Since we can’t travel 100% of the time (and trust me, I have tried to figure out how to make that work), it matters that the place you come home to actually feels like somewhere worth coming home to. When spring starts getting springy in Cartersville, you can feel it before you even step outside. The sunlight changes. It softens. It slips through the wooden blinds in my office and filters through the sheers just enough to make everything feel calmer, prettier and a little less like work. That soft light, the front porch, the hammock swaying just a tiny bit… it is one of those little everyday things that makes me stop and think, yep, this is exactly where I’m supposed to be. And if you’re new here, I work in a brick-and-mortar travel agency right on Main Street, which means I get a front-row seat to the heartbeat of downtown Cartersville. I see the cars going to and fro, people walking by, friends stopping to chat, folks heading into shops and restaurants, and that steady little hum of a town that knows how to show up for itself. We like to think we’re a big place, because, well, it’s Cartersville… but truthfully, we still have that small-town soul, and I love that about us. Spring and summer here are never boring. Not even a little bit. The Downtown Cartersville Farmers Market is back on Saturdays, and it is one of the best ways to spend a morning. Good people, good food, good energy. Then there’s Music by the Tracks, which always pulls a crowd, plus some of my favorite local events like BBQ & Brews, May Market at Rose Lawn and Intercultural Fest. By the time summer really settles in, we’ve got Fourth of July festivities and concerts under the bridge, and honestly, the calendar just keeps going. There is always something happening downtown. But let’s not pretend the events are the only reason to love this town. Cartersville has shopping, amazing places to eat and enough museums and attractions to keep both locals and visitors busy for days. Between Etowah Indian Mounds, Bartow History Museum, Booth Western Art Museum, Tellus Science Museum and Savoy Automobile Museum, there is genuinely no shortage of things to do and see. So when someone says there’s “nothing to do” in Cartersville, I have to resist the urge to hand them a brochure and a gentle reality check. There is, in fact, a lot to do. People just love being dramatic. This time of year, when the sunlight is pouring through my office windows and Main Street is waking back up in that springtime way, I’m reminded all over again how much I love this town. Cartersville is charming, lively, welcoming and full of life if you’re willing to step outside and enjoy it. So this spring and summer, nobody should be asking, “What is there to do in Cartersville?” The better question is, “How are we going to fit it all in?”
There are few things in this world sweeter than little kids learning to talk. Their little minds are working overtime, their mouths are doing their best, and somehow the words that come out are often better than the real thing.
Honestly, kids spend the first few years of life just out here rebranding the English language and daring us not to love it.
This morning I was listening to a Kylie Kelce podcast and it got me thinking about all those funny, precious things little kids say that become part of your family forever.
Jake called his pacifier a fofo.
Jarrett called eyebrows eyebrowns.
One of the other little chilis (my pet name for Jarrett’s babes) in the family said pampoline instead of trampoline, which frankly makes just as much sense.
Harvey and Urban both said dog-dog instead of just dog. Until I watched a forgotten video, I didn’t remember that about Urban. We forget all of that cuteness sometimes.
My sister had some cute ones too. One of my favorites was Kika-penni, which meant bikini. I still think that sounds like something far fancier than a regular old swimsuit.
But my all-time favorite, the one that still gets me every single time, was Jake saying “I 2” instead of “I love you too.”
And here is the sweetest part of all, he never outgrew it.
Jake still says “I 2” every single time. Without fail. But only to about three people in this world. So when you hear it, you know you are in very rare company. That little toddler phrase turned into one of the purest expressions of love he has, and I do not care how old he is now, that still melts me on the spot.
Then there was the Christmas of the meatmakits. That child, meaning Jarrett, was absolutely determined. He wanted meatmakits for Christmas and he was not backing down. He kept asking for them over and over, completely certain that Momma should obviously know what he meant.
I did not.
Teddy did not.
Jake did not.
SANTA DID NOT!
We asked everybody trying to decode it. We repeated the word to each other a hundred times. We guessed. We puzzled. We were getting dangerously close to Christmas with no clue what Jarrett wanted, and I had just about decided he was going to end up heartbroken because I was apparently too dense to crack the code.
Then, just a couple of days before Christmas Eve, the boys were watching Power Rangers and I happened to sit down with them for a few minutes. Suddenly a character said, “Meet my kids!” and Jarrett lit up like he had just witnessed a Christmas miracle.
