For once, I knew exactly what I needed.

Not another book. Not another certification. Not another late-night rabbit hole because my tism-ism brain had decided sleep was optional and answers were mandatory.

I needed trust.

Not trust in the Universe. Not trust in my guides. Not even trust in intuition itself.

I needed trust in me.

This past weekend, I attended my first in-person class in quite a while. Not Zoom. Not virtual. An actual class with actual humans in an actual building. That alone was exciting.

Even better, I could drive myself.

Before signing up, I checked all the practical details. Was there accessible parking? Were the bathrooms accessible? Could I navigate the building without turning the entire experience into an obstacle course? Once I got the green light, I signed up.

The class was called Embrace Your Inner Knowing - Connect to Your Intuition.

Now, some of you may be wondering why I would take an intuition class in the first place. That's a fair question.

The truth is, intuition has never really been my problem.

The whisper is there.

The nudges are there.

The information is there.

The problem is what happens immediately afterward.

My logical brain likes evidence. Hard evidence. Tangible evidence. Receipts. Preferably the kind that can be measured, documented, and presented in a neat little report with supporting charts and graphs.

My ego, whom we shall continue to lovingly call Mr. Stupid because he has earned that title repeatedly, likes certainty. He wants information to arrive neatly packaged, clearly labeled, and supported by sufficient documentation to survive cross-examination.

Unfortunately, the Universe has never shown the slightest interest in operating according to his preferences.

For quite a while now, I have been working on strengthening my connection with my guides. Not because I couldn't hear them, but because I didn't always trust what I was hearing. I would receive a nudge and immediately explain it away. I'd get an impression and start questioning it. 

Maybe I imagined it. 

Maybe I was reading too much into it. 

Maybe it was wishful thinking. 

Maybe it was coincidence.

The whisper never changed.

My trust did.

It's funny how life works. We get exactly what we need exactly when we need it. Every single time. The challenge is that those gifts rarely arrive wearing a name tag that says, "Hello. I am the answer you've been looking for."

Instead, they tend to appear disguised as opportunities, conversations, books, people, and experiences that seem ordinary until we look back and realize they weren't ordinary at all.

This class turned out to be one of those gifts.

Saturday started building trust almost immediately. Throughout the day, we completed exercises designed to strengthen our ability to tune into information and impressions. Some were fun. Some were surprising. Some left me staring at my notes wondering where the information had come from.

Then came the office exercise.

We were sent into an office occupied by two people and asked to gather information about the room itself and the individuals who used the desks. What kind of person sits here? Male or female? Personality? Family? Interests? Appearance? We simply wrote down whatever impressions came through.

When the answers were revealed, I just sat there blinking.

Somehow I had described the room with complete accuracy. The first desk was spot on. The second desk was ninety-nine percent accurate.

Ninety-nine percent.

Even writing those words now makes me shake my head because that was definitely not the outcome Mr. Stupid had predicted.

As the day continued, more confirmations arrived. More exercises. More validation. More moments that made it increasingly difficult to dismiss what was happening. By the time Saturday ended, I wasn't trusting more because someone had told me to trust more. I was trusting more because the pile of evidence kept growing.

Then Sunday arrived, and apparently the Universe decided we were moving beyond classroom exercises and into practical application.

I pulled into the parking lot, parked Persephone, and pushed the button to open the side door and deploy the ramp. The door slid open exactly as it was supposed to. The ramp, however, apparently had other plans.

I waited.

Nothing happened.

I pushed the button again.

Still nothing.

The ramp remained firmly committed to not participating in the day's activities.

At first, I wasn't overly concerned. If you've followed Persephone's adventures for any length of time, you know that occasionally turning things off and back on actually does solve the problem. So I figured I would simply close the door, restart the van, and try again.

Except the door wouldn't close.

Not even a little bit.

Now I had a van sitting in the parking lot with the side door wide open, a ramp refusing to deploy, and the growing realization that I wasn't exactly going anywhere.

I couldn't drive with the door open.

I couldn't leave the van sitting there wide open.

And I certainly couldn't get out because the very thing designed to help me get out was currently refusing to do its job.

That was the moment when frustration started showing up. Not full-blown panic, but enough concern to know I was heading in that direction.

As I sat there trying to figure out what to do next, one of the instructors walked over.

"I felt some panic," she said. "I thought you might need some help."

For a moment, I just stared at her.

I hadn't asked for help.

I hadn't announced my predicament to the parking lot.

I hadn't gone looking for anyone.

Yet there she was because she had felt something was wrong.

Before class had even started.

Before we had done a single exercise that day.

Before I had said a word.

