Category: The Writers Room

A place to talk about writing.

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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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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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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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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A New Chapter Begins

January 1, 2026 — A New Chapter Begins

Today is January 1, 2026.

A new year.
A fresh page.
A brand-new chapter waiting to be written.

There’s something powerful about this day. It’s more than a change on the calendar—it’s an invitation. An invitation to breathe deep, to let go of what weighed us down in the past year, and to step forward with hope. Whatever 2025 held—joys, lessons, losses, or victories—we don’t carry it forward alone.

I truly believe this is going to be a great year.

Not because everything will be easy, but because God is faithful. Because new beginnings are His specialty. Because even when the path ahead isn’t fully clear, we can trust the One who already sees the whole journey.

Scripture reminds us of this promise:

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord,
“plans to prosper you and not to harm you,
plans to give you hope and a future.”
— Jeremiah 29:11

Hope and a future.
That’s what this year holds.

As we step into 2026, my prayer is simple: that we walk with intention, extend grace freely, love deeply, and trust boldly. May we listen more, fear less, and remember that every single day is an opportunity to start again.

Here’s to new chapters.
Here’s to fresh starts.
Here’s to walking forward in faith.

Happy New Year.

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Small-Town Hours

“Small-town living teaches you many things… like checking store hours before you get hungry. Dadgum.”

Living in a small town does take some getting used to.

I’ve been home in Metlakatla for over a year now, and I’ll be honest—I’m still not used to the hours of the gas station, the grocery store, or the mini mart. They close early. Sometimes really early. And every now and then, I’ll find myself standing there thinking, Wait… it’s already closed?

Down south, where I lived for a while, things were different. A lot of businesses stayed open late—many of them until 10 or 11 at night. You could decide at the last minute that you needed milk, snacks, or gas, and it was no big deal. You just went and got it.

Up here? You learn quickly that you have to plan ahead.

Now, am I complaining? I’m trying not to. I really am. I’m doing my best to look at the positive side of things. Being from a small town, I understand the hours. I understand staffing challenges. I understand that things move at a different pace—and that’s not always a bad thing.

Small-town life teaches you patience. It teaches you awareness. It teaches you to slow down and think ahead instead of rushing through life on impulse. In many ways, that’s actually a gift.

But still… dadgum.

Every once in a while, that late-night craving hits. Or you realize you forgot one important thing. And that’s when the adjustment really shows itself. No quick fix. No last-minute run. Just you, your thoughts, and the realization that tomorrow will have to do.

Living in a small town isn’t worse—it’s just different. And like most differences in life, it takes time to settle into. I’m getting there. Slowly. One early-closing door at a time.

Dadgum though.

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