The Walk Forward

Dearest Orion,

There comes a day when an ache softens into understanding. The work still looks the same, the meetings sound the same, but something inside you doesn’t. The pulse that once beat with urgency now moves slower, steadier - aware that it’s time to turn toward something new.

For years, you’ve carried this role like a promise. You gave it brilliance, your late nights, your best intentions. You built relationships, memories, even parts of your identity around it. But lately, that belonging feels tighter, not safer.

There’s a moment in every career when the weight of staying begins to outweigh the fear of leaving. The pain isn’t punishment; it’s direction. The exhaustion isn’t failure; it’s feedback.

You don’t have to leave in frustration. You can leave in alignment. You can honor what shaped you without being defined by it.

When you finally loosen your grip, your hands are free again - free again to create, to explore, to dream. You realize you’re not starting over. You’re starting from wisdom.

Somewhere ahead, there’s a horizon wide enough for the person you’ve become.

And when you take that first step, you’ll discover that walking away was never the end - it was the beginning of everything waiting to unfold.

Tonight, I walk forward.

-Me

When Change Doesn’t Announce Itself - It Whispers

It started with a whisper - faint but certain - “update your resume”. Not a shout. Not even urgency. Just a whisper that arrived on an ordinary day. I almost brushed it off, but something in me paused long enough to listen.

That quiet nudge wasn’t about leaving anything behind - it was about preparing for what was already shifting ahead of me. Because that’s how change works. It rarely makes a scene; it moves gently, waiting for you to catch on.

So many of us are standing in uncertain spaces right now. Roles are changing, industries are evolving, and sometimes we’re left wondering where we fit next. But here’s the truth I’ve learned:

Update your resume before you need to.

There’s nothing harder than trying to tell your story, or believe in your own value, in the silence that follows a job loss. Do it while you still remember the wins, the moments of impact, and the things that made you proud to show up every day. So I opened my laptop, updated a line, fixed a few dates, rewrote my summary. Nothing monumental. But by the time I finished, I realized I wasn’t just revising words - I was realigning with a future version of myself that was already waiting.

Change doesn’t have to be loud to be life-changing. Sometimes it starts as a whisper, a reminder that your next chapter deserves to be written before someone else turns the page for you.

So if you’ve been hearing that quiet voice lately, maybe this is your sign. Listen. Open the document and ask , “Are you ready to meet the next version of yourself"?”

And when you say yes, even softly - even uncertainly - the Universe Moves.

Ever listening,

Me

Writer of stars, stories, and the spaces in between.

The Light That Found Me

Dearest Orion,

Today was my birthday - and for once, I let it all sink in.

I spent it with my daughter and our friends, soaking in the kind of laughter that fills a room without asking permission. I didn’t plan a grand celebration. I didn’t need to. The magic found me anyway.

The day was lit not only by fireworks but by people. Beautiful people - family, friends, and even those I haven’t spoken to in a while - who reached out with messages, calls, and posts just to say: I see you. I remember you. I’m glad you were born.

And I felt it. Every word. Every little flicker of kindness. Isn’t it something how love can find its way in through pixels and phone calls, poolside breezes and candlelight?

Sometimes, the older we get, the easier it becomes to brush birthdays aside. To downplay them. To keep moving.

But not today.

Today I stood still. I allowed myself to feel celebrated. To receive.

And just when I thought my heart couldn’t stretch any further, I remembered - tomorrow night, my boys come home. My heart will be whole again. What a gift, to celebrate the day I came into this world, knowing that the people I brought into it will soon be back under my roof. Safe. Close. Home.

So tonight, Orion, I whisper this:

Thank you for the reminders.

That I am loved.

That I belong.

That being here - right here, right now - is enough.

With an overflowing heart,

Me

The Things We Let Go

Dearest Orion,

Isn’t it strange, the moments that bring us peace rarely look the way we expect.

Today, I felt joy. Pure unexpected joy in the quiet of my house, in the rare stillness of not being needed. The boys are away in Poland, exploring forests and family stories. I miss them, and yet, I don’t miss the weight of holding everything together. Not today.

