Stay The Course

What persistence looks like on ordinary days

Growing up, my father used to say something that slowly worked its way into my vocabulary.

Stay the course.

Back then, it sounded almost too simple. Like something adults say when they don’t feel like explaining themselves. I heard it, nodded, and moved on. I didn’t argue with it, but I didn’t really carry it with me either.

It took years for the weight of those words to settle in.

I remember sitting in my car after a long day. I could drive back then. My hands were still on the steering wheel, not ready to go inside. Everything felt unsettled. Family things. Work things. Questions I didn’t have clean answers to. I wondered whether pushing forward was brave or just foolish.

That was the first time “stay the course” stopped feeling like advice. It felt like a question.

Staying the course isn’t stubbornness. It isn’t digging in your heels or refusing to listen. It isn’t pride for its own sake. It’s conviction. Quiet conviction. The kind that stays with you when you know, deep down, that the direction you’re moving in still matters. Even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when it costs you something.

Life has a way of pressing on that conviction.

Family situations get complicated. Work gets messy. Relationships stretch thin. Doubt sneaks in. Other voices get louder. Sometimes they mean well. Sometimes they don’t. And the path that once felt clear now feels questionable. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s hard.

That’s usually when staying the course matters most.

Staying the course doesn’t mean you stop evolving. It doesn’t mean you refuse to adjust or learn. Growth still happens. Perspective shifts. You make corrections when they’re needed. But you don’t abandon your values or your core direction just because the climb gets steep and a little scary.

There’s a difference between changing direction because you were wrong and changing direction because you’re tired. Staying the course asks something honest of you.

Do you still believe this is the right path?

If the answer is yes, you keep going. Slowly, if you have to. Imperfectly, if that’s all you’ve got. Even when progress feels invisible and no one’s clapping.

Some things in life aren’t proven quickly. Integrity isn’t. Loyalty isn’t. Commitment and character don’t show themselves overnight. They reveal themselves over time, under pressure, when it would be easier to quit, blend in, or walk away quietly.

I think that’s what my father meant.

Not willy nilly persistence. Thoughtful persistence. The kind that leaves room for growth but doesn’t hand the wheel over to fear or noise. The kind that understands difficulty isn’t always a signal to stop. Sometimes it’s just a sign that you’re doing something that matters.

So stay the course.

Listen. Learn. Adjust when you need to.

But if you know the direction is true, hold it.

Hard seasons don’t last forever. Clarity has a way of returning. And one day, usually much later, you look back and realize that staying the course wasn’t the easy choice.

It was the right one.

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Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) and Vision Loss

What winter teaches me about vision, mood, and resilience

I dislike New England winters. The cold and dark make them a misery for me. I’ve never loved snow or cold weather. When I was younger, I did things like sledding and skiing, but that was less about loving winter and more about my ability to make the best of any situation. I’ve always (jokingly) said I can have fun at a funeral if allowed. I’m only half joking. Winter was never where I felt comfortable or fully myself.

As a child, I dreamed of warm beaches, palm trees, and clear blue water. Long before I ever experienced it, I lived vicariously through my parents’ trips to the Caribbean. My mom, especially, loved the sun and the beach. She and I were very much alike that way. Once I finally experienced palm trees and sunshine myself, something clicked. I never looked back. Over the years, I’ve been fortunate to visit beaches throughout the United States, the Caribbean, Italy, and both coasts of Africa. Southwest Florida and the Keys now feel almost like a second home (I did live in Southwest Florida in the mid-90s for a few years).

There’s another critical layer to all of this. I am blind. Blindness isn’t an on-off switch. It’s a spectrum. Some people see nothing at all. Others, like me, see a small amount, roughly eight percent in each eye. My vision changes with lighting, fatigue, glare, and environment. Darkness isn’t just inconvenient. It magnifies everything.

That matters here.

Seasonal Affective Disorder, or SAD, often gets brushed off. People joke about it. “Winter makes me depressed,” they say, and move on. But SAD is a real form of depression tied directly to reduced sunlight. Shorter days disrupt circadian rhythms, melatonin, serotonin, and sleep. Less light alters brain chemistry. Energy drops. Motivation follows.

That’s hard enough on its own.

Now layer that onto someone whose eyes already struggle to process light.

For people with low vision or blindness, light is already limited. Winter doesn’t just shorten the day; it flattens contrast. It washes the world in gray. It adds mind hurting glare, reflections, and snow-brightness without definition. Darkness arrives early, before the day feels finished. The visual cues that help orient time, space, and mood become unreliable.

So when winter comes, I’m not just losing sunlight. I’m losing one of the few tools my eyes still rely on to function.

That loss compounds. Less usable light leads to more strain. More strain leads to fatigue. Fatigue makes it harder to push back against a low mood. Vision loss already requires constant effort and adaptation. Winter adds weight to that work. The seasonal dip hits harder and faster.

