Every Wednesday, I gather around a table filled with colorful tiles, score cards, a little friendly competition, and a group of women who have become one of my favorite parts of the week.

Now, if you have ever played Mahjong, you know there is a lot more to it than simply matching pretty little tiles. At least that is what I tell myself every week when I look down at my rack and Mahjong card and think, “Wait a minute, what section can I play?”

The other day, I found myself staring at my computer screen with a list of tasks in front of me and a question quietly circling in my mind. What if this doesn't work? It wasn't the first time that thought had appeared over the last couple of months, and I'm guessing it won't be the last.

The other morning, I sat quietly with my coffee before the world fully woke up. The house was still, the kind of stillness that allows your thoughts to rise to the surface. And for some reason, I began thinking about women.

Not the polished version we often see on social media. Not the carefully curated highlights or the perfectly posed moments. I thought about the women quietly rebuilding their lives.

My story about getting a fence actually began over a year ago… although if I’m being honest, it had been sitting on my heart much longer than that.

The idea came to me in the quiet of an ordinary day… the kind of idea that makes your heart smile before your mind has time to question it.

I was planning a sleepover with my two and four year old granddaughters, and I wanted to create something special. Not just another activity, but something they would feel… something they would remember.

A fairy garden.

It started with something simple. Or at least, I thought it would be. I was swapping out a 5x7 rug for an 8x10 in my living room. The smaller rug came out with ease and I remember thinking, well that was simple enough. I rolled out the new one and almost immediately paused.

Wow… this is big.

The air was warm that early afternoon, the kind that makes you want to have strength training class outdoors. As we prepared to get started you could hear the quiet chatter of women gathering, and sense that familiar mix of anticipation and uncertainty that comes with every workout.

We had just started class when our trainer smiled and said, “Alright ladies… today, we’re ending with Sally.” A groan escaped from one of the women in the circle. The rest of us exchanged looks that said, this can’t be good.

The room was already alive when we walked in. You could feel it in the air. The hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, and a room filled with possibility and promise of a great evening ahead. There was an energy building, like something special was about to unfold. We found our table, settled in, and I took a quiet moment to look around.

I still remember the feeling as I walked through the doors that morning, a quiet sense of purpose, mixed with curiosity. It was one of those company community service days where we stepped away from our desks and into the community, offering our time wherever it was needed most. That year, I was assigned to A Safe Place.

The clink of glasses, the low hum of conversation, the kind of laughter that rises easily and lingers just a little longer. That was the backdrop of our evening.

There were no decorations. No candles flickering on a cake. No grand celebration marking the occasion. Just the five of us: my two brothers, their wives, and me gathered around a table, sharing a meal and something far more meaningful… presence.

There are moments in life that arrive quietly… and then ripple far beyond what we could have ever imagined. I was reminded of one of those moments recently when a message popped up on my phone. It was from a dear friend, someone I had met along my own transformational journey. Life had taken us in different directions over the past several months, as it often does. Busy schedules. Changing seasons. Less frequent check-ins. But still, that thread of connection remained.

I could hear their laughter as soon as they stepped into the water. That deep, belly laughter that only children seem to find so easily, the kind that bubbles up from pure joy, unfiltered and unapologetic. It filled the yard as I stood nearby, watching two little girls fully immersed in the simple magic of a puddle. But let me back up for a moment.

Last week, I stepped outside and paused for a moment, letting the sun warm my face. It was one of those unexpected Midwest days, the kind where winter loosens its grip just enough to let you believe spring might already be here. The air felt soft, almost forgiving. I left my coat unzipped, tilted my face toward the light, and for a brief moment, everything felt like possibility.

The first time I stepped into the indoor golf simulator this winter, I paused for a moment just outside the doorway. The room hummed softly with the team playing ahead of me and the occasional thwack of a golf ball hitting the screen. Upon entering my team’s time, bright greens and rolling fairways stretched across the projector wall, but instead of sunshine and fresh air, there were warm lights, turf underfoot, and the sight of a computer system calculating every swing.

Last weekend began like so many others, with a plan. My daughter Hannah was going to come over and help me with a home project I had been thinking about. I had ideas swirling around in my mind, tools gathered, and the anticipation of making progress. But as I looked more closely at what I needed to do, I realized something important, I didn’t actually have everything I needed yet. There were still a few decisions to make before I could even purchase the materials. Sometimes life gently taps you on the shoulder and says, maybe not today.

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?