reminders, family dinners, events, get-togethers, and travel plans all stacked together like ornaments on an already full tree. It’s that unmistakable sign that the holiday season is here again.

A few weeks ago, I shared about the women’s golf retreat I attended for the first time this fall, an annual four-day getaway filled with fairways, laughter, and a whole lot of dimes and quarters. I was a substitute for another gal who couldn’t make it, and when asked to join, I didn’t hesitate. Without overthinking it, I said yes. Though I’m far from an avid golfer, I was reassured it was mostly for fun and as it turns out, that was absolutely true.

There’s something about fall on the farm that stirs my heart. That comforting blend of nostalgia and joy that only comes from being surrounded by family, laughter, and the smell of harvest in the air. Recently, my family gathered for one of my favorite traditions of the year, our annual family dinner and hayride.

It was one of those afternoons when the air felt soft and golden, and the hum of the chicken coop mixed with the rustle of leaves in the breeze. My then 14-month-old granddaughter toddled across the yard, her tiny shoes crunching over apples scattered on the ground. She spotted empty buckets sitting near the coop and with great intention, set them side by side.