Author: stephsimply

Sparkling Sugar and Clouds

by stephsimply, posted in Simple Observations and Musings

“When you do things from your soul, you feel a river moving in you, a joy.”—Rumi

✨ When Hope Begins with a Thimbleful of Light

For days, we had lived beneath clouds, rain, and oppressive humidity. As I stepped out of the car early one weekend morning, everything felt heavy—what I imagined it being like to try to move through swampy waters, only without the alligators. Something caught my eye. I looked up. Directly within my line of sight was a thimbleful of light parting the clouds. It was not enough to brighten the sky or change the weather. It was just enough sunlight to remind me that the sun was still there. It made me think that sometimes hope begins with no more than a thimbleful of light.

Too often, we expect the feeling of hope to have a dramatic entrance, like a scene from a sweeping epic. However, hope often arrives in a quiet, almost understated manner. One encouraging moment: a phone call or text message, a kind word, a small answer to prayer, perhaps even a small patch of blue overhead.

When I later opened my car door to drive home, the overcast weather had not changed, but neither had the sun. It was there, somewhere, above all those clouds. It occurred to me that sometimes our circumstances haven’t changed—only our awareness. That tiny patch of sunlight stayed with me the rest of the day, though I didn’t realize just how much until lunchtime.

🥣 A Little Pizzazz for an Ordinary Day

Later, as I made fresh coffee and prepared my lunch—a mix of vegetable sticks, oatmeal, and yogurt with fruit—I decided to add some pizzazz to my meal. I reached for a bottle of sparkling sugar and added a pinch across my oatmeal and yogurt. For an extra bonus of fun, I also sprinkled a few chocolate sprinkles. It’s not that I wanted my lunch to be dessert, but rather I wanted a symbolic reminder.

That sprinkling of sugar and chocolate did not solve anything. The weather remained gloomy, and the humidity was stifling. Yet it allowed me to transform an ordinary meal into something playful—something that brought a smile to my face and my heart. I was reminded that sometimes joy begins the same way hope does—in small, almost unnoticed ways. 

🔎 Searching for the Hidden Picture

As a child, I spent a great deal of time in doctor’s offices. I remember the yellow Highlights magazines that always seemed to be waiting in those offices. One of my favorite features of Highlights was the “Hidden Picture” page. I’d search that page in earnest, not seeing anything at first glance. However, once I found one “hidden” item, my excitement and confidence would soar, even if I was really sick, and I quickly began finding one hidden object after another.

Life, too, can work that way. When we focus on what we are missing, that is what we see. When we begin to search for small gifts, we suddenly discover they were scattered across life’s pages all along: a sliver of sunlight, sparkling sugar and sprinkles, a fresh cup of coffee, a cool breeze, birdsong, a shared laugh, a thoughtful text, or even the peace of a house settled in quiet. None of those remove the clouds. But they do remind us that we aren’t living only in darkness. 

⛅️ The Sun Is Still There

The hidden sun, those long ago hidden pictures, that sparkling sugar—the weather never changed that day. What changed was the picture I was looking at. Gratitude is not about pretending. Joy isn’t denial, and hope isn’t ignoring reality. They remind us of what is equally true–that clouds are real, but so is the sun. Hardships also exist, but so too does grace. 

To be sure, there will be more cloudy mornings. I hope that when I next encounter gray skies, I’ll remember two things. Somewhere above those clouds, the sun is still shining. And if I examine carefully enough—or perhaps add a pinch of sparkle myself—I may discover that joy is also hidden in the picture all along, waiting to be found. Sometimes all it takes is a thimbleful of light.

Recipes Rarely Followed Exactly

by stephsimply, posted in Recipes

“But perhaps the most precious heirlooms are family recipes. …they remind us from whom and where we came and give others, in a bite, the story of another people from another place and another time.”—Stanley Tucci

Over the July 4 weekend, I was reading Demon Copperhead, by Barbara Kingsolver. It’s an Appalachian reimagining of Charles Dickens’ classic, David Copperfield. While the book is deeply harrowing at times, I often found myself lingering over family food scenes. The meals weren’t fancy in any way, but they reflected the simple, traditional recipes I grew up with—food that tasted of love and legacy. It made me think of the kitchens in which I learned that recipes were rarely followed exactly.

🧬 The Things We Inherit

Like Kingsolver’s novel, our recipes came with their own scaffolding. Each generation inherited the structure, then quietly rebuilt it to fit new lives. My maternal and paternal grandmothers cooked similar foods, but with their own personal stamp. Their frugal cooking was shaped by living through the Great Depression, but it was also influenced by changing food trends, double-coupon days, and seasonality of certain foods. My mother-in-law’s cooking reflected those Depression-era habits along with food trends she encountered through her work. Similarly, my own mother had four of us kids to feed on a budget, but her own mother’s influence could still be felt in her cooking.

Today, I take those beloved recipes and modify them to fit dietary needs and family preferences. My brother and sisters do the same thing.  It’s not that we’re disrespecting the tradition; we are keeping it alive. Case in point: Grandmother Helen’s beloved-by-all brownie recipe, a vintage 1950s Betty Crocker cookbook original.

🍫 A Little More Chocolate

This was a quintessential dessert for special occasions and holidays. My siblings and cousins loved this rich, velvety chocolate treat—made even better in the summer with Papaw’s hand-cranked frozen custard. 

The original recipe, for an 8 x 8  or 9 x 9 pan, called for two one-ounce squares of unsweetened chocolate, and the frosting used one ounce. Since grandmother always doubled the recipe, this meant double the chocolate, which can be expensive. Grandmother learned, and taught my mom, who shared this tip with me, that “in a pinch” you could get away with one or two fewer squares of chocolate to save money—or another trip to the store.

