Life is a tapestry woven from countless moments—each thread representing a phase, a story, a lesson. It Takes As Long As It Takes is not just a tagline; it’s the recognition that every part of our journey, whether joyful or painful, is essential to the person we become.

In this photo gallery, I invite you to walk with me through the snapshots of my life: from the trauma of my early childhood to the resilience that emerged after facing cancer, from the tender moments of motherhood to the freedom of travel and exploration. Each image captures a moment, a role I’ve played, and a challenge I’ve overcome, but more than that, they show the beauty of growth and transformation.

As you reflect on your own life’s journey, I encourage you to think about your own chapters—the highs and lows, the times of loss and the moments of triumph. Together, let’s celebrate the richness of our stories, knowing that each phase, each experience, takes exactly as long as it’s meant to.

January has been a month of reflection, transition, and finding light in the midst of winter’s darkness. After a joyful week in Málaga filled with sunshine, family, and creative inspiration, coming home to Germany’s cold, gloomy weather was a challenge. As someone with Seasonal Affective Disorder, I’m mindful of how winter affects my well-being, and early signs of a post-holiday slump reminded me to take action. A simple walk in the bitter cold and a spontaneous dinner outing with my boys helped shift my perspective, bringing a sense of lightness back to my days. This month, I’ve been reminded that small, intentional actions can make all the difference—and that staying connected to myself through writing and reflection is essential for maintaining balance.

In a country defined by diversity, struggle, and resilience, Americans have a unique ability to foster connection and unity. Despite challenges, their unwavering compassion and drive offer lessons for us all.

What if we all carried our lives in a backpack,
The way weary travelers do,
Waiting in queues for hours
To reunite with loved ones,
Only to leave with a lingering sadness,
After a brief gathering that only partly fills the emptiness
Of a mother grown old,
Aged by her children becoming adults,
Meeting at gate 1F,
Where time is both a journey and a reminder.

Am I a writer who mothers, or a mother who writes? Am I a sailor who mothers, or a mother who sails? These questions often swirl in my mind, like a boat unsure of which direction to go. We all try to define ourselves by the roles we play, but maybe the real answer isn’t in choosing one role over another—it’s in accepting that we can be many things at once. Life, like a backpack we carry, holds both light and heavy moments. As we grow and our children grow, we realize that we are constantly evolving. There’s beauty in the journey of motherhood and self-discovery, in all its messiness and wonder. The most beautiful part? We’re never truly finished. There’s always more to uncover, more to learn, and more to embrace. And in that constant unfolding, we find our true strength—not in being one thing, but in being all of who we are.

Excerpt:

As the new year begins, I find myself craving more than resolutions—I want clarity, calm, and connection. This past year has been a whirlwind of challenges and creativity, leaving my mind cluttered and my soul longing for a reset. In a quiet moment, a simple question stirred something deeper: What do I truly need to drink in right now? The answer wasn’t something strong or numbing—it was peace.

In this journal entry, I reflect on the rituals, habits, and intentions that shape my life as I prepare for a year of lightness and authenticity. Join me as I explore what it means to let go of what drains us and embrace what nourishes us most.

Every night, I stood at the edge of the brown shag carpet, staring at the towering canopy bed, my heart racing as shadows twisted into shapes that seemed to come alive. I would take a deep breath and leap, certain the monsters hiding beneath would grab me if I didn’t.

But the jump wasn’t just about bedtime. My whole life felt like one long leap into the unknown—moving to Amarillo, starting a new school, living with Mama Jean and Daddy Bud. Everything was new, strange, and unsettling. The only constant through it all was the rhythmic clack of the typewriter, its steady sound grounding me when everything else felt uncertain.

The clack of the keys became a comforting rhythm, a way to channel the restless energy of my young mind. Soon, the typewriter became my escape—a tool to make sense of the chaos swirling around me.