The Quiet Ache of Time… On slowing down, sacred ordinary moments, and how quickly everything becomes a memory.

Exhale.

A few weeks have passed since I last sat down to write. Life moved quickly—beautifully so—but in a way that felt almost weightless, as though the days were gliding past instead of landing. Between celebrating my daughter turning three, Christmas hosting, and the magic of Christmas morning with my two incredible children, everything blurred together in the softest, most sacred way. When I pause long enough to really look back, I can’t help but feel overwhelmed with gratitude.

Her birthday alone felt like a season of its own. Three years old—somehow both brand new and impossibly grown. We celebrated her in every way we could: Barbie’s and cake, special outings, and a weekend visit to the waterpark that left us exhausted, soaked, and laughing. Days filled with planning, packing, driving, celebrating—making sure she felt seen, adored, and wildly loved. It was joyful and busy and beautiful… and it reminded me how quickly these milestones arrive, how little time there is between just born and three already.

One of the greatest gifts of the season arrived when I least expected it. After a full day of baking on Christmas Eve Eve (because yes, that’s a thing in our house), my mother stood on my doorstep. I don’t have language big enough for what that moment did to me. I cried the kind of tears that come from deep within—the kind that release feelings you didn’t realize you’d been holding at bay. I had missed her in ways I hadn’t allowed myself to fully feel. Seeing her there, unannounced and real, felt like time folding in on itself—past and present colliding in the safest way.

This was our first year hosting Christmas Eve in our home, and there was something profoundly grounding about filling our space with love and laughter. While part of my heart ached for those who couldn’t be there, I chose gratitude for those who were. Time offers no guarantees. People come and go. Seasons change. All we ever truly have is now—and that night, now felt full.

My husband and I found joy in the quiet rituals: laying out the presents, hanging the stockings, setting aside the brownie made just for Santa. We left a small handwritten note before sending our elf Star back to the North Pole until next November. These moments may seem small, but I know one day they will be everything. Having my mother there when my children woke up on Christmas morning layered an already magical day with something deeper. My children adore her with a fierce, innocent love, and I know that memory will live in them long after they forget the toys.

The days that followed slowed us down in the gentlest way. Snow fell thick and steady, wrapping us in stillness. Pajamas became the uniform. Time stretched. We lingered in the ordinary—playing, laughing, watching my daughter swirl through the house in princess dresses as if the world existed only for her joy. I learned again what it means to savor.

At some point—quietly, almost without ceremony—we began taking the decorations down. The twinkle lights came off first, then the garlands, then the tree. The house shifted as each piece was packed away. What had felt so warm and full just days before now felt open… almost echoing.

But there was something beautiful in that too.

The rooms felt bigger. Lighter. I watched my kids dance through the newly opened spaces, spinning where the tree once stood, inventing games out of what remained. Their laughter filled the house in a different way—not loud with celebration, but soft with presence. It reminded me that the magic was never in the decorations. It was always in them.

My children played in the snow before shedding cold fingers and rosy cheeks to join me in the hot tub. As much as I treasure that space for myself, nothing compares to holding my babies while snowflakes melt into steaming water, their laughter rising into the winter air. Joy like that feels almost holy.

That week with my mother disappeared far too quickly. One moment she was there, and the next she wasn’t. I’ve never done well with goodbyes—especially when it comes to her. Distance has a way of making love feel heavier, more urgent. It’s a feeling I imagine many grandparents know well: loving from afar, pulled between places, hearts divided by miles. Explaining this to young children is never easy. But their difficulty in understanding is also a gift—it means their love runs deep.

This morning—after she left—I found myself noticing the smallest things.
The house hadn’t caught up yet, but my heart had.

My children are always close to me—we co-sleep—so true quiet doesn’t really exist in this season of life. But still, I find myself drawn to the window, watching the birds gather outside. Cardinals—so red they almost glow—moving between the feeders and the bird bath we recently added. We filled it with seed, along with the decorated ornament feeders the kids love to help hang.

When I watch them, something in me softens.

They feel like visitors from heaven—gentle reminders that I’m not alone, that something greater is always present. I slip into a meditative stillness as I watch them come and go, my breath slowing, my body relaxing. It’s grounding. Regulating. A quiet kind of peace that settles deep.

I keep adding more feeders lately. Almost instinctively. As if I’m trying to create more moments like these. And then it hit me—this love didn’t start with me.

When I was a child, I spent most days at my grandparents’ house, and we would always break the bread. Their yard was full of feeders, most handmade by my grandfather. He was endlessly inventing clever ways to care for the birds, watching from the window with quiet pride.

Afterward, we’d head to the local deli, where large brown paper bags of stale rolls were already set aside for my grandmother—bags that felt almost as tall as I was back then. We’d tear the bread into pieces and scatter it across the yard. The birds were always waiting.

And my mom—she once bought four super-sized fries from McDonald’s, not just for us, but just to throw to the birds in the parking lot. That memory has stayed with me my entire life.

So now, when I watch the cardinals flutter against the snow, I realize this love was passed down.
In breadcrumbs.
In birdseed.
In quiet moments that still live inside me.

And threaded through all of this joy is grief—quiet, constant, and familiar. I miss my father more than words can carry. He loved these children with every piece of his heart and was taken from us far too soon. He wanted to be part of everything, even if it meant watching through a screen. He would sit and watch them open each and every present, smiling wide, fully present. I feel him most at Christmas. In the pauses. In the in-between. In the knowing.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about how fast time moves. Maybe it always has—but now, especially in motherhood, it feels like everything is rushing by.

I don’t want to rush through their childhood.
I don’t want to rush through my own life.

It’s become essential to pause. To make space for moments that calm my nervous system and bring clarity. The kind of stillness that reminds me who I am beneath the noise, beneath the lists, beneath the doing. Because the fast-paced lifestyle we’re all living? It isn’t normal—for our bodies, our minds, or our hearts.

There are days I envy cultures that live more slowly. That pause for long meals. That make room for rest and community without guilt. That honor time instead of racing against it.

This week, Mother Nature forced that pause for us. Snow fell, plans canceled, and suddenly there was nowhere to rush. Barely a reason to get dressed. Just visiting, loving, laughing. I found myself wishing for more days like that—because I think we all need them more than we admit.

Still, the urge to fill time is something I wrestle with constantly. There’s always a list humming in the background of my mind, and the moment space opens, I want to leap into it. It takes intention—and sometimes my husband gently stopping me—to remember it’s okay to rest. To simply exist in the goodness of a day with nothing urgent demanding attention.

And so I choose slow.
I choose still.

I choose to sit with a warm cup of tea cradled in my hands, steam rising gently, grounding me in the present moment. I choose to write not to produce, not to perform—but because it feels like breathing. Because it reminds me that I am here. That this moment matters.

Time feels impossibly fragile lately. Like something I can sense slipping even as I try to hold it. Days move fast. Years move faster. And somehow, without warning, the things we swear just began are already memories we’re trying to recall clearly.

I look at my children and feel it all at once—the love, the awe, the ache. I know that one day I will long for the weight of them beside me, for the way their laughter fills a room, for the chaos I sometimes wish away. I know that this season—this exact version of life—will never come again.

Time doesn’t pause.
It doesn’t wait for us to be ready.
It doesn’t slow because we ask it to.

All it asks is that we notice.

That we stay.
That we feel.
That we choose presence over rush, connection over distraction, love over hurry.

Because one day we will look back and realize that what felt ordinary was sacred. That the moments we almost rushed through were the ones that mattered most.

So I sit here.
With my tea.
With my breath.
With my heart wide open to the fleetingness of it all.

Because this—
right now—
is time passing.

And this—
right here—
is everything.

The Angel That Carried My Childhood into Theirs…

Today I traded my mug filled with pumpkin spice tea (yes — I still drink it by the gallons) for a cup of hot chocolate piled high with whipped cream. I’m wrapped in a sherpa blanket on my twinkle-lit front porch, now dressed in full Christmas cheer — skinny trees, bright red bows, buffalo plaid ribbons tucked between poinsettias.

The snow is falling in that slow, deliberate way that feels like something out of a painting — soft, steady, and impossibly quiet. Flakes drift gently through the glow of the string lights and land on the porch railings like powdered sugar. Every so often, a breeze stirs them up again, sending little swirls into the air before they settle back down. I sit, still, listening — to nothing and everything. Just the hush of winter, the warmth of my mug, and the way December seems to press pause on the world for a moment.

Later in the morning, I stepped into something I’ve been dreaming of for years.

When my husband and I decided to move back to New York, it was more than a relocation — it was a return. A homecoming. And when we started talking about building our life here, I told him: “When we find the right home, it has to have a hot tub.” Not as a splurge — but as a space. A space where I could sit beneath the falling snow, surrounded by cold and warmth at the same time. A quiet dream that lived in the back of my mind for years.

And today, for the first time in so long, I got to live it.