If Saturday had been building the case, Sunday morning felt like Exhibit A.

Together, we manually opened and closed the door several times, turned Persephone off and back on, and performed the highly technical troubleshooting process known as "let's see if this works."

Eventually, it did.

The door behaved.

The ramp deployed.

Persephone decided she was once again willing to fulfill her contractual obligations.

The crisis passed.

Class began.

And the evidence kept coming.

The rest of Sunday continued much the same way. More exercises. More confirmations. More moments where information matched reality in ways that were difficult to dismiss and impossible to ignore. With each exercise, the pile of receipts grew larger.

By the end of the weekend, I wasn't walking away with blind faith.

I wasn't walking away with a new belief system.

I wasn't walking away because somebody convinced me of anything.

I was walking away with evidence.

Lots and lots of evidence.

Enough evidence that even Mr. Stupid was beginning to run out of arguments.

Looking back, what strikes me most is that I went into the class knowing exactly what I needed. I needed trust. Not because intuition wasn't working. Not because the whisper wasn't there. I needed enough evidence to stop arguing with myself every time information arrived.

And somehow, over the course of one weekend, that is exactly what I received.

As usual, the Universe delivered exactly what I needed exactly when I needed it. Also as usual, it did not arrive wrapped in shiny paper with a bow.

It arrived disguised as a classroom, a parking lot, a stubborn van named Persephone, an instructor who could feel panic before I spoke a word, and a weekend full of receipts.

Funny how that keeps happening.

Mission Outcome: Trust significantly upgraded. Evidence overwhelming. Mr. Stupid's objections have been noted and filed. Persephone remains committed to providing hands-on educational opportunities whenever she feels the curriculum needs enhancement.

Every morning, one of the first things I do is write down ten things I am grateful for.

Actually, that's not entirely true.

One of the first things I do is drink coffee.

To be even more accurate, one of the first things I do is drink the coffee that magically appears beside my bed every morning because my husband is an absolute keeper. For well over ten years now, he has brought me coffee in bed every single morning. At this point, I have become so spoiled that if he ever decides to sleep in, I may have to file a missing persons report.

Once sufficiently caffeinated and capable of resembling a functioning human being, I reach for my notebook and write down ten things I am grateful for.

These days, it feels completely normal.

Twenty-three years ago, it felt ridiculous.

Back in 2003, gratitude was not exactly my strong suit. Hope wasn't doing much better either. I had recently decided not to end my life and was now faced with the rather inconvenient reality of figuring out what to do next.

People often assume that deciding to stay somehow fixes things. As if angels descend from the heavens, hand you a personalized life plan, and everything suddenly makes sense.

That was not my experience.

The next morning, I still woke up carrying the same pain, the same fears, the same confusion, and the same unanswered questions. The only difference was that now I had another day to deal with them.

Looking back, I can see that I was standing at the beginning of a completely different chapter of my life.

At the time, however, I couldn't see past my own pain.

Pain is sneaky like that.

Whether it's emotional pain, physical pain, grief, fear, disappointment, or some horrible cocktail of all five, it has a way of convincing you that it is the entire story. It narrows your focus until all you can see is what hurts. Looking back now, I realize I wasn't actually seeing my life. I was seeing my pain. Unfortunately, when you're standing in the middle of the tornado, it's hard to appreciate the rainbow trying to form on the other side.

Somewhere during that time, somebody suggested keeping a gratitude journal.

I remember thinking the idea sounded completely ridiculous.

Not a little ridiculous.

Completely ridiculous.

At that point in my life, I could have given you a detailed list of one hundred things that were wrong without even warming up. If somebody had provided coffee and snacks, I probably could have expanded it into a multi-volume series. Finding problems wasn't the challenge. My brain had become exceptionally skilled at identifying everything that hurt, everything that felt unfair, and everything that wasn't working.

Finding ten things to be grateful for felt considerably more difficult.

Still, there was a tiny part of me that wondered.

What if it worked?

What if all those gratitude people weren't completely out of their minds?

What if writing down ten things every day could somehow help me climb out of the hole I found myself sitting in?

At that point, I didn't have much to lose.

So I tried.

I still remember staring at a blank page and wondering if I was going to be able to come up with ten things. Not ten hundred. Not ten thousand. Ten. The page sat there waiting. My coffee cooled. My skepticism remained fully intact.

Eventually, I wrote something.

"I woke up today."

That was it.

No angels singing.

No profound insight.

No heavenly choir suddenly belting out a motivational soundtrack.

I woke up today.

