Category Archives: Family

Communication, Community, Connecting, Family, Life Experiences

Carrying What Matters

A year-end reflection

This past year held a lot.

I said goodbye to my mom—at least to her human form—and discovered that grief doesn’t arrive in a straight line. It comes as an undertow. Quiet at first. Then suddenly pulling up old family currents I didn’t know were still alive in me.

It was also a year of aliveness.
We returned to Finding Your Mojo in Montana.
We launched Pop-Ups for People.
Worked with new and old clients in new forms.
Traveled, taught, learned, loved.
Studied together. Studied Apart. Created. Said yes to what was alive.

And somewhere in the middle of all that living, my body slowed me down.

An extended stretch now of being sick.
No skiing. No Peloton. No real movement.
At first, I didn’t care.
And then—when the fog lifted—I noticed something surprising.

I wasn’t rushing back to the discipline I usually rely on to “keep myself in check.”

Instead, I found myself reaching for comfort:
Mochas.
Craft beer.
Pizza.

Not because I don’t know what supports my body—but because sometimes comfort feels like a small shelter in a world that feels loud, divided, and relentlessly intense.

Recently, in a Tarot reading, the card that landed in the physical position was Burden.

I realized how much I’ve been carrying:
Grief.
Concern for the world.
The desire for connection without always knowing how to create it consistently.
The tension between what nourishes me and what soothes me.

And yet—here’s the other truth. In this seeming world of rage.

Up close. Face to face. In real conversation.
I’ve experienced genuine connection with people who hold very different views.
I’ve found common fears. Shared hopes. A longing for understanding.
That part gives me hope.

Still, the headlines keep coming.
And some days, that part is hard.

As this year comes to a close, I find myself asking quieter questions:

  • Where was I touched and changed?
  • Where did I show up with my full heart?
  • Where did I hold back?
  • What actually mattered?
  • What no longer needs to be carried into the next year?

This season—of lights and darkness, tradition and reinvention—seems to invite both grief and possibility.
Promise and pain.
Joy and uncertainty.

Maybe that’s the work right now:
Not fixing.
Not resolving.
But noticing what we’re carrying—and choosing what’s worth bringing forward.

So I’m curious about you.

What touched your heart this year?
What feels heavy—and what feels essential?
What are you ready to set down?

May this season offer you moments of peace.
May the questions that rise lead you toward connection.
And may whatever you’re carrying be met with kindness.

Communication, Connection, Faith, Family, Vulnerability

Remembering Mom: Grief, Energy, and the Deeper Connection Beyond Form

Lately, I’ve been deep in the process of putting together a video for my mom’s memorial. It’s been emotional, tender, overwhelming — and surprisingly, expansive.

My sisters, Penny and Melissa, and I have each been weaving together pieces of the celebration for Bernie’s life. Alongside family, friends, and partners, we’re building something that’s both a tribute and a revelation.

As I move through photos, memories, and stories — I find myself feeling my mom’s presence more clearly than ever. Not as a body, not even just as my mother, but as energy. A field of love and impact still vibrating through all of us.

It reminds me how easy it is to forget that we are more than our bodies. We spend so much of life becoming “someone” — chasing meaning, purpose, and a sense of fulfillment — only to realize, eventually, that none of those identities matter as much as the connections we share, the presence we hold, and the love we carry.

This journey of grief is also a journey of remembering. Of feeling, more than ever, that we are not separate.

My mom is still here — not in form, but in frequency. In creativity, in laughter, in the light my sisters and I carry forward. In every connection that pulses with love.

We came from energy. We are energy. And in those moments of openness, when I stop trying to hold or define it, I feel her. I remember.

Mom — thank you for helping me re-member that we are not separate. That we never were.

Connection, Embracing Unknown, Faith, Family

Finding The Fractals In The Fractures

In today’s world of division and polarization, it’s easy to see only what’s broken.

I get it.

But what if we’re not separate at all—what if we’re deeply, inherently connected?

What if the fractures we see are not wounds, but fractals—patterns that echo deeper truths?

Our senses show us only the visible strains, the surface tension of energy and vibration.

We miss the harmonics beneath, the subtle frequencies resonating between and within us.

So we attack, we defend—in the absence of a felt sense of the fractal rhythm always weaving us together.

But in the space of stillness, of nothingness, there is a rich, invisible pulse.

An infinite energy moves in fractals, silently connecting, endlessly creating a tapestry of possibility.

Our knowledge—our consciousness—is limited.

We crave story, structure, a sheet of music to follow.

And in seeking to understand, we often reduce the infinite into forms we can control:

Religion. Art. Science. Education.

None of these are wrong.

But each, when held too tightly, can become rigid.

Each can close the door to the fractal.

So how do we make space for what can’t be controlled?

How do we allow the fractal?