The snow kept falling, soft and steady, as I sank into the water. Steam curled up into the crisp air. I exhaled. And from that spot — warm, still, content — I watched my husband and our children in the yard. He pulled them on a sled, laughing like one of the kids himself. Snowballs flew. Giggles rang out. The dogs barked. And every so often, they’d look over at me with bright eyes and wave their mittened hands through the snow.

It was everything I imagined — and more. A moment that once lived only in my head, now unfolding perfectly in front of me. One of those quiet, holy mornings that reminds you: this is it. This is the dream.

It was the kind of morning that reminds me why I love this time of year so much.

Later, I found myself back on the porch, warmed from the inside out — not just from the hot chocolate or the soak, but from the joy of that whole snowy morning.

The house behind me glows warmly. The tree sits proudly in its place — not tucked in a corner, but right where it demands to be seen — the centerpiece of the season. And my dogs (both of my sweet shadows) are curled up inside, waiting for me to come in with marshmallow breath and cold hands.

And this year, we have a new addition to the chaos and the magic — Tuk Tuk, our little black-and-white kitten full of love, cuddles, and enough energy to power the entire North Pole. Tuk Tuk has decided that the Christmas tree is her personal playground and climbs the inside of it like she pays rent. We’ve already had several “code red: kitten in the branches” moments, but honestly? It just makes me laugh. It’s the sort of imperfect little chaos that makes a home feel alive during the holidays.

And if you’re wondering about her name — it’s a sweet little nod to my son. For the longest time, he couldn’t say the word cookie, so he’d ask for a “tuk tuk” instead. Kids grow out of those adorable little mispronunciations far too quickly… so naming our kitten Tuk Tuk felt like a way to keep that tiny piece of his toddlerhood forever. A little sound of innocence now curled beneath our Christmas tree.

Now that we’ve entered the Elf on the Shelf chapter of parenting, everything feels even more magical. Our elf — Star, named by my son — has become part of our nightly routine. And each night, my husband and I hide her together, whispering ideas, laughing at our own creativity, and imagining how excited the kids will be in the morning.

But beneath the fun, there’s something deeper stirring.

It’s in these moments that I realize the greatest gift I can give my children isn’t wrapped in paper — it’s teaching them how to feel joy and how to give it. We talk often in December about those who may not have what we do — families in need, children without warm homes or gifts waiting under a tree. And so we gather toys to donate, write little notes to tuck into care packages, and pray for strangers by name. These aren’t grand gestures — but they’re seeds. Tiny acts that I hope take root in their hearts, teaching them that Christmas is about giving more than getting. About seeing others. About holding space for kindness.

But decorating this year — the doing, the staying busy — has held deeper meaning. Keeping my hands moving softens the tender places in my heart. Because no matter how bright the lights are, the holidays always bring the ache of missing certain people.

For me, that person is my father.

I do everything I can to keep him close — through stories, through traditions, through the little rituals he once created. I was blessed with a magical childhood, and now, as a mother, I want to build that same magic for my children.

And part of that magic — the kind that doesn’t come in a box — was built around togetherness. I remember Christmas Eve at my grandparents' house so vividly… the air thick with delicious smells from the kitchen, cousins bundled up in mismatched pajamas, my aunts and uncles squeezed around the table, laughter spilling from every room. The house would be glowing — not just from lights or candles, but from the people in it. Those nights felt infinite. Safe. Whole. I didn’t know then how sacred that kind of gathering was. But I know now.

Decorating has always been something I love — seeing a space, imagining its potential, turning it into something warm and meaningful. But the piece that means the most this year isn’t on a shelf or the hutch at all — it’s in my kitchen, resting quietly on a small table where I pass it several times a day.

The angel.

Not just any angel — my angel.

The one my grandmother Anne displayed every Christmas.

The one I thought was lost forever.

Many years ago, I helped my grandmother prepare her house to be sold. For years, we spent Christmas Eve there — the familiar decorations, the smells of her cooking, the warmth that only her home could hold. Her home was warm simply because she was in it. When she decided to sell the house with most of her belongings, including her holiday décor, it felt like losing pieces of my childhood.

I thought the angel was gone for good.

But recently, while helping my aunt with a tag sale, she opened a worn cardboard box and said, “Val, you might want these. They were your grandmother’s.”

And there she was.

My angel.

Still perfect. Still glowing. Still waiting.

It felt like the universe gently placed a piece of my childhood back in my hands.

Now she sits in my kitchen, watching over my children just as she once watched over me. That full-circle moment… it touches a place deep within me. And I hope one day my children will bring her into their own homes, continuing the story she’s been part of for generations.

And I can’t talk about Christmas without talking about my mother — the quiet architect of so much of my holiday magic.

My mother went through such great lengths to create Christmas magic for my siblings and me. Looking back now, I can see every detail clearly — the late nights, the early mornings, the careful planning, the stretched budgets, the laughter, the traditions. And as teenagers, we didn’t always make it easy for her. But she still made Christmas enchantingly beautiful.

She created magic in the smallest details — the way she decorated, the way she wrapped gifts with intention, the warmth she infused into every corner of the house. She had these playful little quirks that only family would understand — like her classic, out-of-nowhere “Have you ever seen a Lassie?” moment while driving. Just hearing those words brings me right back. My cousins would know exactly what that means. A tiny, silly memory — but the kind that stays with you your whole life.

She never told us what Christmas meant — she showed us. Through the way she gave, not just to us, but to neighbors, friends, people she barely knew. A plate of cookies here, a thoughtful card there. Quiet, steady giving. It’s that spirit I hope to pass down now — showing my children that the heart of Christmas is wide open and generous.

My mother is humble to her core. She doesn’t recognize the magnitude of who she is or how profoundly she shaped us. But I know. And everyone who loves her knows.

Thank you, Mom, for creating the kind of Christmas magic that lives inside me still. I can’t wait for the day when you’re sitting across from me — cocoa in hand, wrapped in a blanket, a grandchild on each of our laps — soaking in the magic you once created for us.

And because Christmas isn’t only tender and nostalgic — sometimes, it’s ridiculous and loud and full of belly laughs — there’s Christmas Vacation.

Not just a movie, but a full-blown tradition with legendary status in our family. And not just on one side — on both. Somehow, no matter where we celebrated, that movie was playing. It became part of the rhythm of the season — the background music to our wrapping, our baking, our laughing. The lines were quoted year-round. Certain scenes were practically burned into our family culture.

There was this collective reverence for the hilarity of it all — for Clark Griswold’s meltdown, Cousin Eddie’s chaos, and everything in between. It was the kind of movie that united us — cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents — all laughing at the same ridiculous moments, year after year. It wasn’t Christmas until Christmas Vacation had been watched at least once — usually more.

My cousin Chris had the honor of reenacting scenes every year… and hilariously, it was the one and ONLY time he was allowed to say curse words. Watching him shout Clark Griswold’s lines was pure comedy gold.

And on my dad’s side, I can still hear his belly laugh when Cousin Eddie pulled up with that rusty RV and Snots the dog. I haven’t watched it yet with my kids, but when I do, I know exactly which moment will get me. Because I’ll hear him again.

And then… there is our Christmas Eve ritual, one of the most cherished parts of the season for my husband and me.

Decorating has always been something we love — but Christmas Eve decorating is something else entirely. Once the kids fall asleep, the house becomes still — that rare kind of quiet you only get once a year. The tree glows. The air feels soft. Time slows down.

We come downstairs together with that shared look — the one that says, “This is our favorite part.”

We take a few playful bites of the cookies left out for Santa, let the dogs nibble on the carrots “the reindeer” left behind, and smile at the magic these small details bring. Then the real work begins — arranging the wrapped presents under the tree, fluffing bows, straightening ribbons, creating a room that feels like something out of a storybook.

There’s something holy about those late-night hours —
the soft glow of the lights,
the rustle of paper,
the warmth of the house,
the hum of quiet music,
and the joy of building magic together, hand in hand.

And the best part?
Knowing the next time we step into that room; it will be with two wildly excited children pulling us down the stairs into the wonder of Christmas morning.

In those moments, standing beside the man I love, creating magic for the children we love… we feel overwhelmingly blessed. To give them a home filled with warmth, wonder, and memories that will last far beyond childhood.

And above all else, I hope they grow up knowing that the best parts of Christmas aren’t wrapped in shiny paper. They’re found in laughter shared, in time given, in hands held out to others. I hope they carry those truths — tucked between traditions and ornaments — for the rest of their lives.

As the season unfolds, I hold onto the small things — the snowflakes, the lights, Star the elf, Tuk Tuk inside the tree, the smell of baking, nighttime prayers about gratitude, and small hands selecting toys to donate.

The holidays will always bring both laughter and tears.

But they also bring magic.
Hope.
Memory.
And love that never leaves — it just changes shape.

This year — like every year — I’ll choose joy.
I’ll choose nostalgia.
I’ll choose magic.
I’ll choose love — for where I came from, for where my children are going, and for the sacred spaces in between.

Because some decorations are just decorations.
But some — like a certain angel — carry entire lifetimes in their tiny, glowing hands.