 She also taught me the importance of using half butter and half shortening when baking brownies, or any other baked goods for that matter, as another money-saving method. Years later, I learned that combination wasn’t just economical. Butter contributes flavor, while shortening creates a softer, chewier brownie.

She made 1950s Betty Crocker brownies one way, and my mom made them her way—sometimes with all the chocolate, sometimes not. My brother and I now bake this treasured recipe, each with our own variations. To my knowledge, he makes his frosting out of cocoa powder, rather than melted unsweetened chocolate. I make my brownies gluten-free due to my celiac disease, but stick to the original frosting recipe. 

🍰 Recipes for the People We Love

In a similar fashion, my mother-in-law once baked, and later shared the recipe, a strawberry cake that I was just wild about when my husband and I were first married. She knew I loved strawberries and wanted to make something she thought I would like. It was one of those recipes popularized in the 1970s made with strawberry gelatin and fresh strawberries in both the cake and the frosting. 

Years later, when my daughter was quite young, she loved strawberries as much as I did, so I decided to dig up that long-ago recipe once made for me, and make it for one of my daughter’s birthday sleepover. The girls loved it, and lapped it up. However, later that night, my daughter became very sick because of the recipe’s rich ingredients: one cup oil plus four whole eggs in the cake, plus one cup butter in frosting. 

I hadn’t made it since, but earlier in May, my daughter began reminiscing about it. This summer, I’ve made it for her a couple of times, including over the July Fourth weekend. I used my mother-in-law’s original recipe, but I made it gluten-free and found a way to dramatically reduce the eggs and oil without affecting the taste or texture of the cake. 

I adapted the cake to fit the people I loved while still honoring the woman who first made it for me. Different times. Different needs. Same heart. Every generation may edit a recipe, but the love remains intact. 

There are so many wonderful recipes that I have inherited from the women before me. Each recipe is filled with a memory, a history, and the hands that worked out of love, necessity, and grace. Simple recipes such as hot dog sauce that sometimes becomes spaghetti sauce; green beans and corn—half-runners from my family, pole beans from my husband’s; creamy, made-from-scratch macaroni and cheese; homemade bread; far too many desserts to count; and even the simple relish tray—an ever-present plate of pickled, salted, and stuffed morsels reserved for special occasions. 

They all taste of laughter, good-natured teasing, hugs, kisses, and even tears of the past. And now I pass these gifts on to my daughter. She may barely remember some of them and never really knew others, but every time she eats these foods, she receives something they once gave me. Not genetically. Not historically. Personally. It is the tie that binds.

🍽️ What Still Tastes Like Home

Kingsolver inherited Dickens’ framework and made it unmistakably Appalachian. I inherited the recipes of both sides of my family.  Neither remained unchanged. Both became richer because they were adapted rather than rigidly preserved. Maybe the best recipes were never meant to be followed exactly. They were meant to be shared, adapted, and passed on. And isn’t that the point? 

Perhaps that is the great inheritance of recipes. They don’t simply feed those of us gathered around a table, but they connect us to those who came before us and to those who will come after. 

Every family has recipes. The fortunate ones realize they are heirlooms—structures quietly rebuilt by each generation, yet always tasting of home.   

Fighting Reflections

by stephsimply, posted in Simple Observations and Musings

A cardinal, a window, and a lesson in perception

🐦‍🔥The Cardinal Is Back

“Guess who’s back?”

My husband’s message came through my AirPods as I ran early one Saturday morning in May. Then, in quick succession, two more messages followed. One was an image of a cardinal in mid-flight, attacking a window that I would later view on my phone. The other said, “It’s our crazy cardinal friend from last year who won’t stop banging the window. Tippi (our cat) is going CRAZY!”

Ten or so minutes later . . . “OMG! The Boy (our neighbor’s outdoor cat) just jumped as high as the window and nearly caught the bird. Feathers are flying!”

Thus began the return of our daily sound effects. Beginning at first light and continuing off and on throughout the day until full dark falls, we hear the thuds, the whams, and the kerthuds of the colorful, but crazed, cardinal attacking either the bay window or the large picture window at the front of our house. 

I added window clings “guaranteed to prevent even the most aggressive birds” from attacking the windows, but the sounds and the grotesque bird droppings that demand frequent cleaning tell a different story. Watching the cardinal attack from the outside while my 18-year-old cat keeps a vigilant watch—as though her aging joints were a force to be reckoned with—I frequently find myself shaking my head, wondering what on earth the bird thinks he is accomplishing other than a headache. 

From a biological point of view, I get the cardinal’s motivation. He’s naturally driven to fiercely protect his mating and nesting territory during this time of year. When he catches a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the window, he thinks another male is encroaching on his territory. So he attacks by charging and pecking the glass. Then, when he sees his own aggressive movements, he thinks the “intruder” is attacking back. This causes the cardinal to get even angrier and more aggressive, perpetuating the endless cycle of attacks.

The Problem Isn’t His Determination

 I admire the bird’s determination. The problem is not his determination; it is his perception. He isn’t fighting another bird. He’s fighting himself. 

🪟When We Keep Hitting the Glass

How often are we like the determined cardinal? How often do we keep mulling over and returning to the same argument, the same disappointment, the same heartache, the same resentment, and so on? How many times have we tried to change someone who is not yet ready to change? Yet our perception and determination trick our minds—and hearts—into thinking we can. 

We convince ourselves that “If I explain it this way, one more time, then they will finally respond this way.” 

