As a child, I didn’t give marriage much thought. I was still at that age where life revolved around playing, exploring, and slowly realizing there was a whole lot more to the world than what existed right in front of me.

Then came adolescence. Suddenly, the concept of marriage started taking shape, although not necessarily in the most realistic way. It was more along the lines of Does anyone like me? And if they do, that’s awesome. We should date!

I had that fairytale mentality, too. You know, the kind where some knight in shining armor eventually comes along, has everything figured out, sweeps you off your feet, and somehow makes life grand.

Ah, young love! What a concept.

I went through my fair share of crushes and boyfriends, and shortly after graduating high school, I met someone who eventually asked me to marry him. No one had ever asked me that before!

Of course, I said yes.

We had dated for a year, were engaged for another, and married in our third year together. At the time, I genuinely believed I knew what I wanted. Marriage was the next chapter, and wasn’t that what every girl dreamed about?

Right?!

Except, there’s a little context worth mentioning. It was 2012. I had graduated high school at 19 and was married by the age of 20.

Now, I know that in previous generations, marrying young was much more common. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. But I personally think the world we live in today is different, and getting married that young isn’t necessarily something I’d encourage without a lot of thought.

Because there’s something about your twenties that you don’t fully understand until you’re actually living them.

At first, everything seemed fine. We were learning how to navigate married life, sharing a home, and figuring things out as we went. I was working part-time while attending college, trying to build a future for myself.

But somewhere along the way, things began to shift. We started branching out, developing different interests, and perhaps becoming different people altogether.

Or maybe... I was the one changing.

I wasn’t thinking about starting a family. I wasn’t dreaming about relocating to be closer to family. My focus was somewhere else entirely. I wanted to finish college, get into medical school, and pursue my dream of becoming a forensic pathologist.

That was the future I envisioned for myself.

And as those differences grew, so did the distance between us. Our priorities weren’t necessarily aligned, and eventually, the disagreements and differences became too much.

In 2017, we separated.

And that’s where my perspective on marriage took a rather significant turn. I had gone from believing marriage was something every girl should dream about to deciding I never wanted to do it again.

I still dated. I still met people. But marriage? No. That wasn’t something I had any intention of revisiting.

Or so I thought. Funny how life has a way of challenging the conclusions we once felt so certain about.

Fast-forward to 2022.

There I was, ten years after my first wedding, standing at the altar for the second time. Only this time, I was 30 years old, and my understanding of marriage had changed considerably.

The fairytale checklist had disappeared. In its place were things I hadn’t given nearly enough consideration the first time around.

Quality. Character. Patience. Stability. Commitment. Shared values. Someone who could provide, communicate, work through difficult seasons, and most importantly, someone whose relationship with God mattered.

I wasn’t simply looking for someone to marry anymore. I was looking at the foundation of what a marriage would actually require. And those are two very different things.

Now, as I write this in 2026, at 34 years old, I’m still married to that wonderful man. And this marriage has been such a beautiful addition to my life. Not because life is suddenly perfect or because marriage is some magical solution to everything, but because I understand much more about what I value, what I need, and what it means to build a life with another person.

Looking back, I sometimes wonder what my 20-year-old self would think if she could see me now. Would she recognize the woman I’ve become? Would she understand why the things she once wanted aren’t necessarily the things I want today?

Maybe. Maybe not. But here’s what this journey has taught me:

We don’t just grow older. We grow into different versions of ourselves.

Our priorities change. Our dreams evolve. Our values deepen. The things we once considered essential may eventually become insignificant, while things we barely considered before can become the very foundation of what we want.

And perhaps that’s one of the most interesting parts of being human. 🍂

We make decisions with the understanding we have at the time. Then life happens. We learn, experience, stumble, grow, and sometimes completely rewrite what we thought our future was supposed to look like.

The person I was at 20 isn’t the person I am at 34. And thankfully, life gave me the room to become her.

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“If you’ve ever found meaning in ordinary moments, laughed through an adventure, or wondered what comes next, I’d love to have you here for the next chapter- subscribe so we can keep turning the pages together.” ~Chas May~

We had officially upgraded our camping game. Gone was the tent mounted in the back of our truck. In its place sat a full-blown, 33-foot travel trailer that we affectionately named MapTrekker.

Our next adventure? Five days in the Great Smoky Mountains.

What we hadn’t considered was that towing an 8,000-pound trailer through the mountains with a half-ton truck might turn our peaceful getaway into an episode of What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

The Smokies were about an eight-hour drive from home when hauling our new rolling house. We passed the time listening to true-crime documentaries, playing music, and chatting, all while alternating drivers to keep ourselves fresh.

Eventually, it was my husband’s turn behind the wheel. We were nearing the final stretch of our journey, and all we had left to do was get ourselves and our giant trailer to the campground.

Simple enough, right?

Wrong.

Getting to our campground meant climbing one side of a mountain before descending the other. The road twisted and climbed, and somewhere along the way, our truck decided it had had enough.

The transmission began overheating.

Our poor 1500 truck was struggling to haul that 8,000-pound trailer up the steep mountain grade. We pulled over at a turnout to let things cool down. Then we started climbing again.

And stopped again.

By the third pull-off, I was beginning to wonder whether our little mountain getaway was going to end before it even began.

But we finally made it to the top!

The descent was much easier. Gravity was happy to help us out on the way down, and for a brief moment, it felt like we’d conquered the worst of it.

Then we noticed another problem. Our power steering was leaking. Because apparently, one mechanical issue just wasn’t enough for the Smokies.

Despite our truck troubles, we eventually made it to the campground. And honestly? The scenery was beautiful. The leaves were changing colors, the air was crisp, and a nearby creek babbled peacefully in the background. After the stress of climbing a mountain with an overheating transmission, that little slice of nature felt like exactly what we needed.

We were camping primitive-style, which meant no electricity. No plugging in, no modern conveniences humming away in the background. Just us, our trailer, and the outdoors. There was something calming about it. Getting away from the noise of everyday life and returning to something a little more natural had a way of settling our nerves.

For a while, we could almost forget about the truck. Almost. Because the next morning, we still had a power steering problem to deal with.

We decided to drive the truck to the nearest gas station to find some power steering fluid. Of course, the route wasn’t exactly a leisurely Sunday drive. It was another steep, winding mountain road.

At this point, I was beginning to suspect the Smokies had a personal grudge against us.

Thankfully, we made it to the gas station, found the fluid we needed, and were able to address the power steering issue enough to continue our adventures.

Finally, we could explore!

We hiked portions of the Appalachian Trail, Alum Cave Trail, climbed Clingman’s Dome, explored Fire Mountain, where we encountered tons of extreme mountain bikers, and visited the beautiful Mingo Falls.

The mountains were showing us their best side again. But our biggest adventure was still waiting for us. And it had four legs.

One of the highlights of our trip was a horseback ride through the mountains with our friends. We arrived just in time for the horses’ last ride of the day. Each horse had its own name, and mine was called War Paint.

Now, I don’t know if that name should have been a warning, but looking back, I probably should have paid closer attention.

We saddled up and set off along the rocky mountain trails. The horses seemed to have minds of their own, sometimes speeding up and other times stopping whenever they pleased. We did our best to get them to listen, keeping pace with the group as we traveled through the beautiful scenery.

Eventually, we reached our destination and gave the horses a break while we dismounted and walked around a waterfall. It was peaceful, beautiful, and the kind of experience you hope to have when you travel somewhere new.

Then it was time to get back on. And that’s when War Paint decided our adventure needed a plot twist.

As we made our way back along the trail, someone walked by and spooked War Paint. My horse suddenly reared up onto its hind legs. I tried to hold on, but I couldn’t keep my grip for long.

🐝The next thing I knew, I was falling. I landed on the mountainside, on the opposite side of the trail from the rocks, in a mossy patch of ground. For a moment, I wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened. Everything seemed to move so quickly. But one thing was clear: I needed to get up.

So I did.

I sprang to my feet as War Paint ran a little farther up the trail. The rest of the group looked at me in shock as I popped back up, almost as if they couldn’t believe what they’d just witnessed.

And honestly? I was still processing it myself. I’d just been thrown from a horse on the side of a mountain. But the fall wasn’t even the worst part. I still had to get back on that same horse. Yep. The same unruly horse that had just decided I no longer belonged on its back. And we still had about an hour-long ride to get back to where we’d started.

I climbed back onto War Paint, and we continued along the trail. Let me tell you, that ride back felt a whole lot longer than the ride out. Every movement had me on edge. I was watching the trail, watching the horse, and probably questioning every decision that had led me to that exact moment.

But thankfully, there were no more mishaps.