Looking back, it seems almost laughably simple. At the time, however, it was the truth. The day before, I had decided to stay. That morning I had another chance to figure out what that decision meant. I didn't know where I was going. I didn't know how I was going to rebuild my life. I didn't know how long it would take before things felt better. All I knew was that I was still here.

So I wrote it down.

The rest of the list came slowly. My children. My husband. Caruso, our dog. Sapper and Tinkerbell, our cats. The roof over our heads. Sunshine. Rain. Coffee. The person who invented coffee. The person who first looked at a strange little bean and thought, "Let's roast this thing and see what happens."

That person deserves some sort of lifetime achievement award.

Looking back, it strikes me how often the animals made the list. Over the years the names changed, but the gratitude never did. There was Caruso. Later came Draco and then Mo, who somehow managed to become both service dog and soulmate wrapped in fur. Through most of my adult life, there was always a dog and cats sharing our home, our furniture, and occasionally their opinions. These days, Gandalf the Grey and Zafira run the household with the confidence of tiny furry dictators.

The older I get, the more I realize our animals teach us far more than we give them credit for. They teach us about presence, loyalty, forgiveness, resilience, joy, and how to demand snacks with unwavering confidence. In fact, that realization became the foundation for my book, Pawsitively Happy. The book is built around the lessons our animals quietly teach us every day if we're willing to pay attention. Looking back, I suspect some of my greatest teachers had four legs, fur, and absolutely no interest in my excuses.

The next morning I did it again.

And the morning after that.

And the morning after that.

I wish I could tell you that within a week my life transformed and I skipped joyfully into the sunset while inspirational music played in the background.

That would make for a lovely story.

It would also be complete nonsense.

The truth is far less dramatic and far more useful.

Nothing changed overnight.

My circumstances remained largely the same.

The challenges were still there.

The pain was still there.

The uncertainty was still there.

What changed first was my attention.

Without realizing it, I had started teaching my brain to look somewhere else. For years, my mind had been scanning constantly for danger, disappointment, mistakes, and reasons to worry. It had become incredibly efficient at it. If there had been an Olympic event for identifying problems, I probably could have medaled.

What I didn't realize was that every morning I was giving my brain a different assignment.

Instead of asking, "What's wrong?" I was asking, "What's right?"

Instead of asking, "Why does life hate me?" I was asking, "What can I appreciate today?"

Instead of focusing exclusively on what was missing, I was beginning to notice what was already there.

The changes were subtle at first.

A beautiful sunrise.

A funny conversation.

A stranger smiling for no particular reason.

The way my dog greeted me as though I had returned from a three-year expedition to Antarctica after taking out the trash.

Life itself hadn't changed all that much.

I had.

Over time, the darkness began losing some of its grip. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough that I could breathe a little easier. Just enough that I could begin imagining a future again. Just enough that hope could sneak back into the room and sit quietly in the corner without immediately being thrown out.

At the time, I thought gratitude was making me happier.

And it certainly was.

What I didn't realize was that something much deeper was happening underneath the surface.

Gratitude was teaching me trust.

Not in some grand spiritual sense.

Not in a "everything happens for a reason" sense.

It was teaching me to trust that life was bigger than whatever pain I happened to be carrying in that moment. It was teaching me to trust that difficult seasons eventually pass. It was teaching me to trust that tomorrow didn't have to look exactly like today.

Most importantly, it was teaching me to trust myself.

Or at least I thought it was.

Fast forward a couple of decades.

Life continued doing what life does. It handed me beautiful moments and heartbreaking ones. There were successes and failures. Dreams realized and dreams abandoned. Lessons learned the easy way and lessons learned the expensive way. Somewhere along the journey came multiple sclerosis, chronic pain, mobility challenges, surgeries, injuries, and all the other adventures my body and I have collected over the years.

If you've followed my Notes from the Wild stories, you already know that some days my sense of humor is the only thing standing between me and a complete meltdown.

You also know there are days when pain takes up entirely too much real estate in my system.

Lately, there have been more of those days than I would prefer.

Pain has a way of demanding attention. It walks into the room uninvited, drags a chair into the middle of the conversation, and then behaves as though it owns the place. The louder it gets, the easier it becomes to focus on what hurts and forget everything else.

Sound familiar?

Apparently, I am a slow learner because I had somehow managed to recreate the same pattern from 2003.

The circumstances were different.

The lesson was not.

Recently, during a QHHT session with a dear friend, I had the opportunity to ask questions directly. As best as I understand it, Archangel Michael was speaking on behalf of what I can only describe as the collective. It's a bit of a convoluted universe. Apparently there are layers to everything. Michael, the collective, Higher Self, Source, spiritual switchboard operators... honestly, I'm still trying to figure out who reports to whom. What matters is that the answers were clear.