“If only I try harder, then this will finally happen.”

“If only I push, pull, arrange, help . . . just a little bit more, then this will all fall into place.”

And yet, nothing changes. Like the cardinal, we keep hitting the glass. We may have warnings and interruptions that should cause us to reconsider—much like The Boy tried—but our misguided perception has convinced us otherwise.

The cardinal has lost countless feathers. His droppings, no doubt increased by his own anxiety, are piling up alongside those feathers for me to clean up. The bird spends untold energy defending itself from an enemy that isn’t there.

Humans, myself included, do a very similar thing. We spend untold amounts of emotional and mental energy, lose precious time, and sacrifice our peace trying to defeat “something” that may only exist in our minds due to our perceptions. Sometimes the “enemy” is not another person, as we may think. Sometimes the so-called battle is with ourselves, our assumptions, our fears, or even our need to be right. The toll is real. The bruises are real, even when the battle is not.

🧐Seeing More Clearly

The cardinal lacks the power to recognize his own reflection. Humans can. We have the power to pause and ask: “What if my perception is off?” or “What if my focus is fuzzy and I am not seeing correctly as a result?” 

This may mean stepping back in order to stop “banging our heads,” as it were. It may mean taking another look and examining the situation with a fresh perspective in order to identify what is really there.

I am reminded of my most recent eye exam.  “Do you prefer A or B? Is C clearer than B? What about D?” the doctor asked as she adjusted the lenses.

The doctor went from one eye to the other until finally she revealed the view with both eyes properly adjusted. What a difference in clarity that made when I was asked to read that bottom row for the third time.

Wham! I hear the cardinal as I write this. Kerthud! Ugh, that flash of red hurts my head in sympathy for this poor bird. His endless resolve to keep fighting causes me to feel tired for him. 

Every morning, since that first Saturday in late May, Mr. Cardinal is back, convinced that his rival still exists. I watch him and wonder. How many of my own battles have looked exactly the same? How many times have I mistaken my own reflection for a rival, misperceived the reality of a situation, or spent so much energy fighting glass?

The cardinal has become a daily reminder that sometimes the most important change is not changing what stands before us, but changing the lens through which we view it. 

Succeeding at Being Old: What an 18-year-old cat taught me about adaptation

by stephsimply, posted in Simple Observations and Musings

Sometimes the greatest lessons about aging, resilience, and self-compassion come from the most unexpected teachers.

It Was Supposed to Be “Easy-Peasy” 😌

“It’s so intuitive!” I was told. 

“The GPS and data are so much more reliable.”


“The battery lasts so much longer.”

I had been considering switching from one brand of smartwatch to another. Fellow runners recommended it, but so did friends and family. My husband especially encouraged the switch because I had purchased one for him years earlier.

Still, I researched and debated the switch for years before finally deciding to “set the clock,” as it were, and buy one from a local shop. The team at Robert’s Running and Walking helped me set up my new watch. They assured me that it was “easy-peasy,” and I would “love it.”

Three days into owning one, I was ready to throw in the proverbial towel—or in this case, throw the dang watch through a window. I questioned my intelligence for buying it and wondered whether I had reached a new low in technological competence. I kept asking myself, “What’s wrong with you, Steph?” 

My struggles with the new watch were not an isolated event. It was one domino in a series of small incidents that sent me spiraling into the I-am-so-stupid mindset. This negative self-talk, I have noticed, has become amplified with age. It is quite astonishing to see how quickly I can move from, “I don’t know how to do this,” to “There must be something wrong with me.” 

A Better Question 🤔

During the height of my “something is wrong with me” stretch, I came across a social media creator who became an unexpected teacher. Actually, it was the creator’s moniker that caught my attention: “Whatstrongwithu”. I love a good play on words, so this turn of phrase really stood out to me. 

Later, as I was preparing for bed, running through the day’s events with the outlook of the children’s book character, Alexander, known for his “terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days,” I had a flash of inspiration. What if I flipped my inner dialogue from “What’s wrong with you?” to “What’s strong with you?” like the moniker. What abilities, experiences, persistence, curiosity, kindness, adaptability, or perhaps even wisdom do I already possess?

Then, my mind wandered to the previous week’s scare when we thought we would lose our beloved 18-year-old cat, Tippi-Tail. After beginning a new medication for hyperthyroidism, she developed alarming side effects and seemed to rapidly decline. We quickly scheduled an appointment with our veterinarian, fearing the worst. Fortunately, her symptoms turned out to be a short-lived reaction to the treatment, and her bloodwork revealed she was doing remarkably well for her age. 

Tippi-Tail’s Nine Lives 😸

Reflecting on her life further, I thought of her “nine lives”, although, truth be told, she’s had about three. When she was young, Tippi acted impulsively. In fact, we often called her “wild” as she went rip-roaring through the house, knocking over plants, and attacking our then older feline friend, Bobbi with wild abandon. We would correct her with a squirt from a water bottle and a firm “no,” but she was fearless, looking at us with her big-eyed stare of indignation. 

During her middle years, our home became busier and noisier with another cat, another dog, and our energetic daughter and her friends. The fearless kitten who once charged through the house with wild abandon was now more cautious, often retreating under beds or into closets when her world became too stimulating and overwhelming.

In recent years, since the passing of all other pets and our daughter having moved out, Tippi has become an affectionate, cuddly pet. She is now a lap cat who drools when she’s petted as her motor runs. Even more surprising, she greets guests instead of going into hiding, and will even allow them to pet her or occasionally honor them by curling up in their lap. 