I made it back safely, and I was grateful that the fall hadn’t sent me tumbling toward the rocky side of the mountain. I felt fine at the time, although the next day, I discovered bruises in places I hadn’t even realized I’d hit.

Apparently, my body had kept a few souvenirs from the Smokies. Still, I considered myself lucky. A fall like that could have ended much differently, and I was thankful to walk away from it.

Eventually, it was time to head home. Remember that transmission that had been overheating on the way in? Well, it was still a concern. But we made it back, trailer and all, despite the truck’s struggles. After everything we’d experienced, we knew we needed to make a change before our next big adventure.

And that was how we ended up upgrading to a bigger 2500 truck. Because apparently, the Smokies had taught us two valuable lessons:

One, always make sure your truck can handle the mountain you’re asking it to climb.

And two, when your horse is named War Paint, maybe ask a few extra questions before you get on.

Looking back, our five days in the Smokies gave us breathtaking views, peaceful moments in nature, unforgettable memories with friends, and a few experiences we never planned on having.

We went looking for a mountain getaway. We got overheating transmissions, leaking power steering, a runaway horse moment, and a fall on a mountainside.

But we also got stories to tell. And sometimes, that’s what adventure is all about.

The Smokies tried to take us out. But we made it home, upgraded our truck, and lived to tell the tale.

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“If you’ve ever found meaning in ordinary moments, laughed through an adventure, or wondered what comes next, I’d love to have you here for the next chapter- subscribe so we can keep turning the pages together.” ~Chas May~

Clara Bell had spent six years working upstairs at the Silver Star Saloon.

She knew how to smile when she didn’t feel like smiling. She knew which men carried money, which carried knives, and which carried both. She had learned early that a woman could survive almost anything if she kept her wits about her.

But she had also learned something else.

Men came into the Silver Star believing they were buying a woman’s time. Clara knew better. She was saving hers. Every dollar. Every silver coin. Every tip slipped into her hand. She kept her money beneath a loose floorboard and counted it every Sunday morning.

Until the night the Silver Star caught fire. By sunrise, the saloon was nothing but blackened beams and broken bottles. The owner was dead. The girls had scattered.

And Clara stood in the street with one suitcase, thirty-seven dollars, and a decision to make. She could find another saloon. Or she could finally become someone nobody had the right to own.

So she bought a horse. Then she bought twelve acres outside town. Then, because twelve acres weren’t much use without something growing on them, she learned farming.

She learned badly at first. She killed three rows of tomatoes. Lost half her chickens to a fox. And nearly shot herself in the foot trying to mend a fence.

But she kept going.

By the second year, she had the finest vegetable garden in the county. By the third, she had hired two widows from town to help her. By the fifth, Bell’s Boarding House stood beside the road, painted white with green shutters.

Travelers stopped there. Families stayed there. Women who had nowhere else to go found work there. And Clara never asked a woman where she’d come from. Only where she wanted to go.

There were men, of course.

There was Thomas Reed, the handsome rancher who thought Clara was too stubborn for her own good. There was Elijah Grant, the traveling preacher who saw the softness beneath her sharp tongue. And there was Samuel Pike, a widower who never tried to court her at all. He simply brought her coffee on Sunday mornings and fixed whatever was broken without making a fuss.

For a while, Clara wondered if one of them might be the ending she’d been waiting for. Then one autumn evening, Thomas asked her to marry him. 👁

“You’ve worked hard enough,” he told her. “You don’t have to do everything alone anymore.”

Clara smiled. “I know.”

He looked confused. “Then why won’t you?”

She looked across the fields she’d planted herself. At the house she’d built. At the women laughing on the porch. At the little girl chasing chickens through the yard. And she finally understood. Being alone wasn’t the same thing as being lonely.

“I spent too many years having men decide what my life was worth,” she said quietly. “I’m not handing that decision to another man just because he’s kind.”

Thomas smiled sadly. “Fair enough.”

Years later, when Clara was an old woman with silver in her hair, people would tell stories about her. They’d say she had once worked in a saloon. They’d say she’d known outlaws. They’d say three different men had loved her.

All of that was true.

But Clara never considered those the important parts. The important part was that she’d bought her own land. Built her own home. Employed women who needed a second chance. And made a life that belonged entirely to her.

Above the front door of Bell’s Boarding House hung a wooden sign.

ROOMS FOR TRAVELERS.
WORK FOR THOSE WHO WANT IT.
NO QUESTIONS ASKED.

And underneath, in smaller letters, Clara had added one final sentence:

Every woman deserves the chance to become whoever she pleases.

And she did. Right up until the day she died peacefully in the chair on her front porch, watching the sun disappear behind the Montana hills. Not someone’s wife. Not someone’s possession. Not the woman she used to be.

Just Clara Bell.

And, in the end, that was more than enough.

“If you’ve ever found meaning in ordinary moments, laughed through an adventure, or wondered what comes next, I’d love to have you here for the next chapter- subscribe so we can keep turning the pages together.” ~Chas May~

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Thirty minutes early should have been plenty, right?

There I was, standing in line, waiting to meet the one and only John Walsh.

As a child, I had watched him on television. I followed the cases, rooted for justice, and watched as some of the country’s most wanted were finally taken down. John Walsh wasn’t just someone I had seen on TV. In a strange way, he had been a familiar face throughout my childhood.

And now, somehow, I was standing in a line that was going to lead me to him. It was unreal. Totally unreal.

Do I look okay? What am I going to say? What if I freeze? How is he going to react?

A million questions ran through my mind, somehow making the time pass faster than I realized.

The line moved.

I looked around and saw the massive crowd behind me, and for a moment, I felt relieved. Thankful I got here early. Surely being thirty minutes ahead of opening would be enough.

Then the workers started counting. They were trying to figure out how many people could realistically make it through the meet-and-greet within the hour.

I started getting nervous. Please let me be in the count. And then came the words I absolutely did not want to hear. They moved me—and seven other people—into a separate line.

The standby line.

Standby.

Standby equals 🌹, you might meet John Walsh... or you might not. I was crushed. How does someone arrive thirty minutes early to an event and still end up wondering if they’ll even get the opportunity they came for?

I stayed there anyway, hoping somehow the numbers would work in my favor.

They didn’t. I never got to meet Walsh that year.

And honestly, it was a major disappointment—not just for the adult me standing there, but for the little girl who had spent years watching him on television and dreaming of a moment like that.

Then another year passed. And somehow, John Walsh was going to be at another event I was attending.

My first thought was not to even try. What’s the point? But my internal voice wasn’t having it. I knew I would never forgive myself if I didn’t at least try again.

So this time, I went earlier. Much earlier.

An hour and a half early.

Surely that would be enough. Because, honestly, I wasn’t sure I had a third attempt in me. Maybe meeting John Walsh just wasn’t in the cards for me.

Once again, the workers began counting. And suddenly, I was having déjà vu. Except this time, it came with a little bit of PTSD from the last attempt.

They counted…

And counted…

And slowly, they got closer to me. I waited. And then they stopped.

I was made number one in the standby line. I was LIVID. I was sad. I was confused.

How?!

I had gotten there an hour and a half early. I had done everything I could to make sure this wouldn’t happen again. And somehow, here I was. Right back where I had been before.

Standby.

Once again, I was staring at the possibility of walking away without ever getting the moment I had come for. At that point, I wasn’t even thinking about what I would say to John Walsh anymore. I wasn’t wondering how he would react. I wasn’t worried about whether I looked okay. I was too busy thinking, You’ve got to be kidding me.

But I stayed. I waited. And eventually, something happened that I wasn’t expecting. They started letting people from the standby line through. Not many. Just a handful.

I was one of them.

I GOT TO MEET JOHN WALSH!

After all of that. After the first failed attempt. After arriving early and still not making it. After wondering whether I should even try again. After arriving an hour and a half early and somehow ending up right back in the standby line. I finally stood in front of him.

And in that moment, everything became a whirlwind. The excitement. The disbelief. The realization that this was actually happening. And then, just as quickly as it started, the moment was over.

But it wasn’t really over. Because afterward, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I had spent all that time thinking I was being told no. Both times, it almost didn’t happen. Both times, I was standing in a line wondering if I had made it far enough. But this time, I stayed. And because I stayed, I got my moment.

I got to meet someone my younger self had watched on television for years. And suddenly, a little piece of that younger version of me felt complete. It made me think about how easily I could have walked away. I could have looked at that standby number and decided it wasn’t worth it. I could have assumed the answer was already no. I could have lost faith in the possibility and gone home.

But I didn’t. I waited.

And sometimes, maybe that’s the difference between almost and finally. Because sometimes the story isn’t about getting there first. Sometimes it’s about being willing to stay when you’re standing in the place where you think the story is about to end.

Almost became finally.

And for once, I got to see what happens when you don’t give up before the ending.