A COWBOY’S HEART

A Legacy Tribute for My Father

Sometimes when I’m driving and pause at a red light, I close my eyes for just a heartbeat. And in that sliver of stillness, I don’t just remember you — I feel you. It’s as if you’re sitting inside me, right in the driver’s seat of my own body, your presence wrapped around my thoughts, your quiet spirit settling into the space behind my eyes. I sense your expressions, your gentle reactions, the way you would take in the world around you. Sometimes, if I glance into the mirror quickly enough, I swear I’ll catch your reflection flickering through mine — not behind me, but within me. Losing you didn’t push you away. It wove you deeper into my soul.

This week marks one year since the day my father left this world — November 19th. A date that now hangs in my heart with a weight I still don’t know how to carry. I have spent the past twelve months trying to understand how time has moved forward when so much of me still lives in the moment I lost him. It doesn’t feel real that an entire year has passed since I last saw his face, heard his voice, or felt the comfort of simply knowing he was here.

I’ve struggled to let the truth of that settle inside me.
I push the thoughts away.
I distract myself.
I bury the heaviness under routine.

Because if I allow myself to fully feel what this date means — to truly absorb that it has been a year without him — I’m afraid of what it will break open in me. The grief sits just beneath the surface, waiting, watching, asking to be felt… and still, I resist. Not because I don’t want to remember him. But because remembering him hurts in a way that feels too big for my chest, too sharp for this world.

I am grateful — endlessly grateful — that he is no longer suffering. That his pain, his exhaustion, his quiet battles are finally behind him. But even that gratitude can’t soften the ache of missing him. Words feel so small compared to the truth of it: I miss him more than language can ever hold. More than sentences can ever explain. More than I will ever be able to express.

Reaching this one-year mark — on the edge of the holidays, during the season he tried so hard to make special — adds another layer of heartbreak I wasn’t prepared for. The lights, the music, the familiar rituals… everything carries his imprint. Everything reminds me of what I had, and what I lost. This time of the year was his way of wrapping the family in warmth, in tradition, in love. Now the season comes with a tenderness that hurts.

That is why I am writing this.
Why I needed to put these memories into words.
Why this tribute matters so profoundly to me.

This isn’t just a reflection.
It’s a reaching.
A remembering.
A way to honor the man who shaped my life in every way a father could.

And so today, on the edge of this painful anniversary, with the holidays approaching and the ache of missing him sharpening in my chest, I write these words for him — and for the part of me that still can’t believe he’s gone.

My father was a man who fixed things…

My father was a man who fixed things. Working with his hands wasn’t merely something he did — it was who he was. As a young boy, he watched his own father repair, build, restore, taking in the rhythm of tools clicking against metal, the patience required to bring something broken back to life, the quiet pride in doing something well. Those early years shaped him. They rooted him in a way nothing else could.

Though he was Sicilian and Polish, and while most people tend to lead with their Italian pride, it was his Polish heritage that he carried most visibly and most proudly — a part of his identity woven quietly into the way he lived and the values he held.

People always said he was born with an old soul. And the more stories I heard about him as a child, the more I understood why. His love for his father wasn’t simple admiration — it was devotion in its purest form. My grandfather worked the 4–12 shift, walking through the door around 1 a.m., exhausted from the night. And my father, even as a young boy, would sleep on the couch just so he wouldn’t miss that moment.

He could have been in bed.
He could have been fast asleep.
But he wasn’t.

He stayed right there, curled up on purpose, fighting sleep just for those few minutes of connection — the sound of the door opening, his father’s footsteps, that brief moment they shared. That wasn’t just love. It was attachment. Loyalty. Devotion etched into a child’s heart so deeply it became the blueprint for the way he loved all of us.

He adored his father with a depth that rarely begins so young. That devotion became the heartbeat of his childhood — and the heartbreak that followed shaped the rest of his life. When my father was just seventeen, he lost his own father far too soon. That loss carved something permanent into him. It changed him in ways he spoke about quietly but carried loudly in everything he did.

In the instant his father was gone, he stepped into roles no boy should ever have to fill. He became the man of the house. He felt responsible — not out of obligation, but out of love — for caring for his mother, my grandmother Connie, whom he adored with all his heart. And he cared for his sister, my Aunt Connie, with the same fierce devotion. The three of them became a small, tightly woven unit — a bond forged in loss, loyalty, and love. They held each other together, roots deep and intertwined, until the day my grandmother was called home.

My father never truly healed from losing his father. You could see it in his eyes whenever he spoke of him — that soft pain, that longing, that “missing” that never dulled, only settled. But in the middle of that grief, he did the most selfless, altruistic thing a person can do: he stepped up. He loved harder. He protected more fiercely. He filled the spaces his father once filled — not perfectly, but with every ounce of his heart.

That experience shaped the man he became. It shaped the father he became. It shaped the quiet strength he carried, the gentleness he showed, the unwavering loyalty inside him. And though I never had the blessing of meeting my grandfather Tony, I have always felt a piece of him through my father — the softness, the kindness, the old-fashioned simplicity, the purity of spirit. The traits people loved most about my father, I’ve been told, were the traits he inherited from his dad.

And maybe that is why their bond ran so deep.
Maybe that is why losing him left such a lifetime-sized ache.
Because he didn’t just lose a parent — he lost the man he was becoming.

His sanctuary was always the garage — the hum of an engine waking beneath familiar hands, the smell of motor oil, the steady clink of tools finding their place. He could lose hours there, repairing cars, tractors, anything mechanical that needed life breathed back into it. His tractors especially were a love all their own. They grounded him. They made sense to him. They were where he felt capable, purposeful, and free.

And it’s in this part of him — the “fixer,” the hands-on creator — that I see the pieces of him living in me most clearly. My father wore many hats in life, both figuratively and literally, and in so many ways I’ve grown into those hats myself. I don’t fix cars the way he did, but I’ve always loved working with my hands, figuring things out, building, creating, understanding the world through touch and tinkering.

And the literal hats…
Especially the cowboy ones.

I wear them the way he did — not as a fashion choice, but as a feeling. When I put one on, I walk a little taller, stand a little prouder. I feel him beside me. I feel his spirit straighten my spine, settle into my steps, remind me that I come from strength, from gentleness, from a man whose heart was steady as the earth he loved. Wearing those hats makes me feel like I’m carrying him with me — not on my head, but in my blood.

And as much as I carry him in the way I walk, the way I work, and the hats I wear… he spent his life carrying his father in the same quiet, steadfast way. Just as I feel him with me, he once felt his own father just as fiercely. And the place where that bond lived strongest — where the echoes of his father’s love never left him — was up the country in the Catskill Mountains.

The land that held both his childhood and mine. Acres of tall, whispering grass and open sky…wasn’t just a place; it was a world. We went many weekends of my childhood. He would load my brother and me into the car, and we’d make the trek to that sacred ground with excitement in our bones.

That land raised me.
It shaped my imagination.
It shaped my understanding of him.

Camping adventures, manhunt games in the dark, mud pies, bonfires, stories, and laughter that echoed through the fields — I lived my childhood in that dirt. So many of our former furry companions are buried there too, laid to rest in the same soil where we grew up playing. Every piece of that place holds a part of our story — his, mine, ours.

That ground holds their stories and ours, stitched together beneath the tall grass and open sky.

It isn’t just land.
It is memory.
It is legacy.

And that mountain — that stretch of heaven he adored — will forever hold his spirit.

That mountain shaped everything about who he was as a father — simple, grounded, content with the quiet joys of life. And that love for simplicity carried into the way he took us on vacations. He didn’t chase big thrills or far-off destinations. He chose places that felt like home, places carved out of nostalgia and warmth.

My dad wasn’t the flashy type. He didn’t need spectacles or excitement. What he loved were the gentle, old-fashioned escapes — the kind of trips that wrapped around you like a warm memory. That’s why so many of our childhood vacations were stitched into the quaint charm of Lake George and the Catskills.

We wandered through Storytown and Carson City — those small Western-themed parks that, though no longer open, live vividly in my memory. Wooden storefronts, dusty paths, toy trains, cowboy reenactments… they felt like walking through pieces of his heart. Old-fashioned. Wholesome. Simple in the best possible way.

Those vacations were ours — humble, sweet, filled with car rides, roadside diners, and the kind of laughter that only comes when life feels slow and safe. He didn’t need elaborate trips. He gave us Lake George and the Catskill. He gave us his time. He gave us the simple magic of childhood.

And he carried that same tenderness with him long after the vacations ended.
And that same kind of gentle magic didn’t stop when we left those little Western streets. He carried it into our everyday lives, finding wonder in the smallest things.

He took my brother and me to train shows, toy shows, Toys “R” Us, and KB Toys. He didn’t need money to create magic — he just needed time. No matter what we did, he made it special.

As a parent now, I understand the depth of that love, the hidden labor behind a child’s happy memories. He poured his heart into us. He never let me forget I was his little girl. Not once.