Learning to Grow Older 👵🏼

It dawned on me that Tippi-Tail wasn’t meant to be the cat she once was at two years old. She can’t jump as high or move as quickly as she once did, but she still leaps into the window when the neighbor’s cat appears. Her body has changed, yet she grooms herself with meticulous care. Tippi isn’t failing at being young. She is succeeding at being old. 

At my age, my body may not move as it once did when I was younger. I may not learn new technology as quickly as I once did. I may need more recovery time than I once did. In fact, I may have to adapt how I do certain things, but that adaptation doesn’t mean I am failing. 

Watching Tippi-Tail adapt to each stage of her life reminded me of something I needed to hear myself. Like Tippi-Tail, perhaps we aren’t failing at being the younger versions of ourselves. Perhaps we are learning how to succeed at who we are now. 

Maybe the question isn’t, “What’s wrong with you?” Maybe the better question is, “What’s strong with you?” What strengths do we already possess that can help us navigate the challenges in front of us?

Rustic wooden table with bowl of fruit and vase of pink and purple roses

We Live Inside What We Remember

by stephsimply, posted in Simple Observations and Musings

Sometimes the moments we almost decline become the memories we treasure most.

“Isn’t it funny how day by day nothing changes, but when you look back everything is different?”—C. S. Lewis

💌An Invitation I Almost Declined

As my husband and I drove to meet my daughter and her boyfriend for dinner, I could feel the dull headache just behind my eyes. My mind pinged through what I had already checked off on the administration’s end-of-the-year checklist. Tomorrow there would still be a few minor items to wrap up the school year and this year’s graduation. Saturday would still begin early with a long run, followed by household chores tucked in between loads of laundry. Ah, but I could look forward to putting my feet up Saturday evening!

“Do you mind if we come out Saturday? I was also thinking about bringing . . .”

My insides began to tighten. I am embarrassed to say that my first instinct was to protect my energy and say no because I was so dog-tired. My daughter is an educator too, and I knew she had to be exhausted. So if she was asking, it must really matter to her. 

Sensing my hesitation—she knows me so well—she quickly offered a compromise. 

“We can order pizza.” 

This would reduce my efforts, she added. 

Saying “yes” meant I would do some hosting prep, while still doing my usual Saturday routine. I would need to cut up fresh fruit and vegetables for hummus, toss a large green salad with more fresh toppings on the side, put together a few other snacks, and bake a homemade dessert. Surely I could manage that.

🏡The Business of Life

Once home from dinner, with Saturday’s plan fully established, I watched an episode of Downton Abbey. Mr. Carson observed, “The business of life is the acquisition of memories. In the end, that’s all there is.” 

That line struck a nerve. I had been trying to protect my rest when life was offering an opportunity for a memory. 

I looked over at our kitchen table. In the center of it sat a bouquet leftover from Mother’s Day, nearly two weeks earlier. Half of the flowers had already been tossed because they had faded and wilted. The rest looked as if they were hanging on to their last whisper of energy. 

In my mind, I sifted through memories. How strange it is to realize that my mind is filled with decades of unorganized snapshots: names half-remembered, a hodgepodge of family, friends, and former students—small moments and not-so-small moments that outlived many so-called major events. Strange, isn’t it, that we eventually live inside what we remember?

John and I have spent years investing time in the earliest stages of the lives of young people. There are many faces we remember whose names elude us. There have been countless students over whom we have worried and fretted, those who surprised us in ways we never expected, and untold small classroom moments that by some miracle remain in our hearts today. Looking back, it is stunning to realize that we are often so busy arranging the bouquets of life without fully knowing which flowers will last.

At this stage of life, it is hard not to measure. Some people have accumulated wealth. Others have attained status, square footage, or other visible markers of success. There is nothing inherently wrong with any of that. Hard work is hard work. 

But there is, perhaps, another type of good fortune: lunch dates with friends, graduation ceremonies, family gatherings, long conversations, children returning home, or even unexpected Saturday evening dinners. 

🚚Future Memories

My daughter and her boyfriend will soon be moving to Boston. Time with them will then become a precious commodity. Her young adult life will continue to bloom somewhere else—hundreds of miles away. Saturday night dinners will not always be available. And if my lived experience has taught me anything, it is this: we do not always recognize future memories while we are still living them. Yet later, we will live inside what we remember. 

On Saturday evening, plates were loaded and emptied. One story easily led to another. Laughter filled the rooms. We teased Maddie’s boyfriend far too much, but he was such a good sport about it. Our cat kept circling around our daughter, her boyfriend, and their friend—so happy “her girl” was home, if only for a short time. 

No matter how tired we are, or how carefully we guard our energy, love has a way of interrupting us. And in the end, if we are lucky, we live inside that love.

A person walking alone on a winding forest path with autumn leaves and sunlight filtering through the trees

A Prayer to Become Art

by stephsimply, posted in Simple Observations and Musings

Reflections on quiet lives, steady love, and the meaning we leave behind

Perhaps it is aging, or the fact that I read too many books. Perhaps it is because I am a sentimental fool. But lately, I’ve had a persistent thought—maybe more of a prayer. 

Let my life have meaning. Let it become art for someone.

Not headline art. Not museum-worthy art. 

Just something that helps another person survive a difficult season.

The Question That Stayed

I think this inner prayer began earlier this year while reading My Friends by Fredrik Backman. In it, I encountered a quote that gave me pause. I read and reread the words. 

 “Art is what we leave of ourselves in other people.”

It was one of those quotes I immediately wrote down. From that moment on, a question kept returning to me: “What am I leaving in other people?” 