Breathe and trust.

Express and show up.

Listen and be curious.

When I do that, I tap into the infinite.

Just recently, I sat by my mother’s bedside, bearing witness to her transition—from form to energy, from Bernie to spirit.

In those final moments, something in the air shifted.

The barriers between us dissolved.

That’s why I needed to be there.

To sit beside her. To be with my sisters.

Somewhere in those quiet exchanges, I could feel the emerging fractal of our family—unfolding, rearranging, expanding.

Some might call this strange.

But it felt familiar to me—like the way I work with horses.

With horses, there’s no pretense.

No reliance on words, manners, or the learned rules of communication.

They feel everything.

They don’t dwell in stories. They live in the moment.

It’s all about the energy.

Beside my mother, it was the same.

Our past was absent.

Separation vanished.

It was a sweet, sacred space.

Her anxiety and agitation had eased.

Yes, she was still working to stay—but something else was also there.

Something softer, wiser.

I didn’t try to explain it. I just trusted it.

Music and words drifted through the room.

But more present to me was the soundless symphony from beyond.

Call it mist. Call it music. Call it the song of souls.

She was more tuned in than I was—already on her next adventure.

I was still unraveling the fabric of our shared life.

Soon, it would be just a fractal, dancing in the room.

It was a beautiful moment—beyond the veil.

That feeling has lasted.

It lingers, because it’s not energy bound by time.

It doesn’t need understanding.

It asks not to be named or narrated.

It simply is.

And in it, I remember:

We are fractals of interconnected energy.

I don’t need to fear or worry.

My work is to be creative. Curious. Open to the unknown and the infinite.

Not to conquer or control—but to live in the joy of our shared energy and our singular spirit.

We are dancers—

Not just humans—

When we remember the fractal that connects us all.

Connection, Family

May You Soar Mom

Bernie, my mom, passed away early this morning.

It’s been quite a journey these past few years—for us as sisters—to support and care for her. She was quite a woman.

In these last few days sitting beside her, I was struck by her sheer life force. Even near the end, that determination was so present. We always knew she didn’t want any life-extending measures, and yet, as her dementia progressed, it was sometimes hard to witness her body continuing on long after her mind had started to fade.

She lived in a care home in Seattle, which ended up being a much better fit for her than the assisted living apartment. It offered warmth and connection, and the staff there really held her with care. My older sister Penny carried much of the weight—getting her to and from appointments, making sure she always knew her family was close. As mom became less mobile and her memory slipped further, Penny worked closely with the team at Langford House to keep her safe and at home, especially as we worried about the risk of her being sent to urgent care or the hospital against her wishes.

Eventually, the moment came when we could call in hospice. The focus shifted to comfort—to helping her transition to her next adventure, to release this body that had served her so well for so long. I think as soon as she knew she was surrounded by people who were there to help her let go, she was ready.

But that didn’t make it easy.

The hospice team was incredible, working seamlessly with the home care team. My mother was surrounded by healing and compassionate hands. And for the first time in a long while, Penny didn’t have to carry the heavy load alone.

We were told it could be weeks, maybe months. But soon, without the pressure of constant medical intervention, she softened. She allowed herself to simply receive—music, massage, touch.

I got the call that it might be very soon and was able to come. We sat together for hours. My sisters and I talked and shared. One of us was on FaceTime, but it felt like we were all in the room. We laughed. We cried. We told our mother she could go—we were ready.

Still, she labored with her breath—each one seeming like it could be the last. Dying is hard. I could feel that she was mostly gone already, as if one foot were in Heaven and the other still here. To me, it seemed like she was already somewhere else—some other time or space—but felt she had to bring her body with her.

That body was complete. Fully used. Fully lived.

And finally, she let go.

I’m so grateful I could be there—with my sisters—as we said goodbye.

May you soar, Bernie.

Connecting, Connection, Embracing Unknown, Family, Vulnerability, Women

Mothers and Lessons From Three Sisters

My mom Shining

I wrote most of this on Mother’s Day.  My mother is mostly in the spirit world, though her heart still beats and body carries on.  Her memories are gone and the woman now seems anxious and uncertain where she is.  So, it seemed more like a burden to call as her daughter.  I know her care team and those around her are honoring her as mother, woman, and human being. That’s the blessing I wanted for her on this Mother’s Day.

One of the stories I tell in Crazy, Cracked, Warm and Deep is about the Three Sisters—a Native American planting tradition—and how it beautifully reflects the relationship I have with my own sisters. I’m the youngest of three. As we navigate my mother’s later years together, I see this story playing out again and again.

But I also believe this story has something powerful to offer all of us—right now.

