Writer. Seaplane Pilot. Storyteller.
Born and raised in Metlakatla, Alaska, I share stories shaped by coastal life, Native heritage, aviation adventures, and everyday reflections. Notes by Alex is where I write from the heart—about inspiration, culture, faith, and life in Southeast Alaska.
“When the mountain looks too big, start with faith”
Have you ever looked at a project—one that means so much to you—that it almost takes your breath away? The kind that carries your memories, your hopes, and the love you’ve poured into every dream you’ve ever had. It’s not just an idea—it’s a piece of your heart.
And yet, as you stand at the edge of it, staring into the magnitude of what it could become, a wave of doubt hits you. You think, This is too big. How can I possibly do this? The weight of it all—time, effort, emotion—feels like more than you can carry.
I’ve been there. That moment when excitement and fear collide. When the heart wants to leap forward, but the mind whispers, slow down… this is too much.
But then—there’s that quiet, steady voice deep inside. A whisper that cuts through the noise and says, Just take the first step… and watch Me work on your behalf.
That’s the beauty of faith—it doesn’t demand that we see the whole path. It only asks that we trust enough to move one step at a time. Because often, the first step is the key that unlocks what’s waiting beyond our sight.
I’ve learned that the projects that scare us most are usually the ones most worth doing. The ones that stretch us, humble us, and remind us that we were never meant to do it alone.
So, whatever your “big thing” is—start small. Start now. Take that first step in faith, and trust that the One who placed the dream in your heart will guide your hands the rest of the way.
“The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.” — Exodus 14:14
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.
Exploring the history, lore, and beauty of East Tennessee
I had the opportunity to live in Parrottsville, Tennessee, a small community about 90 minutes east of Knoxville and just 20 miles west of the North Carolina border. During that time, I learned a great many things about the area—and quickly realized how rich it is in American history.
East Tennessee is a region full of stories. From Civil War sites to old legends and ghost tales, the past lingers in the hills and valleys. Some of those stories are good, some are great, and some remind us of harder times—but together they weave a picture of a land shaped by generations of people and events.
We lived right by the Great Smoky Mountains, a place of breathtaking beauty, and just a stone’s throw from the Appalachian Trail. The mountains themselves hold countless stories—of settlers, soldiers, families, and wanderers—all layered into the history and lore of the region.
If you ever have the chance, I encourage you to visit East Tennessee. Walk its trails, breathe in the mountain air, listen to the stories, and discover the history for yourself. The region has so much to offer for anyone who is curious.
As I sit and reflect on my spiritual journey, I see a thread running through my life that started long before I chose to follow Christ. Even as a kid, I felt this pull inside me—a desire to be a positive light in a world that often seemed swallowed up in darkness.
I remember looking around at my community, at my people, and noticing the chaos that swirled like a storm. It was heavy and unsettling, even then. And yet, deep in my heart, I knew I wanted to do something different. To be an encouragement. To bring a spark of light, however small, into the lives of those around me.
Sometimes that looked like the simplest of things—saying hello, asking how are you doing?, or just stopping long enough to really listen. I didn’t always know what I was doing, but I knew it mattered.
When I chose to follow Christ, that quiet nudge inside me didn’t disappear—it became stronger, clearer, and more purposeful. I began to understand that God had given me tools for this journey: prayer, His Word, the ability to speak encouragement, and the call to walk alongside others as they faced their own struggles.
These tools aren’t just for me; they’re meant to be shared. They’re meant to point people toward hope, toward light, toward the One who is greater than all of us.
Looking back, I see how God was already preparing my heart before I even realized it. That desire I felt as a kid—to be a light in the midst of chaos—wasn’t just me. It was Him. It always was.
And this is where I’ve landed: life isn’t about having it all figured out, but about using what God has placed in your hands to encourage, uplift, and shine a light for others on their journey.
And as I continue walking with my Creator, I hold onto this thought: my life is simply beautiful chaos, dancing in the wind of the Spirit.
As Jesus said in John 3:8, “The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit.”
That’s how my journey feels—mysterious, sometimes unpredictable, but always alive in the movement of God.
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.”
I am sitting here tonight, after a full day of work, saddened and unsettled by the news of what happened today. A man, in what is already being called a political assassination, was shot and killed while speaking to university students.
This was not just any man—he loved his country, and he loved young people. That’s why he chose to engage with them, to debate, to challenge, to listen. And now his life has been taken.
I sit here puzzled, almost speechless, wondering why this even happened. Part of me can’t help but see it through the lens of spiritual warfare. Anytime someone stands up for young people, or speaks truth—whether biblical truth or simply the truth of what is right and just—it seems they are targeted. Not by the light, but by the darkness.
And when darkness strikes, it leaves in its wake confusion, pain, and unanswered questions. That confusion is the very atmosphere the enemy of our soul thrives on.
Tonight, I feel both sadness and anger. Anger, because my heart tells me there is more we can be doing. More to stand for truth. More to protect life. More to speak hope into the next generation.
But what is that “more”? That is the question stirring in me tonight.