Even years later, when he walked me down the aisle on my wedding day, I could feel the emotion radiating from him — a lifetime of love and pride shining behind his eyes. And during our father–daughter dance, I saw something in his face I can never fully describe. Love. Pride. Grief. Joy. All layered together.

Moments like that stay with you long after the music stops. They become the anchors I cling to now — the memories I reach for when the world shifts and I’m forced to face the unthinkable.

I don’t think I’ll ever truly be capable of accepting goodbye. Not now. Maybe not ever. It still feels surreal — like a story I wasn’t prepared to live.

My father raised us on simplicity, peace, honesty, and love. He cherished my brother and me with every fiber of his being. He was gentle, easygoing, mild-tempered, trusting to the point of heartbreak. He believed the best in people because he carried that goodness within himself.

Animals always knew who he was. They gravitated toward him as though they recognized something pure in his soul. Every stray cat I dragged home — every animal I insisted needed saving — he welcomed without hesitation. We adopted more shelter animals than I can count.

That tenderness didn’t start with him.
It was something he inherited.

My father had animals his entire life, just like his own father before him — a man who also could never turn a stray away. There was a quiet, old-fashioned kindness in both of them, a softness that lived beneath their strength. And among the countless animals who crossed his path, there were two he was particularly devoted to — two who mirrored the loyalty he gave so freely.

Duke, his horse, was more than an animal. He was a companion, a steady presence, a piece of freedom and peace only a man with a cowboy’s heart could understand.

And then there was Phantom — his Husky–Shepherd mix, a stunning, majestic creature who looked more wolf than dog. Phantom wasn’t just a pet; he was his shadow, his partner, his constant. Like an old cowboy and his sidekick, they were rarely apart. My father always had a four-legged friend in the passenger seat, but Phantom was the one who claimed that spot as if it were sacred.

Many Fridays’ evenings, my father would treat Phantom to a vanilla ice cream from Stewart’s. It wasn’t just a routine — it was their ritual. Even the attendants at the gas station knew Phantom. They would come out to greet him, drawn to his striking presence and the unmistakable bond he shared with my father. Phantom’s loyalty was absolute, the kind of loyalty that comes from recognizing a soul that loves with its whole heart.

Their bond was tight.
Forged.
Unbreakable.

Maybe that’s why he loved animals so deeply — because animals, in their honesty, loved him back in the same unconditional way.

And now, even though he’s gone physically, I see him constantly. I see him in my children’s smiles, their innocence, their joy. Sometimes when they laugh, I hear him laughing with them — layered in memory, spirit, and love. And when Liv does something sweet or unexpected, I hear his voice again, reminding me of what he always said — that she had a spark, something different, something bright. His bond with my children was heartbreakingly brief, but powerful enough to last their lifetime.

We talk about him daily.
We talk to him daily — in prayers, in quiet moments, in laughter.
Keeping him close isn’t a ritual.
It’s a necessity.

Because the longing I feel for him… some days it steals my breath.

There is guilt, too — guilt for the moments I must push thoughts of him away because if I let myself feel the full weight of his absence, I would collapse. I’m a mother now. I have toddlers watching. I don’t always have the space to fall apart.

I think often about that three-day cruise — the only time I couldn’t talk to him while out at sea. It felt endless. We both struggled. We hated the distance. And now here I am, approaching a year without his voice, and it feels like a kind of silence that never stops echoing.

I’ve never written more in my life than I have during this painful year. Writing has become my lifeline — the place where I can bleed safely. But being alone is the hardest part. That’s when the truth creeps in. That’s when the magnitude of his absence hits hardest.

I miss everything — his laugh, his humor, his advice, even the distracted “yup… yup…” moments on the phone when he wasn’t fully listening but still somehow heard me better than anyone else could. He listened with his heart.

And I know I’m not the only one who feels the weight of that absence.

My brother aches for him in a way that’s hard to put into words. He carries his grief quietly — the same way my father carried so much of his own. You can see it in the heaviness behind his eyes, in the way his voice softens when he talks about Dad, in the silence that follows certain memories. He lost not only a father, but the steady presence he built so much of his identity around. Their bond was made of simple moments — shared humor, quiet rides, that easy companionship that doesn’t need words. His grief is deep because their love was deep.

And then there is Shannon — my cousin, but truly more like an older sister to me. Long before I was born, my father played a huge part in raising her, stepping into a role that was so much more than “uncle.” The stories I’ve heard about those years feel like small treasures: how he changed her diapers, fed her, carried her around proudly, and dressed her for the day even if her jacket sometimes ended up on upside down! She loved him with a child’s full, trusting heart, and he poured his love into her just as naturally as he later would into me. Even now, all these years later, that bond runs deep. Shannon loved my father fiercely — and she still carries him with her in a way that is both tender and profound. She, too, feels the ache of losing him, because he helped shape her life long before mine ever began.

His wife, Lori, feels his absence in the quiet corners of their life together — the soft routines, the shared laughter, the simple comfort of knowing he was always there. She often speaks about how she still hears his footsteps, how the house still carries the imprint of his presence in ways that are both comforting and heartbreaking.

Their beloved dogs, Bailey, and Kay, sense the change too. They watch corners of the room, tracking something unseen with gentle, knowing eyes.  Lori says she knows exactly who they see. Animals always recognized the goodness in him — and they still do.

He was there, too, when Kim married beneath the beautiful fall leaves — not in body, but in spirit, and in love. And Doug, who was such a blessing to both of them, still honors him every day. He always went that extra mile, and my father felt that deeply.

And the circle of people who miss him doesn’t end there — his absence ripples through every part of the life he touched.

Dave and Elaine were more than friends — they were constants, woven into the fabric of our family. My dad and Dave talked every single night, those easy conversations about everything and nothing. The kind of talks where the details didn’t matter — just the sound of a familiar voice, the quiet companionship at the end of a long day, the comfort of knowing someone was always there.

He meant so much to so many.
And their lives are softer, quieter, and forever changed without him.

So much of my father’s life was built on routine, loyalty, and love — not just with us, but with the people he held close. And those same qualities showed up most clearly during the holidays — the season he poured his heart into, the season he tried to make gentle and magical for us no matter what was happening in his own life.

Holidays carry their own kind of ache now.
March of the Wooden Soldiers was our Thanksgiving ritual — his ritual. Even thinking about it now makes my throat tighten. The moment the music starts playing in my mind, I’m transported right back into the soft glow of childhood… small, safe, wrapped in the warmth he created year after year. It wasn’t just a movie. It was a feeling — a doorway back into the version of myself who still had him.

Every year, without fail, he would call me to tell me when Rudolph and Frosty would be on PBS. It didn’t matter that I told him I had digital TV and could watch them anytime. That wasn’t the point. The point was love — that gentle reminder, that familiar voice saying, “Don’t miss this, Doot doot.” It was his way of preserving the magic, of making sure tradition didn’t slip through the cracks of adulthood.

My father spent so much time driving — back and forth on Route 9 and Route 6 — doing everything he could to make sure we kept our family traditions on both sides. I didn’t realize then what that meant. I didn’t see the fatigue behind the wheel, the long nights, the quiet sacrifice. I didn’t yet understand what it takes to show up for children over and over again — to pour into them even when you’re running on empty.

My father really would do anything for my brother and me, no matter what it cost him. And maybe that’s why certain movies hit so deeply — because they belonged to those tender seasons, he made magical, those fleeting moments where everything felt whole, simple, and safe.

And then there is Prancer.

A movie I have never been able to watch without feeling something break open inside me — not even when he was still here. There was always something about it that reached directly into that tender place in my heart, the place that belonged entirely to him. Sam Elliott, who plays the father, looked so much like mine it was almost unsettling — the same tired eyes full of love, the same quiet strength, the same aching softness beneath the surface. Watching him on screen felt like watching pieces of my own father flicker to life.

The way that father loved his little girl — worn, worried, and weary, yet endlessly protective — it was him. It was my dad. The voice. The posture. The way he held his love like a responsibility and a privilege all at once. The way he carried exhaustion and devotion together in the same breath. Every part of that character mirrored him in ways I still can’t fully wrap my heart around.

And the little girl…
Full of wonder, innocence, hope — she felt like me.

Her brother — rough around the edges, tender underneath — felt like mine.

And the aunt…

She reminded me so much of my Aunt Connie. And their bond in the movie mirrored the bond my dad and she shared in real life — a bond that was lifelong, extraordinary, and rare. For my father and aunt, it was always just the two of them growing up, two siblings who learned early to rely on each other. They understood each other in a way only children who survive the same storms and share the same love can.

She didn’t just lose her brother.
She lost the keeper of her history.
The person who knew every version of her.

Her grief is deep because their bond was deep — one of the purest parts of both their lives.

And in the middle of all this pain, she has been a blessing to me in a way I can never fully put into words. She and I talk about him constantly because we shared him. We loved him in the same deep way. There is a comfort in that — in having someone who understands both the love and the loss exactly as I do.