“If you’ve ever found meaning in ordinary moments, laughed through an adventure, or wondered what comes next, I’d love to have you here for the next chapter- subscribe so we can keep turning the pages together.” ~Chas May~

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John Walsh from America’s Most Wanted. Chris Hansen from To Catch a Predator. Candice DeLong from Deadliest Women. And so many others.

It is a strange thing, meeting someone you have spent years watching from the safe distance of your living room.

You think you know them.

Not personally, of course. But you know their voice. Their mannerisms. The way they pause before delivering a sentence. They become familiar in a way strangers shouldn’t be.

And then suddenly, there they are. Standing in front of you. Human.

Or at least, that’s what you expect… Over time, I’ve realized something about meeting famous people.

Fame has personalities.

Not the personalities we see on television or in interviews. Not the carefully curated versions built for cameras and audiences. The personalities fame itself creates.

I’ve started to notice three.

The first is my favorite:

These are the people who make you forget, for just a moment, that they are famous at all. They shake your hand and ask how you are. They want to know where you’re from. They laugh. They linger in conversation.

Sometimes, they do something so unexpectedly human—like taking their shoes off before a photograph—that the invisible wall between celebrity and stranger simply disappears. For a moment, you’re not standing beside someone famous.

You’re just standing beside someone. And maybe that’s why I like them the most. They make you feel seen. Not like a fan collecting a moment. Like a person meeting another person.

Then there is the second type.

The professionals. They are kind. Polite. Pleasant, even. But everything feels rehearsed. What’s your name? Nice to meet you. A photograph. A handshake. And then the next person.

There is nothing necessarily wrong with this kind of interaction. Fame is a job sometimes, after all. You can only give so much of yourself to thousands of strangers before something has to become routine.

Still, there is a distance. You are a fan. They are the famous person. The line remains exactly where it belongs.

But the third type was the one that surprised me.

The ice. You approach them, and immediately, you can feel it.

The conversation is minimal. Questions are answered🌹 with the bare minimum. They don’t ask anything about you because they don’t really seem interested in knowing. There is a distinct line between you and them.

A wall. And you are not invited to cross it.

At first, I wondered if it was arrogance. But the more I thought about it, the more I wondered if it was something else.

What happens to a person when every stranger has an opinion about them? When every photograph can be dissected? When every conversation has the potential to become a headline?

Maybe eventually, you learn not to give strangers anything. Maybe you become conditioned to the cameras. To the media. To the possibility that kindness can be twisted and vulnerability can become entertainment.

And suddenly, the ice doesn’t seem quite as cold. It seems like armor.

Still, after meeting people from all three categories, I find myself wondering something I never really considered before.

What does fame cost?

Because being known by everyone doesn’t necessarily mean being known by anyone.

And somewhere between the person who takes off their shoes for a photograph and the person who barely looks you in the eye, I think you can see the different ways fame changes a person.

Maybe that’s the strangest thing about celebrities. They’re not all famous in the same way.

But fame touches each of them differently.

“If you’ve ever found meaning in ordinary moments, laughed through an adventure, or wondered what comes next, I’d love to have you here for the next chapter- subscribe so we can keep turning the pages together.” ~Chas May~

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CONFIDENTIAL — DALE VALE

Mara sat up in bed.

Dale Vale. For nearly thirty years, his face had been everywhere. He had won two Academy Awards, starred in some of the highest-grossing films of the decade, and built the kind of career most actors could only dream about.

And three days ago, without warning, he had announced his retirement. No final movie. No farewell tour. No explanation. Just one sentence from his publicist: Dale Vale has decided to step away from acting indefinitely.

Now he wanted an interview. With her.

Mara reread the email. Mr. Vale has requested you specifically.

She frowned. She was not famous. She wasn’t even the most senior journalist at her magazine. Her entertainment pieces were usually small profiles and interviews nobody remembered a week later.

So why her?

The email contained an address and one final instruction. Forty-seven minutes. No additional guests. No exceptions. Mara should have been suspicious. Instead, she thought about her editor. She thought about the promotion she’d been trying to get for two years. And she thought about Dale Vale sitting across from her, answering the questions no other journalist had been allowed to ask.

She replied.

I’ll be there!

---

Dale’s house was enormous. Not flashy. Quiet. It sat behind a long iron gate at the end of a private road surrounded by trees.

A woman in a black suit opened the door.

“You’re Ms. Bennett?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Vale is waiting.”

Mara stepped inside. The hallway was lined with photographs.

Dale accepting awards. Dale at premieres. Dale shaking hands with politicians. Dale laughing with actors. Dale holding a young woman whose face Mara didn’t recognize.

She slowed.

“Who is that?”

The woman in black stopped.

“Please don’t touch the photographs.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Good.”

Mara looked at the photograph again. There was something familiar about the woman. She couldn’t place it.

The woman in black continued down the hallway.

Mara followed.

---

Dale Vale was sitting beside a fireplace. He looked older than he did on television. Not old. Just tired.

He stood.

“Mara Bennett.”

“Dale Vale.”

He smiled. “You came.”

“You invited me.”

“I did.” He gestured toward a chair.

“Forty-seven minutes.”

“I know.”

“No more.” Mara placed her recorder on the table. Dale watched her turn it on. The red light appeared.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

She opened her notebook.

“Why are you retiring?”

Dale looked at her. “Because I’m tired of lying.”

Mara paused. “That sounds dramatic.”

“It is.”

“To whom have you been lying?”

“Everyone.”

“Your fans?”

“My fans.”

“Your family?”

“My family.”

“Yourself?”

Dale smiled. “Especially myself.”

Mara wrote something down.

Then Dale said: “You argued with your husband this morning.”

Her pen stopped. She looked up. “What?”

“You argued in the kitchen.”

Mara stared at him.

“You told him you were tired of always being the one who compromises.”

Her stomach tightened. “How do you know that?”

“You deleted his voicemail before leaving your apartment.”

Mara slowly closed her notebook. “Who gave you information about me?”

“No one.”

“Then how do you know?”

Dale leaned back. “You should be asking a different question.”

“What question?”

“Why did I choose you?”

---

Mara didn’t leave. She should have. Instead, she kept recording. That was her first mistake. Or perhaps it was the first mistake Dale wanted her to make.

Over the next twenty minutes, he told her things no stranger should have known. He knew about the unfinished novel she had written when she was twenty-two. He knew she had wanted to become a novelist before becoming a journalist. He knew her mother still had a box of her old manuscripts in the attic.

And he knew something else. Something Mara had never told anyone. Her father had spent the final years of his career investigating a missing-person case.

A young actress named Elena Violet Cross had disappeared in 2004. The official conclusion was an accidental overdose.

Her father had never believed it. Mara had been eleven at the time. She remembered her father working late. She remembered newspaper clippings spread across the dining room table. She remembered him saying one sentence over and over: “Someone is lying.”

She had never told Dale any of that.

“Why are you talking about Elena Violet Cross?” Mara asked.

Dales’s expression changed. “Because your father was right.”

Mara’s heart began pounding. “What do you mean?”

“Elena didn’t overdose.”

Silence.

“Then what happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I expect you to investigate it.”

Mara stared at him. “Why?”

Dale checked the clock.

9:38.

“Because someone is going to find out that I’m not the person they should be investigating.”

---

Mara spent the next two days digging. Elena Violet Cross had been twenty-four when she disappeared. An actress with a promising career. She had appeared in three films. Then, suddenly, she was gone.

Her death had been ruled accidental. But the details didn’t fit. Her last movie had been produced by a company that no longer existed. Several people connected to the production had refused interviews. One producer had disappeared from Hollywood entirely. Another had died. A third had moved overseas.

And Dale Vale? He had been at the same production company. Mara stared at his name on her computer. There was no record connecting him directly to Elena’s death. But there was something else.

A photograph.

Dale. Elena. And a group of powerful Hollywood executives at a private party in 2004. Mara recognized the building. It was the same house where Dale had just interviewed her.

She zoomed in. Elena was standing beside Dale. She was smiling. But she wasn’t looking at the camera. She was looking at someone behind it.

Mara saved the photograph. Then her phone rang. Unknown number. She answered.

A woman’s voice said:

“Stop looking.”

The call ended..

---

That night, someone knocked on Mara’s apartment door. Three times. Slowly. She didn’t move.

Another knock.

“Mara?” A woman’s voice.

Mara looked through the peephole. The woman standing outside was wearing a green coat. Mara had seen her before. Across the street. Outside her office. Near the coffee shop she visited every morning.

She hadn’t thought anything of it. Until now.

Mara stepped away from the door. Her phone rang. Dale. She answered.

“You told me not to investigate Elena.”

“I told you to investigate.”