“Mommy! Meatmakits! Meatmakits!”
And just like that, the mystery was solved.
Meet my kids.
Meatmakits.
Of course. I mean, naturally the child had not been asking for some random nonsense. He had been very clearly requesting the latest Power Rangers toy, and I was the fool wandering around in confusion like a sleep-deprived detective with no leads.
Thankfully it was a brand new item, Walmart still had it in stock, and Santa’s workshop came through just in time.
Christmas was saved.
That is the thing about those little kid words. At the time, they are hilarious. Sometimes confusing. Sometimes enough to make you question your hearing, your intelligence and whether you should really be trusted with tiny humans at all. But later, they become part of your family story.
They become the things you still laugh about decades later. They become the words that instantly take you back to sticky fingers, little feet in footie pajamas, cartoons on the television and a house full of noise and life.
And every now and then, if you are lucky, one of those little phrases never goes away. It grows up right along with them.
So yes, I still smile when I think about fofo, eyebrowns, pampoline and kika-penni.
But “I 2” will forever be my favorite.
Because what started as a little boy learning to talk became a grown man’s way of saying I love you to the people who matter most.
And that, right there, is about as precious as it gets.
Apparently Google is rolling out a feature that may let some people change their Gmail address without losing emails sent to the old one. Meaning your old address can still catch messages while you move on with your dignity mostly intact.
And honestly? It is about time.
Because some of us have old email addresses tied to so many accounts, subscriptions, logins and random nonsense that changing them completely would be a royal pain in the backside. But that does not mean we still want to be known by whatever little masterpiece of confusion, flirtation or temporary insanity we came up with years ago.
Now before anybody tries to lump me in with teenagers making goofy addresses in 2008, let me remind the room that I am Gen X. I was born in 1969. My kids were born in 1993 and 1995. By the time email became part of normal life, I was already grown, raising children and figuring out technology as it bulldozed its way into everyday existence. We did have a bit of an edge in our house because my mom was a systems analyst, so tech was not exactly witchcraft to us, but still… email had a way of going from practical to personal real fast.
And that is where things got dangerous.
For me, I really did love SouthernFriedBelle. At the time it felt fun, cute and full of personality. It sounded like somebody who could host Sunday dinner, talk a little smack and still send you home with leftovers.
But on a professional level? Maybe not.
And then there was the other one.
LiLMaryJane4ya.
Mercy.
That one sounds like I was either trying to be edgy, going through a phase or one poor decision away from starring in my own cautionary tale. If you know me, you know I am not exactly out here living up to that name. Though I’ve got nothing against a gummy. Just saying.
Still, mine are apparently not alone in the Cringe Email Hall of Fame, because once I started reading what other people used back in the day, I laughed so hard I nearly needed oxygen.
There was Nanobooklvr, because apparently getting an iPod Nano was not just a purchase, it was an identity.
Then you had julezizcoolz, which is exactly the kind of thing a nine-year-old would create when convinced extra z’s make you sound cooler. Spoiler alert: they did not.
One poor soul admitted to xx_jucylucy_69, because she was Lucy, she was “juicy,” and spelling was apparently optional.
Another had HottieWitABodi69 at age twelve, while not yet having a “bodi” and not knowing what 69 meant, which honestly feels like the most internet thing that has ever happened.
There was guinea_pigs_are_cool, which is wholesome enough to deserve a participation ribbon.
Then things took a hard left.
army_barbie from a girl with no military ties whatsoever.
demented_barbie which sounds less like an email and more like a warning label.
trashcanwhore__x which… I truly have no notes because what on earth was happening there?
And let us not forget the nine-year-old with sxxc_bitch, proving that supervision on the early internet was mostly a myth.
One Britney fan proudly used popstarBJS, not realizing that not everyone would read that as Britney Jean Spears. Bless it.
Another person had lilmizzdrprincess, and people thought the “dr” meant doctor when really it meant Dominican Republic. That is the kind of misunderstanding that follows you for years.
There was 4me2myboi, despite not actually having a boyfriend for another eight years, which is both ambitious and deeply embarrassing.
Then came poopdick123, which a grown man later had to say out loud while applying for a hospital job. Two employees had to write that down. Two. Somewhere, humanity took a wrong turn.
