Delving into our past
These same stories and shenanigans — officially approved by me and my Pom, Harley — can also be found on our Facebook page and in our app.
Cindy was outvoted.
The hand we don't see
We make plans—carefully, hopefully—only to watch them get interrupted by life.
Not gently redirected. Interrupted.
Life has a way of barging in without knocking. One moment you’re mapping out next week, next year, or the rest of your story… and the next, you’re just trying to keep your head above water. You tread. You kick. You fight the current. And still, life pulls downward with a quiet persistence that feels personal, even when it isn’t.
In those moments, survival becomes the only goal.
Bills, grief, uncertainty, health, loneliness—whatever form it takes, the weight demands our full attention. We become so focused on staying afloat that our vision narrows. The world shrinks to the size of the struggle. Every thought circles the same drain: How do I fix this? How do I get out? How long can I hold on?
And that’s when something subtle happens.
We miss the hand reaching for us.
Not because it isn’t there—but because pain is loud. Fear is loud. Drowning thoughts don’t leave much room for noticing quiet grace. Help rarely announces itself with fireworks. Sometimes it looks like a person who listens without fixing. Sometimes it’s a pause you didn’t plan for. Sometimes it’s strength you don’t remember having, showing up anyway.
We assume we have to save ourselves.
We assume asking for help means failure.
We assume the struggle is proof we’re doing something wrong.
But what if it’s just proof that we’re human?
Maybe the hand reaching out isn’t there to pull us out instantly—but to remind us we’re not sinking alone. Maybe it’s there to steady us long enough to breathe. To rest. To remember who we were before the water rose.
Life will interrupt us again. That part is unavoidable.
What isn’t unavoidable is going under unseen.
Sometimes the bravest thing we can do isn’t swimming harder—but looking up, loosening our grip on panic, and letting ourselves notice the help that’s already there.
Even now.
Especially now.
Why I keep climbing the water spout
I was thinking about The Itsy Bitsy Spider at a ridiculous hour — the kind of hour when your brain plays reruns of childhood instead of letting you sleep.
You know the rhyme.
The spider climbs.
The rain knocks it down.
The sun comes out.
The spider climbs again.
It’s almost insulting how simple it is. Four lines. No big speech. No inspirational poster. And yet it’s probably the most honest story ever written about being alive.
Because nobody tells you this when you’re little:
The rain always comes.
You can be building something — a blog, a dream, a routine, a version of yourself that finally feels okay — and suddenly life just dumps a whole storm on it. Health stuff. Money stress. Mental fog. Loneliness. Or just one of those days where everything feels heavier than it should.
Down comes the rain.
Out goes the spider.
And that part hurts. Not because you failed, but because you were actually trying.
That’s the quiet truth:
You only get washed out of the spout if you were brave enough to climb it in the first place.
The rhyme doesn’t say the spider cried.
It doesn’t say the spider questioned its life choices.
It doesn’t even say the spider learned a lesson.
It just says the sun came out… and the spider went back up.
That’s the part that feels familiar.
Not dramatic.
Not heroic.
Just stubborn.
Some days my version of climbing the spout is writing something when nobody’s reading. Some days it’s getting out of bed. Some days it’s walking Kamea (my Pomeranian) and pretending the air feels lighter than it really does.
The rain doesn’t mean I’m broken.
It just means gravity still works.
And when the sun comes out — a good moment, a quiet laugh, a small feeling of okay — I climb again. Not because I’m strong, but because something in me refuses to stay at the bottom.
So if you’re soaked right now, sitting at the base of your own spout, staring up and wondering why you even bothered…
Congratulations.
You’re the spider.
And sooner or later, the sun always shows up.
Even if it’s just for a minute.
The "Hang in There Cat"