That’s why traveling to sun-filled places like Florida during the winter isn’t indulgent for me. It’s survival. The light there is different. Longer. Warmer. More consistent. Mornings arrive gently instead of reluctantly. Even on cloudy days, there’s enough usable brightness for my eyes to work with. My body relaxes and my energy returns. I walk more. I sleep better. I feel oriented again. The fog that settles in during New England winters begins to lift, not because my problems vanish, but because my nervous system isn’t fighting darkness all day long. Florida doesn’t fix my vision or my life, but it gives me light. And light gives me back a version of myself I recognize.

This winter, I made a small but intentional change. I bought a light therapy lamp to help manage SAD. It isn’t a miracle, and it doesn’t replace the sun. I use it in the morning, when darkness lingers, and my body still thinks it should stay asleep. The added brightness helps reset my internal clock, clears some of the mental fog, and gives my eyes a better chance to wake up with the rest of me. It feels less like a luxury and more like a tool. A way of saying I see what winter takes from me, and I’m allowed to push back.

This isn’t just about disliking cold weather. It’s about how darkness interacts with a nervous system that already works overtime to interpret the world.

When winter settles in, my world quite literally shrinks.

And that’s where the struggle really begins.

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Why “Turning a Blind Eye” Hurts More Than You Think - Revisited

We use old expressions without thinking about where they come from or who they touch. Most feel harmless. Some aren’t.

“Turning a blind eye” is commonly used to mean ignoring wrongdoing on purpose. But for people who live with vision loss, it lands differently. It turns blindness into a metaphor for denial, avoidance, or moral failure.

Blindness isn’t a choice. It isn’t ignorance, weakness, or refusal to face reality. It’s simply a different way of experiencing the world. Yet when blindness is used as shorthand for corruption or indifference, it quietly reinforces the idea that disability equals deficiency. That’s not just inaccurate. It’s damaging.

Imagine describing someone who ignored the truth as “being autistic about it,” or calling a bad decision “paralyzed,” or labeling a corrupt leader “mentally ill.” Most people would recoil. They’d recognize a real condition being used as an insult.

The same thing happens when we say “blind to the facts,” “falling on deaf ears,” “lame excuse,” or “crippled economy.” These phrases all build the same association. Disability as failure. Limitation as a character flaw.

That language doesn’t disappear once it’s spoken. It sticks. It shows up in classrooms, workplaces, media, and assumptions. It teaches blind kids, coworkers, and strangers that blindness means being unaware or checked out of the world. And it leaves us undoing damage we never caused.

Blindness is not looking away or refusing responsibility. If anything, living with vision loss demands more attention, not less. It requires listening harder, noticing patterns, and reading rooms without relying on faces. The real failure isn’t blindness. It’s indifference. It’s cowardice. It’s choosing comfort over accountability. And we already have words for those.

The fix is simple. Say what you actually mean. “Looking the other way.” “Ignoring the issue.” “Refusing to acknowledge.” Clear language, no collateral damage.

Words shape how we see people and how people see themselves. Choosing better ones helps build a world where blindness doesn’t equal brokenness and where language opens understanding rather than closes it.

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“An Albatross Around Your Neck”

Did You Know Where That Phrase Comes From?

Every now and then, a phrase sneaks into our conversations, and we repeat it without ever stopping to wonder where it began. “An albatross around your neck” is one of those. We use it when something feels too heavy or when a past mistake keeps tugging at us. It sounds dramatic, maybe even poetic, but most people have no idea how literal it once was.

The whole thing goes back to an old poem, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. And it is not some light little story. It opens on a ship at sea. An enormous albatross appears, and the sailors treat it like a blessing, a sign of protection and good fortune.

It is worth pausing on the bird itself. An albatross is not just another seabird circling the waves. They are extraordinary creatures, with wingspans that can stretch wider than a car is long. They can glide for hours, sometimes days, barely flapping, riding ocean winds across thousands of miles. Sailors once believed albatrosses carried the souls of lost mariners, which is why seeing one was considered a gift. They are built for endurance, grace, and long journeys over open water. Something rare. Something almost sacred.

Then the Mariner, for reasons he cannot really explain, shoots the bird.

That one impulsive moment ruins everything. The wind dies. The ship stalls. The men begin to suffer. His crew believes the act cursed them, and they decide on a punishment that is as haunting as it gets. They take the dead albatross and hang it around his neck. He has to carry it everywhere. He literally wears his guilt.

That is the root of the expression. A burden you never meant to carry. A weight that clings to you. A mistake that refuses to leave, long after the moment has passed.