Another one used initials plus “af” for “animal freak,” only to learn later that modern slang had entirely different plans for that ending.
Then there was BJprincess, because a child took a friend’s advice and adults once again failed society.
I also lost it over krazygurl1881 becoming partygurl81 later, like the email itself grew up just enough to become a bigger problem.
And then there are the ones that don’t even need explanation, because they stand on their own as monuments to youthful chaos:
Meatgoddess69
tequilamonster69
2hot2handle
smrtblonde77
dr0p_it_like_its_h0t_950
ratlover23
and the unforgettable kayleighWHOREFACE, which somehow still made it onto bank applications and job paperwork. Honestly, the confidence is almost inspiring.
There was also stusalad, which was supposed to read “Stu’s a lad” and instead turned a man into a side dish.
And somewhere out there, someone gave Elijah Wood a letter with I_love_elijah_wood_foreva on it and then had to go home and live with that memory forever.
This is why Google’s possible new feature feels less like a tech update and more like a mercy ministry.
Because old email addresses are not just addresses. They are tiny digital time capsules. Some reflect who we were. Some reflect who we thought we were. Some reflect our hobbies, our favorite bands, our fake confidence, our inability to spell or our complete failure to understand double meanings.
And some of them should have been escorted quietly out of the building years ago.
The problem is, those old addresses get tied to everything. Travel accounts. Banking. Medical portals. Shopping. Password resets. Newsletters. School logins. Loyalty programs. Every little corner of modern life eventually latches on and refuses to let go. So if Google is really making it easier to update your Gmail while still receiving messages from the old one, that is not just convenient. That is redemption.
Because maybe you do not want to erase the past.
You just do not want to keep introducing yourself with it.
That old email may have been funny. It may have fit the season. It may have made perfect sense at the time. But there comes a point where you are handling grown woman business and you realize your main email should not sound like a chat room flirt, a garage band backup singer or somebody one step away from getting grounded.
So now I need to know…
What was your old cringe email address?
Do not clean it up. Do not leave out the numbers. Do not suddenly act polished and respectable now.
I have already confessed SouthernFriedBelle and LiLMaryJane4ya.
I grew up mostly in Pennsylvania. Visited Georgia every chance I got, came back for good as soon as life would let me, and have considered myself Southern every single day of my existence regardless of what my zip code said at any given time. Southern is not a location. It is a condition you are born with. And even I, a woman who spent a solid chunk of her childhood in a state that has actual winters and does not require a daily antihistamine just to check the mail, knew about pollen season before I ever lived through a full one. It was spoken of. Warned about. Discussed at family gatherings with the kind of gravity usually reserved for bad weather and difficult people. So if you just relocated here from somewhere comfortably north of Tennessee, no Southern family, no prior warning, nobody who loved you enough to sit you down and explain what March was about to do to your vehicle and your sinuses and your last good nerve? Honey. I am so sorry. Nobody should have to find out that way. The Evidence Is Everywhere Every surface outside this log cabin is coated. The porch rails. The rocking chairs. The little table where I set my coffee every morning like a woman who still believes in things. All of it buried under a thick, gritty, snot-colored layer of what I can only describe as nature’s audacity. The creek is still pretty. I will give the creek that much. But everything between me and the creek looks like it lost a slow argument with a bag of self-rising flour that had opinions and nowhere else to be. Drive any road in this county and it is the same story on every porch. Farmhouse, double-wide, four-bedroom with a tasteful wreath on the door. Does not matter. Pollen does not care about your square footage or your curb appeal. It is the great equalizer of the South and it has decided we will all suffer together, equally and without exception. Shelby Has Made Her Peace With It My dog Shelby goes outside yellow and comes back yellower. She has accepted her fate with a kind of quiet dignity I find both admirable and a little heartbreaking. She walks through it, rolls in the grass, trots back inside looking like a golden retriever doing a mustard cosplay, and just stares at me like everything is completely fine. I wipe her paws. I do not wipe her entire body because I am one woman with a finite number of towels and a will to live that is already running thin this time of year. She sneezes. I sneeze. We look at each other. Neither one of us has anything useful to offer. The Car Situation Is a Spiritual Test and I Am Failing It Washing your vehicle during pollen season in Georgia is an act of pure stubborn delusion and honestly I respect it. You spend twenty or thirty minutes on it. You step back and feel that little quiet satisfaction, that small “I did something” feeling. And then you walk outside the next morning and it looks exactly like it did before except now it also has water