“You’re contradicting yourself.”

“No.”

“Then what do you want?”

A pause.

“I want you to understand who you’re dealing with.”

“Who is the woman outside my apartment?”

“You shouldn’t open the door.”

“Who is she?”

“You’ll find out.”

Mara looked toward the peephole again. The woman outside was holding something. A photograph. Mara couldn’t see it clearly. Then the woman slipped it beneath the door.

Mara waited several seconds before picking it up. Her hands began to shake. It was a photograph of Elena Violet Cross. On the back was a handwritten sentence.

YOUR FATHER WASN’T WRONG.

---

The next morning, Mara returned to Dale’s house. She didn’t tell him about the photograph. She wanted to see whether he would mention it.

He didn’t. Instead, he smiled.

“You came back.”

“You knew I would.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re like your father.”

Mara sat across from him. “You knew him.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Dale didn’t answer.

Mara placed a photograph on the table. The one from 2004. “You were there.”

“Yes.”

“Elena was there.”

“Yes.”

“You knew her.”

“Yes.”

“What happened to her?”

Dale looked down. For the first time, Mara saw something she hadn’t expected. Fear.

“She found out.”

“Found out what?”

“There were people who could make careers disappear.”

“That’s Hollywood.”

“No.” His voice hardened. “I mean people who could make people disappear.”

Mara went still.

“Elena found evidence.”

“Evidence of what?”

“People paying to bury scandals. People threatening witnesses. People destroying careers. People who had enough money and influence that no one questioned them.”

“And you?”

“I was young.”

“You were thirty.”

“I was afraid.”

“Of what?”

Dale looked at her. “Of becoming Elena.”

---

Mara leaned forward. “You helped them.”

Dale said nothing.

“You helped cover up what happened.”

“Yes.” The word was barely audible.

Mara’s recorder continued running. “Did you kill her?”

“No.”

“Did you know who did?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

Dale looked at the clock. 9:15. Exactly.

He smiled. “You have twelve minutes left.”

Mara stared at him. “This isn’t a game.”

“No.”

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t have the evidence.”

“What evidence?”

“The evidence your father found.”

Mara froze. “My father died without solving the case.”

“No.” Dale leaned forward. “He solved it.”

Mara couldn’t breathe. “He knew who killed Elena?”

“He knew everything.”

“Then where is it?”

Adrian smiled. “That is what I’ve been trying to find.”

Mara’s blood went cold. “You don’t know where it is.”

“No.”

“You chose me because of my father.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been watching me.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been manipulating me.”

“Yes.”

The room seemed to tilt. Every strange event suddenly made sense. The woman. The photographs. The phone calls. The clues. The mysterious messages.

Dale hadn’t been warning her. He had been testing her. Every step had been designed to push her closer to the evidence her father had hidden.

“You don’t want me to solve Elena’s murder.”

“No.”

“You want me to find the evidence.”

“Yes.”

“So you can destroy it.”

Dale smiled. “Now you’re finally asking the right questions.”

---

Mara stood. “You’re a monster.”

“Perhaps.”

She picked up her bag.

Dale didn’t stop her. “You’re going to leave,” he said.

“Yes.”

“You’re going to go home.”

“Yes.”

“You’re going to search your father’s things.”

Mara stopped.

“And you’re going to find something.”

She turned. “You’re very confident.”

“I know you.”

“No.” She smiled. “You think you know me.”

Dale’s expression changed. For the first time, he looked uncertain. Mara walked toward the door.

He called after her. “Mara.”

She stopped.

“If you find what your father left behind, don’t give it to anyone.”

“Why?”

“Because the people who wanted Elena silent twenty years ago are still alive.”

Mara looked back. “And you?”

Dale smiled. “I’m one of them.”

---

Mara drove home. She didn’t go to her father’s house. She didn’t search his belongings. She didn’t call her editor. Instead, she went directly to the police.

And she handed them the recording. The entire interview. Every confession. Every name. Every admission.

But there was one thing Dale didn’t know.

Mara had started recording before she entered the house. She had sent a live copy to her editor twenty minutes into the interview. And her editor had already contacted federal investigators.

Dale had spent years studying Mara. He knew her habits. Her marriage. Her childhood. Her ambitions. Her weaknesses. He had constructed an elaborate psychological maze and expected her to walk through it exactly as he planned.

What he hadn’t accounted for was this: Mara had spent her entire career studying people who lied for a living. She knew the difference between a confession and🌹 a performance.

And Dale had given her exactly what she needed.

---

Three weeks later, Dale Vale was arrested. The investigation into Elena Violet Cross was reopened. Several other names emerged. People who had spent twenty years believing the past was buried discovered that it wasn’t.

Mara’s article became the biggest story of her career. But she never published the entire interview. There was one part she kept private. The final eleven seconds. The moment after she had stood to leave.

The moment Dale had leaned forward and whispered: “You were never investigating me.”

Mara had asked: “Then what was I investigating?”

His answer had been quiet. Almost amused. “Your father.”

She had spent three weeks trying to understand what he meant. Then, one night, she finally opened the old box in her mother’s attic. Inside was her father’s notebook. The final page contained only one sentence. Written twenty-two years earlier.

Dale Vale isn’t the man I’m afraid of. Beneath it was a second sentence. He’s the man who’s afraid of me.

Mara stared at the page. Then she turned it over. There was a photograph taped to the back. Her father. Elena Violet Cross. And a third person standing between them.

A person Mara recognized immediately. Her own mother. Mara slowly lowered the photograph. For the first time since the interview began, she understood.

Dale hadn’t chosen her because of her father.

He had chosen her because she was the last person who knew where the truth had been buried.

And somewhere, someone else already knew that she had found it.

“If you’ve ever found meaning in ordinary moments, laughed through an adventure, or wondered what comes next, I’d love to have you here for the next chapter- subscribe so we can keep turning the pages together.” ~Chas May~

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We thought our first night sleeping in the back of our truck was going to be cozy. We had a brand-new camper shell tent, blankets, pillows, and everything we thought we’d need.

Then the temperature dropped.

We were sleeping in a camper shell tent made specifically for the bed of our truck, and while it looked picture perfect enough when we set it up, nighttime had a different opinion.

It was cold. Really cold.

We layered up, climbed into bed, and did whatever we could to stay warm. Sometimes that even involved a candle lantern, which made our tiny sleeping quarters feel less like a cozy campsite and more like an experiment in survival.

But during the day, we had somewhere to go. And Mississippi was about to give us a lot to see.

The first thing I noticed was the cotton. Fields of it. Everywhere. I had never seen a cotton field before, and naturally, seeing something for the first time meant I needed to get out of the truck and investigate it.

So we stopped.

I walked over to the side of the road, picked up a handful of cotton, and stood there admiring my little piece of Mississippi. I had no idea I was about to regret touching it.

Not long after getting back in the truck, my arms started breaking out in welts. At first, I couldn’t figure out what was happening. Then we put the pieces together.

I was allergic to raw cotton.

Apparently, my dream of taking home a little piece of the South was going to end with Benadryl.

The Benadryl worked!

Unfortunately, it also made me incredibly sleepy. So there I was, slightly drugged, covered in welts, and still fascinated by the cotton fields we’d been driving past.

Except now I couldn’t look at them quite the same way.

Because as we traveled through the Mississippi Delta, cotton stopped being just something I’d never seen before. It became a doorway into history.

At the Cotton Museum in Memphis, we learned about the industry that had shaped the region and the people whose lives were built around it. And suddenly, that handful of cotton I’d been so excited to pick up didn’t seem quite so simple.

The more we explored, the more intertwined everything seemed. Cotton led us into the history of slavery. That history led us toward the Delta blues🌹. And the blues carried the stories of people and experiences that had grown out of that same landscape.

We visited places where the reality of slavery was impossible to ignore, including a confined space that gave us a small glimpse into the conditions enslaved people were forced to endure.

It wasn’t comfortable. It shouldn’t have been.

Then we continued into Memphis and visited the National Civil Rights Museum. The history kept unfolding. Different places. Different generations. Different struggles.

But somehow, it all felt connected.

We weren’t just checking destinations off a list. We were following a story. And then our trip took another turn.

Elvis.

We had spent days learning about the music that had grown out of the South, and here was a boy who had grown up surrounded by those sounds and influences.

We went to Tupelo, Mississippi, to see the birthplace of Elvis Presley. Following his story into Memphis, where we visited Graceland—his final home. There was something fascinating about seeing where he started and then seeing where his life ultimately took him.

Although I think Graceland had another goal for us. To destroy our feet.

We walked…

And walked…

And walked some more.

By the end, I’m pretty sure my feet were ready to leave without me. But the history was worth it.

Not everything that happened on the trip was quite so profound.

