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?

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.