spots. The pollen does not even wait until you are back inside. It starts before you put the hose away. I have stood there and watched it happen in real time and felt something I can only describe as personally targeted by a tree. If you are newly arrived and you just washed your car for the first time in March and felt genuinely proud of yourself, I want you to know I was rooting for you with my whole heart. And I am truly sorry about what you are going to find tomorrow morning. A Brief Medical Update from My Sinuses They are not well. They have not been well for some time now. They are staging what feels like a full organized protest and no amount of Zyrtec is getting through to the people in charge. My eyes itch. My throat does that thing where it is not quite sore but it is also absolutely not fine. I sneezed so hard the other day that Shelby got up and left the room, and that dog has witnessed enough around here that very little should surprise her anymore. People who did not grow up down here think allergies are a minor inconvenience. A few sneezes. A single tissue. Cute. Come spend a week in Cherokee County in late March and then report back. You will not be able to report back at full volume because your chest will be congested but I would still love to hear your updated thoughts. New Southerners, take note: the first time you sneeze five or six times in a row at the Publix checkout and the person behind you just gives you one slow nod without a word, you will understand something important. That nod is not judgment. That nod is recognition. That nod means you live here now, for real, in your bones. And Yet. Here is the part where I wrap this up with something soft and grateful about how gorgeous spring is and how the dogwoods make every bit of it worth it. And fine. Yes. The dogwoods are unreasonably beautiful. The redbuds are doing entirely too much and I love every bit of it. The air underneath all the suffering smells like something green and alive and hopeful. The light through the trees at this cabin in the late afternoon looks like something a painter would try for and get almost right but not quite. The creek is running and the world outside is that particular shade of green that only shows up for about three weeks before the Georgia heat arrives and ends the whole conversation. It is beautiful here. Violently, stubbornly, make-you-sneeze-till-you-cry beautiful. I just wish it could manage all that without coating everything I own in yellow dust first. But nobody asked the pollen. And it is very clear that it does not care.
XOXO, Jani
Journeys With Jani is written from a log cabin in the woods of Taylorsville, Georgia, where the creek is running and the pollen count is absolutely nobody’s friend.
There are some things in life I am perfectly willing to outsource. Airport parking. Someone else making my coffee. Maybe even vacation driving if I’m feeling generous. But my grandchild’s car seat? No ma’am.
That is one thing I will always tell people: bring it from home. And let me be clear right out of the gate. I mean your own well-maintained, properly fitting, not-expired, not-mysteriously-sticky, not-missing-parts car seat. Not the family heirloom that has been handed down since disco was alive and well. If that seat looks like it survived the Carter administration, it needs to retire with dignity.
The Biggest Reason? You Know It’s History
That rental company car seat may look fine at first glance. So does gas station sushi until your stomach starts drafting its revenge letter. The problem is, you usually have no idea what that seat has been through. Has it been dropped? Has it been in a crash? Are parts missing? Was it cleaned correctly? Is it expired? Does it even match your child’s age, height, and weight?
The American Academy of Pediatrics advises avoiding used car seats if you do not know the seat’s history, and says not to use a seat that has been in a crash, has been recalled, is too old, has cracks, or is missing parts. That alone should make every traveling parent pause.
Rental Car Seats Are Not Always the Right Seats
This is where things go sideways fast. A car rental company may offer “a car seat,” but that does not automatically mean it is the right car seat for your child. Age matters. Height matters. Weight matters. Rear-facing versus forward-facing matters. Booster timing matters. All of it matters, because children need the restraint that fits their body correctly, not whatever happened to be sitting in the equipment closet that morning.
And let’s be honest. After a flight, baggage claim, and a child who has fully entered their villain era, that is not the moment you want to be standing in a parking garage trying to figure out whether the rental place handed you a booster for a child who still needs a harness.
Your Child is Always Safer in a Seat You Already Know How to Use
A car seat only works well when it is used correctly. That sounds obvious, which means of course humans manage to make it complicated.
When you bring your own seat, you already know how it installs, how the harness fits, where the chest clip belongs, whether your child is comfortable in it, whether all the parts are there, and whether the manual is somewhere you can actually find it. The CDC notes that vehicle-related injuries are among the leading causes of death in travelers, and that car seats often must be brought from home because approved, well-maintained seats may not be available at your destination.