I think about that sometimes, how all of us have our own versions of an albatross. Something we keep close. Something we wish we could put down. And most of the time no one else even notices. They see us moving through the day, doing our best, while we quietly shoulder the things we wish we could undo.

Maybe the point is not to avoid mistakes altogether, because that is not realistic. Perhaps it is this. Know what you are carrying. Know what belongs to you and what does not.

And when it is finally time to let something go, let it go. The Mariner never got that chance. We still can.

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The Chicken Thief Misunderstanding

Because only I could be mistaken for a guy trying to swipe a chicken.

A few days ago, something funny happened. One of those small moments that sticks with you because it’s just so absurd.

Most of you know I had pet chickens for almost ten years. They weren’t farm animals to me. They were little personalities with feathers, and losing them was devastating. That’s why I’m grateful my neighbor has chickens of her own. She’s a friend, and she lets me stop by during my walks. If the girls are out, I’ll talk to them, play with them, or just stand there listening to their little sounds. It’s oddly grounding. And one of the baby chickens we fostered for a few weeks lives there now, so it feels good to see her doing well.

The other day, I stopped over like I usually do, and a contractor happened to be working at my friend’s house. He noticed how comfortable the chickens were with me, how they all came running to me, and made a comment. I told him the owner is a friend of mine and that I used to have chickens myself. Just a normal exchange. Nothing unusual.

Or so I thought.

Later on, he told my friend that some guy had shown up, and he wasn’t sure, but he thought I might have been trying to take her chickens. I’m still laughing about it. My friend thought it was hysterical. She tried to explain that I had chickens as pets, but that only seemed to confuse him further. He said he had never seen anyone actually pick up a chicken on purpose. It probably broke some unspoken rule in his head. Maybe he thought I was casing the place. Maybe he thought I had a getaway coop around the corner. Who knows.

I keep imagining him watching me through the window while I’m crouched down having a full conversation with a hen like she’s an old buddy of mine. That probably didn’t help my case at all.

But really, the idea that someone in broad daylight, on a regular neighborhood walk, would try to swipe a chicken is wild. I’m not saying it’s impossible. Somewhere in the world, I’m sure someone has tried it. But come on. I talked to the guy. I told him the owner is a friend (by name). I practically announced my presence like a responsible adult.

Still, I can’t blame him. People see what they see. And if I’m going to be misunderstood, being mistaken for an overly enthusiastic chicken bandit is probably one of the gentler options.

Besides, the chickens know the truth. They always do.

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If You Don’t Have Anything Nice to Say

A reflection on kindness and the weight of careless words

I grew up in a relatively strict house. My father believed in rules and manners, and he handed them out without hesitation. Three boys (my two adopted sisters came later) under one roof can test a man’s patience, and he didn’t let things slide. It wasn’t always easy, but the lessons stuck.

One of those lessons has been echoing in my head a lot lately. If you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all. Simple words, but they shaped the way we behaved. They shaped how we treated people. They shaped how we showed respect.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how quickly people forget that lesson, or maybe never learned it. How easy it is for someone to walk into a room where others have spent hours preparing, organizing, cooking, cleaning, hosting, welcoming, coordinating, and doing their best, only to let a few unnecessary comments cut through the air like they cost nothing. Sometimes it’s not even what’s said. It’s how it’s said. A tone. A look. A careless little jab that lands harder than the person realizes.

And I’m not perfect either. I’ve had my moments, said things too fast, or reacted before thinking. But I try to catch myself, because I know how those little slips can feel on the receiving end.

It still surprises me. Not the comments themselves, but the lack of awareness behind them. The way some people can overlook the effort around them and go straight to criticism instead of gratitude. You see it in homes, at gatherings, in workplaces, anywhere people come together. There’s always someone who forgets the weight that others carry to make things run smoothly.

And it’s hurtful. Not because anyone expects perfection or applause, but because kindness shouldn’t be optional. Basic respect shouldn’t be treated like an inconvenience.

As I sit with that, I keep coming back to my father’s rule. If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. Nobody expects constant praise. But there’s a difference between honesty and carelessness. There’s a difference between being helpful and being hurtful.

Kindness doesn’t cost anything. Silence doesn’t either. And sometimes silence is the kinder choice.

Maybe that lesson from my father is old-fashioned, but it still feels right. It still feels like the way we should move through the world.

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The Turkeys Didn't Do Anything Wrong

Every year, we watch the President step up to a podium, smile for the cameras, and “pardon” a turkey. I always find myself thinking about how strange that is. At some point, we decided these birds needed mercy, like they’d done something terrible and were waiting to hear their fate.

But really, they haven’t done anything wrong. They’re just out there living their little turkey lives, wandering around, making whatever sound turkeys make, not bothering anyone. And then we turn them into this big production, like they’ve been on trial all year and finally get a break.