She and I spent so many hours talking to him every single day.
She was part of his routine, and I was part of his routine, and together we formed this small circle around him — a circle of care, of laughter, of love. Losing him tore through both of us.

But through that pain, we have one another.

My Aunt Connie is truly like a second mother to me. Her strength, her gentleness, her unwavering love — I hold onto those things the way she holds onto me. Even in her grief, she reaches for me, comforts me, understands me in a way only she can. I am so grateful for her. I always will be.

She is a piece of him.
She is a piece of my childhood.
She is a piece of the love that built our family.

And I thank God for her every single day.

Grief has a way of reaching into the deepest places of our hearts, but so does love. And in that love, I find the only image that brings me peace — imagining his father and mother waiting for him. Calling him home. I carried that image with me through the long hours of his final day. I held it as tightly as I held his hand. And when he took his last breath, that image kept me from falling apart.

He has shown himself to me in so many ways — signs, blessings, moments too perfectly timed to ignore. He hasn’t left. Not really. He’s simply stepped into a place my eyes can’t see yet.

Today, I let myself remember.
To feel.
To cry.
To let the memories come as they needed to.

I remembered pony rides with his arms steadying me.
Clinging to the back of his leg because it was the safest place in the world.
Long drives up the country with old songs drifting through the van as he quietly sang along.
The Barbies he bought just to make me smile.
His laugh.
His humor.
His advice.
His quiet, unwavering love.

He was simple in all the most extraordinary ways.
A true cowboy’s heart — steady, loyal, selfless, and full of love.

I will miss him every day of my life.
I will write to him, speak to him, carry him, for as long as I breathe.

And when the day comes that I close my eyes for the last time,
I know he’ll come for me.
I know he’ll take my hand the same way he steadied me as a child.

Until then…
I’ll live with him inside me.
I’ll love him fiercely.
And I’ll wait — with my whole heart — for the day I see him again.

I love you daddy.. your little girl, your Doot doot

You Won’t Always Be Liked—Love Anyway

One of the hardest lessons to learn in this life is that you won’t always be liked — even when your heart is pure, your intentions are good, and your love is real.
It’s a truth that stings, especially for people like me — those who love deeply, who care too much, who overthink every silence and sideways glance.

A lesson I learned pretty young is that you’re not everyone’s cup of tea. For someone like me, that was hard to accept. The more I felt someone disliked me, the more I assumed it was my fault — that I must have done something wrong to make them see me in the wrong light.

As I got older, I began to understand that you simply can’t make everyone like you or make everyone happy, no matter how much kindness or love you give.

I once asked my mom how to deal with people who were cruel or unkind, and she said, “You drown them in kindness. Because cruelty usually comes from people who don’t know how to love themselves.”
I never forgot that.

So that’s how I’ve tried to live — pouring love into people, especially those who seem to need it most.
But as you grow older — or maybe just wiser — you start caring more about living authentically and less about earning someone’s approval. You realize that some people, no matter how much kindness or grace they’re met with, will always remain angry or speak ill of you.

And when that realization hits, something inside you shifts. It stings — but it’s freeing.

I’ve been criticized for one thing or another — my style, my choices, my parenting, even my writing. Sometimes it’s a hard pill to swallow, realizing that no matter how much effort or empathy you show, some people would rather dissect you than understand you. There’s a quiet pain that comes from being misunderstood by people who never took the time to truly know you.

But over time, you learn to stop explaining yourself to people committed to misunderstanding you.

These days, I take a deep breath, shrug, and think, “F** ’em,”* and move on.
Not from anger — but from release. Because peace isn’t found in begging for understanding. It’s found in knowing you no longer need it.

As an empathetic person, my mind still tries to reason and find hidden justifications for people’s behavior. But if you spend too much time doing that, it becomes harder to let people in. It’s easy to close yourself off — to let the walls build higher each time someone throws a stone. And honestly, I understand why some people choose that route — it feels safer. Less painful.

But I’ve never been one to hold grudges; they feel more harmful to my own heart than to anyone else’s. Carrying resentment only ties you to the very pain you’re trying to escape.
So I forgive — not because people always deserve it, but because I deserve peace.

Now, with the anonymity of screens and keyboards, cruelty has found a new stage. People write things they would never dare to say face-to-face. They hide behind usernames and half-truths, tossing words like weapons and calling it “honesty.”

We’ve made cruelty casual.
Mockery a sport.
Gossip a language.
And judgment — our favorite form of entertainment.

I pray for something better — for myself, for all of us, but especially for my children.
I would give anything to know they can go to school not only safe, but safe from cruelty. It breaks my heart when I hear parents dismiss bullying as “just part of growing up.”

Why?
Why do we accept cruelty as a rite of passage?

I was raised to never be unkind — and that’s what I teach my children. Isn’t that what most parents teach?
If so, where are we losing the message?

Because cruelty isn’t born in children.
It’s learned by watching adults who roll their eyes, whisper behind backs, or find comfort in tearing others down.

Spend five minutes watching young children play — you’ll see that meanness isn’t natural. It’s modeled. It’s mirrored.

I’ll always strive to teach my kids, through both words and actions, that kindness matters. That life can change in a single moment. That gratitude, grace, and compassion are the quiet forces that make life beautiful.

And for those who choose gossip, lies, or cruelty, I hope they remember how fragile life truly is. You are one phone call away from an entirely different life — one diagnosis, one accident, one loss. And when that call comes, no one will remember your clever insults or cutting words. They’ll remember how you made them feel.

So, before you speak, pause.
Before you criticize, breathe.
Choose softness when the world hands you bitterness.

You won’t always be liked. But if you live with love — real love, not the kind that asks for applause — you’ll never lose yourself trying to please those who were never rooting for you.

And to those who have chosen to dislike me, for whatever reasons you hold — I don’t wish you anything but love and happiness. I hope life shows you more kindness. I forgive your unkind words, your gossip, and your ill will.

Because I’m still going to choose to be me — fully, freely, and unapologetically.

So if you ever wonder why I’m still smiling,
it’s because love made me unshakable. - Valerie Karen

The True Superpower: Choosing Love Over Fear

I often wonder when that moment happens—when we begin to learn fear. We aren’t born with it. Children arrive drenched in soul—curious, trusting, unguarded. They greet strangers with open hearts, forgive without hesitation, and move through life with wonder until the world teaches them to brace. Fear enters slowly—first as caution, then as vigilance, and eventually as a quiet hum beneath everything. And when you become a mother, that hum can roar. Suddenly you are alert to every possible danger, every unknown, every shadow. I didn’t fully know fear until little pieces of my heart were walking through this world outside my body. And yet, while love deepened, fear tried to deepen too. That’s when I began to see that motherhood isn’t just about raising children—it’s about remembering who I am while doing it. It’s where ego and soul meet most fiercely.

Fear is clever. It calls itself responsible, wise, careful, prepared. It whispers, “Be safe. Be realistic. Imagine the worst so you aren’t surprised.” But fear doesn’t always protect us—it cages us. It tightens the body and narrows possibility. It convinces us that bracing is living, when really, bracing is waiting to live. One day I realized fear was influencing more than I wanted to admit: how I mothered, how I dreamed, what I reached for, what I talked myself out of, who I believed I could become. That’s when the quiet truth arrived—fear wasn’t intuition; it was programming. And programming can be rewritten.

There are moments in life when we silence fear and taste freedom. Writing my book. Starting this blog. Putting my voice into the world simply because it wanted to live outside me—not because it was guaranteed to be liked or validated. And one memory lives with me vividly: standing nearly naked on a stage in a tiny bikini, knowing I was there to be judged, and still choosing to stand tall. It was one of the most liberating moments of my life—not because I won, but because I showed up unshrunken. I love those moments when I stop overthinking, stop bracing, stop caring about approval, and find my best *I truly don’t give a f@k energy and leap anyway. Those are the moments I feel God, truth, soul, freedom. Those are the moments I meet myself. They remind me that courage is not the absence of fear—it’s the refusal to obey it.

I want my children to see that woman. I want them to see me lit up, alive, trying things, risking joy—not shrinking for safety. I don’t care what they grow up to do, as long as they are on fire for it (preferably self-sufficient while doing it—that part would be nice). Motherhood has humbled me and awakened me more than any teacher ever could. Children exist in soul before conditioning. They don’t fear being too much or not enough—they just are. Watching them reminds me of the woman I was before the world handed me masks. Motherhood makes me ask: am I parenting from love or from fear? Am I reacting, or consciously choosing? Am I passing forward wounds, or breaking them? My children don’t need perfection; they need presence, softness, a mother who knows how to breathe, who chooses faith over fear, who remembers who she is so they never forget who they are. Motherhood didn’t silence my spirit—it demanded I listen more closely.

One of the biggest reasons I felt called to hypnotherapy wasn’t just to help others—it was to help myself. To rewire the fear. To calm the inner alarms. To soften the what-ifs. To stop bracing for disaster and start living for joy. Hypnosis helped me discover that beneath the fear was peace waiting, confidence waiting, freedom waiting. Not because fear disappears, but because I no longer assign it authority.