Hoping for the best at the rental counter is not a strategy. It is a gamble.
Cleanliness is Not Exactly Guaranteed. And Cleaned With What?
I am just going to say what everybody is thinking. Rental car seats are handled by a rotating cast of strangers, overworked staff, and sticky little angels with fruit snacks welded to their fingers. Even if the seat is technically safe, do you really want to discover someone else’s crushed crackers, mystery goo, or suspicious odor while wrestling a toddler into it in 93-degree heat?
Your own seat may not be glamorous. But at least you know whose crumbs those are.
Your Child is already Familiar With It
Travel throws kids off. Airports are loud, schedules are weird, naps are a suggestion, and every adult is one delayed boarding announcement away from losing their religion.
A familiar car seat gives a child one more thing that feels normal. They know how it feels. They know where they sit. They know what to expect. That may not sound like a huge deal until you realize that avoiding one full-blown backseat meltdown on vacation can feel like a luxury-level travel perk.
International Travel Makes This Even More Important
The CDC specifically notes that parents may need to bring car seats from home because suitable, well-maintained approved seats may not be available in other countries. So if you are traveling outside the U.S., relying on a rental company to provide a safe, appropriate seat is an even bigger gamble. Different countries may have different standards, limited inventory, or equipment that is technically available but not exactly what you would trust with your child after a long flight and two airport meltdowns.
That does not mean travel with kids is impossible. It just means this is one of those areas where preparation matters more than convenience. And when it comes to your child’s safety, “it was what they had at the counter” is not a sentence that should be followed by a shrug.
Hand-me-down Does Not Mean Harmless
Now let’s circle back to that family relic everybody keeps defending because it still looks fine. So does a lot of bad judgment.
Car seats expire for a reason. Materials break down. Plastic weakens over time. Safety standards change. Straps wear out. Parts go missing. Instructions vanish into the same mysterious void that eats one sock from every load of laundry.
A car seat is not a cast iron skillet. It does not improve with age.
If you do not know its full history, if it is expired, if it has been in a crash, if it has cracks or missing parts or faded labels, it should not be used. Period. Nostalgia is lovely. It is not a safety feature.
Bringing Your Own Car Seat Can Safe Time and Stress
People sometimes think bringing a car seat sounds like more hassle. And sure, dragging one through an airport is not exactly glamorous. Nobody has ever strutted through Terminal B with a convertible seat and looked effortless.
But you know what is worse? Standing in line at a rental counter after traveling all day only to find out they do not have the seat type you reserved, the one they hand you is not right for your child, it is filthy, it is missing a piece, and now you are spending twenty minutes reading labels and muttering under your breath in a parking garage.
That is not convenience. That is chaos in khakis.
Bringing your own seat means one less variable. And when you are traveling with kids, reducing variables is about as close to luxury as most of us get.
A Few Smart Tips for Traveling With Your Own Car Seat
Check the expiration date before your trip.
Make sure all straps, buckles, and pads are intact.
Clean it according to the manufacturer’s instructions.
Practice installing it if it is not one you use every day.
Bring the manual or save a digital copy on your phone.
Consider a lightweight travel-friendly seat if you travel often.
Label it clearly if you are checking it or gate-checking it.
A little prep at home beats a whole lot of cussing in a rental lot.
The Bottom Line
Bringing your own car seat when you travel is not about being picky. It is about being practical. You know the seat. You know the fit. You know the condition. You know how to use it. And when the thing protecting your child in a moving vehicle is involved, that kind of certainty matters.
So yes, pack the snacks. Pack the tablets. Pack the extra outfit because somebody is going to spill something disgusting at exactly the wrong time. But also pack the car seat. Your well-maintained, not-a-relic, all-parts-present car seat. That one from 1972 has served honorably. It may now rest.