I began thinking about the people who had shaped my life, as well as those I had witnessed quietly shaping the lives of others. As I mulled it over, my heart ached a little. I found myself wondering what I had truly offered the world.

Quiet Lives

One of the first people who came to mind was my husband, John. He is a relational magnet. People are naturally drawn to his easygoing personality. He thrives publicly—the more people, the better. His students tell me all the time, sometimes sheepishly since I am also an educator, that John is their favorite teacher. I have always admired that quality in him.

Meanwhile, I am quieter, sometimes even awkward when it comes to small talk. I am comfortable and competent within the classroom, but less so outside of those four walls. 

The subjects John and I teach are different too. My class is harder to love because fewer kids read, and even fewer enjoy it. In the world of education, John’s class is birthday cake, while mine is more like broccoli. On my best days, maybe it’s a clementine—sweet and tangy, but still has to be peeled.

I love that for John, but I also wonder: is it the subject, or is it me? I do not always feel that I impact my students—or coworkers, friends, and family—in the same visible way he does. Still, I am trying to grow into a better, more open version of myself, though it does not come easily. 

Even so, I continue to prefer a quieter life. But can quiet lives still create “art”?  

Does quietly going about my work within the classroom make a difference? Can my passion for my students and subject still be felt through my actions?  

I try to create a structured, reliable classroom—one that challenges students while also giving them opportunities to succeed. I don’t want my students to fail, and I try to teach in ways that help them believe they can learn.  

But does the unspoken care matter? Does consistency leave residue in people? Must impact always be loud? 

The Art We Leave Behind

If “art” is what we leave of ourselves in other people, then I pray I leave behind a sense of love and worth. I hope others feel emotionally safe around me. I hope they sense that I believe in their ability to learn, adapt, and overcome life’s challenges. 

Hope springs eternal in me when it comes to my students, my family, my friends, and humanity itself. I pray that hope is felt.

I am more turtle than hare—more slow and steady than flash and flare. Still, I want to model a different way of moving through the world. I hope to show that aging does not have to diminish us, that nourishing our bodies does not have to be restrictive, and that fitness can take many forms. 

I want others to understand that you do not have to be loud to make a difference. To me, it matters more to live quietly and with integrity, trusting that perhaps someone, somewhere, might find strength or courage in an example of an ordinary life lived faithfully.

Most of all, I want to be the best mom I can to my now-adult daughter. I want to offer her emotional support and steadiness when she needs it, while also giving her the freedom to become fully herself—whether she chooses to live loudly or quietly. 

I want to continue nurturing the love between my husband and me, to love my family well, and to deepen the friendships I already have.

Let me leave warmth and gentleness behind.

Let me leave laughter and joy behind.

Let someone feel less alone because I lived.

Let someone believe their goals are possible.

Let my life be useful art in some small way.

Not grand.

Not immortal.

Just meaningful. 

What Holds

by stephsimply, posted in Simple Observations and Musings

Marathon training changed what I thought was possible. It also taught me that some of life’s most important things aren’t meant to change.

“At the still point of the turning world. 

Neither flesh, nor fleshless; 

Neither from, nor towards; 

at the still point, there the dance is.” 

— T. S. Eliot

🌅 Morning Routine

It was still dark, cool but thankfully no longer the stinging cold of January. Reflective, fluorescent green straps and a chest lamp lit the road as I headed back to the car to meet my husband, John, finishing his workout at the gym. The first birds had begun, their harmonies promising the sun. I inhaled deeply and ran through the morning’s checklist.

Start the dishwasher once both showers were done. Finish herbal tea and refill my bottle with a hydration mix for work. Lunch was already packed—thankfully, my usual. Still left: pack my work bag, shower, and call my daughter. We typically chat most mornings while getting ready, fitting in conversation before the day takes over. Nothing unusual—just routine. 

By Thursday, fatigue would set in—work, early mornings, and daily workouts quietly draining both energy and focus. Routine wasn’t a matter of preference; it was, and still is, protection. Even then, something would likely slip through the cracks as the week wore on.

🧱 Building the Structure

I decided to run the Athens Marathon back in December, about a month after finishing the Marshall University Marathon. It felt like a way to give structure to the winter—to keep moving forward when it would have been easier not to. Paying the entry fee only strengthened that commitment.

It felt like stacking LEGO bricks into something precise. Each piece had to fit within the existing structure of life. Not everything is meant to change. Some things are meant to hold. 

Morning workouts were already the norm; they just needed to be retooled. Weekend runs grew longer. Laundry, errands, cleaning, and meal prep arranged themselves around them. The structure of the workweek held, so the miles moved earlier, stretching the edges of the day. At first, the fatigue of long runs was heavy. But the body adapted. Responsibilities did not. 

🕰️ What Changed—and What Didn’t

Brick-by-brick, I learned more about distance—and about myself. And still, there were only 24 hours in a day. Running became an integrated part of it, not the center. It provided energy for everything else. Life continued, steady as ever, carried by the constant presence and love of family and friends.

Beyond my own small routines, the world kept shifting—nationally and globally, in ways both loud and subtle. Change was constant, as it always is. And still, daily life asked the same things: to show up, to care for one another, and to keep going.

🫶 What Holds

In one sense, the training changed what I believed was possible. I stretched. I learned. I crossed the finish line. The goal was reached—but that was never the point.

Crossing that line was not about changing everything. It could not have occurred without what stayed constant—the steady and loving presence of family, the rhythm of daily life, the hope that carried me, the things that held when everything else was stretched.