They sent me a photo: a WWII soldier’s helmet found buried in the woods of a relative’s land. Just lying there like the forest had been keeping it safe all this time. I can’t stop wondering about the man who once wore it. What he feared. What he loved. Whether he survived. That helmet was protection once, a necessity. Now it’s a relic - emptied and left behind. Somehow, it still speaks.

I think we all carry things like that - parts of ourselves we once needed to survive. Roles, habits, even pain. They kept us safe, maybe, but at some point we outgrow them. They become too heavy. They belong to a past self. And when we finally set them down, we start to feel something like freedom.

I feel it now, even in small things. A loose temporary tooth in my mouth has been driving me mad, a tiny reminder of something temporary and out of place. Like an old version of me that doesn’t quite fit anymore. Annoying, persistent, and a signal that change is already underway.

I don’t know who I’m becoming. But I know I’m not who I was.

And maybe that’s the real gift, not having all the answers, but allowing yourself to grow beyond the need to.

In the quiet,

Me

Sight, Sound and Stillness

Dear Orion,

Tomorrow, they’ll remove the cataract from my left eye. A small, clinical act - and yet, the symbolism doesn’t escape me. I will literally see the world differently afterward.

The world has already changed. I feel the weight in my chest. I worry that my voice is too small from this distance. But still, I crave the quiet. There’s something sacred in this mental calmness I’ve found lately, like the hush of a snow-covered street or the stillness of a dawn tide before it pulls out again.

I know this won’t last forever. The children will grow, stretch their wings, and fly beyond my reach. But for a moment in time, I sit in stillness and allow myself to rest inside the peace. No fixing. No rushing. Just… breathing.

Last night, I stood under the lights of Fenway Park, shoulder to shoulder with thousands of sweat-soaked bodies, the heat rising in waves from the ground. Hozier (also known as Irish Jesus), filled the stadium with his voice, and for a moment, I looked up through the sound and into the Boston sky. There it was: a city I love, lit up like a heartbeat, pulsing in time with the music. My heart came alive in that moment - not because of escape, but because something in that voice made the world feel sacred again.

 Maybe tomorrow I’ll see more clearly.

Maybe not just with my eyes.

 With quiet hope,

— me

How to Whisper to the Universe

Beloved Universe,

I have learned that the quietest prayers are the ones you hear the loudest.

Not the ones shouted into the storms, but the ones I breathe out between heartbeats, when no one is watching, when I trust you enough to listen.

To whisper to you is simple:

I close my eyes.

I remember I am small and vast at once.

I gather my wish in my chest like a secret light and I let it rise,

wordless or clumsy, true.

Sometimes you answer with signs: a sudden wind, a cardinal, a stranger’s kindness. Sometimes the answer is silence, and even that is a gift.

Tonight I whisper again. May my dreams find your gentle ear among the stars. May I remember that you are always listening, even when I forget how to ask.

Until my next hush,

Me

The Universe Answers in Small Ways

Dearest Universe,

Sometimes I ask for answers in the wrong places. I expect lightning bolts, signs painted across the sky, voices clear and unmistakable. But you, the universe, you prefer a softer reply.

This morning, the wind carried the scent of rain before the clouds broke open. A quiet promise that everything blooms again. A sparrow landed near in my gardens, its tiny chest swelling with a song that was never meant for me, but I heard it anyway.

I think that’s how you speak to me: in moments I am too busy to notice, until I slow down and remember that not every question needs thunder to be answered.

So today, I promise to listen better. To look for your whispers in the mundane - in the sudden warmth of sun on my face, in the pages I turn, in the quietude between my thoughts.

And when I forget, remind me gently. You always do.

Yours, softly,

Me

Dear Orion, Tonight I Am Awake

Dear Orion,

Tonight I am awake while the world folds itself into quiet dreams. The sky is clear enough to see you - your belt, your silent watch, and I wonder if you notice me noticing you.

There’s a softness in the dark that makes my thoughts louder. Secrets I would never speak in daylight find their shape here, whispered only to you.

I am learning that I do not have to carry everything alone. That sometimes the weight I feel is only a memory pressing at my ribs. That the universe can hold what I cannot.

So tonight, I leave this letter drifting among your stars. Keep it safe for me, will you?

Tomorrow, I will wake and forget how vast I am. But tonight - tonight, under your quiet eyes, I remember.

Always watching, always whispering,

Me