Some of it was just ridiculous.

One morning at the campground, my husband was getting ready and I thought he had forgotten his toothpaste. Being the, insert any sweet compliment, wife I am, I grabbed it and decided to bring it to him.

The campground had separate bathrooms for men and women. I figured I’d just sneak into the men’s bathroom, hand him the toothpaste, and sneak back out.

Easy!

Except when I came out, one of the groundskeepers caught me. Apparently, my toothpaste delivery had crossed some sort of campground boundary.

So I learned an important lesson that day: Next time, my husband can go without toothpaste.

Then came the rain.

And this was when our little truck-bed experiment finally proved itself. The rain came down, and while people in traditional tents were dealing with the weather, we were warm and dry inside our little camper tent.

We looked around at our tiny setup and realized something. We had actually figured it out. The cold nights hadn’t scared us away. The strange little sleeping arrangement had become comfortable.

We had learned how to make our space work. We had survived my cotton allergy. We had survived Graceland’s walking marathon. I had survived getting caught in the men’s bathroom. And now we were sitting inside our little truck-bed tent while the rain fell outside.

Maybe this camping thing wasn’t so bad after all. In fact, it was better than we expected. That little tent became the beginning of something much bigger.

Because we didn’t know it at the time, but this trip would ultimately lead us to buy the 33-foot travel trailer we have today.

We started the trip thinking we were testing out a new way to camp. Instead, we discovered a new way to travel.

And somewhere between the cotton fields, the cold nights, the history, the blues, Elvis, the rain, and one very questionable toothpaste delivery, I realized something:

Sometimes an adventure doesn’t just take you somewhere. Sometimes it changes where you’re going next.

“If you’ve ever found meaning in ordinary moments, laughed through an adventure, or wondered what comes next, I’d love to have you here for the next chapter- subscribe so we can keep turning the pages together.” ~Chas May~

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As the room fills with interns there to observe, everyone carefully gowns up and gathers around the autopsy table. The doctor makes the well-known Y-shaped incision, and we begin.

Eventually, we reach the first organ—the heart. He places it on the scale and calls out the weight. I neatly record it on the whiteboard.

About halfway down the list, one of the interns asks a question. The doctor answers confidently, indicating to the student that THAT was a good question. And then he implies that there are such things as stupid questions.

I freeze.

For a moment, everything else in the room fades into the background.

There are stupid questions?

I finally make my way out of my thoughts long enough to record the next weight. We continue down the list until all the necessary organs have been documented.

At the end of the day, I make my walk back home, still thinking about it. I remember asking myself if there really were stupid questions.

Maybe some questions are poorly timed. Maybe some questions could have been answered with a little more research. Maybe some questions come from not paying attention.

But stupid?

I didn’t think so.

A question🪰 means someone is trying to understand something. It means they care enough about the topic to admit they don’t know. And sometimes, the question that sounds obvious to everyone else is the exact question someone was too embarrassed to ask.

I think sometimes we forget how much courage it can take to say, “I don’t understand.” We teach people to be afraid of looking foolish, and then we wonder why they stop asking questions.

That moment stayed with me.

Not because I thought the doctor was a bad person. I don’t even remember what the “good” question was that the intern had asked anymore.

I only remember what I thought: I hope I never say that.

I never want someone to feel stupid for trying to learn.

Because if we’re going to make people afraid to ask questions, we’re not making them smarter.

We’re just teaching them to stay quiet.

“If you’ve ever found meaning in ordinary moments, laughed through an adventure, or wondered what comes next, I’d love to have you here for the next chapter- subscribe so we can keep turning the pages together.” ~Chas May~

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Rosey Ginosa.

She stood in the doorway of her apartment for several seconds, staring at it. Nobody called her Rosey anymore. Not since her mother died.

She turned the envelope over.

Nothing.

No name. No address. No explanation. She should have thrown it away. Instead, she opened it. Inside was a postcard. The photograph on the front showed a beach.

Not the kind of beach Rose had seen on vacation brochures. This one was almost impossibly beautiful. Pale sand curved around a stretch of dark volcanic rock, and the water was so blue it looked unreal. The sky burned pink along the horizon.

She had never seen it before. She was certain. She turned the postcard over. There were only seven words.

You should have been here last summer.

Rose frowned. At the bottom was a date..

May 29.

Three months ago. She looked at the photograph again. She had never been there. She didn’t even know where there was. She placed the postcard on her kitchen counter and went about her evening. By bedtime, she’d almost forgotten it.

Almost.

---

The second postcard arrived thirteen days later. This one showed a small café tucked beneath a crooked yellow building. The tables spilled onto a narrow stone street. Tiny lights hung overhead. A woman in a red coat sat alone at the nearest table.

Rose stared at the picture. She didn’t recognize the place. But she recognized the cup. White ceramic. Red stripe around the rim. She had one exactly like it in her kitchen. She turned the postcard over.

You liked this place.

Her stomach tightened. Below that was another sentence.

You haven’t met him yet.

Rose read it twice. Then a third time. She set the postcard down.

“Nope.”

She walked away. Five minutes later, she came back. She picked it up again. There was no signature. No explanation. Just the picture.

And the impossible feeling that whoever had sent it knew something about her.

---

The third postcard arrived six days later. This time, Rose didn’t wait until she got inside. She opened it beside her mailbox. The photograph showed a train station. An enormous clock hung over the platform. She stared at it. Something about the place made the hairs on her arms rise.

She had never been there. But she knew the clock. Not from memory. From a dream. The same dream she’d had since she was a child.

A train arriving. A platform covered in fog. A man standing beneath a giant clock. She had never been able to see his face.

Her fingers tightened around the postcard. She flipped it over.

He finds you here.

Below the message was an address. Rose recognized the street. She searched it when she got home. The station was real. Twenty minutes from her apartment.

She stared at the address on her phone for nearly an hour. Then she grabbed her keys.

---

The station was quieter than she expected. Rose stood beneath the enormous clock, feeling increasingly foolish. People passed around her. A man hurried toward a train. A woman dragged a suitcase behind her. Someone laughed near the ticket counter.

Nothing happened. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty. She checked her phone. Nothing.

“Of course,” she muttered. She turned toward the exit.

“You’re early.”

Rose stopped. The voice had come from behind her. She turned…

He was standing several feet away. Tall. Dark hair. Charcoal coat. His face was unfamiliar. Completely unfamiliar. And yet something inside her went still when she saw him.

His eyes were strange. Blue at first. Then green with a tint of silver when he stepped beneath the station light.

She couldn’t explain it. She simply couldn’t look away. He smiled. It was a small, almost hesitant smile.

“Rosey.”

Her stomach dropped. “Do I know you?”

His smile faded. “No.”

The answer came too quickly. She narrowed her eyes. “Then how do you know my name?”

He looked at the clock. “Because I’ve been looking for you.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“No.” A pause… “It doesn’t.”

She should have left. Instead, she asked, “Who are you?”

“Aster.”

“Aster what?”

“Just Aster.” He said plainly.

She laughed nervously. “That’s convenient.”

He smiled.

This time, she noticed something unsettling. He looked relieved to see her. Not surprised. Relieved. As if he’d been afraid she wouldn’t come.

Rose pulled the first postcard from her purse. Aster saw it.

His expression changed immediately. “The beach.”

“You recognize it?”

He didn’t answer.

“Do you know where this is?” Rose urged with persistence.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

He looked at her. Then at the postcard. Then back at her. “Somewhere you have never been.”

Her heart skipped. “How do you know that?”

Aster took a slow breath. “Because I know you.”

Rose stared at him. “You just said you don’t know me.”

“I said you don’t know me.”

She didn’t understand. And somehow that frightened her more than anything else. “Have we met?”

Aster’s eyes softened. “No.” He hesitated. “Not here.”

The words hung between them. Rose felt a strange warmth crawl up her neck. She hated that she was attracted to him. She hated it because she didn’t know him. And yet there was something about him that felt impossibly familiar. The shape of his smile. The sound of his voice. The way he looked at her as if she were something precious.

“Why did you tell me to come here?” she asked.

“I didn’t.”

She held up the postcard. “You said you would find me here.”

Aster looked genuinely confused. “I didn’t send that.”

Rose’s stomach dropped. “Then who did?”

He looked at the postcard again. And this time, she saw fear. Real fear. “How many have you received?”

“Three.”

His face went pale. “Three?”

“Why?”

He stepped closer. “Do you still have the others?”

“At home.” Rose turned to look toward home.

“Don’t show anyone.”

“Why?”

He looked around the station. His voice dropped. “Because whoever sent them knows things they shouldn’t.”

Rose swallowed. “About me?”

“About us.”

She stared at him blankly. “There is no us.”