If anything, we’re the ones who should be asking for forgiveness. We roll with traditions without thinking about how odd some of them really are. We make a whole spectacle out of creatures that don’t deserve any of it.

It’s a small thought, but it made me smile. And sometimes that’s enough.

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Opposites Attract

I’ve always believed that relationships work best when two people bring different pieces to the table. Not better or worse. Just different. It’s the old yin and yang idea. One leans out. One leans in. One talks to everyone. One listens to everything.

Most couples I know look like that. An extrovert and an introvert. One person who fills the space, and one who steadies it.

I joke about it sometimes. As the extrovert, even a kite needs a string to stay in the air. The kite is the one out there grabbing all the attention. It’s moving back and forth. It’s dipping and climbing and doing its little show in the sky. But none of that means anything without the string holding steady on the ground. Without that quiet pull, the kite would crash in seconds.

And the string needs the kite too. Without something rising and pulling against it, the string just sits there with no reason to stretch, no reason to guide, no reason to matter.

That’s how good relationships feel to me. Two people who don’t cancel each other out. Two people who keep each other balanced. One gives lift. One gives grounding. Together they make something that lasts.

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Pivot

I used to think life would follow some kind of map. Not exact, but close enough that I’d recognize the scenery. Turns out that isn’t how it works at all. Things shift. People get sick. People die. Your vision fades. One day you wake up and realize the plan you thought you were living isn’t the plan anymore.

So you pivot. Not because you’re fearless, but because you don’t have much of a choice.

Nobody teaches you how to do it. There’s no class for this. You just end up in the middle of a moment you didn’t ask for, trying to figure out what’s left. Sometimes you freeze and wait for things to go back. Other times you push through because standing still feels worse. I’ve done both. Neither feels graceful.

Pivoting isn’t some dramatic reinvention. Most days it’s small. It’s waking up and saying, alright, this is what I’ve got today. Let me see what I can do with it. It’s not heroic. It’s human.

And there’s something honest in that shift. When you pivot, you’re admitting the old picture is gone, but you’re still trying to live your life anyway. There’s grief in that. There’s hope in it too. They seem to show up together more than people realize.

I’ve had to pivot more than I ever expected. Vision loss alone forces you to rethink things you didn’t know you’d ever have to rethink. Your habits. Your routines. The way you move through a room. It’s tiring. It’s frustrating. But it clears things up in its own way. You start to see what matters and what never really did.

If I’ve learned anything, it’s that nobody’s life ends up looking like the picture they had in their head. Maybe that’s not failure. Maybe that’s just life doing what it does. The real skill might be shifting when life shifts, bending without snapping, starting again without pretending you’re starting from the same place.

There’s still life after the pivot. Sometimes it’s smaller. Sometimes it’s different. Sometimes it surprises you. Sometimes it turns into something you couldn’t have imagined if you tried.

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The Awkward Side of Blindness

Because every day out in the world comes with a story.

Every time I leave the house, something happens.

I don’t mean something big or dramatic, just something awkward, embarrassing, or unintentionally funny. It never fails.

Living with low vision means you’re always one step away from a collision, a misunderstanding, or an unintentional comedy routine. It’s like walking through life with one eye closed, the other half operational, and the lights dimmed, but the show must go on. And so, you go.

A few weeks ago at church, I went to hug my pastor to say hello. It was dark, the music had just ended, and before I knew it, I’d knocked the water bottle right out of his hands. He laughed, of course, he knows about my eyes, but I still felt that familiar rush of embarrassment. That quiet voice in my head whispering, “You did it again.”

Then last week at church, I spotted a friend and called his name. What I didn’t realize, thanks to my tunnel vision, was that he was standing with an older woman who’s been having serious health issues. He gave a polite “one minute,” but I didn’t catch it at first, so I kept walking toward him, smiling. Another innocent mistake that looked awkward.

It’s these little moments that most people never think about, the constant navigation between wanting to appear capable and having to accept that sometimes, you’re just going to bump into things. Or people.

What People Don’t See

This is what no one talks about enough when it comes to vision loss.

It’s not just about what you can or can’t see, it’s about how you move through a world that assumes you can see everything.

Every interaction outside the home becomes a kind of performance, a balance between confidence and humility, awareness and acceptance. You want to be independent, to blend in, to be “normal.” But low vision has a way of humbling you in front of an audience, whether you asked for one or not.

The truth is, I’ve come to expect it now. There will always be that moment.

The stumble. The mistimed handshake. The confused smile.

It’s part of the deal.

And while I used to dread it, that flush of embarrassment that comes from being visibly imperfect, I’ve started to see it differently. Maybe these moments are just reminders that I’m still out there trying, still showing up, still living.

Grace in the Clumsy Moments

The older I get, the more I realize that awkwardness isn’t failure.

