When Pets Become Family

The quiet way animals teach us loyalty, memory, and unconditional love

This morning I was thinking about something simple, but powerful.

Isn’t it amazing how a pet can bring so much joy into a life?

A dog waiting at the door like you’re the most important person in the world. A cat curled up beside you like it understands silence better than words. A bird singing into a quiet room. Fish gliding through water like living art. A horse that looks at you with eyes that feel ancient and trusting.

They start as animals we care for… and somehow, quietly, they become family.

You can look at your pet and remember when they were just a puppy or a kitten. Now they’re older, a little slower, a little wiser. But when they play — really play — you see that puppy or kitten come rushing back out of them. For a moment, time folds in on itself. The years disappear. And it warms your heart in a way that’s hard to explain.

Pets walk with us for over a decade of our lives. That’s not a small thing. That’s chapters. Seasons. Whole eras of who we are.

And the look in their little eyes when you come home from running an errand or a long day at work… it melts you every single time. No matter what kind of day you had. No matter what mood you’re in. To them, your return is the best moment of their day. They greet you like a celebration. Like love itself just walked through the door.

They don’t care about titles, money, mistakes, or yesterday’s regrets. To them, you are enough exactly as you are. And maybe that’s the real gift — they show us a version of love that is pure, uncomplicated, and steady.

More than pets.
More than companions.
They become witnesses to our lives.

They sit beside us in heartbreak.
Celebrate with us in joy.
Grow older with us, quietly marking the passage of time.

And in their presence, we remember what it feels like to simply be human.

Yes… pets can become family. And anyone who’s loved one knows that’s the truth.

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The Parts We Hide

Finding grace, healing, and hope in the places we’re afraid to speak about.

The past few days, in between work and the normal rhythm of life, I’ve been sitting with a thought that won’t let me go.

I saw a quote that put words to something I’ve carried quietly for a long time:

“God, please heal the part of me that I can’t discuss with anyone.”

At the same time, the song “Come Jesus Come” by CeCe Winans was playing in the background, and it felt like everything lined up in one moment — the words, the music, the memories, the ache, and the hope.

After talking with so many people on my journey through this thing we call life, I’ve discovered something simple but hard to admit:

All humans fail.

Every single one of us.

And yet, in our walk with our Creator, we begin to discover something deeply personal. We discover for ourselves what amazing grace actually means. Not as a lyric. Not as a church phrase. But as a lived reality.

Most of us have walked through what feels like the dark night of the soul. The place where you sit with your mistakes, your regrets, your hidden wounds, and the version of yourself you’re afraid to show the world. But here’s the part we don’t talk about enough:

There is hope.
There is light at the end of the tunnel.
And even when it feels impossible to believe…

You are not alone.

Somehow, in that shadow, peace can still find you. I know it did for me. Not all at once. Not perfectly. But enough to keep breathing. Enough to keep walking.

After many conversations with men especially, one question keeps surfacing like a quiet fear we all share:

“If you really knew who I was, would you still accept me?”

That is a terrifying question to carry inside your chest. Because it assumes the answer might be no.

I’ve made choices in my past that hurt my heart — and hurt people I love. That truth doesn’t disappear just because time passes. But learning from that pain… that’s where the rubber meets the road. That’s where growth actually begins.

We can sit in sorrow for a moment. We’re human. We need that moment. But we cannot build a home there. At some point, we have to stand up, brush the dust off our spirit, and move forward.

I am learning to walk in peace, hope, and love.

Is it easy?

Heck no.

It’s hard. It’s scary. Some days it feels like walking through fog with no map. But every step forward matters. Every honest prayer matters. Every scar carries a lesson.

Your hope matters.
Your movement forward matters.
Your testimony matters.

Because your light — the one you fought to protect when everything felt dark — will guide someone else who is walking the same trail you once stumbled through.

And maybe that’s the quiet miracle of healing: the part of you that once felt too broken to speak about becomes the very thing that helps someone else believe they can survive too.

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Title: When the Words Go Quiet

“Finding the spark again in silence, memory, and the spaces between words.”

There are days when I sit down ready to write, ready to create, and nothing comes. The page feels heavy. My thoughts feel scattered. It’s like standing in front of a creative brick wall, knocking, waiting for something on the other side to answer back.

And I always wonder — what do we do in those moments?

Do we read, hoping someone else’s words will shake loose our own? Sometimes a single sentence from a book can open a door we didn’t know was stuck. A phrase, a rhythm, a way of seeing the world that reminds us we’re not empty — we’re just paused.

Do we go looking for certain words? Words that carry weight. Words that hum with feeling. Sometimes I’ll write a word in the center of a page and just stare at it. Let it echo. Let it stretch. And slowly, more words gather around it like they’ve been waiting for permission.

