I’ve spent the past several months living inside a building that doesn’t exist.
At least not the way I’m writing it.
It’s an apartment building in Cincinnati, populated by bricklayers, widows, schoolteachers, bakers, artists, maintenance workers, immigrants, flood survivors, and countless ordinary people whose names never appeared in history books.
And yet, the more time I spend with them, the more convinced I become that their stories matter.
Perhaps even more than the famous ones.
The novel I’m currently working on is called TheCollector.
At its heart, it asks a simple question:
What survives after we’re gone?
A photograph?
A letter?
A favorite recipe?
A journal?
A building that remembers the people who once lived inside it?
As I’ve written, I’ve been surprised by how often the story returns to the same idea:
Most people believe their lives are ordinary.
But ordinary does not mean unimportant.
In fact, the people history forgets may be the very people worth remembering most.
I’m not ready to share many details yet.
The mysteries are still unfolding.
But I can tell you this:
The story begins with a young immigrant bricklayer in the 1850s and stretches across generations of lives connected by a single Cincinnati apartment building.
And somewhere within those walls lives a question that refuses to go away:
One year ago, on August 19, 2025, I wrote an update during a season of rebuilding — physically, creatively, and spiritually. Reading it again this week, in the middle of my anniversary emotions and all the memories that come with it, reminded me how much has changed and how much God has carried me through.
At that time, I was recovering from CKD stage 4 and learning to work within the rhythms of my health. Today, I’m back in stage 4 again, and while that is difficult, it has also deepened my understanding of resilience. I continue to honor the quiet days and celebrate the creative ones. This journey still teaches me patience, strength, and grace.
Last year, I was searching for an illustrator. Today, I’ve found a workable rhythm using NightCafe for my artwork. It has allowed me to keep moving forward without the financial strain of hiring an artist. I still hope to collaborate with a young illustrator someday — especially someone who feels connected to the stories — but for now, this path has given me freedom and momentum.
And the creative growth… I never expected this much to bloom in just one year. The George Washington children’s book — inspired by my great‑granddaughter in her bright red patriotic dress — has grown into a full project. My Bedtime Story book is almost ready for publishing. I’ve created an adult coloring book, nearly finished a second mandala coloring book, and designed six “Walking with Christ” journals featuring artwork that reflects every stage of life. I’ve built an Acadianclip‑art book and several other projects that weren’t even imagined a year ago.
Looking back at the post from August 19, 2025, I see a woman hoping for progress. Today, I see a woman who has built an entire shelf of books, journals, and art — one gentle step at a time.
Here is the post exactly as it appeared one year ago.
August 19, 2025
Hi, everyone! I’m excited to share the second installment of my author blog. Let’s dive in! My sleep disorder has posed challenges, but it has forged resilience and adaptability within me. There are nights when I wake up around 10:00 or 11:00, yet I’ve learned to embrace those quiet moments and reflect on what I cherish most.
This journey, though isolating at times, has illuminated the strength found in the cycles of my health. When I feel “well,” I seize the opportunity to immerse myself in writing, gathering rich material for my stories and eager to unleash my creativity.
Moving to East Texas brought a long stretch of limited activity, but I emerged with invaluable lessons in perseverance. Surviving heat stroke and battling Covid twice revealed the immense power of prayer and community support, helping me recover from stage 4 to stage 3.
Recently, a video from my daughter featuring my great-granddaughter in her bright red patriotic dress filled me with inspiration. Her exuberance rekindled my passion for the stories I hold dear. Now, I am diligently working to get my books published!
I am actively seeking an illustrator, reaching out to past collaborators, and my husband has explored local high school resources. The art department head was impressed with my story and suggested involving a student—what a brilliant idea!
I am determined to move forward quickly and will be following up soon. Stay tuned for more updates on my creative journey!
Worry feels like an unavoidable part of life, but learning how not to worry is absolutely possible, I’m learning. Most of us aren’t born worriers — we simply practice worry until it becomes familiar. The good news is that habits can be unlearned, and calmer patterns can take their place.
Understanding Whether Worrying Is Actually Useful
Not all worry is harmful. Some worry nudges us to take responsible action — paying a bill, making a doctor’s appointment, or preparing for a difficult conversation. This is all productive worry, and it helps us to stay engaged with life.
The other kind — the kind that loops endlessly in your mind (that can make us crazy!) — is unproductive worry. It drains your energy, steals your focus, and usually centers on things you cannot control. This is so harmful, especially if we’re already compromised, like I am, with a debilitating illness.
Learning how not to worry begins with asking one simple question:
Is this something I can take action on, or something I’m imagining, fearing, or rehearsing?
If action is possible, take even one tiny “baby” step. Action of any size interrupts anxiety.
If action is not possible, remind yourself gently: “I’ve done what I can. The rest is not mine to carry.” You could also say, “I’m giving it to the Lord to carry for me. I’ve done all I can.”
This self‑talk isn’t denial — it’s boundary‑setting for your mind.
Try Setting Aside Dedicated “Worry Time”
If your thoughts feel crowded, try giving your worries a scheduled place to land. This technique is used in cognitive‑behavioral therapy and can be surprisingly effective.
Choose a consistent time each day — maybe when your partner is home and you can talk things through, or a quiet half hour in the evening. During this time, write down your worries, think them through, or brainstorm solutions.
Outside of that window, when worry pops up, remind yourself: “Not now. I’ll think about this during my worry time.”
This helps your brain learn that worry is not welcome everywhere.
Catch Yourself in the Act of Worrying
Most worry happens automatically. You’re washing dishes, scrolling your phone, or trying to work — and suddenly your mind is spiraling out of control.
Learning how not to worry means learning to notice when your thoughts drift. This can be hard at first, but the more you practice, the easier it’ll get, I promise.
A few gentle ways to catch yourself:
Place a small reminder on your desk — a sticker, a word, or a symbol.
Keep a grounding phrase nearby, like “Return to now.”
Notice physical cues: tight shoulders, shallow breathing, or a racing mind.
You won’t catch every worry immediately, but you’ll catch it sooner each time. Awareness is a skill, and as I said, it strengthens with practice.
Be Patient With Yourself
Breaking the worry habit takes time. At first, these strategies may feel awkward or ineffective. That’s totally normal. You’re retraining your brain, and new pathways take repetition.
Over time, you’ll notice that redirecting your thoughts becomes easier, your mind feels lighter, and your emotional energy lasts longer throughout the day.
Learning how not to worry isn’t about perfection — it’s about reclaiming your peace, one thought at a time. My prayers are with you, my friend. Please let me know if any of this helps, or not. I’ll be happy to post more of what I’m learning or have learned in my 70 + years on this earth.
Tomorrow’s FIFA match is France vs England, and honestly… my Acadian ancestors are probably warming up in the celestial bleachers. France is stretching, England is smirking, and I’m over here remembering juice boxes, orange slices, and tiny cleats flying in every direction.
My kids played soccer, baseball, and did scouts — so I’ve spent years cheering from folding chairs, pretending I understood the rules, and celebrating every goal like it was the World Cup. So if I yell at the TV tomorrow, it’s purely muscle memory.
May France and England battle it out with dignity… and may my ancestors forgive me if I cheer for whichever team has the cutest uniforms. 🇫🇷🇬🇧
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