It’s evidence of effort.

It means I haven’t let fear or frustration keep me from going out. It means I’m still engaging with people, still hugging my pastor, still calling out to friends, still being part of the world, even if the world looks dimmer now.

And in those moments of bumping, fumbling, or misjudging, I’m learning something important: grace.

Grace for myself when I get it wrong. Grace from others, when they see me trying.

That’s how I know I’m still connected, not through perfect timing or flawless coordination, but through these messy, blurry, human interactions where we forgive each other and keep reaching out anyway.

Seeing Differently

When you live with low vision, you don’t stop seeing beauty, you see it differently. You start noticing the warmth in someone’s voice instead of their face. The sincerity in a handshake instead of the sparkle in their eyes.

You realize that being seen isn’t about being watched, it’s about being understood.

So yes, every trip out into the world brings some awkward moment I wish I could edit out. But maybe those moments are doing something better. Maybe they’re showing me what real connection looks like, unfiltered, unpolished, and perfectly human.

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When Sight Fades, Does Memory Fade Too?

I’ve come to believe there’s a strong link between vision and memory. Not in a scientific, clinical way—though I’m sure the research will catch up one day—but in the lived experience of someone who’s losing sight.

When you’re fully sighted, the world reminds you of itself constantly. You glance at a calendar on the wall. You see your keys on the counter. You catch a glimpse of a friend’s face, and it pulls up a flood of old moments. The visual world is full of cues—little hooks that catch your attention and tug at your memory.

But when vision fades, so do those hooks. The reminders that once stood out now blur together. You can’t see the note you left on the fridge, or the book you meant to finish, or the photograph that once sparked a memory. Without those visual anchors, remembering becomes something else entirely—something internal, harder to hold onto.

I think part of it is the brain itself. As vision declines, the mind doesn’t just sit idle—it works harder. It strains to fill in gaps, to interpret shadows, to guess what it can’t quite see. That takes energy. And energy is finite. When your brain is busy trying to see, it doesn’t have as much left to remember.

It’s a quiet kind of exhaustion. Not the kind that makes you yawn, but the kind that makes you forget why you walked into a room. You feel your mind reach for something that used to be automatic, and it’s just… gone. The effort of seeing starts to crowd out the ease of remembering.

But there’s another side to it. In losing those easy visual cues, I’ve started to rely more on sound, touch, and rhythm—the music of life rather than its picture. A certain tone in someone’s voice, the texture of an object, the time of day—these become the new cues. Memory reshapes itself. It learns new ways to hold on.

I don’t think vision loss causes memory loss in the traditional sense. I think it changes memory. It asks it to adapt. But there’s no denying the fatigue that comes with trying to see what you can’t, and the quiet toll it takes on the parts of your mind that used to work effortlessly.

It’s not hopeless, though. Like so much else in blindness, it’s an adjustment—a relearning of how to remember, how to orient, how to notice. The brain, even as it loses one sense, is remarkably resilient. It finds new paths, new cues, new ways to recall what matters most.

Maybe that’s the point: sight may fade, but the mind keeps reaching. And in that effort, in that daily act of remembering through the dark, there’s still light—just a different kind.

Matching Energy

People talk a lot about matching energy — about reading the room, adjusting your tone, softening your light to fit the mood. But lately, I’ve realized something: I don’t have to match anyone’s energy. Especially when that energy is low, negative, or draining.

For a long time, I thought it was respectful to mirror others. If someone was quiet, I’d quiet down. If someone was irritated, I’d tread lightly. It felt like empathy — like I was meeting them where they were. But sometimes, what looks like empathy is actually surrender. Sometimes you start dimming your own light just to make someone else comfortable in their shadow.

The truth is, I’ve worked hard to get to the place I’m in — to have peace, faith, and joy that don’t come easy. I’ve walked through enough darkness to appreciate light. So when someone comes at me with negativity, sarcasm, or bitterness, I don’t need to absorb it or reflect it back. I can stay grounded in who I am.

Matching energy might make interactions smoother in the moment, but it also teaches your soul to depend on others for direction. I’d rather be the one who sets the tone. I’d rather walk into a room and lift it, not shrink to fit it.

Being yourself, regardless of the energy around you, is an act of strength. It’s not denial or arrogance — it’s self-respect. It’s knowing that your peace is not a negotiation.

So no, I don’t need to match someone’s low energy. I’ll stay kind. I’ll stay present. But I’ll also stay me. Because light doesn’t dim itself for darkness — it shines right through it.

Through Dimming Eyes

The world is getting dimmer.

Colors that once shouted now whisper. The green of the grass, the blue of the sky — they’ve faded, softened, pulled back like the tide. My retina is dying, and with it, the vividness of what I see. But what surprises me most isn’t what’s leaving. It’s what’s staying.