When the conversation turned toward my body, I finally asked the question I had been carrying into the session from the very beginning.

Not "Can you heal me?"

I already knew healing was possible.

As a QHHT practitioner, I have witnessed things that defy easy explanation. I've watched clients release emotional burdens they had carried for decades. I've seen profound shifts happen during sessions. I've also witnessed physical changes that left me sitting there blinking and wondering if I had just seen what I thought I saw.

Whether someone calls it healing, transformation, grace, divine intervention, or something else entirely doesn't really matter to me.

What matters is that I have seen enough over the years to know that extraordinary things can happen.

So my question wasn't whether healing was possible.

My question was whether they would do it for me.

"Will you heal me?"

It was such a simple question.

Yet underneath it sat years of pain, frustration, exhaustion, hope, fear, and longing.

I wasn't asking because I wanted a fascinating spiritual conversation.

I was asking because I was tired.

Tired of hurting.

Tired of limitations.

Tired of wondering how much energy my body would allow me to borrow on any given day.

Tired of negotiating with a body that often seemed determined to create additional paperwork for every plan I made.

And if I'm being completely honest, there was a part of me that hoped the answer would simply be yes.

Instead, Michael explained that they would not heal my body because of the trust situation.

I remember feeling disappointed.

Not angry.

Not offended.

Just disappointed.

Because I wanted healing.

What I got instead was homework.

If I'm being completely honest, there was also a tiny part of me that immediately wanted to argue.

Not out loud.

Just internally.

One of those moments where you nod politely while mentally presenting evidence.

"Respectfully, Michael, I have notes."

I have been dealing with this body for a long time.

I have put in the work.

I have learned lessons.

I have shown up.

I have the emotional receipts.

Surely that should count for something.

Apparently, the collective was unimpressed with my presentation.

The more I sat with the conversation afterward, however, the more I realized they weren't saying healing was impossible.

They weren't even saying healing wasn't available.

They were pointing me toward the relationship that needed attention.

For sixty years, my body and I had been engaged in a one-sided argument.

My body and I have been in a long-term relationship for sixty years, and if we're being completely honest, there have been periods where couples counseling would not have been a terrible idea.

Whenever something hurt, I blamed my body.

Whenever something stopped working the way I wanted it to, I blamed my body.

Whenever a diagnosis showed up, I blamed my body.

Whenever physical limitations interfered with my plans, I blamed my body.

Looking back now, I can see the pattern with uncomfortable clarity.

My body would send signals.

I would ignore them.

The signals would get louder.

I would ignore them.

The signals would get louder still.

I would continue pretending everything was fine because I was busy and had important things to do.

Apparently, my body spent decades sending messages while I repeatedly hit the spiritual equivalent of the snooze button.

Then came August of 2024.

I broke both ankles.

At the time, I wasn't searching for lessons.

I wasn't searching for meaning.

I wasn't admiring the spiritual growth opportunity.

I was angry.

Really angry.

I felt betrayed.

I felt trapped.

I felt frustrated.

I felt sorry for myself.

There. I said it.

I spent quite a bit of time camping out in the "poor me" story.

And honestly, I understand why.

Losing independence is scary.

Pain is exhausting.

Watching your world become smaller is heartbreaking.

There is real grief in that.

What I couldn't see then was that I was still treating my body like the enemy.

The more I thought about the word trust, the more another realization emerged.

For sixty years, my body has carried me through every experience of my life.

Every joy.

Every heartbreak.

Every success.

Every failure.

Every move.

Every adventure.

Every dream.

Every disappointment.

Every lesson.

Even now, despite everything it has endured, it still gets up every morning and does the best it can with the resources available.

And what had I given it in return?

Criticism.

Frustration.

Judgment.

Blame.

That realization hit me harder than anything that happened during the session itself.

For more than twenty years, I had faithfully written gratitude lists. I had thanked my family, my friends, my dogs, sunshine, rain, opportunities, lessons, strangers, coffee, and the inventor of coffee.

Yet somehow, I had forgotten to thank the one companion that had been with me every second of my life.

Not Jeff.

Not my children.

Not Caruso, Draco, Mo, Gandalf, Zafira, Sapper, Tinkerbell, Mittins, Muffin, Felix, Dagger, or any of the other four-legged teachers who wandered through my life.

My body.

The one thing that had shown up for every single chapter.

That realization broke my heart a little.

Not because it filled me with guilt.

Because it filled me with understanding.

Suddenly, the connection between gratitude and trust became impossible to ignore.

