Tag: love

The Benefits of Living in a Small Town

Finding peace, patience, and community in a world that never stops rushing

There really are many benefits to living in a small town. It’s something you don’t fully understand until you’ve lived it — until your days slow down enough that you can actually feel time moving instead of chasing it.

In a small town like Metlakatla Indian Community, safety isn’t just a statistic. It’s a feeling. You walk outside at night and breathe easier. You know the faces you pass. You recognize the vehicles. Kids grow up with a kind of freedom that feels rare in bigger cities — riding bikes, wandering the shoreline, learning independence without constant fear hanging over every moment.

There’s no big-city hustle here. No endless traffic. No pressure to always be rushing somewhere. Life moves slower — MUCH slower — and while that takes some getting used to, it can be a gift. Groceries arrive when they arrive. Mail shows up when the weather and transportation allow. Plans adjust. Expectations soften. And over time, you learn to match that rhythm instead of fighting it.

At first, the pace can feel frustrating. You might find yourself watching the clock, waiting for shipments, counting days. But eventually something shifts. You stop measuring life in minutes and start measuring it in moments. Conversations last longer. Sunsets feel more important. A simple trip to the store turns into a dozen friendly check-ins.

Of course, small-town life isn’t perfect.

The downside? Everyone knows everyone — and sometimes everyone knows your business. Privacy can feel thin. News travels fast. Opinions travel even faster. For many people, that can be a real pain in the behind. There’s no disappearing into a crowd here. Your good days are visible. Your bad days are too.

But strangely enough, that same closeness that can feel suffocating can also be comforting. When something goes wrong, people notice. When you struggle, someone shows up. When you succeed, the celebration is shared. Community isn’t just a word — it’s a living thing that wraps around you whether you ask for it or not.

Living in a small town teaches patience. It teaches resilience. It teaches you how to live with people, not just around them. You learn that convenience isn’t everything. That speed isn’t always progress. That sometimes the richest life is the one that gives you time to breathe.

And once you’ve learned that rhythm — once your heart syncs with the slower pace — it becomes hard to imagine living any other way.

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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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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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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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📝 Notes by Alex: Writer’s Block – The Great Shut Down

The Great Shutdown: When Indifference Becomes the Hardest Feeling

It’s been a week. Maybe two. I open my laptop, stare at the blinking cursor on the blank page, and… nothing. The well is dry, folks. Not just dry, but capped with a thick slab of concrete labeled: “YEAH, OKAY, WHATEVER.”

That label. That feeling. It’s what I’m struggling with today, and it’s what brought me here to talk about a very specific kind of writer’s block—the emotional one.

The Shutdown Mechanism

Have you ever been hurt to the point that a part of you just shuts down?

It’s not a dramatic collapse. It’s a subtle, insidious numbness that creeps in after the big wave of pain has passed. You’re not crying on the floor, you’re not raging at the sky. Instead, you’re just existing, gliding through life on a thin sheet of practiced indifference.

When people ask how you are, the default answer is a pleasant, empty, “Fine.” And when something genuinely good or bad happens, the emotional response is the same, muted drone: “Yeah, okay, whatever.”

For me, that feeling is pure poison. I try to be positive, upbeat, and stubbornly hopeful. That’s my brand! That’s how I navigate the world. But some days, holding onto that hope feels like gripping a slippery rope on a sheer cliff face. It’s exhausting.

This emotional shutdown is like a short circuit in my creative wiring. How can I write about joy, pain, wonder, or connection when my internal translator is stuck on that one phrase? I can’t access the genuine emotion I need to pour onto the page. The words feel flat, hollow, and utterly inauthentic.

The Challenge of Positivity

We live in a world that glorifies resilience, strength, and endless hustle. We are told to choose joy, to manifest success, to power through. And while I believe in the importance of a positive outlook, sometimes the effort it takes to maintain it when you’re truly hurting feels like a challenge too big to meet.

It makes me wonder: Is the “Yeah, okay, whatever” feeling a defense mechanism? Is it my exhausted spirit throwing up a white flag, saying, “I can’t afford to feel deeply right now, because feeling deeply might break me again?”

Maybe. But a writer who can’t feel is a mechanic without tools. I need my emotions—the good, the bad, the complicated—to be open and running, even if it makes me vulnerable.

An Open Question

I’m sitting here, pushing through the concrete cap, trying to find the genuine spark of feeling underneath. I’m doing the little things: I put on a good playlist, made a proper coffee, and decided to write about the fact that I can’t write.

It helps a little. Honesty is always a good starting point.

So, here is my question for you, my amazing readers:

Does anyone else struggle with this thought? With the battle between wanting to be upbeat and the overwhelming need to just shut down and protect yourself? How do you push past the emotional “whatever” and reconnect with your genuine, messy, feeling self?

I’m looking for inspiration today. Maybe, by sharing your strategies, you can help me—and others who might be stuck in this same emotional no-man’s-land—find the way back to hope, and back to the page.

Drop a comment below. Let’s talk.

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It’s All About Family

Rediscovering the connections that hold us together.

As the holidays approach at what feels like lightning speed, I can’t help but pause and reflect on what truly matters. In a season filled with gifts, gatherings, and endless to-do lists, it’s easy to get swept up in the noise. But at the end of the day—during the holidays and all year long—it’s all about family.