Or maybe the answer isn’t on the page at all.

Maybe it’s outside.

A ride into the wilderness. The sound of wind moving through trees. The smell of rain. The quiet language of water and sky. Nature has a way of resetting something inside us. It reminds us that creativity isn’t forced — it flows. Rivers don’t rush themselves. Seasons don’t panic. They arrive when they’re ready.

Sometimes inspiration hides in the past.

Old photo albums. Faded corners. Faces frozen in time. You look at a picture and suddenly you’re back there — the laughter, the feeling, the version of you that existed in that moment. And maybe you notice something you missed the first time. A detail. A look. A story waiting to be told.

And then there’s reminiscing.

Sitting still long enough to let memory rise to the surface. Thinking of the times that moved you, touched your heart, cracked you open in the best ways. Those moments never really leave us. They live quietly inside, waiting to be invited back into the light. Creativity often isn’t about inventing something new — it’s about remembering something true.

So maybe hitting a creative wall isn’t failure.

Maybe it’s an invitation.

An invitation to wander. To observe. To feel. To listen. To return to the places — inside and outside — where wonder still exists. Inspiration isn’t gone when it gets quiet. It’s just asking us to slow down enough to notice where it’s been hiding.

Let’s sit with that thought for a minute.

Because sometimes the spark doesn’t come from chasing it.

Sometimes it comes from allowing it to find us again.

— Alex

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What Keeps Me Going

On grace, hidden battles, and the quiet strength we borrow from each other

As I sit here reflecting on my life, I’m amazed at something I keep rediscovering: nearly everyone you meet is carrying something in their heart. Sometimes it’s heavy. Sometimes it’s dark, ugly, and painful. And often, you’d never know it just by looking at them.

The people we trust, love, and respect are not exempt from struggle. Neither are we.

But loving people was never about pretending those struggles don’t exist. It’s about learning to look past the faults, the shortcomings, the scars. It’s about discovering what it really means to love — to share grace freely, to offer patience, to be an encourager when someone else is running low on hope.

In a world that feels confused and, at times, downright confusing, one truth keeps surfacing: we need each other. We need the voices that cheer us on when we’re tired. And just as importantly, we learn that we are meant to be that voice for someone else.

Yes, this life can be hard. There are seasons that feel like walking through a tunnel with no clear end. I’ve written before about my own dark night of the soul — a time when everything felt heavier than I thought I could carry. Those moments change you. They strip things down to what matters and force you to ask the question:

What keeps me going?

Some days the answer is simple. It’s love. It’s faith. It’s the quiet strength I borrow from the people around me. It’s the belief that even in the dark, there is movement happening — healing happening — whether I can see it yet or not.

What keeps me going is the understanding that none of us were meant to do this alone. We survive by holding each other up. We move forward by extending grace, again and again. And somewhere in the middle of all the mess and beauty of being human, we find purpose in showing up for one another.

Maybe that’s the point.

To keep going.
To keep loving.
To keep cheering each other on.

Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

— Alex

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Living Between Two Worlds

Honoring tradition while walking forward

There is a quiet tension that many of us feel but don’t always talk about. We are living between two worlds.

One world is built from tradition — from the voices of our elders, from the stories passed down around kitchen tables, from the knowledge that came long before we were born. It is the world that shaped our identity. It tells us who we are, where we come from, and what we carry forward.

The other world is modern, fast, and constantly shifting. It runs on technology, deadlines, opportunity, and adaptation. It asks us to move quickly, to compete, to evolve, and to take advantage of what is in front of us.

And sometimes, standing in the middle of those two worlds can feel like being pulled in opposite directions.

But I’ve been thinking: maybe the goal isn’t to choose one over the other. Maybe the real work of our generation is learning how to hold both at the same time.

We don’t have to abandon tradition to succeed in a modern world. And we don’t have to reject progress to honor our culture. The strength comes from merging the two with intention — with love, honor, and respect.

Tradition is not a cage. It’s a compass.

It doesn’t exist to keep us stuck in the past. It exists to guide how we move forward. The teachings of our culture — respect for community, respect for land, respect for elders, respect for one another — are not outdated values. If anything, they are exactly what the modern world is starving for.

Working in today’s world doesn’t mean leaving our identity behind. It means carrying it with us into every space we enter. It means remembering that success is not just measured by money or status, but by how we treat people and how we contribute to something bigger than ourselves.

When we tap into what is in front of us — new tools, new careers, new ideas — we’re not betraying tradition. We are expanding the story. We are proving that culture is not fragile. It is alive. It grows with us.

The key is intention.