Aster looked at her for a long moment. “No.” He looked almost heartbroken when he said it. “There isn’t.”

For some reason, that hurt. More than it should have. Before she could ask what he meant, the station lights flickered.

Once…

Twice…

Then went completely dark🪰. People around them gasped. Somewhere down the platform, a train screeched to a stop. Rose reached instinctively for Aster. Her fingers found his hand. He grabbed hers. His palm was warm. Far too warm.

She looked up at him. For one impossible second, she saw something reflected in his eyes. Not the station. Not her.

Stars.

Thousands of them.

Then the lights came back on. Aster released her hand.

He looked terrified. “Rosey.”

“What?”

He glanced toward the platform. A train had stopped there. Its doors were open. Nobody was getting off. Nobody was getting on. Then Rose noticed the destination displayed above the doors. It wasn’t a city. It wasn’t a station. It was a date.

May 29, 2056

Her breath caught. Aster whispered something she almost didn’t hear. “No.”

The train doors began to close. Rose stared at the date. Thirty years. Thirty years from now. And then, just before the doors shut completely, she saw someone sitting inside.

A woman. Older. Gray hair. A familiar face.

Rose’s face.

The woman pressed a postcard against the glass. And even from across the platform, Rose could read the words written on it.

Don’t trust the man you’re about to love.

“If you’ve ever found meaning in ordinary moments, laughed through an adventure, or wondered what comes next, I’d love to have you here for the next chapter- subscribe so we can keep turning the pages together.” ~Chas May~

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Until I saw the shadows🪰 moving beneath me.

My only thought was simple: Please don’t dip me where THAT is. I’d prefer to not be a snack today.

Funny enough, the thing I was most afraid of wasn’t what I expected. I thought the scary part would be leaving the ground. I thought it would be trusting a parachute, a boat, and a complete stranger to take me hundreds of feet into the air.

I was wrong.

But before I get ahead of myself, I had to learn how to find courage on the ground.

This was our first family adventure with my in-laws, and honestly, that alone could probably have been its own story. After a 13-hour drive, we finally arrived at our Airbnb in Miramar Beach, Florida. A whole week of sunshine, ocean waves, and new memories waited for us.

But first… rest.

The next morning, I put on my jogging outfit.

At this point, I was still a fairly new jogger. My endurance wasn’t exactly impressive yet, but I wanted to try. As I stepped onto the pathway, I was surrounded by joggers of all levels. It felt like a place where nobody cared how fast you went or how far you could run.

The only thing that mattered was that you showed up.

So I did.

I pushed myself forward, even stopping a couple times when my body reminded me I was still learning. But I finished an hour of on and off jogging, and I remember feeling proud of the fact that here I was on vacation still putting in the time.

I didn’t know it yet, but that little jog was the beginning of something.

After making it back to the Airbnb, I heard my in-laws calling from the balcony. It was time to get ready for the beach.

And wow… the beach.

The blue water. The waves. The white sand.

It was everything you imagine when you picture Florida.

There were even sand artists creating sculptures along the shore. Not sand makers — actual artists. Watching someone transform simple grains of sand into something other than sand castles was incredible. Of course, I had to stop and get a picture because how often do you get to see something like that?

Eventually, everyone started enjoying the water, and I decided to join them.

Now, I don’t know why my brain does this, but whenever I’m in the ocean, my first thought is usually sharks.

Anyone else?

Probably not.

So there I was, enjoying the waves while my brain was busy imagining things beneath me when I felt a slight burning sensation on my arm.

I brushed it off.

Then it got worse…

I pulled my arm out of the water and rubbed it, convinced maybe it was just a weird phantom feeling.

It wasn’t.

That’s when I saw it. A tiny jellyfish.

A tiny creature that somehow managed to make its presence very known. I had officially been kissed by a jellyfish.

Thankfully, the burning eventually faded after about an hour. I didn’t need medical attention, and all I was left with was a scar and a story.

To this day, that scar is still visible.

Later that evening, we went to dinner somewhere where crocodiles could be viewed right as you entered. Because apparently relaxing after a jellyfish encounter required casually adding crocodiles into the mix.

But admittedly, it was pretty cool!

The next morning brought the adventure I was both excited and terrified for. Parasailing over the Gulf of Mexico. Or, shall we call it, the Gulf of America?

Regardless, the idea sounded amazing.

The reality?

I was scared.

We took a banana boat out to another boat where we waited with other guests for our turn. I watched people go up, but honestly, I barely paid attention.

I was too busy thinking about my own turn. Because here’s the thing. I’m not a strong swimmer. Actually, I’m pretty sure if you threw me in water, I’d sink like a rock.

So the idea of being attached to a parachute over the ocean was… a choice.

Eventually, it was our turn. My husband and I got buckled in, and suddenly we were rising.

Higher…

And higher.

At first, I held onto those ropes like my life depended on it. Because in my mind, it did.

But then something changed. The boat kept moving. The parachute kept climbing. And slowly, the fear disappeared.

It became quiet.

Almost like we had broken through some invisible sound barrier.

Looking down, there was nothing but blue. Looking up, there was nothing but blue. And suddenly, I understood why birds look so calm when they fly. I don’t think I’ll ever find the perfect words to describe what it felt like to be up there.

There was just something incredibly peaceful about being suspended between the earth and the sky. For a few moments, I wasn’t worrying. I wasn’t overthinking. I was just there.

Luckily, we were on the last ride of the day, so when the boat turned around, we got an extra-long flight.

Which was amazing… Until it was time to come down.

That’s when I looked into the water. And I saw them.

Shadows.

Some were small. Some were massive. And my brain immediately went back to sharks.

Of course it did!

Maybe they were dolphins. Maybe they were something completely harmless. But in that moment? My only thought was:

Please don’t dip me where THAT is. I’d prefer not to become a snack today.

Down we went.

Closer.

Closer.

Until my toes touched the water.

And then…

I was fine.

I wasn’t fish food. I wasn’t attacked. I was just someone who had experienced something I never thought I would.

I had borrowed the sky for a little while.

And somehow, in that space between fear and freedom, I found peace.

The next morning, I woke up with one incredible sunburn. But I also woke up with something else.

Endurance.🪰

I went for another run, expecting it to be just as difficult as before. Except it wasn’t. I jogged the entire way.

Somewhere between the ocean, the jellyfish kiss, the fear, the flight, and the adventure, something had changed.

I built endurance without realizing it. And when I returned home, that endurance stayed with me. I was able to jog a 5K without stopping.

Maybe it was the weather. Maybe it was the excitement. Maybe it was simply proving to myself that I could do hard things.

But I think it was something else.

Maybe that’s what adventure gives us — moments we don’t get to keep, but moments we get to borrow.

“If you’ve ever found meaning in ordinary moments, laughed through an adventure, or wondered what comes next, I’d love to have you here for the next chapter- subscribe so we can keep turning the pages together.” ~Chas May~

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But when you work in trauma cleanup, your brain finds strange ways to measure progress — tiny victories, little moments of humor, and odd ways to make it through something most people will never have to see.

A typical work call. A shotgun suicide in a single-level home.

The moment we heard the word “shotgun,” we already knew we would likely be there for a couple of days.

When we arrived, we spoke with the homeowner before entering the home. We walked down the hallway, passing family pictures hanging on the walls — little reminders that this wasn’t just a job site. This was someone’s home. Someone’s life. Someone’s family.

We entered the bedroom and immediately began assessing the scene. The walls, the ceiling, the room itself told a story no family should ever have to witness.🪰

In those moments, my heart always broke for the person who felt so trapped, so consumed by pain, that they believed this was their only way to find relief. The amount of mental suffering someone must carry to reach that point is something I now struggle to comprehend.

But your mind can’t stay in the “why” for too long. You can’t get lost in the questions. You’re there for a reason. You’re there to help.

The hardest part is knowing that a family had to see this. But the small comfort we had was knowing we were there to take away some of that burden. Our work mattered.

So we suited up, gathered our supplies, and got to work.

Hour after hour, we cleaned. We restored what we could. We carefully removed what was left behind and placed it into the bio-hazard containers. It was slow, emotional work.

The textured ceiling was one of the hardest parts. Eventually, we reached a point where the only option was to remove the texture completely.

And as the hours passed, the weight of it all started to settle in.

Someone was gone. They would never know the pain they left behind. They would never see the cleanup, the sadness, or the people who came afterward trying to make things right.

That’s when you learn something about this type of work: you can’t carry all of it.

To protect our own mental health, we found ways to lighten the atmosphere without ever forgetting the seriousness of what happened. We created little challenges. Strange little “games” that gave our brains a break.

And that’s how it became a thing:

Whoever found the biggest piece of brain or skull fragment had a win for the day.

