If you’ve been wondering where I’ve been… I’m still here. Just a little snowed in. A little buried in boxes of photographs. A little deep in reflection and self-discovery.
Life has a way of growing quiet on the outside when a lot is happening behind the scenes and insider of us. The kind of quiet that isn’t empty, but full. Full of remembering. Full of slow work. Full of discovery. Full of the gentle rearranging that happens when you finally stop long enough to listen to yourself think.
These past weeks have been filled with one of my favorite kinds of work: sorting through old family photographs and scanning them into something that can be carried forward and shared. If you’ve ever done this, you know it’s never just a technical project. It’s emotional archaeology. Every photograph is a doorway. One envelope leads to another. One familiar face leads to a story you’ve heard a hundred times… and suddenly you’re noticing something new in their eyes, in their posture, in the way they stood beside the people they loved. Every memory stirring something inside of yourself that you forgot was there.
There’s something tender about handling pieces of a life that existed before you. Some of these faces are people I knew. Some are people I never had the chance to meet. But all of them are part of the long, winding road that somehow led to me and who I am. It’s humbling to realize how many ordinary days had to happen for us to exist at all. How many small decisions, quiet acts of love, dreams, heartbreak, and unseen sacrifices shaped the paths we now walk so freely.
And while all of this has been unfolding indoors and inside of me, winter has been making itself very known outside. Subzero temperatures. Snow that doesn’t politely melt away after a day or two. The kind of cold that insists you stay put, slow down, and tend to your inner life. I used to resent being forced to pause. Now I see these snowed-in seasons as invitations and as a permission to relax and focus on things so often brushed away for another time.
When the world shrinks to the size of your windows, you start to notice what’s been waiting for your attention inside your own walls and in your heart.
So I’ve been using these winter days to do the quiet, grounding work that often gets pushed aside when life is busy. Sorting through papers and keepsakes. Organizing boxes that have followed me from house to house. Writing in half-finished notebooks. Researching family lines that have been calling my name for a while now. Scanning photographs that deserve to be remembered out loud. Reflecting on who I’ve been, who I am becoming, and which stories I’m ready to carry forward with intention.
There is a particular kind of clarity that comes from being snowed in. When you’re not rushing from place to place, you can finally hear yourself. You can sit with questions instead of trying to outrun them. You can notice patterns in your own life the same way you notice them in your family history. The repeating themes, the strengths passed down, the wounds quietly inherited, the resilience that shows up again and again in different forms comes to the forefront and demands to be heard.
This season has been a reminder that reflection is not something you squeeze into the margins of your life. It is work. Sacred work. Life changing work. The kind that doesn’t always show immediate results, but changes the way you walk forward.
In the middle of all this sorting and remembering, something beautiful came into the world: my new prompted journal, "The Journey Back To Me"
This journal was created for seasons exactly like this one: where you’re pausing, looking back, and gently asking yourself who you are beneath the noise. It’s for the moments when you realize you’ve been living on autopilot and you’re ready to come home to yourself again. It’s for remembering the parts of you that got quiet while you were busy being strong, responsible, or everything to everyone else.
"The Journey Back To Me" is about reflection, identity, memory, and becoming who you were always meant to be. It’s a place to write the truths you haven’t had time to listen to yet, or haven't had the courage to put down on paper. A space to hold your story with tenderness. A companion for winter afternoons, early mornings, or any moment when your soul feels like it needs to exhale.
If things have felt quieter here lately, know that it hasn’t been absence: it’s been gathering. Gathering stories. Gathering memories. Gathering clarity. Gathering the pieces that help us understand where we come from and where we’re headed next.
And if you’re in a snowed-in season of your own: whether that’s literal winter weather or a metaphorical pause life has placed in front of you, I hope you’ll use this time gently. Sort something small. Write one honest page. Research one thread of your story. Scan one memory forward into the future. Sit with one question and have the courage to answer it with complete honesty.
There is meaning in slow work.
There is beauty in quiet seasons.
And there is something deeply healing about turning inward when the world tells you to hurry.
I’m still here.
Still becoming me.
Still walking this winding road of memory, meaning, and self-discovery.
And I’m grateful you’re here with me on my journey back to me.