Let’s Talk About It… I think one of the hardest parts of losing a pet, outside of the soul-crushing obvious, is watching the other pets in the house try to make sense of it. And they do know. I don’t care what anyone says about animals not understanding death, or not grieving or just moving on. That is nonsense people tell themselves because admitting animals feel things on a level that makes a whole lot of humans look emotionally constipated is harder than pretending they don’t. They know when someone is missing. They know the sounds are different. They know the energy is off. They know the routine is broken. They know their buddy is not where he is supposed to be. Cash is gone, and Shelby and Bean know it. Bean has been through this before. When Buck died years ago, Bean mourned him too, so I have seen this in him before. The wandering. The yowling. The extra need for attention. The way he seems tougher on the outside than what is actually going on inside. Bean is a strong little fur-ball and he is still very much Bean, but he misses his hunting buddy. You can see it. You can hear it. You can feel it. And Shelby… Lord have mercy. Shelby is sad. Not dramatic for attention sad. Not princess being inconvenienced sad. Real sad. Deep sad. The kind that just hangs on her. She eats, but not like herself. She sleeps more. She sighs even more than usual, which is honestly impressive considering dramatic sighing has always been one of her core talents. She is not doing her zoomies. She still goes outside to bark at the huphalumps by the creek, because apparently the imaginary wild things in the woods still need to be warned, but she does not stay out long. She barks a little, gives up and comes back in. At bedtime, she waits at the top of the steps and watches for him. When we pull into the driveway, it feels like she is expecting Cash to get out of the car too. And if that does not rip your heart right out through your ribcage, I don’t know what will. Because they are grieving and they cannot even ask the questions out loud. They cannot ask where he went. They cannot ask why he is not here. They cannot ask when he is coming back. They just wait. And look. And listen. And hurt. So no, I do not believe for one second that animals are just animals. And that whole line some people throw around about pets not having souls? Please. I think pets are made of something so pure, so honest and so deeply rooted in love that maybe the human word soul is not even big enough for what they are. They love without ego. They stay when we are broken. They forgive bad moods, bad days and all the nonsense we drag around as people. They live in the moment better than we ever will. And when one of their own is gone, they grieve that loss in the only ways they know how. Shelby is grieving. Bean is grieving. We are grieving. This whole house is grieving. And I do think, with time, they will settle into a new normal. I do. But it will not be the old normal, because how could it be? Cash was part of the rhythm of this home. He was part of the noise, the comfort, the routine, the chaos, the love. When you lose somebody like that, everybody left behind has to learn how to live around the empty space. That goes for people. That goes for pets. That goes for all of us. So right now, we love Shelby where she is. We love Bean where he is. We give extra pets, extra reassurance, extra patience and a little extra grace for all the sadness sitting in the corners of this house. Because grief does not belong only to humans. It belongs to love. And if you have ever been loved by a pet, really loved, then you already know they carry something sacred inside them. Call it a soul. Call it heart. Call it spirit. Call it whatever you want. I just know it is real. And I know Cash mattered enough to leave a hole in all of us. That says everything.
I read part of a lesson today that made my brain pivot… Let me say something that somebody out there needs to hear today. Love is not supposed to make you question your worth. I know that sounds simple. Maybe even obvious. But if you’ve ever been in a relationship where you spent more time trying to figure out where you stood than actually standing somewhere solid, you know it doesn’t feel obvious at all. It feels like just… Tuesday. And that’s the problem. We normalize so much in the name of love. The anxiety. The guessing games. The way we make ourselves a little smaller, a little quieter, a little more agreeable, just to keep things from going sideways. We call it compromise. We call it patience. We call it being the bigger person. Sometimes it’s none of those things. Sometimes it’s survival. Real love, the kind worth having, doesn’t feel like a performance. It doesn’t feel like a tightrope walk where one wrong step sends everything crashing. It doesn’t leave you lying awake at 2 a.m. running the replay reel, trying to figure out what you said wrong or what you should have done differently. Real love feels like an exhale. It’s not perfect. Lord knows it’s not always easy. But it’s steady. It offers reassurance instead of confusion. It makes space for your voice, your needs, your fears, not just your strengths and your good days and the version of you that has it all together. Because here’s the truth: the right person doesn’t just want the polished version of you. They want the real one. The messy, uncertain, still-figuring-it-out version. And they stay for that. You deserve to be held, not handled. There’s a difference, and if you’ve experienced both, you already know exactly what I mean. You deserve to feel safe, not scrutinized. You deserve a love that invites your truth instead of punishing it. One that listens, not just waits for its turn to talk. One that shows up, not just when it’s convenient or when you’ve managed to ask in exactly the right way at exactly the right time. Stop normalizing the uncertainty. I say that with all the gentleness I’ve got, because I know how easy it is to start thinking that chaos is just what love looks like. That walking on eggshells is just part of the deal. That if you could just be a little more patient, a little more understanding, a little more enough, things would settle down. They won’t. Not that way. You don’t have to earn love by enduring discomfort. You don’t have to shrink yourself into something more palatable to be worthy of someone’s affection. You don’t have to perform your way into a relationship that should have just… fit. Choose the kind of love that lets you breathe. Not the kind that leaves you gasping. Not the kind that keeps you guessing. The kind that feels like coming home after a long day and just… setting everything down. That’s love. That’s safety. That’s home. And you deserve all of it. 🤍
I could tell you all the details from the last few days with Cash and his cancer, but I just don’t have that part in me right now. And honestly… does it even matter? What matters is this: Cash was not getting better. He took a turn quickly. He was hurting. Greg and I had already made the decision that we would not let him suffer. Not for us. Not to keep him here one more day if that day meant pain. So we let him go.