Fear has a place—but not a throne. I am learning every day to choose love over control, presence over panic, trust over tension, curiosity over caution, expansion over safety, truth over approval. Fear may keep us alive, but love lets us live. I want my children to inherit courage, not caution. Hope, not hesitation. A mother who is alive, not just surviving. The true superpower is a life led by soul, not fear. And I am becoming her—day by day, breath by breath, choice by choice.

If this spoke to your heart, know that you’re not alone. You’re remembering too. If your heart whispered yes while reading this, maybe it’s time to listen. Your fear had its chapter—now let your soul write the rest!

From Elvis to Queensrÿche: How Music Becomes the Soundtrack of My Healing

Music is not a hobby to me—it is the language by which my soul understands the world. And I’ve come to believe we don’t really choose our music; our music chooses us, because on some sacred level it already knows the truth our hearts are aching to remember.

There are songs that have stopped me mid-breath, moments when sound didn’t just fill a room—it filled me. I remember the first time I truly heard Queensrÿche. Not background, not casual listening—felt, like electricity, through the ribs. When “Suite Sister Mary” found me, I was undone before I had words for why. The arrangement, the drama, the soaring ache—I cried without permission, the way you cry when something ancient inside your bones recognizes itself. That song didn’t entertain me; it awakened me. It taught me that music can be a spiritual event, a full-body remembering.

The Songs That Raised Me

I was raised on the old singing cowboys—Gene Autry and Roy Rogers—because that was my father’s world. He didn’t care to know music beyond them, and yet I learned everything from those voices: loyalty, grit, tenderness disguised as twang. Those records are the sound of my childhood kitchen, my dad’s quiet approval, the code of love I still try to live by.

I can still picture myself in the back of my dad’s old red Dodge Ram van, winding through the Catskills. The windows were cracked just enough to let in the pine air, and my grandmother’s crocheted blanket—soft white with light peach threading—was draped across the back seat. Johnny Horton’s “Sink the Bismarck” played from the cassette deck, and my dad sang along, tapping the steering wheel, utterly alive in that moment. I looked out at the mountains and felt a peace I didn’t yet know how to name. Even now, I don’t remember that moment—I return to it. Music doesn’t just hold memory—it resurrects it.

There were livelier moments too—my mother blasting “Mony Mony” in the living room until the walls hummed. My cousins, my brother, and I would jump around the furniture, laughing and dancing while she sang at the top of her lungs. That song still carries the smell of that house, the carpet under my feet, the wildness of joy. Music, even then, wasn’t something we listened to—it was something we lived inside.

And then there’s Elvis Presley, whose voice can call tears to my eyes before the first chorus. Elvis carried ache and holiness in the same breath. Johnny Cash felt like the ground beneath my feet—honest, steady, human. I walked down the aisle in church to his “Jackson” because nothing about my life has ever been conventional, and the truest love stories have a little wildfire in them.

Somewhere along the way, I fell in love with the drama that only music can hold. The first time I heard “Phantom of the Opera,” the lyrics clung to me like incense, following me through years and seasons. But it was “Music of the Night” that truly claimed me. When those first notes began, I wasn’t just listening—I was surrendering. It was beauty and fear and holiness all at once, a melody that pulled something ancient out of hiding. That score felt like stepping into a cathedral built of sound—a reminder that love can be terrifying and sacred at the same time.

And then there are voices that feel like home, no matter where I am: Karen Carpenter’s tender clarity, Patsy Cline’s bruised honey, Dolly Parton’s bright mercy. When Andrea Bocelli sings, I stop. The world stops. His voice is a prayer I don’t have to translate. Sometimes I don’t even want to know the words—I want to be carried by the feeling. That, to me, is a miracle.

Of course, there is also the fire: Aerosmith turning up the pulse in my chest, and a true love of mine, Sebastian Bach—the former Skid Row frontman—whose power lights something untamed in me. Those vocals don’t just hit notes; they strike matches. They remind me that being fully alive means letting the body participate in the hallelujah.

The Science That My Spirit Already Knew

Even before I studied the nervous system and hypnosis, I could feel what music does. Later, the words found me: how songs activate memory centers like the hippocampus and stir the amygdala; how rhythm can regulate the vagus nerve; how melody can invite the brain into alpha and theta states where healing, learning, and emotional integration naturally happen.

Neuroscientists have since confirmed it—music lights up more regions of the brain than any other human experience. It synchronizes heartbeat and breath, steadies cortisol levels, and reconnects the body to safety. I didn’t need a textbook to tell me that, but I smiled when it did. Of course music heals. Of course it lowers anxiety. Of course it helps us release what language can’t hold.

That’s why I use sound intentionally in my work with anxiety and hypnosis. A harmonic bed can be the softest bridge into safety. A drum can remind a tense body how to move again. A lyric can unstick a memory that’s been waiting at the door.

Music as Memory, Medicine, and Prayer

Some days a song will find me while I’m doing dishes, and suddenly I’m standing in a different year. I can smell the season, hear the laughter in a different kitchen, feel the exact weight of who I was. Music doesn’t just remind me—it reunites me with the parts of myself I’ve outgrown but still love.

When feelings jam up in my chest—grief with nowhere to land, joy with no witness, love that feels too big for a sentence—I don’t reach for solutions. I reach for sound. I let a guitar solo carry the ache. I let a choir widen my lungs. I let a quiet piano make space for the tears that know the way out better than I do.

Motherhood, Bare Feet, and the Living Room Stage

When I was pregnant, I sang to my belly and let our home be wrapped in melody. It felt like teaching my babies a language they’d recognize before they knew words. Now they request “our songs,” and we dance—barefoot in the kitchen, out in the grass, on the trampoline at dusk.

They feel music the way I do—fully. They close their eyes when Bocelli sings, spin in circles to Disney princess ballads, and stomp their feet to rock anthems as if their joy could crack open the sky. Watching them reminds me that music isn’t learned—it’s remembered. It’s something our souls already know.

In those moments, I feel my father in the room again, smiling in the edge of a country chorus. I feel every version of me—teenage, heartbroken, hopeful—singing along. I feel the steady hand of God in the rhythm of small feet on tile, the sacrament of ordinary joy.

Why I Keep Listening

I keep listening because music tells me the truth. It tells me who I’ve been and who I’m becoming. It stitches time together. It gives my body a way to pray when my mind is tired. It teaches my children to live with rhythm and reverence, to celebrate for no reason, to cry without shame, to rest without guilt, to dance like the floor is an altar.

I keep listening because every time I press play, I meet myself again.

And yes, even now, when I hear “Suite Sister Mary,” my chest tightens with the first measure. When the Phantom begins to rise, I’m sixteen and eternal all at once. When Bocelli opens his mouth, I remember that the same breath that made the stars is inside my lungs. When Karen sighs, when Patsy aches, when Dolly grins, when Elvis trembles, when Sebastian Bach roars, when Aerosmith burns—I am reminded that feeling everything is not a liability. It’s the gift.

Music is not just something I listen to—it is the language by which my soul understands the world. And I swear, we don’t choose our music. Our music chooses us, because it already knows the doorways in our hearts and the rooms that still need light.

A Gentle Invitation

What song chose you?
The one that made you cry in the car, or laugh in the kitchen, or dance in the dark like no one was watching?

A Love That Evolves: A Birthday Reflection on Marriage, Memory & the Subconscious Heart

Today is my husband’s birthday, and as I sit in my usual spot with a warm cup of pumpkin tea cradled between my hands, I watch the wind carry a flurry of golden leaves across our yard—a swirling dance of color and light that feels almost orchestrated by something divine. There is a stillness in the air, the kind only autumn can bring, where life seems to pause long enough for the soul to speak. And today, my soul is speaking of love. Of him. Of us.

Birthdays have a way of making you think back—not just on the person being celebrated, but on every version of them you've had the honor of knowing. My husband is not the same man I first fell in love with—and I am not the same woman. And what a beautiful truth that is. Because real love, living love, does not stay still. It evolves with us. It grows through us. It asks us to fall in love over and over again, each time with a new, deeper version of the same soul.

I still remember the night I met him. The air was warm, the stars vivid and alive, and he was this quiet, soft-spoken Southern man with kind eyes and a gentle presence that immediately settled something inside me. We stayed up all night talking, watching as the sky shifted from moonlight to morning. With him, silence was never empty. Words never felt forced. Everything felt divinely timed. That night, I didn’t just meet a man—I met the beginning of a life I didn’t yet know I was praying for.

Our love began in laughter and simplicity—in spontaneous dinners, long car rides with the windows down, and dancing in the rain without a care for who was watching. I remember one evening when a storm rolled in, and instead of running for shelter, he looked at me with that boyish grin and held out his hand. We danced in the downpour like children set free, laughing as if time was standing still just for us. People watched, undoubtedly thinking we were crazy, but I knew we were simply alive—fully, beautifully alive in a moment that belonged only to us. Those early memories are stitched into my soul. They were the first layers of love—the kind that awaken you.