If we walk forward without forgetting who we are, modern life becomes an extension of tradition, not a replacement for it. Every opportunity becomes a chance to represent our values. Every success becomes something we carry back to the community, not something we keep for ourselves.

That’s where the merge happens.

It happens when we pursue growth without losing humility.
When we chase opportunity without forgetting gratitude.
When we innovate while honoring wisdom that came before us.

We are not meant to live divided. We are meant to be bridges.

Bridges between generations.
Bridges between old knowledge and new tools.
Bridges between where we come from and where we are going.

And maybe that is one of the most important roles we can play — to show that tradition and modern life are not enemies. They are partners. They can walk side by side.

If we lead with love, honor, and respect, we don’t lose anything. We gain a fuller way of living.

We become proof that culture is not something you leave behind to succeed. It is the foundation that makes success meaningful.

And that might be the real balance we are searching for.

Not choosing one world over the other —
but learning how to stand strong in both.

— Alex

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The Sound of Wind and Spirit

The Big Storm

There’s a big storm rolling through Metlakatla right now. Heavy rain. Hard wind. The kind of storm they’re calling an atmospheric river. It’s not gentle — it’s loud, restless, alive.

I drove up the mountain earlier just to watch it. From up there you can see the wind slam into the water. In some places it was whipping so hard it looked like waterspouts forming, twisting and dancing across the surface. My truck was shaking from the gusts. Sitting there, feeling that force push against metal and glass, you can’t help but feel small in the best possible way.

It never ceases to amaze me — the raw power of wind and rain.

Watching it stirred something spiritual in me. I started wondering what might be happening in the unseen realm at the same time. Sometimes I think the natural world mirrors deeper realities. Storms in the physical world often feel like echoes of movement in the spiritual one.

The Bible speaks about wind and water as symbols of the Spirit — unseen, unstoppable, life-giving, and powerful. You can’t hold the wind in your hand. You can’t command the rain to stop. You can only witness it and respect it. Maybe that’s part of the lesson. There are forces at work beyond what we see, shaping things in ways we don’t fully understand.

Storms remind me that power doesn’t always come quietly. Sometimes it roars. Sometimes it shakes the ground. Sometimes it rearranges the landscape. And yet, after every storm, something has shifted, something has been watered, something has been made new.

Sitting there watching the chaos move across the water, I didn’t feel fear. I felt awe.

And awe is a good place to be.

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“The Day I Flew Backwards”

Flying Backwards: A Lesson I’ll Never Forget

There are moments in aviation that burn themselves into your memory so deeply that you can replay them frame by frame for the rest of your life. One of those moments happened during my flight training in a little Cessna 150 — a tiny two-seater that taught me some of the biggest lessons I’ve ever learned in the air.

It was a beautiful, crystal-clear day. The kind of day pilots dream about. Blue skies, endless visibility, sunshine pouring across the wings. But up high, the winds were a different story. We climbed to 5,000 feet, and the west winds were howling at over 45 miles per hour. Even in that small airplane, you could feel the sky moving around us. It was bumpy, lively — the kind of air that demands your full attention.

That day’s lesson was slow flight training.

We reduced power and carefully slowed the airplane down, holding altitude, keeping the wings level, feeling every tiny control input. I dropped the flaps to 40 degrees and brought the aircraft down toward landing speed. The Cessna felt soft and mushy on the controls, hanging on the edge of flight, exactly where it was supposed to be for the exercise.

Then I looked down.

The ground wasn’t moving the way it should have been.

Instead of drifting forward beneath us, the earth was sliding the wrong direction. Slowly at first, then unmistakably clear — we were floating backwards. The headwind was stronger than our forward airspeed. We were still flying perfectly, wings level, nose pointed ahead… but relative to the ground, we were going in reverse.

We were flying backwards.

Just me and my instructor, suspended in the sky, riding a river of wind. It felt surreal. The airplane was doing everything it was designed to do, and the atmosphere was simply stronger that day. It was one of those rare moments where aviation stops being technical and becomes pure wonder. You don’t just learn — you feel what flight really is.

We laughed about it over the intercom, watching the landscape slide behind us. It was training, yes. But it was also magic. A reminder that the sky always has something new to teach you, no matter how small the airplane or how early you are in your journey.

That flight stayed with me. Not because of the maneuver itself, but because of the perspective it gave me. Aviation has a way of humbling you and thrilling you at the same time. It reminds you that you’re a guest in an invisible ocean of moving air — and sometimes, if you’re lucky, it lets you fly backwards just to prove a point.

A memory I’ll never forget.

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What Is Love?

A simple question that carries a lifetime of answers


Notes from Alex

I’m sitting here today, just letting my thoughts wander, and one question keeps circling back around in my mind: What is love?

