I didn't realize what I was doing until I thought about my stepson.

An elderly man arrived at the cat cafe carrying treats, toys, and tuna.

Then I watched the rest of the scene unfold.

A sentence spoken by a rabbi on a Birthright Israel trip stayed with me long after the trip ended. Twenty-six years later, I still find myself returning to the same simple truth.

Some days, a difficult conversation feels manageable.

Other days, the exact same conversation feels impossible.

On her twentieth wedding anniversary, I asked a friend what advice she would give to couples just starting out.

Her answer was only a few words long, but I've never forgotten it.

The other day, I went looking for my phone before leaving the house.

A moment later, I found it exactly where I always put it, without any memory of putting it there.

Years ago, while walking a labyrinth, a phrase appeared in my mind:

Standing on my own two feet.

At the time, I thought it meant something very different than it actually did.

A few weeks after beginning a new kind of healing work, I found myself struggling to explain what had changed.

The closest description I could find was that life suddenly felt less black and white.

For years, I thought the goal was to stay centered.

Eventually, I realized the real skill was knowing how to find my way back.

Years ago, I came across a definition of recovery that has stayed with me ever since.

It suggested that healing might be less about becoming someone new and more about remembering someone familiar.

At the end of the day, I have a simple ritual.

It involves a weighted blanket, a cat or two, and a shower before bed.

The other day, I folded a basket of laundry without a podcast, audiobook, television, or anything else competing for my attention.

It felt stranger than it should have.

Years ago, I sat in a parking lot before a job interview repeating the same sentence to myself.

By the time I walked into the building, something had changed.

For five and a half years, I turned right.

Yesterday, for no particular reason, I turned left.

A while back, my husband and I realized we had become coworkers who happened to live in the same house.

The solution involved a cat cafe and a phrase borrowed from a television show.

A mentor once told me that after more than thirty years of marriage, she still wakes up and chooses to love her husband every day.

That idea has stayed with me.

Sometimes I'll look at one of my cats and be overwhelmed by love.

And then, almost immediately, by the awareness of how much I would miss them if they were gone.