So tonight I leave this question not just on my own heart, but with you as well: what more can we do? How do we push back against the darkness that tries to silence truth and steal hope from the next generation? Maybe it’s in prayer, maybe it’s in showing up for young people, maybe it’s in speaking truth when it would be easier to stay quiet.
I don’t have the full answer. But I do know this—we cannot remain numb or passive. Each of us has a role, however small or large, to shine light where darkness wants to dwell.
Jesus reminded us in John 1:5, “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” That is where our confidence rests. The “more” begins with turning to Him, walking in His light, and carrying that light into every space we can.
Over the past few weeks, I’ve stepped into a new role that has placed me right back into the world of Private Jet Aviation. It feels good to be back in my wheelhouse—sales and operations—working with an incredible ops team that truly loves what they do. What makes it even more rewarding is that we are a fully remote team, spread across the country, yet united by our passion for aviation. Different walks of life, different backgrounds, but one shared drive. It shows in the way we work together.
When I came home to Alaska, my heart was set on helping in any way I could. I wanted to contribute, to lend my experience, and to move projects forward. But the reality was harder than expected. Leadership support was missing at key moments, and decisions that needed to be made simply weren’t. It left me confused and, if I’m honest, a little discouraged.
In the end, it became clear that my help wasn’t truly needed in the way I had hoped. That was a difficult realization, and making the decision to move on wasn’t easy. But today, I find myself deeply thankful for this new opportunity and for the people I now get to work alongside.
I still hope the best for the projects happening here in Metlakatla. This is home, and I care about the work being done. But for now, I’m grateful to have found a team and a space where my skills are being put to good use again.
At the end of the day, I see this as another reminder that the journey—whether in aviation, family, or faith—isn’t always a straight line, but every turn has a purpose in shaping where we’re meant to be.
Faith-focused: “Through it all, I’m reminded that God’s plan often unfolds in ways I don’t expect, but always in ways that prepare me for where I’m meant to be.”
Family-focused: “It’s another reminder that the work I do isn’t just for me—it’s about creating stability and setting an example for my family, showing them that resilience matters.”
Aviation-focused: “Much like flying, this journey has had its turbulence and course corrections, but every adjustment keeps me moving toward the horizon where I’m meant to be.”
I wanted to take a moment to talk about my father, Alex Atkinson Sr. He’s a great man—now in his 80s—and throughout his life he has shown what it means to live with love, honor, and respect.
Growing up, my sister and I always knew we were deeply cared for. Dad didn’t just say he loved his family; he showed it in the way he supported us, stood by us, and carried himself with quiet strength. His example taught us that family is something you don’t just belong to—you invest in it, you nurture it, you hold it together.
I remember him telling me how much he had learned from his own father—“Pops.” He picked up the ways of hunting, fishing, and providing, and then carried those lessons forward. Dad shared them with his nephews, with me, with my cousins. That spirit of passing things down—knowledge, traditions, laughter, and care—has always been his way of looking out for our big family.
What I’ll never forget is his smile. Around family, he always had a big grin on his face, ready to laugh, ready to make others laugh. Joy seemed to flow naturally from him, and it lit up our gatherings in a way that made everyone feel at home.
My dad is an amazing man. Not just because of what he’s done, but because of who he is. He is love in action, the kind of steady presence that anchors a family. And for that, and for him, I am forever grateful.
Closing Reflection
As I look at my own life now, I realize how much of my father lives on in me. His lessons about love, honor, and respect shape how I show up for my family and community today. His laughter reminds me to bring joy into every room I enter. And his faithfulness inspires me to stay grounded in what truly matters. In many ways, I see my role now as carrying the torch he lit—continuing the legacy of care, faith, and strength that he embodied so well.
The Bible says in Proverbs 20:7,“The righteous lead blameless lives; blessed are their children after them.” I see that truth in my father’s life. Because he walked in integrity, we—his children and family—continue to live in the blessing of his example. I carry the torch he lit, continuing the legacy of care, faith, and strength that he embodied so well.
Becoming a writer and publishing your first book isn’t some unreachable dream—it’s a very real, achievable goal. And here’s the best part: you don’t have to do it all at once. A blog can serve as your creative testing ground, your accountability partner, and your first audience. It’s where your voice takes shape and where the seeds of a book can begin to grow.
This journey, from concept to creation, unfolds in stages. Each step builds on the last, taking you closer to the moment when you hold your book in your hands.
Step 1: Define Your Purpose and Idea
Every book begins with a “why.” Why do you want to write? Who do you want to reach?
For nonfiction, think about the problem you want to help readers solve. Your blog posts can act as mini-experiments—sharing tips, ideas, or reflections that let you see what resonates.
For fiction, passion is everything. Choose a story you love enough to live with for months (or years). Anchor your characters and plot around a central theme—the heartbeat of your story—that carries it all the way through.
Step 2: Create a Strategic Blog
Think of your blog as both your writer’s portfolio and your workshop.
Choose a niche: A focused blog builds trust and attracts the right readers.
Pick a platform and name: WordPress, Squarespace, or even Substack work well. Pick a name that’s easy to remember and feels like you.