Even typing those words feels wrong.
Losing Cash is hurting my heart more than any fur baby before and if you know, you know. Some people don’t understand that kind of love, that kind of bond. But those of us who do know, we know exactly what it is. They are not “just dogs.” They are family They are comfort and routine and joy. They are the soft ears, the heavy paws, the snoring. The following you from room to room. The knowing eyes. The quiet loyalty that never wavers, never complicates, never holds back. They just love us. And Cash loved us so very well.
I kissed his nose. I rubbed his belly. I held his big furry paw as he drifted over the Rainbow Bridge. As shattered as we are, I know with everything in me that we made the right choice for him. Loving Cash meant not letting him suffer, no matter how badly we wanted to keep him here.
Now we’re home with Shelby and Bean, and they only know their buddy isn’t here. The house feels different already. Too quiet in the wrong ways. Too empty in all the places where Cash should be. I’ve talked with my grands over the past few weeks about how sick Cash was, and I explained a little more to Wyatt and Urban. Still, I know their little hearts will be broken. Wyatt especially is going to take this one hard, and that hurts in its own way too.
This whole thing just sucks. It does. There’s no deep, polished, meaningful ending here. No tidy way to wrap up this kind of grief. We are heartbroken, and we miss our boy. But we are so, so grateful for every moment we had with him.
Thank you to every person who loved Cash, prayed for him, checked on him, and loved on us through these last few months. We have felt every bit of that kindness, and it has meant more than you know.
Run free, sweet boy. You were so loved. You will always be loved. And there will never be another you.
The other day, I told my bestie I might quit healing and just go full on feral instead.
Her response? “I support you either way, my psycho little princess.”
Truly, I just read that on TikTok… But honestly, if that is not soulmate behavior, I don’t know what is.
Because listen. We spend so much time talking about healing. Protecting our peace. Choosing softness. Setting boundaries. Drinking water. Taking the high road. Breathing through it. Counting to ten. Journaling. Reflecting. Releasing. Growing.
And that is all well and good.
But every now and then, a person gets tired.
Tired of being the bigger person. Tired of being understanding. Tired of giving grace to people who would not know grace if it walked up and smacked them with a Bible and a biscuit.
Sometimes you do not want to heal. Sometimes you want to put on black eyeliner, stare into the middle distance and become an unsupervised woodland creature with a phone and opinions.
Not because you are broken. Not because you are unhinged. Not even because you are mean.
Because you are exhausted. There is a difference.
And the older I get, the more I appreciate the rare and precious kind of friendship that does not immediately try to fix you when you say something mildly deranged. The kind that does not hit you with a motivational quote or suggest a gratitude journal. The kind that simply nods and says, in essence, “That is fair. You have been very patient. I will stand by while you either evolve or descend.”
That, my friends, is love.
Real friendship is not always found in the people who tell you to calm down. Sometimes it is found in the one who hands you a metaphorical tiara and says, “Go ahead, tiny menace. I believe in you.”
And maybe that is a form of healing too. Not the polished kind. Not the pretty kind. Not the Instagram quote over a sunset kind. But the real kind. The kind where somebody knows exactly how twisted your humor is, exactly how tired your soul gets, exactly how close you occasionally are to going full possum in a Dollar General parking lot, and instead of backing away slowly, they pull up a chair.