When your sight begins to fade, people assume the world closes in. But mine has opened. The less I see, the more I notice — not with my eyes, but with my heart. I pay attention to light, to warmth, to laughter. I sense kindness in a voice, sincerity in silence, beauty in small things that don’t need color to be seen.

Losing vision is a strange kind of teacher. It strips away the unnecessary. It humbles you. It asks what truly matters when the world’s brightness begins to dim. For me, the answer has been simple: I still see beauty everywhere — I just see it differently now.

There’s a certain irony in that. My physical vision narrows, but my perspective widens. I no longer chase the perfect sunset; I feel it. I don’t rely on sharp contrasts to tell me what’s beautiful — I find it in the glow of moments, not the glare of appearances. The colors might fade, but the meaning deepens.

Some mornings I wake up and wonder how much light I’ve lost overnight. But then I remind myself: losing light doesn’t mean losing life. My vision might dim, but my outlook has grown brighter. I choose to see what can’t fade — gratitude, humor, faith, connection, love. These are colors the retina can’t hold, but the soul never loses.

So yes, the world looks different through dying eyes. Softer. Quieter. But also truer. And maybe that’s the gift hidden in the loss — when you can’t see as much, you finally see what matters most.

Born Here

If you listen long enough, big ideas start to sound simple.

Only people born in America should hold any office.

It feels tidy. Safe. Certain.

But America isn’t tidy anymore. Maybe it never was.

The Founders were careful. They feared divided loyalties — a foreign prince, a secret crown, an outsider with one hand on another flag. That’s why the Constitution says only a natural-born citizen can be president. They drew a line around the highest office. They didn’t want imported power.

But for everything else — Congress, governors, cabinet members — they left the door open. Anyone who became a citizen and proved their allegiance could serve. For generations, that worked. People came here from Italy, Ireland, Poland, and a hundred other places, and they didn’t just live in America — they became Americans. They brought their old recipes but adopted our ideals. They came with a dream and, more importantly, with humility — to learn the language, respect the laws, and blend into the fabric of something bigger than themselves.

That was loyalty — earned, not assumed.

Today, things feel different.

Now, many who arrive don’t necessarily want to become American in the same way. They want America to become more like where they came from. They want the culture to bend to them, the language to accommodate them, the traditions to adapt. That isn’t the same dream. That’s a rewrite.

And that’s where the idea of “born here” starts to echo differently. It’s not about bloodlines or prejudice. It’s about preservation — about whether we still share the same basic understanding of what this country is supposed to be.

Loyalty used to mean love of country. Now, too often, it means loyalty to an ideology, a community, or a grievance. You can be born here and still not love the place; you can come here and still not want to understand it. That’s what makes the question harder today. It’s not just where someone’s from — it’s what they believe about this place, and whether they see it as a home to protect or a project to reinvent.

We’ve become so afraid of sounding judgmental that we’ve forgotten the difference between inclusion and surrender. Being American isn’t a birthright or a club — it’s a commitment. And commitments require loyalty, sacrifice, and gratitude.

The truth is, our loyalties have been tested from within just as much as from without.

We’ve replaced shared culture with curated identities.

We’ve traded civic duty for personal branding.

And we spend more time fighting each other than defending what we have in common.

It’s no wonder that the question of who belongs, and who should lead, feels sharper than it used to.

But leadership — real leadership — depends on more than paperwork. It depends on understanding what built this country in the first place: freedom tethered to responsibility, rights balanced by duty, and the belief that self-government only works when the self is governed by conscience.

Those ideas don’t come automatically. They’re absorbed through generations — through teachers, parents, churches, service, and the simple act of saying the Pledge and meaning it. People who were born here grow up in that current; people who come here used to step carefully into it, wanting to learn the rhythm before adding their own.

That’s not what we see as much today. Too often, newcomers — and even some who were born here — see America not as a gift to be protected, but as a system to be corrected. The humility that once defined the immigrant story is being replaced by a sense of entitlement — not “I’m lucky to be here,” but “You’re lucky to have me.”

I still believe in the door being open. But I also believe in knowing which way the door swings.

If people come here to join us, welcome them.

If they come here to change us, we owe it to ourselves to pause.

Because America isn’t just a place, it’s an idea — rooted in freedom, personal responsibility, faith, and equal opportunity — values that take generations to understand and protect. Those values are best carried forward by people who were either born into them or who, like the immigrants of a century ago, chose to adopt them with reverence, not resistance.

That’s what makes someone ready to lead — not where they were born, but whether they’ve been shaped by the same soil of ideals that built this country.

Born here or made here — the measure should be the same.

To preserve what’s worth keeping, you have to understand how it was made.

And that understanding doesn’t happen by accident.

It happens by living it.