Then there were our Disney nights—the ones that made me believe in magic all over again. Hand in hand, we wandered beneath the glowing lights of Magic Kingdom and Epcot, pausing to watch fireworks shimmer across the water. We had a tradition of floating through the Mexico pavilion, where twilight skies and ancient temples surrounded us in peaceful wonder. On those nights there was no past and no future—just two souls completely present, choosing one another again and again in the soft glow of an endless evening. That was a sacred time. The time of becoming.

But love, when it’s true, doesn’t stay in its first form. It deepens. It matures. It calls you into moments that test not your emotions, but your devotion. Well before children, before life grew busier and fuller, there came a time when my grandmother became ill. And it was then that I saw my husband in an entirely new light. Without hesitation—and without ever needing to be asked—he stepped in to help care for her with such gentle reverence that it changed me. The way he held her hand, the way he helped lift her with care, the way he honored her life in those final days—it unlocked a new chamber of my heart. In those moments, the spark of young love transformed into a steady flame of unwavering faithfulness. I fell in love with him all over again—not because of what he said, or what he did for me—but for the kindness he poured out on someone I loved.

That is one of the greatest truths I’ve learned in loving him:
You do not fall in love once. You fall in love endlessly, as new parts of their soul are revealed.

And then, God wrote a new chapter. The day our son was born, I watched love take on a form so powerful it etched itself into my being forever. As I brought our child into the world, my husband was there—steady, ready, holding space with every ounce of love in his body. And when our baby entered this life, my husband caught him in his arms, his voice breaking as he shouted with awe, “I got him!” I can still hear those words. They echo inside me like a prayer answered. That was the moment love turned holy.

When our daughter was born, a new tenderness emerged in him that broke me open in the best way. To watch the man you love become the father your children needed—it is one of the greatest privileges of a woman’s life. It is a rebirth of love, a new falling, a new awakening. And yet, as powerful as those moments were, the small, ordinary things have become some of the most meaningful: toys scattered across the floor, his laughter with our children at the end of a long day, the way he still reaches for my hand when we pass each other in the kitchen. These are the marks of a life not just shared—but woven together.

Our love today is not a replica of our love from years ago. It is something greater. More textured. More sacred. We have loved each other in innocence, in tenderness, in passion, and in purpose. We have loved each other as dreamers and as parents. And every version has been real. Every version has mattered.

And this is where hypnosis becomes such a beautiful part of the story.

Because love—true love—lives not in our conscious mind, but in our subconscious. It is stored in the sounds, the touches, the memories that leave an imprint not on the brain, but on the heart. Hypnosis is simply the pathway back to those imprints. It allows us to reconnect with the emotional truths that time may have buried under routine, stress, or exhaustion. It reminds us of what is real. What is eternal. What remains untouched beneath the surface.

When life gets noisy, love is not lost—it’s just waiting to be remembered.

And so, on this day—on his birthday—I am reminded of every version of him I have had the privilege to love. The shy young man under the starlit sky. The playful partner dancing in the rain. The steady heart in the Mexico pavilion, whispering that life is beautiful when we slow down long enough to feel it. The man who held my grandmother’s hand. The father who held our son and daughter with tears streaming down his face. The husband who still, after all these years, chooses to love outwardly, fiercely, selflessly.

If my daughter one day finds a love like this—finds a Ben—I will know she has been blessed beyond measure. And if my son one day becomes this kind of man, I will know I have done my job as his mother.

Real love is not a fairytale—it is a living thing. It grows, transforms, stretches, softens, and strengthens over time. It is the greatest hypnosis of the heart—the beautiful trance of belonging, safety, devotion, and truth.

Today, I thank God for my husband. For the gift of his life. For the way loving him has shaped my soul. For the countless times I have fallen in love with him all over again.

And I know, with certainty, that there are many more versions of him I have yet to meet.

And I look forward to loving them all.

— Valerie Karen

🍂 Falling Into Stillness: What Autumn Teaches Us About Hypnosis and Letting Go

The air feels different now. Cooler. Quieter. The trees outside my window are trading green for gold, and I can almost hear the soft whisper of change in the wind. As I look out, the garden that was once bursting with the bright energy of summer is slowly shedding its many leaves. What’s left are a few determined strawberries still blossoming and a stray tomato plant down by the pool that seems to have a mind of its own — thriving with very little care, as if to remind me that life continues to grow even when we’ve stopped tending it so closely.

My street feels especially lovely this time of year. Neighbors wave from their porches or pause during their evening walks to exchange a friendly hello. There’s a warmth and familiarity here that feels rare and grounding — the kind that makes this place feel like home. The air smells faintly of woodsmoke and fallen leaves, and every so often, I catch the sound of laughter drifting from one house to the next. It’s picturesque in a quiet, simple way — a gentle reminder that beauty often lives right where we are.

I cradle a mug of pumpkin chai tea between my hands, the blanket pulled close around me on the porch, and feel this season’s quiet invitation to pause — to breathe and soften into the rhythm of change. These quiet porch moments are rare these days, with my two little angels running amok from sunrise to bedtime. But even five minutes of stillness feels like a gift — a small window of peace where I can recharge, reflect, and come back to myself before the day calls me back into motion.

Some changes arrive with open arms, welcomed and overdue. Others we resist, unsure of what will follow once we let go. Both kinds shape us.

There’s something almost hypnotic about the way the leaves surrender. They don’t cling. They don’t resist. They simply release when it’s time. Watching them drift to the ground, I’m reminded that nature doesn’t question its timing — it trusts it. And maybe that’s what healing really is: trusting that what’s meant to fall away will, and that what’s left behind is enough.

As someone who has spent years studying the subconscious mind and the ways we hold on — to stories, patterns, and pain — I’ve come to see how closely the process of hypnosis mirrors the rhythm of autumn. Both are acts of surrender. Both are invitations inward. And both remind us that peace isn’t found by doing more, but by softening into what already is.

In hypnosis, change happens through permission, not pressure. We don’t force ourselves to heal — we allow it. Just like the trees, we learn to release what no longer serves us: the old beliefs that whisper “not enough,” the anxious habits that keep us busy but unfulfilled, the perfectionism that disguises itself as purpose. In that release, space opens for renewal.

Autumn is, in many ways, the season of the subconscious. It’s reflective and quiet — a time when nature sheds the outer layers to nurture what’s underneath. During hypnosis, the brain enters this same kind of stillness. The waves slow, awareness deepens, and the mind becomes fertile soil for new patterns to take root. Healing doesn’t always happen in the doing — often, it’s in the being.

Our subconscious, like the soil beneath fallen leaves, is where transformation takes place unseen. It’s where integration happens. Where the self you’re becoming quietly starts to bloom, long before anyone else can see it.

So as the days grow shorter and the air grows crisp, I invite you to take a moment to reflect:

What are you ready to release this season?
What thoughts, stories, or habits have served their purpose and are now ready to fall away?

Take a slow, steady breath. Imagine the wind carrying away one thing you’ve been holding too tightly. Watch it drift away like a leaf — effortless, graceful, free. Notice what peace feels like underneath.

This is what hypnosis teaches us — that deep within stillness, change begins. It reminds us that our bodies and minds already know how to restore balance once we stop resisting the cycles of life.

Just as nature prepares for rest before new growth, we too are meant to slow down, to shed, to prepare for renewal. Hypnosis, much like autumn, offers that sacred pause — a soft place to land before the next chapter unfolds.

So if this season finds you feeling heavy or cluttered by what’s ready to go, give yourself permission to soften. To breathe. To trust the process. Let your healing unfold like the trees — quietly, naturally, beautifully.

Because letting go isn’t the end.
It’s preparation for what comes next.

🌟 Where the Magic Meets the Moment

Well, here I sit with my pumpkin spice chai tea, back on my favorite twinkle-lit front porch with a blanket and laptop draped across my lap. The cool, crisp autumn air greets me as I exhale from the whirlwind of travel. More leaves have fallen since I left—a golden layer now carpeting the steps and swirling gently with each passing breeze. The house is finally quiet again, and I can feel myself slowly settling back into the rhythm of home.

I just returned from a week in Disney World with my family, and like most parents, I feel the exhaustion lingering as I finally take a breath and slow down. Somewhere between the lights of the parade and the smell of fried dough, I looked down at my bouncing children—faces glowing with elation and wonder—and I cherished that frozen moment in time.

It can be incredibly exhausting and overstimulating, even for the kids. Yet there’s something sacred inside the imperfection that makes every dollar spent, every long line, and the thick Florida heat worth it.

My husband and I lived in Florida for years—he was born there, and I spent a little over a decade calling it home. Back then, we often had Disney date nights. That was always more our speed than bars or clubs; neither of us cared much for drinking or that scene. We loved walking through the countries at Epcot and ending the evening with a quiet boat ride through Mexico.