Here’s the plant version, if you haven’t heard it:

Three very different crops—corn, beans, and squash—are planted together. And each plays a unique role:

  • Corn, like a strong older sister, grows tall and gives the beans something to climb.
  • Pole beans, generous and grounding, pull nitrogen from the air and feed the soil for all three.
  • Squash, with its sprawling leaves, protects the ground, shades the soil, and keeps pests away with its prickly vines.

Together, they create a self-sustaining, living community—each one offering what the others need.

I love this way of thinking. That three different beings—plants, sisters, people—can grow together by weaving their strengths, instead of competing. And that this nurturing, collaborative way of being is deeply feminine.

It’s no accident they’re called the Three Sisters. This collective, collaborative, and nurturing process of growing with the land feels deeply feminine to me—more so than masculine.

And I struggle with how often our Western culture misses the value, the depth, the heart of the feminine. 

I don’t want to just say “women,” because I know women who don’t honor or value their feminine side. I’ve been one of those women. 

I spent years trying to kiss my elbow because someone told me that would magically turn me into a boy. 

Not because I wanted to *be* a boy—but because I wanted to be dominant. 

I didn’t want to be the one who could be crushed like a bug, raped, or terrified by arms stronger than mine, forcing me to do something against my will. 

If that’s what relationships were—one dominating, one surrendering—then I wanted to be the one dominating. 

And for a while, I tried. But I wasn’t particularly good at it. 

I didn’t like dominating or powering over anyone. 

And I had this deeper, quieter knowing that even when I armed my rage and delivered it, it only left me with more shame, pain, and isolation than when I bled on the ground from being on the receiving end. 

Somewhere along the way, I began to understand: the feminine isn’t a weakness. 

Maybe it was learning that childbirth—one of the most painful experiences a body can endure—is something women do all the time, to bring a child into the world. No glory. No fanfare. Just a newborn. 

Maybe it was through poetry and songwriting—how music can deliver truth without destroying. 

Maybe it was watching women leaders who build teams rather than just climbing ladders. 

Or maybe it was from the men who’ve whispered their longing to let go of the fight and the might, and to share their tender sides.

Maybe it was my own mother’s way of being in a medical world and bringing Healing Touch into a world that wasn’t particularly receptive. Yet, she wove her beliefs into energy work, spirituality, and science.  Just last weekend, three practitioners spoke of her mentoring them at various universities.

I get now—it’s not really about gender.  It’s not even about birthing a baby.

We all have masculine and feminine in us. 

But the dualities make it harder sometimes. 

It’s easier to grow like the Three Sisters—interwoven, interdependent—than to live trapped in polarities. 

I see that with my sisters. When one of us is at odds with the other, the third—if she’s not too entangled—starts dancing, loosening the knotty vines so we can work together again.

We need to do that. 

Weaving together the seeds from our different beliefs, not getting stuck in the right path or the wrong path but allowing the beauty of the sun to shine through and help each of us become a brighter light.

Ultimately, I believe that is the lessons of The Three Sisters and one of the gifts from my mother.

Connection, Family, Vulnerability, writing

The Undertow of Lov-ing and Letting Go

Maybe I thought I had done the work, so I’d be okay as my mom transitions.

I’m not sad in the sense of losing her—I believe that with her dementia, some of that connection to memory and story has been gone for a while now. I don’t feel there’s a lot left unspoken or unshared between us.

And yet, I find myself caught in this underlying undertow—a swirl that leaves me feeling heavy, struggling to stay present.

I’m a marriage and family therapist with a systems background, so I’m well aware of the powerful pull of family of origin. I had imagined that, with all the work I’ve done to gather pieces of my past into a kind of fractal—a pattern that allows me to live and love more fully—I would have unhooked myself from that pull.

But no.

Over the past few years, I’ve been on a journey with my sisters in caring for our mom. 

I live in Montana. Melissa, the middle sister, lives in Indiana. Penny, the oldest, is on the ground in Seattle—closest to Mom, and most often in charge of appointments, care, and transport.

COVID shifted everything for Mom. During that window of being locked down in her apartment, her memory began to decline. We did what we could. But let’s face it—there was so much that left our elderly isolated and alone. Maybe it impacted all of us in that way.

We moved her into a care home where she’s been for the past few years. She has a great care team, and our family stays connected in various ways.

As sisters, we try to meet weekly for a call—to check in, share, and support each other on this journey. Sometimes it’s been about Mom. Sometimes it’s been about all the other dynamics unfolding in our own lives. Sometimes we’ve agreed. Sometimes we haven’t. Sometimes it’s been hard. And sometimes we’ve laughed.

We each hold different beliefs about life, death, faith, and spirit. We also have different perspectives on health care and managing expectations. What I’ve loved is that none of these differences have undermined our shared purpose: caring for our mom.

We’ve cultivated an intimacy—in-to-me-see—with each other, using the energy of emotion to be creative, supportive, and, I believe, lov-ing with each other.