Not because we celebrated what happened. Not because we forgot the person behind it. It was simply a tiny victory in a day filled with heaviness.

My co-worker found part of an eyeball. It was definitely… a unique find. But that wasn’t the goal.

Then more hours passed.

And there it was.

Nearly a quarter of a brain sitting on a shelf.

The biggest piece—WIN.

It sounds strange to someone outside of this world. Maybe even disturbing. But when you spend🪰 your days walking through some of the darkest moments of people’s lives, you find ways to keep moving.

The truth is, you can’t let the heaviness consume you so much that it follows you home forever.

You have to find the small moments that remind you: you’re still human.

Even in the darkest jobs, people find ways to keep going.

“If you’ve ever found meaning in ordinary moments, laughed through an adventure, or wondered what comes next, I’d love to have you here for the next chapter- subscribe so we can keep turning the pages together.” ~Chas May~

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I travel often and somehow manage to take an insane amount of photos; sharing our journeys with little summaries of all the cool things we did. Along the way, friends and family kept encouraging me to write and that’s what brought me here!

Beyond that, I’m someone who reflects deeply and has a creative streak that has led me to have so many hobbies I can barely keep up with. Writing simply became another way to tell the stories.

My writing consists of short reads- about 10 minutes or less and currently falls into 4 different categories:

• Adventure category- Hiking, camping, traveling and the beauty of exploring the outdoors and different places that we have personally stumbled upon.

• Reflective category- the quiet thoughts, life lessons, and little moments that make us stop and see things from a different perspective.

• Real Life category- Personal stories during my life that are based on true events; the raw, honest, and unfiltered canvas of my being.

• Fiction category- Where imagination takes over and anything and everything can take over and unfold into an unexpected story.

My creativity shifts with my moods which makes it difficult- and honestly impossible- to choose just one genre/niche to stick with. This space is firstly a creative outlet for myself but if people relate or find joy and live through my experiences, then I’d love to have that community follow me along this journey.

🌱**DISCOVERY SEEDS; For joy to my readers who want an additional layer, my writings have clues/seeds hidden within.

Stories 1-4 yield the first seed.

• Hint #1: Every piece is a part of one sentence. Read carefully.

• Hint #2: Pay no mind to whats behind the bug. Only the one directly before.

• Hint #3: 5 pieces total.

Stories 5-8 yield the second seed.

• Hint #1: Every Piece equals one word. Read carefully.

• Hint #2: Pay no mind to whats behind the bug. Only the bold one directly before.

• Hint #3: 6 pieces total.

Stories 9-12 yield the third seed.

• Hint #1: Chronologically, every piece comes together to form one.

• Hint #2: Pay only attention to the colored word by the flower.

• Hint #3: 4 pieces total.

Stories 13-16 yield the fourth seed.

• Hint #1: Chronologically, every piece forms a sentence.

• Hint #2: Pay attention to ONLY the emoji.

• Hint #3: This is called a phonetic rebus!

If you think you solved it, direct message me with the answer. (PLEASE DON’T publicly post the answer and ruin it for other readers!) The more seeds you get, the more perks you get. Also, if you need more hints, also reach out! I enjoy engaging with my readers.

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Awards:

1 seed- First Sprout

A personal thank you message & First Finder recognition

3 seeds- Growing reader

Printable quote card from one of my writings & hidden message from me

5 seeds- Story Gardener

Secret bonus post & a peek behind how any of my stories was created.

10 seeds- Chapter keeper

Name added to “Discovery Garden” list

15 seeds- Story Explorer

You choose a writing theme for one of my stories.

20 seeds- Story Companion

You choose my ending to one of my stories.

25 seeds- Keeper of Chapters

You choose a character for one of my stories.

30 seeds- The Master Chapter Explorer

A “thank you” feature in a newsletter & special gift

“If you’ve ever found meaning in ordinary moments, laughed through an adventure, or wondered what comes next, I’d love to have you here for the next chapter- subscribe so we can keep turning the pages together.” ~Chas May~

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But her grandmother’s old garden had never been quiet. Ever since she could remember, she heard tiny whispers whenever she walked among the rows of flowers.

At first, she blamed the wind.

Until one evening while she was watering the roses, she heard a voice.

“Please refrain from drowning the lavender.”

Lily froze.

Slowly, she lowered the watering can.

Right in front of the lavender plant sat the strangest little creature she had ever seen. It’s size was no bigger than her hand, with translucent wings like stained glass, tiny antler-like branches growing from its head, and glowing markings across its skin.

Lily stared in confusion and amazement.

And the creature stared right back.

“Are you going to scream?” it asked.

“I haven’t quite decided yet. Should I?” Lily replied.

“Humans usually do.”

From that point on, Lily named it Pip.

Pip mostly lived in the garden and appeared only after sunset. It ate flower petals, roses being among its favorites. Pip slept inside hollow trees and complained about Lily’s gardening skills.

“You’re planting flowers where they don’t belong,” Pip told her one evening.

“Flowers don’t have rules,” she replied with irritation in her voice.

Pip looked offended. “Everything has rules.”

Over time, Lily and Pip became tolerable friends. She had learned Pip wasn’t a fairy exactly. He was something much older- he called himself a guardian.

Moons ago, magical creatures protected the world by placing pieces of their power into nature. The trees, rivers, mountains and gardens all had guardians.

But somewhere along time, something had happened. The guardians had all disappeared.

And Pip was the last piece left.

As the seasons changed and went, Lily noticed something strange happening.

The garden was growing. Not normally.

Magically.

The flowers were blooming in winter. The trees grew fruit that healed sickness. And animals that had once disappeared from the area returned.

One night, Pip looked worried. “You have to let me go.”

Lily frowned with disapproval. “Why?”

“Because I’m not supposed to stay here.”

Lily looked around to see what could be causing Pip to act this way. “Who says?”

Pip looked away. “The garden.”

The next night, Pip was found sitting beside the oldest tree in the garden. Its roots stretched across the ground like veins.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Pip touched the tree. “Do you know why I was so small when you found me?”

“No.”

“Because I was broken.”

Lily took a seat beside him.

“Broken?” She inquired.

Pip nodded. “I was part of something much bigger.”

The tree began to glow. And suddenly, Lily saw images.

A massive creature made of earth, flowers, and light protecting the world.

A guardian.

A creature that looked nothing like Pip.

Then she realized.

Pip wasn’t a tiny magical creature. Pip was a piece of one.

“The guardian sacrificed itself,” Pip whispered. “It broke itself apart so the world could survive.”

Lily looked at him finally realizing “And you’re the last piece.”

Pip nodded slowly. “If I return, the guardian will awaken.”

“But you’ll disappear.”

A small smile crossed Pip’s face. “Yes.”

Lily refused.

She spent all majority of her days searching for another way. She studied old books. She searched for forgotten magic. She pleaded with the garden for answers.

Finally, she found one.

A guardian could return…

…but only if someone remembered it.

Not its power. Not its purpose.

Its heart.

When a full moon arrived, Lily placed Pip beneath the old tree.

“I remember you,” she whispered. “I remember the creature who complains about lavender. The one who hates rain. The one who stays when everyone else leaves!”

The garden began to glow. Pip grew brighter.

Lily covered her eyes.

And when she opened them…

The garden was completely silent.

Years later, people in the village told stories🐞 about the magical garden where flowers bloomed all year. They said if you listened closely, you could hear the trees whisper.

Lily always smiled when she heard the townspeople speak.

Because every spring, beneath the lavender, a single tiny flower grew.

And beside it was a tiny set of familiar glowing footprints.

“If you’ve ever found meaning in ordinary moments, laughed through an adventure, or wondered what comes next, I’d love to have you here for the next chapter- subscribe so we can keep turning the pages together.” ~Chas May~

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In 2020, devastating wildfires swept through the Rocky Mountains. We had our trip planned down to the smallest detail—multiple hikes, a hot air balloon ride, and plenty of adventures we were ready to courageously conquer. Then a text message came through. Due to the wildfire threat and the affected area, our plans had to be canceled.

My husband and I just stared at each other inside our Airbnb.

We had already driven ten hours from home. Now what?

I was beside myself. I always have a plan, and last-minute changes have never been my strong suit. But with my husband’s calm encouragement, we came up with a Plan B.

ASPEN.

Probably one of the most expensive places in Colorado, but that’s where fate seemed determined to take us. Who were we to argue?

Sunday night came, and we went to bed excited for whatever adventures Monday would bring.

When morning arrived, we looked outside our little studio window and were greeted by a blanket of bright white snow.

Seven inches of it.

We only had a few days before heading home. Were we really going to let snow stop us?

Absolutely not.

Our motto has always been, Rain, snow, or shine—we hike in every kind.

