But first a nap

A few years before my mom passed away, she was diagnosed with celiac disease. Back then, gluten-free options were few and far between, and she became convinced there was gluten in just about everything… including ice cream.

Whenever we were out shopping, she’d start plotting.

“Let’s go through a drive-thru.”

She always wanted something she wasn’t supposed to have.

One day, she suggested an A&W Root Beer Float.

I did a little research and discovered the root beer and ice cream were actually gluten-free.

When I told her, she lit up.

It felt wonderfully rebellious.

The best part? She insisted we eat it there instead of bringing it home.

“Dad doesn’t need to know.”

It became our little secret.

Last week, I shared that it had been twenty years since my mom passed away. Saturday would have been her birthday.

Last year, I decided to celebrate her birthday with an A&W Root Beer Float.

Yesterday was the second annual celebration.

As I sat there with my float, I smiled at the memory of the woman who found so much delight in getting away with something she wasn’t actually getting away with.

Funny how a simple root beer float can hold so much love.

Sometimes we honor people with grand gestures.

Sometimes we honor them with flowers.

And sometimes we honor them with vanilla ice cream, root beer, and a quiet smile.

The sweetest traditions often begin with the smallest moments.

Some days are easy to write about.

Some days practically write themselves.

And then there are days like today.

Today is Father’s Day.

It is also twenty years since my mom died.

Those two facts have been quietly sharing space in my heart all day.

Grief is a strange thing. We tend to think that after enough time passes, it should become neat and predictable. Instead, it often becomes quieter but no less complicated.

Twenty years is a long time.

Three years is a long time.

And somehow, not long at all.

I have learned that memories don’t follow calendars. Some anniversaries arrive with tears. Others arrive with gratitude. Some arrive with a strange mix of sadness, love, regret, relief, laughter, and longing all tangled together.

Today feels a little like all of those things.

I don’t have a profound lesson tonight.

I don’t have a tidy ending.

I just know that love leaves a mark. Loss does too.

And maybe that’s enough.

So tonight, I am simply making room for the memories, the gratitude, the questions, and the emotions that don’t fit neatly into words.

Sometimes the victory is not having the answers.

Sometimes the victory is simply being willing to feel.

There is a saying I hear all the time:

“If you don’t love yourself, how can you love anyone else?”

I know it’s a popular quote, but I’ve never completely agreed with it.

In fact, I think a different question might be more helpful:

If you can’t love yourself, how can you accept love from anyone else?

Because “don’t” implies a choice.

Sometimes it isn’t a choice at all.

Sometimes life has handed us enough criticism, heartbreak, loss, and self-doubt that loving ourselves feels more complicated than we would like to admit.

Yet many of those same people love others deeply.

I’ve seen it countless times.

People who struggle to see their own worth often have no trouble seeing the worth in everyone around them.

The challenge isn’t always giving love.

Sometimes the challenge is believing we deserve to receive it.

This week, my nervous system was apparently training for the Olympics.

Unfortunately, the event was “Remaining Alert for Absolutely No Reason.”

It’s been a hard few days.

The kind of days where anxiety feels loud, sleep feels elusive, and life circumstances start closing in a little tighter than you would like.

Today is better.

Not perfect. Just better.

And for that, I am grateful.

As I sat down to write tonight, I realized I didn’t want to write about anxiety. Not because it isn’t real, but because it has already taken up enough space this week.

Tonight, I need hope.

Maybe that’s selfish.

Or maybe it’s human.

I suspect I’m not the only one who has looked around lately and thought, “This all feels a little heavy.”

So tonight, instead of focusing on what is hard, I’m choosing to focus on what is still good.

A text from a friend.

A moment of laughter.

A prayer.

A deep breath.

A Sunday evening and another opportunity to begin again.

I have always believed that when we become a light for someone else, we can’t help but experience a little of that light ourselves.

So if you’re having a hard week too, this is me holding up my tiny flashlight.

Not because I have all the answers.

Just because sometimes a little light is enough to remind us that we’re not walking through the dark alone.

Finding humor while keeping both feet on the ground

A story about the title.

I have worked in drug and alcohol rehabs over the past several years. One day a client said, “Kaydawn, you are the most whimsical realist I have ever met.”

Naturally, I asked for a definition.

She said, “You are aware of the harsh realities of life. You choose to find the good anyway.”

To this day, that is one of my favorite compliments.

It’s who I want to be.
Who I strive to be.
Who I hope I am meant to be.

Like most of us, I don’t always get there.

Some days realism wins. Bills, disappointment, loneliness, fear, exhaustion, self-doubt… all of it can get loud. There are days when life feels less whimsical and more like repeatedly checking your bank account while pretending not to panic.

But I’ve also learned that whimsy is not denial.

It is not pretending hard things aren’t hard.
It is not toxic positivity.
It is not walking around blindly chanting “everything happens for a reason” while surviving primarily on Dr Pepper Zero Sugar and avoidance.

To me, whimsy is softer than that.

It is choosing to notice small good things while fully aware that pain exists.
It is laughing when you can.
Buying the fancy pen.
Watching the sunset.
Sending the text.
Starting over again on a random Tuesday.
Believing people can heal.
Believing you can heal.

Maybe being a whimsical realist means understanding life can be brutal and beautiful at the exact same time.

And maybe maturity is learning that these two things can coexist.

I don’t know if I fully live up to the title yet.

But I still think about that comment. And on the hard days, especially, I think:

“Yes. That is the person I want to become.”

What about you?
Do you consider yourself more of a realist, an optimist, or somewhere in between?

This week got away from me.

Actually, if I’m honest, parts of me willingly handed it over.

Mother’s Day was harder than I expected. Not catastrophic. Not dramatic. Just… heavy in that quiet way some days are heavy. I kept thinking I would write a midweek post called Mother’s Day (Adjacent), which feels very on brand for me. Close enough to the thing to acknowledge it without fully stepping into it.

That didn’t happen either.

Now it’s Sunday night. I’m studying for a national counseling exam this week, my brain feels like a browser with 47 tabs open, and every tab is playing music.

Part of me thinks I should skip this week, too. Rest is important.

But another part of me knows this blog was never supposed to be about polished performance. It was supposed to be about showing up honestly. Even imperfectly. Especially imperfectly.

So maybe this week’s victory is smaller.

Maybe the victory is:
“I didn’t disappear.”

Maybe it’s:
“I wrote something anyway.”

Maybe keeping promises to ourselves doesn’t always look impressive. Maybe sometimes it looks like tired people typing on Sunday night because they still care about becoming the kind of person who stays.

Anyway… this one counts.

And now I’m going back to studying.

I can’t be the only one with 47 tabs open.

Pray for my brain cells.