The Professor Who Changed How I Think About Aging

by stephsimply, posted in Simple Observations and Musings

When a biology professor offered me an unexpected future, I turned it down—but the lesson he taught me about possibility has stayed with me for more than thirty years.

The early June sun warmed my skin. I sat quietly along the shores of the Outer Banks of North Carolina. The page corners of a biology textbook and spiral-bound notebook—filled with sand and smeared ink—riffled in the chilly ocean breeze. 

I had just earned a master’s degree in 14 months while working full-time as a special education teacher. And I had a dream. I felt pulled to teach Kindergarten students—specifically those in need of early academic intervention. With my background in special education, I felt I was the ideal candidate for this role.

💭A Dream Interrupted

Unfortunately, I was told “no” in clear terms. I was not officially certified to teach kindergarten, despite holding a K-12 special education certificate. The position required a K-8 elementary education certification.

The requirement felt unfair and exhausting. I thought I had done everything “right” to teach this specific “special” class, but it still wasn’t enough. Rather than let this deter me, it became the basis for a new determination: earn that blasted K-8 Elementary certification if that was the last thing I did. Little did I know where, and to whom, this would lead me.

One month after earning my master’s degree, I enrolled at Marshall University. An advisor created a plan that required me to take two condensed summer courses—each just four-weeks long. The first class began the same week as a long-planned vacation my husband, John, and I had already paid for with another couple. If I did not take that summer course, I would have to wait another year before it was offered again.

📞 A Phone Call to Dr. Tarter

This was before email. Therefore, I needed to call to speak with the professor of the class, which ironically was a basic-level biology course with a lab. I called the office—determined, but a little scared. As a teacher, I knew this was a big ask. 

 “Would it be possible to miss the first week of a four-week summer session if I completed all the readings and assignments while I was away and made up the lab work upon my return?” 

This professor didn’t know me.  He didn’t know my work ethic. Missing a full four days of classes out of 16 total sessions was a significant deficit. I wasn’t even sure if I could do it, but I had to try. However, if he said “no,” it meant I would not earn the certification in time for the following school year.

His name was Dr. Tarter.  I don’t remember much about the conversation itself, but I do remember the knot in my stomach as I explained my situation and asked the question. I have a vague recollection of a protracted pause that was followed by a handful of pointed questions as my heart pounded. When he reluctantly consented, it was with a series of stipulations and a parting implication that I still may not pass the class. I assured him I would work hard to make up for the deficit my absence created.

🌊 Studying at the Shoreline

While my friends and husband read Cornwell, Grisham, Koontz, and King, I read about the characteristics of life, scientific method, cell structure, and cellular metabolism. They took long walks along the shore; I sat at the shore’s edge, feet in water, jotting notes in a college ruled notebook. When they stayed up late playing cards, I went to bed early, so I could get up to make flashcards and study in the early morning quiet. I was resolute in my commitment both to the requirements to teach the Kindergarten intervention class and to my hard work. I did not want Dr. Tarter to regret allowing me to miss the week.  

Upon returning to MU, my dedication continued. Much to my surprise, I thrived in Biology and the required lab. It turned out that Dr. Tarter was an excellent instructor, breaking down difficult concepts into clear, understandable ideas. Working in the lab with the guidance of a GA after class was invigorating. What was, at first, an intimidating environment, quickly became a playground for learning.

👩‍🏫 An Unexpected Offer

As the short summer session wound down, Dr. Tarter asked to speak to me after class. He explained he was surprised by my performance, especially considering I missed the first full week of classes. Then, he made an unexpected offer.  He asked if I would consider switching paths. I could work as a graduate assistant in his research lab, receive a small stipend and tuition support, and pursue a Master of Science in Biology. At the age of 29, Dr. Tarter was offering me a different future–one I had never thought possible as a young girl–becoming a scientist. 

I was shocked and torn from within. I. Could. Be. A. Scientist. 

And yet . . .

🤨 Too Old at Twenty-Nine?

There were bills to pay. I now had multiple student loans, and my husband still needed to complete his master’s. How could I ask him to wait another two years before he could start his advanced education? How would we get by on one salary? Worst of all, as I now reflect, I thought I was too old. Too old at age 29—can you imagine? 

 I said all this and more as I declined Dr. Tarter’s offer. I recall how he looked at me with eyes full of compassion and the wisdom that comes from decades of living. 

“Well, I suppose the possibilities of youth can still be held in our senior years.”

🤔 The Lesson That Remained

At times, I’ve often wondered what might have happened if I had accepted that offer— how different my life might have been?  But I don’t carry regret. Instead, I’m grateful that he saw something in me that I couldn’t see yet in myself—something I never believed I was truly capable of achieving. Youth was not what I thought it once was.

As I move through this new decade of life, I find myself near the age Dr. Tarter was when he made that offer. Just like he modeled then, I am committed to continuing to learn—to showing up to life with discipline and diligence. In fact, I am still evolving, despite the fact I never earned another degree. 

I think back to that biology and the spiral bound notebook—its water-stained pages fluttering in the salty air. Likewise, I hold onto that feeling of possibility that Dr. Tarter saw in me. He saw me as more than an educator. He saw another version of me and the possibilities contained within.

The notebook is long gone, and so is Dr. Tarter. But his lesson remains. He was right. Possibility doesn’t belong to youth. It belongs to those willing to keep reaching for it.