And when I say family, I don’t just mean blood relatives. I’m talking about the people who have walked with us through life. The ones who show up. The ones who love us, challenge us, support us, laugh with us, and sometimes even cry with us. The brothers and sisters we grew up with, the cousins who feel like lifelong friends, the aunts and uncles who shaped us, the moms and dads who carried us, the grandparents whose wisdom echoes in our hearts. And yes—our friends who became family along the way.

As we continue on this journey we call life, one thing becomes very clear: we need each other.
Through the good times and the not-so-good times, through seasons of joy and seasons of struggle, we were never meant to walk this path alone.

Somewhere along the way, as technology advanced and life sped up, we lost a little bit of that connection. We became more plugged-in, but more disconnected. More reachable online, but harder to reach in real life. And honestly, that’s heartbreaking. I miss the old days sometimes—the days before constant notifications and WiFi, when conversations were face-to-face and time together felt slower, richer, more intentional.

But even as the world changes, one truth stays the same:
Family is where life happens.
Family is where memories are made.
Family is where we return when the world gets noisy.

I love my family—all of them. The ones related by blood and the ones bound by love. And this holiday season, I’m choosing to slow down, to reconnect, and to remember what matters most.

Because in the end, it really is all about family.

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The Long Goodbye

Notes from Alex

About a year ago, I wrote a short story about a journey I’ve come to call The Long Goodbye. The phrase is often used to describe dementia, because it slowly and painfully erodes a person’s memories and personality, leaving loved ones to witness the gradual fading of someone who is still alive. It is, in every sense, a heartbreaking journey—not just for the one walking through it, but for everyone who loves them.

For my family, this has become deeply personal. My father has dementia. Watching the disease touch his heart, his life, his very being, is almost too much to bear at times. There are moments where he looks at us with weariness in his voice and says he is ready to go home. He has told my sister and me this, and he has told his wife the same. Those words carry a weight that cannot be ignored.

In the midst of it all, we’ve found ourselves reminiscing together—about old times, about laughter and love, about people who shaped our family’s story. My Pops often shares memories of my mom, Bobbi, his first wife. They were like two peas in a pod, and I can tell that he misses her deeply. These memories bring him comfort, and in a way, they remind us all of the beauty and richness of the life he has lived.

I share these thoughts not to diminish his relationship with his current wife, but to honor her as well. She has sacrificed greatly to care for my father in this season, and that love and dedication has not gone unnoticed. For that, our family is grateful.

The Long Goodbye is not a journey anyone would choose, but it is one that teaches us to hold onto the good moments tightly, to honor the past, and to walk each day with grace and love for the one we are slowly letting go.

Even in the heaviness of this journey, I am reminded that we are never walking it alone. God meets us in the valleys as surely as He does on the mountaintops, and His love does not fade even when memories do. The Apostle Paul wrote, “Even though our outward man is perishing, yet the inward man is being renewed day by day” (2 Corinthians 4:16).

That truth gives me comfort—knowing that while my father’s body and mind may be fading, his spirit is being kept in the hands of the One who never forgets. And in that promise, we find strength to endure, love to keep giving, and hope to keep walking this long goodbye with grace.

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Homecoming Freewrite — Notes from Alex

Noticing the shadows — a year home in Metlakatla.

I’ve been home in Metlakatla for just over a year now, and the place I thought I knew is showing me new faces. There’s a kind of quiet I remember from growing up here, but underneath it I’m seeing something else — a current of worry and a tangle of things I didn’t expect: prescription pills trading hands like gum, illegal substances moving through corners of town, people who used to be on opposite sides now strangely close. It’s confusing. It’s sad. It’s real.

What puzzles me most is the connections. Folks I remember as neighbors or coworkers now move in ways that suggest there’s a map of relationships I don’t have. Enemies become pals, dealers and users exist beside pastors and parents, and the lines between “that kind of person” and “someone from church” blur. Maybe that’s how communities survive — we adapt, we hide our shame, we make peace with what we can’t face. Or maybe it’s how a problem grows: out of silence and the things done in the shadows.

I’ve been praying about it. Not the quick, “fix-this” kind of prayer, but the heavy, persistent kind that asks for truth and healing. I believe shadows don’t have the last word — light does. If there are people bringing drugs into our streets and wrecking lives, this shouldn’t be something we normalize or tuck away like a family secret. We owe each other honesty, care, and accountability. We owe our kids a town that doesn’t make brokenness into a quiet economy.

That doesn’t mean I want to point fingers from a place of judgment. I want to see people helped, not shamed. I want the folks stuck in cycles of addiction to find paths out, and for the people enabling the flow — whether knowingly or not — to be confronted with help and consequences. And yes, I want the hidden things brought to light, because only in the light can healing begin.

It’s a strange mix: pride in this place that raised me, and grief for the things that are wrong. It’s also a call — to pay attention, to speak up when I can, to pray louder when I can’t. Maybe the first step is simply noticing, and then doing the next small thing: check on a neighbor, show up to a local meeting, call someone who can help. Small lights can join to make a blaze.

“For there is nothing hidden that will not become evident, nor anything secret that will not be known and come to light.” — Luke 8:17

A short prayer: Lord, bring what is hidden into the light. Bring healing where there is harm. Give us courage to act and wisdom to love well. Amen.

“If we want a healthier community tomorrow, it begins with the choices we make inside our own homes today — for our kids, for our families, for the ones watching us most closely.”

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