So we bundled up in our cold-weather gear, grabbed our hiking poles, and headed toward Ute Trail with the brightest attitudes we could muster.

The crisp mountain air hit our faces as our boots crunched through fresh snow. Aspen had become a winter wonderland overnight.

Should we even be hiking in this?

Was anyone else out?

Nope. Not a single soul.

But deserted trails weren’t enough to stop us. We had one goal—to reach the summit.

For nearly three hours we climbed... up, up, and more up. Between the snow, the cold, and an elevation of over 9,000 feet, every step became harder than the last.

But we did it.

Standing at the top, everything around us looked untouched. The mountains were draped in white, the trees shimmered with snow, and from where we stood, the houses and cars below looked like tiny toys.

It was peaceful.

It was breathtaking.

And, of course, I took about a million pictures. If you know me, you know I can’t resist taking photos.

What we forgot, though, was one very important detail.

We still had to get back down.

I slid my phone into my pants pocket—or so I thought—announced I was ready, and started the descent.

One thing we’ve learned over the years is that if you sit at the top too long, you’ll never want to get moving again.

If climbing up was a battle, climbing down was a war.

Within the first ten minutes, we reached a narrow section of trail where one wrong move could send you sliding toward the mountainside.

I went first.

Terrified...

...but I made it.

My husband, on the other hand, froze.

He’s terrified of heights, and I could actually see him trying to calculate how in the world he was going to get home.

I stood on the other side cheering him on, reminding him he could do it.

Because, honestly...

There wasn’t another way down.

Finally, he took a literal leap of faith.

And he made it.

The rest of the hike was a slippery mess. We slid, stumbled, and occasionally landed flat on our backs. At one point I joked that it might actually be easier to just roll the rest of the way down the mountain.

It was a joke...

Mostly.

Eventually, we stopped for a much-needed water break.

I reached into my pocket for my phone.

Nothing.

I checked the other pocket.

Nothing.

My backpack.

Nothing.

I checked again because surely I had missed it.

My stomach dropped.

My pocket was completely unzipped. Somewhere during all the slipping, sliding, and falling, my phone had disappeared.

Panic set in instantly.

Not only was my phone gone, but my driver’s license and debit card were tucked inside the case.

I climbed back up the trail a short distance hoping maybe it had only fallen out recently.

Nothing…

I knew there was no way we could hike all the way back to the summit. We were exhausted, sore, and still had a long way to go.

I had no choice.

I had to leave it.

By the time we reached the trailhead, I don’t think I’d ever been happier to see an “End of Trail” sign.

We dragged ourselves back to our Airbnb, took the hottest showers imaginable, and tried to recover.

I canceled my debit card. Ordered a new license. Accepted that my phone was probably gone forever.

But one thing kept eating at me.

The pictures.

Those pictures meant everything to me.

They weren’t just photos. They were memories. They were proof that we’d conquered that mountain together.

So I quietly prayed.

“God... please let someone find it. Tomorrow... next week... six months from now... I don’t care when. Just... please let someone find🐞 it.”

Tuesday came and went. We were leaving Colorado the next morning.

The snow still hadn’t melted. Trying to distract myself, I borrowed my husband’s phone and logged into Facebook.

At the top of Messenger was a message request from someone I didn’t know.

Curious, I opened it.

I couldn’t believe what I was reading.

“Hi! I found your phone and ID on Ute Trail.”

I read it again.

Then again.

She had actually found it!

She explained that she was in Aspen for a bachelorette party and had hiked the same trail the day after us. Since they were heading out for the evening, she offered to leave my phone with the receptionist at her hotel about fifteen minutes away.

We didn’t waste a second. We drove straight there.

And there it was…

My phone.

Safe and sound.

What are the odds?

Seven inches of fresh snow. A mountain over 9,000 feet high. Someone hiking that exact trail the very next day.

Not only finding my phone...

...but taking the time to search for me on Facebook so she could return it.

I was speechless.

But there was still one more question.

Would it even work?

I plugged it into the charger.

A tiny battery icon appeared. I smiled.

Progress.

After what felt like forever, it finally had enough charge.

I held my breath.

Pressed the power button.

And...

The screen lit up.

It worked!

Every single picture was still there.

Looking back, I learned a valuable lesson about zipped pockets. But I learned something even bigger.

Sometimes what feels completely lost has a way of finding its way back.

Whether you call it prayer, faith, kindness, or simply being in the right place at the right time, I’ll never forget the woman who took a few minutes out of her day to help a complete stranger.

Because thanks to her...

I didn’t just get my phone back.

I got my memories back.

“If you’ve ever found meaning in ordinary moments, laughed through an adventure, or wondered what comes next, I’d love to have you here for the next chapter- subscribe so we can keep turning the pages together.” ~Chas May~

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I knew better. I knew I wasn’t supposed to take them. I knew not to sneak the familiar red-and-white Marlboro pack that fit so perfectly into an adult’s hand. But at twelve years old, I wasn’t thinking about inconvenience or frustration. I was thinking about my grandma.

My family loved to tease one another. We’d hide each other’s belongings, crack harmless jokes, and laugh until someone finally revealed where the missing item had been all along. It was our way of showing love.

So I thought maybe I could use that same playful approach to accomplish something much bigger.

At first, I simply hid her cigarettes.

She always found them.

Then I took a black Sharpie and wrote all over the pack, begging her to stop smoking. I hoped seeing those words every time she reached for a cigarette would make her think twice.

It didn’t.

Eventually, I decided I had to make an even louder statement.

I opened every🐞 pack I could get my hands on and snapped each cigarette in half. Sometimes I broke them again until loose tobacco spilled across the floor. Surely this would send the message I had been trying so desperately to get across.

Please stop hurting yourself.

But even that wasn’t enough.

The cigarettes were replaced. The habit returned. And I was out of ideas.

Not long after, I had a dream unlike any I’d ever experienced. Even now, I can still see it.

There was a massive dark colored sphere, nearly the size of a two-story house, covered in long spikes. It radiated something I can’t quite describe—something heavy, evil, and hopeless. I knew, somehow, that it was after my grandmother.

I wanted to move. I wanted to stop it.

But I couldn’t.

Whether it was fear or the realization that I wasn’t strong enough, I remained frozen as the thing drew closer.

Then it succeeded.

It took her.

I woke up in a panic, disoriented and dazed before realizing I was safe in my bed... and my grandmother was still alive.

Over time, I pushed the dream out of my mind. Or at least I thought I had.

Then, during my freshman year of high school, my grandmother became sick. She discovered lumps, and after countless appointments came the diagnosis no one wanted to hear…

Lung cancer.

The moment I heard those words, that dream came rushing back. Suddenly, that dark, spiked thing had a name.

It wasn’t a monster.

It was addiction. It was cigarettes. It was cancer.

As a twelve-year-old little girl, I thought I could defeat it with hiding places, handwritten pleas, and broken cigarettes. I didn’t understand then that some battles are far bigger than love alone can win.

My grandmother eventually lost that fight.

But that day🐞, I made a promise to myself- I would never smoke.

Not once.

The thing may have taken my grandmother, but it didn’t get to write the rest of my story.

“If you’ve ever found meaning in ordinary moments, laughed through an adventure, or wondered what comes next, I’d love to have you here for the next chapter- subscribe so we can keep turning the pages together.” ~Chas May~

I walked into numerous butterfly exhibits with the mentality of capturing so many wonderful photos of the different variations of butterflies.

The colorful wings and gentle movements gloating effortlessly into the air; swirling about like they had not a care in the world. And while I did capture some beautiful moments, I wasn't fully expecting to capture reflective thoughts about time.

Butterflies spend so much of their time preparing to become something else and when they get to that point of something else, their final form may only last a couple of weeks. A fleeting season of existence.

And yet, watching them in real time, you’d never know their time was limited. They don’t seem rushed or burdened. They just exist fully in🐞 the moment.

There was something unsettling but yet humbling about this realization.

We, as humans, spend so much of our time counting down years, achieving milestones, and worrying about the things we have yet to conquer. The butterfly doesn't seem to measure this way.

It just lives it.

Maybe that’s what contributes to their beauty. Not just the pattern and color on their wings but the way they remind us that a life doesn't have to be long to be meaningful. We can slow down. Notice. Feel the beauty around us. Not to just hold onto every moment because it will disappear but also to appreciate the moments while they are here.

Perhaps it’s not about how much time we have but how fully we experience the time we are given. So, be like the butterfly and pay no mind to how long you fly, but pay every mind to how you choose to use your beautiful wings.

“If you’ve ever found meaning in ordinary moments, laughed through an adventure, or wondered what comes next, I’d love to have you here for the next chapter- subscribe so we can keep turning the pages together.” ~Chas May~

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