Tag: life

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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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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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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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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A Winter Thank You

Honoring the unseen hands that keep our town moving through winter

We are now in the heart of winter, and lately I’ve been pondering what it truly takes to keep our town moving during this season.

Winter brings a certain kind of beauty with it. Kids are out sledding, laughing, and making memories in the snow. Parents watch from the sidelines, smiling as they see the joy on their children’s faces. There’s something special about this time of year—a frozen wonderland that invites us to slow down and take it all in.

But while many of us are enjoying the snow, there are others who are working right through it.

They are the ones up before the sun breaks the horizon. The ones driving into storms instead of staying home from them. The ones clearing our roadways so the rest of us can get to work, get our kids to school, run errands, and live our daily lives as safely as possible.

These road crews often work long, exhausting hours. Many times, their work goes unnoticed. It’s thankless at times, taken for granted even—but it is absolutely essential.

I want to say how thankful I am for those who keep our roads clear, especially the Gunyahs and all those working behind the scenes. And I’m thankful for their wives and families too—those who understand the early mornings, late nights, and missed moments that come with this season of work.

Because of them, our town keeps moving.

So as you’re out and about this winter, please be careful. Slow down. Be mindful of the conditions—and of the people working hard so you can safely get where you’re going.

To those who brave the cold, the dark, and the storms to keep our roads clear: thank you. It is very, very much appreciated.

— 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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