Write in advance: Draft a few posts and an “About Me” page before you launch. Give visitors something to explore right away.
Promote consistently: Share your work, connect with readers, and show up regularly. Consistency grows your community.
Step 3: Develop and Outline Your Book
Outlines aren’t about limiting creativity—they’re about giving yourself a roadmap.
Structure matters: For nonfiction, create a logical flow that builds chapter by chapter. For fiction, map out your story arc and your characters’ journeys.
Use your blog as a testing ground: Write posts that double as book material. Pay attention to what readers respond to—that feedback is golden.
Step 4: Write the First Draft
This is where the real work begins—but also where the magic happens.
Set goals: Daily or weekly word counts help the project move forward.
Build a routine: Treat writing like an appointment you can’t skip.
Silence the inner editor: The first draft is supposed to be messy. Get the words down; polish later.
Step 5: Revise and Edit
A book is truly made in the rewriting.
Self-edit first: Tidy up structure, fix pacing, strengthen characters or arguments.
Seek feedback: Beta readers and writing groups help you see blind spots.
Go professional: A skilled editor sharpens your manuscript to industry standards.
Step 6: Publish and Promote
Now comes the leap—from private project to public book.
Choose your path: Traditional publishing means agents and proposals; self-publishing offers more control and faster timelines.
Promote through your blog: Share behind-the-scenes posts, teaser chapters, and cover reveals.
Engage your readers: Offer freebies, giveaways, or early access to your most loyal subscribers.
Marketing isn’t about shouting—it’s about sharing your story with the people who are already listening.
Final Thoughts
Writing a book is less about talent and more about persistence. When you use a blog as your starting place, you don’t just build an audience—you build momentum. Each post becomes a step closer to the finished manuscript.
Your words matter. Your story matters. And if you commit to the process, one day soon, you’ll get to see your name on the cover of a book.
For me, this process isn’t just theory—it’s real. My own writing journey began with stories from the docks and skies of Southeast Alaska, where I worked around seaplanes as a teenager before eventually flying them myself. Those experiences became the foundation for my first book, a memoir that I’m shaping one post, one reflection at a time.
Blogging gave me the courage to put my words out there and test the waters. Each story I shared—about the rhythms of flight, the wild beauty of Alaska, or the lessons learned in the cockpit—helped me see what resonated with readers. Over time, those small pieces began to connect into a bigger story, one worth turning into a book.
That’s the power of this process: a blog isn’t just practice, it’s preparation. It’s where you discover your voice, gather your readers, and slowly but surely, build the pages of a book that’s uniquely yours.
There are seasons in life that feel like endless night—where pain, confusion, and suffering seem to swallow every ounce of hope. For me, that season began in the first week of December 2023.
I don’t remember much from that day, only fragments of what happened. One moment I was at home, and the next, I was being medevaced by helicopter to the University of Tennessee Medical Center. My body was shutting down from a parasite that had been inside me for years, slowly weakening me until it finally brought me to my knees.
In the ICU, I suffered multiple mini-strokes, and at one point, I even passed on the table—only to be brought back. My body was being kept alive by multiple IVs, machines, and the relentless work of doctors and nurses I had never met. For seven days, I was unconscious. When I finally opened my eyes, I was disoriented, everything looked black and white, and though I could see people’s lips moving, I couldn’t hear a sound. Hours later, when I opened my eyes again, color had returned, sound had returned, and a nurse gently greeted me back into the world.
The pain was overwhelming. The shock was real. I remember silently weeping, asking myself, What in the world just happened to me?
And then, in that fragile moment, a scripture rose up inside me:
“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” — Philippians 4:13
I whispered, “Father, You will have to be my strength, because right now, I have none.”
That was the beginning of my healing journey. I had to learn how to walk again. I had to endure months of recovery, with moments that felt unbearable. I was uprooted and unsettled, facing the reality of moving back to Alaska while still fighting through weakness and pain. For over a year, it felt as if I was walking through a valley I didn’t know how to escape—a very real dark night of the soul.
It was hard. It was hurtful. It was sad. And yet… it was not without purpose.
Because in that dark place, I learned surrender. I learned that when all strength is gone, God Himself becomes our strength. I learned to pray not from a place of control, but from utter dependence. I learned that even when my world turned black and white, God was still painting in color.
Now, as I stand here today, I sense a shift. That long night is ending. A new season is dawning.
The valley doesn’t last forever. The storm eventually passes. And while the scars remain, they serve as reminders of God’s mercy, His power to restore, and His promise to carry us through the shadows.
Today, I feel the sun rising again. The dark night of the soul is over, and I am stepping into the light of a new season with renewed faith, deeper trust, and a heart that knows—truly knows—that God is faithful.
“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” — Psalm 30:5
A Closing Prayer
Heavenly Father, Thank You for being our strength when we have none. For those walking through their own dark night, remind them that You are near—that even in the valley, You are the light that never fades. Teach us to surrender, to trust, and to lean fully on You. Lord, bring healing where there is pain, peace where there is fear, and joy where there has been sorrow. We declare in faith that the night will not last forever, and that Your morning light will rise over our lives. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
Notes from Alex 