That is the friend who knows your heart. The one who knows you are not actually going to burn your life down. Probably. The one who understands that half of healing is processing your emotions… and the other half is being allowed to joke about becoming feral without somebody calling for a wellness check.
That is sacred.
We all need at least one person who understands that “I am trying to heal” and “I am two inconveniences away from becoming an outlaw” can exist in the very same body. Because healing is not linear. It is not graceful. It is not some constant upward climb where every day you wake up centered, serene and smelling faintly of lavender.
Some days, healing looks like prayer. Some days, it looks like rest. Some days, it looks like minding your business.
And some days, healing looks like texting your best friend that you are thinking of quitting the whole self-improvement program and returning to the swamp from which you spiritually emerged.
To be clear, I have long ago healed. I am just keeping feral as a backup plan to match the scars.
For emergencies. For stupid people. For tech issues. For hold music. For anyone who starts a sentence with, “No offense, but…”
So yes, when your best friend responds, “I support you either way, my psycho little princess,” that is soulmate behavior. Not because she encouraged chaos. But because she knew exactly what I meant.
She heard the exhaustion under the joke. The humor under the threat. The love under the madness. And she loved me right there in the middle of all of it.
That is the kind of friendship that deserves flowers, matching court dates and a standing ovation.
Final Thought
Healing is beautiful. Growth is necessary. Peace is priceless.
But having one friend who will lovingly support your recovery or your descent into glamorous wilderness behavior?
That is luxury. That is sisterhood. That is, without question, soulmate behavior.
What To Do When You Lose Something You Wrote, and Why it’s Not Really Gone. Let’s Talk About It…
I wrote three paragraphs. And not the ones I generally write like a maniacal squirrel. I actually took my time. Sat with it. Chose my words. It was one of those entries I knew, even while writing it, was going to turn into something bigger… a blog post, maybe more.
Did I auto-save? Psh. Why would I do that? It’s my digital journal and I just click save at the end. I have never once lost a single thing.
Then I accidentally deleted the page.
Gone. Just gone. And I was so annoyed… so completely, thoroughly done, that I didn’t even want to try again. What’s the point? It won’t be the same. The first version was right. That version was the one.
Sound familiar?
Here’s the thing about losing something you created, whether it’s a journal entry, a business idea you talked yourself out of, a dream you set down somewhere and forgot to pick back up — it’s never just about the thing itself. It’s the feeling that you had something real, something true, and now it’s out of reach.
And that feeling? It has a way of convincing you to just not bother.
It wasn’t the saved document that made those words worth something. It was you. You thought them. You felt them. You found a way to put language around something that mattered to you. That didn’t get deleted. That doesn’t live in a file.
You wrote it once, which means you found it once. And your brain did that, not the page. The page was just babysitting.
We do this with more than words, don’t we?
We lose a job and decide we must not have been that good at it anyway. We lose a relationship and quietly conclude we must be hard to love. We get one door slammed in our face and we stop knocking. We convince ourselves the first version was the only version… and since it’s gone, well. That’s just that.
But here’s the truth, even when it’s hard to believe it: you are not starting from scratch. You are starting from memory. And that is a different thing entirely.
Starting from scratch means you have nothing. Starting from memory means the bones are still there… the insight, the feeling, the knowing. You carry that. It just needs to be written down again. Or spoken out loud. Or tried one more time.
When you lose something… really lose it, whether it’s a document or a dream, don’t try to reconstruct it right away. Not when you’re still in the sting of it. That’s not the moment.
Instead, just talk it out. To a friend, to a journal, out loud in your car to nobody. What was the one thing you remember thinking? What was the sentence that finally said what you’d been trying to say? What made it feel worth writing in the first place?
Because I promise you, if it was worth creating once, it is worth creating again. And sometimes? The second version is better. Not because the first wasn’t good, but because you’ve had more time to live inside the idea. You know it a little deeper now.
Even if you’re furious the whole time you’re writing it.
So no, I didn’t save that entry. And yes, I had to start over. And it was annoying and I grumbled the whole way through.
But the words were still in me. They always were.
And yours are still in you too.
Whatever it is you lost or let go of or talked yourself out of or set down and haven’t picked back up… it didn’t disappear. It’s waiting. It’s patient. And it still deserves to exist in the world.
Journeys With Jani 