A Spring Weekend in Cary, NC (And Why It Surprised Me)

by stephsimply, posted in Travels

🏃‍♀️Running brought us to Cary, but it wasn’t what made us want to return

A winding asphalt road stretches into the distance, flanked by lush green trees under a bright blue sky with fluffy white clouds.
Photo by Mohan Nannapaneni on Pexels.com

🚗 Arriving in the Research Triangle

My husband, John, and I could feel the energy shift as we hit the bumper-to-bumper metallic river of I-40. Earlier, we had driven through sparse traffic as we passed rolling hills of idyllic farms and pastureland. Like marquee lights, exits to various tourist attractions—Big Walker Lookout, New River Trail State Park, Pilot Mountain State Park, and Mt. Airy—stood out in bright contrast against the serene landscape. Eastern redbuds, their branches bursting with pinkish-lavender blossoms, waved their welcome as we traveled farther south toward our weekend destination, Cary, NC. 

We knew little about the area other than that it was the host town of the Tobacco Road Marathon and Half Marathon, an event in which I would be running. However, we left wondering why more people weren’t talking about Cary as a long-weekend escape. 

Map of the Tobacco Road Half Marathon route, showing mile markers, water stops, spectator parking, and medical aid stations, along with an elevation profile at the bottom.
Screenshot of the map Tobacco Road Marathon.

Before arriving, I conducted a bit of research. I learned that Cary is known for being part of the Research Triangle region. It has close proximity to Raleigh, Durham, and Chapel Hill, as well as the three universities they represent—NC State, Duke, UNC—and Raleigh-Durham International Airport. 

🪻🌷Spring in Full Bloom

A vibrant park scene with blooming pink trees, pathways, and visitors enjoying the outdoor space. There are playground structures and people engaging in various activities amidst the greenery.
Redbuds line Downtown Cary Park

Spring had already adorned itself in Cary. Dogwood trees lined the orderly, sidewalk-edged streets, and their distinct pink and white petals danced in the March breeze. The splayed arms of the sunny-yellow branches of forsythia seemed ready to hug passersby on an early evening stroll or jog. Throughout the hotel parking lot, thousands of white plum blossoms, with their pungent, spicy scent, vibrated in the blustery winds as we made our way inside. 

The mild spring weather continued throughout the weekend as John and I discovered what makes Cary a hidden gem. We first noticed that it is pedestrian-friendly, with sidewalks spanning much of the town. Just as striking was the number of restaurants, coffee shops, and stores—many locally owned and distinctly unique. Cary also seamlessly blends modern development with historic charm in a way from which many other towns could learn.

🏫⛪️Why Downtown Cary Works So Well

Downtown Cary showcases that balance perfectly. Historic homes and buildings sit alongside murals and public art, the Cary Arts Center, and a restored 1964 theater. At its heart is Downtown Cary Park, a seven-acre family-centered space featuring a walkable botanical garden, dog park, recreation areas, a pavilion, open lawn, and a children’s play area remarkable for its creativity. Adjacent to it, a spacious public library further reinforces the sense of community.

🌮🍕🍞A Surprisingly Great Food Scene

Cary’s dining scene is just as inviting. With our very different approaches to eating, John and I appreciated the wide range of options, from local gems to familiar favorites. Though we sampled only a few, each proved memorable. 

On our first night, we chose Toreros Family Mexican Restaurant, highly recommended by locals and hotel staff. After enjoying excellent service and flavorful dishes—Nachos Toreros for John and veggie fajitas for me—we understood why!

Famous Toastery earned two visits from us for brunch, offering gluten-free and plant-based options for me alongside hearty homestyle fare for John. We also dined at Cary’s Mellow Mushroom, a national chain that embraces local culture through its décor, local emphasis, and menu. It’s one of the best locations we’ve visited, with both food and service exceeding our expectations.

Another standout was Goji y Agave, also known as Goji Bistro, where two kitchens—one Asian, one Mexican, create a uniquely blended menu. The result felt like a culinary story of two distinct traditions meeting in surprising harmony. For me, the highlight was a robust gluten-free selection that extended well beyond the usual limited offerings.

😂Yes, We Ended Up at Bass Pro Shop🎣

Of course, John spied the Bass Pro Shop as soon as we drove into town, so I knew a visit was inevitable. As a freshwater angler, John relishes any opportunity to connect with fellow anglers. I didn’t mind; he always supports my running, and since this trip was centered on my race, I was happy to indulge him. Besides, the store’s assortment of outdoorsy curiosities never fails to entertain. 

Exterior view of the Sportsman's Center building under a clear blue sky, featuring a wooden structure with a prominent sign for Bass Pro Shops.

📝Reasons We’d Go Back

Our weekend in Cary passed quickly. With race events taking up much of one day, we ran out of time to explore everything—proof that Cary deserves more than a brief visit. We hoped to hike trails in Hemlock Bluffs Nature Preserve and wander the JC Raulston Arboretum. We also missed the Fenton district, a 92-acre social “Eat. Shop. Play.” destination, and Bond Brothers Brewery, where John might have sampled local craft beer. 

We came to Cary because the Tobacco Road Marathon and Half-Marathon coincided with the start of our school’s spring break. We left knowing that even without a race, this unassuming town is well worth the trip. Running brought us to Cary, but it wasn’t the only thing that made us want to return.

Cary is a quiet masterpiece hidden in the heart of North Carolina’s Research Triangle. We were captivated by the warmth and diversity of the people we encountered, the town’s charm, and its unexpected offerings. It rewards both careful planners and those, like us, who simply wander. Perhaps your travels will lead you there one day too.