And still, this undertow.

There’s a fabric of family that lives in the body—in emotion, in images, and in story. That fabric is losing one of its essential threads. Though I know, energetically, my mom isn’t gone, the tangible contact with her texture, her vibration, is slipping away.

Will the fabric of our family continue without that thread?

Maybe that’s the fear.

There are aspects of my life that I know will never be “known” once my mom is gone. 

I’ve always said I was okay with that. 

And I am.

Our stories have become my wisdom. 

Energy.  Moving and reshaping.

I hope that’s true for her as well.

Connecting, Embracing Unknown, Family, Life Experiences

Soul Searching With My Sisters

Wow, it’s already mid-January—2025 is flying by! It’s funny how time feels so relative. Some moments rush by, like this month, while other parts of my day feel timeless. For instance, this morning, I didn’t even glance at the clock until noon and was shocked at how quickly time had slipped away.

Recently, I attended an Enneagram workshop called Know Your Soul. I’ve dabbled in the Enneagram before and found it intriguing, though I never seem to get the same result twice. But this workshop stood out from the start. It was my sister Penny who invited me, and when I found out on one of our regular sister calls that Melissa had signed up too, I decided to join. The workshop was held in person at St. Mark’s in Seattle, with a virtual option that made it easy for me to attend.

One unique aspect of this workshop was the pre-work. We were asked to retake the Enneagram test but answer the questions as we would have between the ages of 20 and 35. That twist sparked my curiosity. Adding to the fun, we were also asked to bring a photo of ourselves as 4-year-olds. My sisters and I had a great time sharing our childhood pictures during our sister call.

The workshop itself was rich, informative, and deeply meaningful for my current journey of leaning into the unknown. Answering the test questions as my younger self was eye-opening. While my memory of that time isn’t perfect, the results felt more aligned than ever before. For the first time, I could see a pattern—one type consistently appeared in my top three: Type 5. That felt significant.

What struck me most was how the Enneagram isn’t a static label. It’s fluid, dynamic, and tied to our growth. The workshop leader, who had decades of experience, shared his own challenges with identifying his type. He framed the test as an “ego personality test” because our ego solidifies in that 20-35 age range. But then he introduced the concept of the Soul Enneagram—how our deeper essence evolves as we grow in consciousness, beyond ego. That perspective resonated deeply.

I began to embrace my Type 5 in a new way. The idea of being a “hoarder” of knowledge hit home, as did the fear of emptiness that drives my thirst for understanding. I also learned how I disintegrate under stress into Type 7’s escapism but integrate into Type 8’s grounded leadership when I’m at my best. It all felt like pieces of a puzzle clicking together.

One of the most profound moments of the weekend was a meditation designed to reconnect us with our childhood selves. We were guided to draw our childhood homes, including the yard and surrounding environment. Sharing these drawings with my sisters afterward sparked deep, meaningful conversations. Despite our vastly different experiences of our shared past, we found new ways to connect.

This workshop wasn’t just about understanding myself—it also opened the door to reimagining my relationship with my sisters. The history between us has often felt dense and difficult to navigate, but through this experience, I’ve started to see it as a source of energy and wisdom that can evolve.

I’m still processing and integrating everything I learned, but one thing is clear: embracing the unknown doesn’t mean abandoning what’s known. Instead, it’s about allowing the known to surface in new ways, reshaping it, and using it to grow. This workshop was a powerful step in that journey, and I’m excited to see where it leads.

Connection, Family

Happy Birthday Lincoln – A True Bright Spot

Today’s is my great-nephew, Lincoln’s second birthday. (May 30)  This is little guy came into world at a time when things were not easy.

The world was in the throws of a global pandemic.  Our country was just day’s out from the murder of George Floyd.  There were fears, stress, hatred and much pain and grief.

In his own family, he was born not to long after his grandpa, Monte, my sister Melissa’s husband, had died after a battle with Pancreatic cancer.

However, this little guy has been nothing but a bright shining light!  Pretty much for all that get to visit and know him. 

I haven’t had that up close meeting yet.  But have stories and many pictures all showing the rays of sunshine he’s been radiating out for his first two years.

This latest birthday was celebrated with more bright spots.  I loved learning about his amazing joy in getting both a grilling tent and a small kitchen as his new favorite places to play.

Monte, his grandpa, was a great cook and griller.  No doubt some of that came through in the gene pool. 

You got love it when a little one takes to tee ball, golf, cooking and grilling.  Now that is a well rounded soul.

There is a lot of pain and sorrow in the world.  It’s hard to remember or find the bright spots.

Little Lincoln – he’s a definite bright spot.  So is all the loving and connection he and his family have shared together and via photos and Facebook with me and those of us not so close.

Happy Birthday Lincoln!!  Keep shining!