The Great Flip-Flop of Everything

If you wait long enough, everything changes its mind.

One week, coffee is a miracle. It helps your heart, your memory, and your longevity. The following week, it’s the villain — dehydrating you, raising your blood pressure, stealing your sleep. So, you stop drinking it. Then a month later, a new study comes out saying you should have two cups a day for your brain. You dust off the coffee maker, pour a cup, and wait for the next round of “don’t.”

It’s not just coffee. Aspirin was once the daily defender of the heart. Then it wasn’t. Then it was again, but only for certain people, and only if taken at exactly the right time of day, with food, unless another study says otherwise. Eggs were bad, then good, then only good if “free-range.” Butter was replaced by margarine, then margarine was worse than butter, then we all discovered avocado toast.

The experts mean well, I think. But sometimes it feels like the world is built on a seesaw. Salt, red wine, running, vitamin D, carbs, sleep schedules, screen time — everything goes up and down depending on which day you check the headlines.

It’s almost funny, until you realize how much energy we spend chasing the latest flip-flop. We adjust our habits, buy new supplements, readjust, apologize to our old habits, and start over again. We live in a world desperate for certainty — but certainty is the one thing no one seems able to give.

Maybe that’s the lesson.

Maybe the truth is not in the flip or the flop, but in the space between them — the quiet place where you learn to listen to your own body, your own rhythm, your own sense of what makes you feel alive. Science will keep revising itself. Experts will keep arguing. That’s their job. Ours is to live.

I still drink coffee, some days—other days I don’t. I’ve stopped trying to turn my choices into permanent positions. Everything changes, and that’s fine. What matters is not staying on one side of the seesaw, but learning how to balance while it moves.

Because if you wait long enough, everything flip-flops. And maybe that’s the only thing that doesn’t.

Lifting the Veil: What We Don’t Want to See About Our Food

Today, most Americans live behind a veil when it comes to food, especially meat. We see neat, trimmed cuts wrapped in plastic, stamped with comforting words like “fresh,” “natural,” or “farm-raised.” We see cows grazing in green pastures on TV commercials. What we don’t see — and what we’re not supposed to see — is the life that once was. The eyes that looked back. The soul that existed in that animal before it became a product.

The Comfort of Not Knowing

I’ve come to believe that if most people had to raise, feed, and look into the eyes of the animals they eat, they couldn’t do it — at least not without feeling something shift deep inside. Having pet chickens taught me that animals have personalities, feelings, and yes — souls. They know affection. They form bonds. They show fear. Once you’ve experienced that connection, it’s impossible to see meat as just “food” anymore.

That’s why the veil exists. It’s there to make sure we don’t have to feel the weight of what it means to turn a living being into a meal. It’s easier to believe that meat comes from the grocery store rather than from the death of an animal that once had a life.

The Marketing Mirage

The system depends on our distance. We’re sold a comforting illusion — the smiling farmer in overalls, the happy animals under a golden sky. But that’s not truth; it’s theater. The words “humane,” “wholesome,” and “farm-fresh” are designed not to inform us but to soothe us. To help us live comfortably behind the veil, untouched by the moral and emotional reality of what’s really happening.

The Real Cost

The real cost of this comfort isn’t just environmental or economic — it’s spiritual. When we disconnect from the souls of the animals that feed us, we lose something in ourselves, too. We lose empathy. We lose humility. We lose our sense of shared creation.

It’s not about never eating meat again. It’s about remembering what it means to do so — about lifting the veil long enough to acknowledge the truth that every meal has a story, and every animal had a life.

Time to Look Honestly

I’m not preaching vegetarianism or guilt. I’m asking for honesty. If we choose to eat meat, let’s do it with open eyes and open hearts. Let’s support those who raise animals with care, respect, and gratitude. Let’s teach our children where their food really comes from — not to horrify them, but to awaken compassion in them.

Because food should nourish more than our bodies. It should feed our conscience, too.

And that starts with recognizing — and honoring — the souls that we’ve been taught not to see.

Why “Turning a Blind Eye” Hurts More Than You Think

By Kevin McNally

We all use expressions without thinking about where they come from. Some of them sound poetic, others old-fashioned, and a few have been around for so long that we forget to ask what they actually mean.

But every now and then, a phrase deserves a second look — especially when it unintentionally devalues real people.

Take the expression “turning a blind eye.” Most people use it to mean ignoring something wrong on purpose. But to those of us who actually live with vision loss, that phrase hits differently.

Blindness Isn’t a Choice

When someone says, “He turned a blind eye,” the idea is that a person chose not to see — that they looked away from truth or responsibility.

For people who are blind or visually impaired, that’s not what blindness is. It’s not moral weakness, avoidance, or ignorance. It’s simply a different way of experiencing the world.