📑Quick Travel Notes:

Best season to visit: Spring

Closest airport: RDU

Best for: Couples, runners, foodies, weekend travelers

Don’t miss: Downtown Cary Park

Running Free

by stephsimply, posted in Simple Observations and Musings

How Jeff Galloway’s run-walk-run method helped me become a runner—and find joy along the way

“I hear the music. I feel the beat. And for a moment… I am free…”—Florence + the Machine

🌿Finding My Rhythm on Tobacco Road

I was running along the rolling, pine-scented path of the American Tobacco Trail (ATT), a rail-to-trail near Cary, NC, as part of the Tobacco Road Marathon/Half-Marathon. The air was brisk, and the sun had just begun its ascent. Shards of brilliant light cut through towering pine trees. The race was promoted as “fast and flat” with its gentle ascents and descents. At the start, thousands of runners packed tightly together, jostling and elbowing forward. By mid-race, I settled into a steady rhythmic cadence, independent of those around me. As “Free” by Florence + the Machine began to play in my ear, I felt “free,” lit from within. In that moment, I realized that feeling was not accidental—it was learned–taught and modeled by one of the best.

Map of the Tobacco Road Half Marathon course, showing the route with mile markers, water stops, spectator parking, and medical aid stations. Includes an elevation profile at the bottom.
Screenshot of the Tobacco Road Marathon.

Who Gets to Call Themselves a Runner?

While I would never describe myself as an athlete, I have tried to be active and exercise throughout my adult years. Aerobics, step-aerobics, biking, walking, hiking, weight lifting, and yoga have all been activities I have returned to over the decades. However, running seemed intimidating. I equated it with those who were “naturally athletic,” fast, long-legged, and thin. I believed running was for those who could run seemingly effortlessly, without walking, for 30–60 minutes or longer. It was a barrier I tried to overcome, but felt like I repeatedly “failed.” Then, I read about something called the run-walk-run method, originated by Jeff Galloway, and all of the intimidation and barriers appeared, from the outside, surmountable. 

💡A Different Way to Begin

Galloway, a former Olympic runner (1972) was the founder of the first specialty running shoe store. Through his books, classes, workshops, training camps, and destination races across the U.S. and around the world, he expounded and demonstrated the benefits of his run-walk-run method, or “jeffing,” as it is sometimes fondly called. His empowering, emphatic message that not only are walk breaks permitted, but encouraged, redefined what it meant to be a runner. If you ran ten seconds, walked five minutes, and then ran 10 more seconds, whether you repeated it once or several times, you were a runner. 

A large crowd of participants and spectators gathered at an outdoor event, with banners and a timer displaying '2:26:06' in the background, near a finish line.
Whether walking, running, or run/walk/running, everyone still has to complete the same distance and cross the same finish line!

🔄Learning to Run—One Interval at a Time

His gentle message—consistency over intensity—resonated with me—and I am certain I am not the only one. His positive and encouraging tone convinced me to start with a run-walk-run interval plan that I could maintain for 30 minutes, and repeat three days per week. Each successive week, I ran a bit longer and walked a bit less. From there, I built gradually. Galloway, for me, and I daresay for hundreds of thousands more around the world, didn’t just change how I approached running—he freed me to change how I think about running. 

🚶‍♀️➡️🏃‍♀️From Walking to Running

Like countless others who encountered Galloway’s message, I gradually shifted from mostly walking, to equal parts walking and running, to the present day—mostly running. (And I still give myself permission to take walk breaks as needed.) 

Letting Go of What I Thought Running “Should” Be

This incremental shift, spread out over months, increased my self-assurance (thinking of myself more often as a runner) and made running feel sustainable. Galloway’s method allowed me to discover enjoyment, replacing what had once felt like pressure about how I believed running “should” be. I suspect I am not the only one who found the door to running opened, not by pushing harder, but by being allowed to ease in. 

🎧✨The Moment It All Came Together

As I continued to pace along the Tobacco Road Half-Marathon route, listening to the music, I could feel my feet matching the cadence of the beat. My heartbeat was steady and my breathing deepened, but I was calm. It was as if in that moment, body, mind, and spirit aligned, and I felt free. I had a sense that “I can do hard things.” This is what Galloway’s message ultimately conveys—however we define “hard.”

🕊️A Legacy That Lives On

Galloway and his wife, Barb, practiced what he preached for over 50 years until his untimely passing in February of this year at the age of 80. His legacy, however, will live on through everyday runners. Those runners who, like me, now have access to a sport once considered undoable. He provided a path to longevity in the sport, and the chance to taste the freedom that comes from enjoying the experience rather than attaching to a certain performance.  

A smiling woman with glasses and a cap gives a thumbs-up gesture in a crowd of runners at night, with other participants blurred in motion around her.
If you are moving forward, you belong!

🌱The Quiet Confidence of Belonging

As I witnessed countless participants take walk breaks in the Tobacco Road Marathon/Half-Marathon, I sensed that Galloway’s legacy isn’t just in the finish lines. Rather, it’s in the unassuming confidence of runners who finally believe they belong. It is a quiet kind of wonder.

👟An Invitation to Begin

To anyone reading this who thinks they are “not a runner,” are beginners, or feel intimidated by pace, age, or comparison, I invite you to try it. Start with a walk that includes short bouts of slow, controlled running. 10–30 seconds is enough. Take a walk break. Take as many as you need. Start where you are. You don’t have to run without stopping to be a runner—you just have to begin. And if you listen, really listen—you just might find, somewhere along the way—maybe even on the ATT—that you’re free too. 

🌅Running Free

May we carry Galloway’s rhythm forward—one run, one walk break, one brave, freeing step at a time.

A smiling older man wearing a cap and light-colored jacket gives a thumbs-up gesture outdoors, surrounded by trees during dusk.
Thank you, John, for your never ending love and support of my running adventures!