This trip was different. Our carefree, easy-going visits as a couple have evolved into adventures as a family of four—complete with snacks, strollers, and spontaneous laughter. Yet amid the chaos was a deeper beauty. My husband even walked me to the very seats in Magic Kingdom where, years ago, I told him I was ready to start a family. And there we were again, holding the hands of our two children—living the dream we once whispered about under the fireworks.

Life moves quickly. Too quickly. Take the vacations. Make the memories. Show them all you can while you can. Time passes in the blink of an eye, and these magical, messy, beautiful days will become the moments we treasure most.

Watching my children’s eyes light up as they hugged their favorite characters—especially Jack and Sally—will stay with me for years to come. Because that’s where the real magic lives: not in the castles or the rides, but in the tiny, fleeting moments that take our breath away.

✨ Coming Home to Presence

Now that the excitement has quieted and the laundry piles have reappeared, I’m reminded that magic isn’t something we have to travel for—it’s something we can choose to notice. The twinkle of lights at home, the sound of laughter in the next room, the rhythm of ordinary days… these are the places where presence begins again. Sometimes, the most magical moments aren’t the ones we plan, but the ones we pause long enough to feel.

💫 Mindful Moment
Pour yourself something warm. Step outside if you can. Feel the cool air on your skin and listen to the world settling around you. Bring to mind one small moment from your last trip, walk, or ordinary day that made you smile. Let yourself feel it fully—the sound, the scent, the warmth. This is presence. This is where the magic meets the moment.

🌿 Author’s Note
If this reflection resonated with you, I’d love to hear your favorite Disney memory—or the place that brings you peace after the adventure ends. Share a bit of your magic with me in the comments or on social media, and let’s keep reminding each other to slow down, savor, and truly see the beauty in every moment.

The Connection Between Stress and the Nervous System (and How to Reset It)

Introduction: Why This Matters

Stress isn’t just “in your head.” It lives in your body. As a mom of two toddlers, a grad student, and the owner of a growing hypnotherapy practice, I know this truth on a very personal level.

Most mornings start the same way — the soft whistle of the kettle, the thud of little feet running down the hall, the clatter of cereal bowls. I wrap my hands around my mug and take those first warm sips of pumpkin spice chai tea while mentally juggling the day’s to-do list: assignments due, clients to check in with, snacks to pack, laundry that’s been sitting in the dryer for two days.

Even in that quiet moment, my heart can start racing before the day has even begun. But understanding how the nervous system works has changed everything for me. I’ve learned how to catch myself before the overwhelm spirals — and I now have simple, powerful tools that help me reset so I can actually enjoy the day in front of me.


The Stress Response: Fight, Flight, or Freeze

When your brain perceives a threat — whether it’s a looming deadline, a crying toddler, or the ding of another notification — it signals your body to release stress hormones like cortisol and adrenaline.

This activates the sympathetic nervous system, also called “fight or flight,” which:
    •    Speeds up your heart rate
    •    Tenses your muscles
    •    Diverts energy from digestion and immune function to survival mode

For me, this might look like trying to get my kids dressed for preschool while my inbox fills up with client messages and reminders. My jaw tightens, my breath gets shallow, and I feel like I’m running out of time — even when it’s only 8:00 a.m.


Chronic Stress and Dysregulation

The problem isn’t occasional stress — it’s when your nervous system never gets a chance to calm back down.

As a mom and a small business owner, it can feel like I’m living in “go-mode” from the moment my feet hit the floor until long after bedtime. When I don’t intentionally reset, I notice:
    •    Trouble falling asleep even when I’m exhausted
    •    My patience running thin with my kids
    •    Brain fog when I sit down to work or study
    •    Tension headaches or stomach aches

This is the cost of a nervous system that stays “switched on” for too long.

The Parasympathetic Reset

The good news? Our bodies come with a built-in reset button — the parasympathetic nervous system (PNS), also called “rest and digest.”

When activated, it slows the heart rate, deepens the breath, and helps you move from “frazzled mom” mode into a calmer, more grounded version of yourself. I notice it when my shoulders drop and I suddenly feel like I can think clearly again.


Practical Ways to Reset Your Nervous System

Here are some of my favorite, real-life tools — the ones that actually work on the messy days:

    1.    Box Breathing at the Kitchen Counter
I do this while waiting for toast to pop or while the kids sit on the floor with crayons. Inhale for 4 counts, hold for 4, exhale for 4, hold for 4. Just 3–5 cycles can take me from “spinning” to steady.

    2.    Cold Water Splash
A quick splash of cold water on my face while the kettle refills feels like hitting a reset button. My kids think it’s funny — which usually makes me laugh too.

    3.    Grounding Exercises During Toddler Chaos
When both kids are talking to me at once, I take a second to notice:
5 things I can see (toys on the floor count!), 4 I can touch, 3 I can hear, 2 I can smell (usually peanut butter), and 1 I can taste (tea, ALWAYS tea).

    4.    Dance Party Resets
If the whole house feels tense, I put on music and we have a two-minute dance party right in the kitchen. My kids giggle, I shake out the tension, and the mood lifts for all of us.

    5.    Connection Hugs
Sometimes the most powerful reset is just scooping up one of my kids, feeling their little heartbeat against mine, and breathing deep until both of us calm down.


Closing: You Have the Power to Reset

You can’t stop the chaos — but you can teach your body to stay steady inside it. Each time you pause for a breath, dance in the kitchen, or notice your surroundings, you’re training your nervous system to return to calm more easily.

For me, this means I can enjoy the sound of the kettle, the sticky toddler hugs, and even the loud mornings without feeling like I’m drowning. And that’s what I want for you too — a way to feel safe and steady, even when life feels loud.

🍂 Where the Day Ends: My Favorite Nightly Ritual

I’m writing this from my favorite spot in the house — our front porch, dressed in its autumn best. Twinkling lights glow softly around me, a cool September breeze dances through the air, and the sound of my children playing with my husband inside drifts out through the window. As usual, I have a steaming mug of pumpkin chai tea at my side, a cozy blanket wrapped around me, and my keyboard balanced across my lap.

This is my happy place. The place where I reflect, write, and gather my thoughts before stepping back into the busy rhythm of motherhood, business, and life.

🌙 My Favorite Time of Day

There are so many moments in my day that I love — the morning snuggles, the afternoon giggles, the spontaneous hugs — but if I had to choose one, it would be those quiet minutes right before bed.

I co-sleep with my two children — one tucked safely on each side of me — and in those moments the world slows down. It feels like everything outside of that room melts away. The house is quiet, the lights are dim, and I’m surrounded by the steady sound of my children’s breathing.

🫶 The Ritual

My daughter is always to my right, her dolly nestled securely across her chest, her head resting gently on my shoulder. My son is always to my left, the cuddliest little soul, pressing as close as humanly possible.

I run my fingers through their soft dark hair and trace little circles on their arms. My son loves when I run my nails gently over his hands and skin. We sing the same lullabies every night, whisper prayers, and share tiny chats about our day.

In those moments, time feels suspended — like the world is giving me permission to just be here, to soak in the warmth and stillness.

🧡 Holding On to the Little Years

I know these moments won’t last forever. One day, my kids will have their own rooms, their own beds, and they won’t need me in the same way. And that’s okay — that’s how it’s supposed to be. But tonight, and every night until then, I will hold onto these sacred minutes like treasures.

The day’s busyness falls away, and what remains is pure love, pure connection. These are the memories I know I will replay in my heart when the house is quiet years from now.

🍵 Your Turn

This little porch reflection is a reminder — for me and maybe for you — to notice the small moments that make life rich. Whether it’s bedtime snuggles, your first sip of tea in the morning, or that quiet walk you take after dinner, savor it.

I’d love to hear from you: what’s your favorite moment of the day?

A Warm Cup of Tea and a Crisp Fall Breeze: Let’s Talk!

🍵 Welcome to My Blog

Hi there, and welcome — I’m so glad you’re here!

I’ve been dreaming about creating this space for a while because I truly believe that choosing a hypnotherapist is a personal decision. You deserve to know the heart, values, and personality of the person you’re inviting into your healing journey. This blog is my way of opening that door a little wider so you can get to know me beyond the “About” page.

Imagine sitting with me on my back porch, sipping a warm cup of tea, and letting the conversation flow. That’s exactly the feeling I want to bring here.

Here you’ll find a mix of everything that makes up my world:
✨ Parenting and Family Life – the messy, magical moments of raising little ones.
✨ Hypnosis & Mindset Tips – practical tools, encouraging insights, and gentle ways to create meaningful change.
✨ Wellness & Personal Growth – reflections on living intentionally, finding balance, and growing through the hard seasons.
✨ Everyday Musings – honest thoughts, little joys, and spontaneous ideas — the kind of things I’d share with a friend over tea.

I’ve always loved writing — I’ve even authored a few titles — but this space will be more casual, more conversational. My hope is that these posts feel like an open invitation to pause, breathe, and connect.

So, brew yourself a cup of tea and settle in with me on the porch. I’m so glad you’re here.

With warmth and gratitude,
Valerie 🌸