When blindness gets used as a stand-in for denial or corruption, it reinforces the idea that blindness equals something bad — a defect, a flaw, or a refusal to see reality. That’s not just wrong; it’s damaging.

Words Shape How We See People

We might not think much of it, but phrases like:

    •    “Blind to the facts”

    •    “Deaf ears”

    •    “Lame excuse”

    •    “Crippled economy”

…all build the same association: that disability means deficiency, limitation, or failure.

Over time, that kind of language seeps into how society treats people with disabilities. It’s why many of us spend so much energy proving that blindness doesn’t mean helplessness — or lack of awareness. In fact, blind people often notice things others overlook.

Better Ways to Say It

The good news is, we don’t have to banish every old saying — we can just replace the harmful ones with something more accurate.

Instead of “turning a blind eye,” try:

    •    “Looking the other way”

    •    “Ignoring the issue”

    •    “Pretending not to notice”

    •    “Refusing to acknowledge”

You’ll say exactly what you mean — without throwing a whole community under the bus.

Why It Matters

Language is powerful. It shapes how people see others — and how we see ourselves.

When blindness is used as shorthand for ignorance or denial, it reinforces the wrong image of what it means to live without sight.

So the next time you hear or read someone say “turning a blind eye,” pause for a moment. Ask yourself what that phrase really implies — and whether it reflects the kind of world you want to help build.

A world where blindness doesn’t equal brokenness.

A world where words open eyes instead of closing them.

Passing Down Traditions

As a member of Generation X, I often reflect on how differently we experienced family, history, and tradition. Ours was a generation that still grew up around the kitchen table — before text messages replaced conversations, before recipes were learned from videos instead of voices. For many of us, family heritage wasn’t something abstract or distant. It was lived, felt, and tasted.

I’m half Sicilian and half Irish, and I’ve always felt fortunate to have two rich heritages shaping who I am. The Irish side brings its own warmth and humor — that unmistakable gift for laughter even in hard times, and a sense of resilience that runs deep. There are memories tied to that part of my family too — the gatherings, the wit, the storytelling that could fill a room and make you feel seen and understood.

But most of my deepest, most vivid memories are tied to the Sicilian side — and, more specifically, to food. That’s not to take away from the Irish part of me; it’s just that my earliest and most enduring sense of connection came from being in the kitchen with my mom, grandmother, and grandfather. Food was where life unfolded — where love was expressed, problems were solved, and the day began long before the sun was fully up.

My mother was often up at five o’clock in the morning, the soft light of the stove filling the kitchen as she began to cook. I was usually there with her, half-awake, keeping her company. By 7:30, as the aroma of simmering sauce filled the house, we had — at least in our minds — solved all the world’s problems. Those quiet early hours were our time of connection, conversation, and laughter. It wasn’t about what was on the stove so much as the feeling of being together — side by side, talking about everything and nothing at all.

My grandmother was the same way. She moved through the kitchen with an effortless rhythm that came from years of repetition and love. She didn’t measure with spoons or cups; she measured with instinct and heart. A pinch here, a drizzle there — and somehow, it always came out right. From her, I learned that food was never just about feeding people. It was about love, patience, and presence. To this day, when I stir sauce in a pan or roll dough on a floured counter, I can almost hear her voice reminding me, “Slow down, let it simmer — that’s where the flavor comes from.”

Somewhere in that food — in the stirring, the tasting, the stories told over a steaming pot — was love. Not the loud or dramatic kind, but the quiet, sustaining love that holds a family together across generations. In our home, food wasn’t just sustenance. Food was love. It was how we celebrated, how we comforted, and how we remembered. Every recipe had a story, and every story reminded us of who we were and where we came from.

These days, I sometimes wonder if that sense of heritage is fading a bit. Life moves faster now. Families are busier, more scattered. Kids might learn to make pasta from a quick online tutorial instead of a family member’s guiding hand. There’s convenience in that, but also something lost — the quiet joy of learning by doing, side by side, with the people who shaped you.

Yet, I don’t think tradition is gone; it’s simply waiting for us to bring it forward in new ways. When I cooked with my own children, I tried to make sure they knew not just how to make something, but why it mattered. I told them the stories behind the dishes, the memories attached to each ingredient. Because the real recipe — the one that lasts — isn’t written on paper, it’s written in memory, in the heart, and in the shared moments that connect generations.

In the end, I’ve learned that tradition isn’t about nostalgia or clinging to the past. It’s about presence — being part of a chain that connects those who came before you to those who will come after. Those mornings with my mom, the laughter that filled our Irish and Sicilian gatherings, the warmth of a kitchen waking before dawn — they all taught me that the best traditions aren’t just remembered; they’re lived.

And somewhere in that food — in the stirring, the tasting, and the laughter — was love. Always love.