It’s a question people have been asking for centuries. Songs try to explain it. Poets write about it. Movies chase it. Books fill entire shelves trying to define it. And after all this time, we’re still sitting here asking the same thing: What is love, really?

We all know it’s more than empathy. It’s more than just a feeling that shows up one day and disappears the next. It’s bigger than a song, deeper than a movie plot, and stronger than words on a page. Love feels like a kind of power — something every one of us is searching for in one way or another. And if we’re honest, sometimes when we actually come face to face with real love, it scares us a little. True love asks us to be open. To be vulnerable. To give parts of ourselves without knowing what we’ll get back.

The writer of Corinthians tried to describe love long ago. Scripture says love is patient and kind. It doesn’t envy or boast. It isn’t proud. It keeps no record of wrongs. It protects, trusts, hopes, and perseveres. Those words have been around for generations, yet here we are, still trying to live them out and still trying to understand how something so clearly written can feel so hard to practice.

Maybe that’s because love isn’t something we solve once and move on from. Maybe love is something we learn over and over again. It shows up in quiet moments — in forgiveness when it would be easier to stay mad, in staying when walking away would hurt less, in choosing compassion when frustration feels justified. It’s not always loud or dramatic. Most of the time, it’s found in the small, everyday decisions we make.

So what is love?

Maybe it’s the choice to care when caring feels risky. The courage to open your heart again after it’s been bruised. The willingness to see people for who they are and still meet them with grace. Love isn’t just something we feel — it’s something we practice daily.

And maybe the reason we keep searching for the definition is because the search itself keeps us grounded. It reminds us what matters most: connection, kindness, forgiveness, and hope. It reminds us we were built for something deeper than just getting by.

The question may never have a simple answer. But maybe that’s okay.

Because every time we ask what is love?, we get another chance to live a little closer to it.

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Pondering History

Remembering lessons, legacy, and time spent on the water with Dad

Today I found myself pondering history—our history—with Pops, Alex Atkinson Sr.

He taught me, and so many in our family, how to salmon fish and how to hunt. He was full of knowledge and know-how when it came to those things, and he was always happy to pass that knowledge on. Most of what he knew came from his Pops—Grandpa Harris—so it wasn’t just skills he handed down, it was legacy.

I’ll never forget the chance I had to commercial fish with both of them when I was younger. That season stays with me. It was memorable, formative, and full of lessons—lessons about work, patience, the water, and what it means to show up and do things the right way. I learned a lot in that one season, more than I probably realized at the time.

Now, thinking back on those days brings tears to my eyes. I wish I could tell him one more time: Thank you, Dad. Thank you for everything you taught me—everything you taught us.

You loved. You laughed. You loved your family deeply. You loved being with family and supporting family. That mattered. It still does.

I was thinking about all of this today as I saw a boat out trolling for salmon. Just one simple sight, and suddenly I was back there—memories rushing in, heart full, eyes heavy, gratitude overwhelming.

Such memories. Such thankfulness.

Thank you, Dad.

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A Season That Felt Heavy

A freewrite on heaviness, holidays, and the quiet search for light

There are some days when I just don’t feel inspired to write.
Or create.
Or even slow my thoughts down enough to make sense of them.

Some days, my mind feels like it’s moving in five directions at once, and trying to gather those thoughts into something meaningful feels almost impossible. Today is one of those days. So this is a freewrite—just me jotting down what comes to mind, unfiltered and honest.

This past Christmas, I noticed something that sat heavy with me. Here in the little town of Metlakatla, Alaska, there was a feeling in the air that I couldn’t quite shake. A heaviness. Almost like a dark shadow lingering just beneath the surface. At first, I wondered if it was just me—my own weariness, my own perspective. But after talking with several people, they confirmed what I was seeing and feeling.

The heaviness was real.

Holiday seasons can be strange that way. Some years, they come easily—filled with laughter, warmth, and joy. Other years, they press in hard, stirring up grief, loneliness, and old wounds. This last one was oddly tough. Harder than expected. And it saddened my heart to see that weight reflected in the eyes of my family, my friends, and my people.

I wish there were an easy way to bring back the joy of the holiday spirit once again. To remind one another that light still exists, even when it feels dim. That hope is not gone, even when it feels distant.

Maybe part of the answer is simply noticing. Acknowledging the heaviness instead of pretending it isn’t there. Sitting with one another. Listening. Praying. Holding space. And choosing—again and again—to believe that darkness does not get the final word.

Scripture reminds us of this truth:

“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light;
on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.”
— Isaiah 9:2

Light still dawns. Even here. Even now.
And I’m holding on to that hope.

— Alex

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