The same gratitude that had taught me to trust life was now teaching me to trust my body.

Not because my body is perfect.

Not because it never hurts.

Not because every challenge has magically disappeared.

But because trust grows where appreciation lives.

Relationships grow where appreciation lives.

And whether I liked it or not, my body and I are in a relationship.

A very long-term one.

One that neither of us was getting out of anytime soon.

These days, my gratitude practice looks a little different.

The notebook still appears every morning.

The juice of life — otherwise known as coffee — still magically appears every morning courtesy of my amazing hubby, who remains one of the best decisions I have ever made and proof that miracles occasionally take the form of a man carrying coffee.

I still write my list.

Only now, my body appears on it.

Not because I'm trying to force healing.

Not because I'm pretending everything is wonderful.

But because I am finally beginning to appreciate what it has done for me instead of focusing exclusively on what it hasn't.

I am learning to listen.

I am learning to pay attention.

I am learning to work with my body instead of constantly fighting against it.

And perhaps most importantly, I think my body is beginning to trust me, too.

After all, trust is built through consistency.

Through listening.

Through showing up.

Through proving, over and over again, that the relationship matters.

Twenty-three years ago, gratitude helped pull me out of one of the darkest periods of my life. What I never expected was that decades later, it would lead me back to a relationship I didn't even realize needed healing.

The relationship with myself.

And maybe that's the thing I've been learning all along.

Sometimes gratitude helps us trust life.

Sometimes it helps us trust ourselves.

And sometimes it helps us finally see that the things we've spent years fighting have been carrying us all along.

Some people dream of candlelit dinners, moonlit walks, and expensive weekends away. Meanwhile, Jeff and I are over here turning Costco errands, hot dogs, and automotive confusion into a surprisingly solid marriage strategy.

Honestly? I think we cracked the code.

Jeff and I have regular date nights, which feels pretty darn cool after 37 years of marriage. Somewhere along the way — about a year or two ago… or “the other day” in neurospicy marriage time — we ended up creating what is now officially known as “Costco Date Night.”

One Friday evening after Jeff got home from work, we headed to Costco to get some shopping done. Nothing glamorous. Just regular life stuff. We grabbed what we needed, then stopped at the food court before heading home. As we sat there eating dinner and talking, Jeff smiled at me and said, “This is the perfect date. I take you shopping and dinner.”

We laughed way harder than we probably should have, but honestly, he was right. It was the perfect date.

Not because we were doing anything extraordinary. Not because it was fancy or romantic in the traditional sense. It was perfect because we were together, enjoying each other’s company, talking, laughing, and simply being present with each other. Somewhere along the line, people started believing joy has to be expensive, curated, filtered, or worthy of a social media highlight reel. Meanwhile, real life is over here quietly reminding us that connection often happens in the middle of ordinary moments.

And holy shift, isn’t that the truth.

So Costco Date Night became a thing for us. Because life is already full of responsibilities, errands, appointments, chores, and endless adulting nonsense. Why not turn some of it into something enjoyable? A grocery trip can still be connection. A shared errand can still be quality time. One thing does not cancel out the other.

Yesterday was another one of our wildly glamorous Friday night adventures. First stop: the Costco gas station because Persephone needed fuel. Now, for context, Persephone is my 2026 Honda Odyssey Elite — my TARDIS on wheels — and apparently she also comes with lessons in humility and problem-solving.

I was driving because… well… I can now, which still feels kind of miraculous some days. Jeff hopped out to pump the gas because he is, in fact, the awesomestest. He walked over to the gas tank door, pushed on it to open it and… nothing. He pushed again. Still nothing.

At first, we thought maybe the car had to be running, so I turned the engine back on. Nope. Still locked. Turned it back off. Still nothing. At this point, we were both getting mildly frustrated while simultaneously questioning our intelligence and the engineering choices behind modern vehicles.

The Odyssey doesn’t have a gas tank release button like the Lexus did, so we were both standing there trying to figure out what magical sequence of events needed to happen for the thing to open. Finally, I opened my driver-side door so I could lean out and tell Jeff, “I have absolutely no clue why this stupid thing won’t open.”

And suddenly…

click.

The gas lid unlocked.

Because apparently — and this is information Persephone might have wanted to communicate a little sooner — the driver-side door needs to be open for the gas lid to unlock.

We both just stood there laughing at ourselves in the middle of the Costco gas station like two exhausted humans who had just lost a battle against a tiny metal door.

And honestly? That moment felt weirdly important too.

Not every lesson in life arrives wrapped in some giant transformational breakthrough. Some lessons are deep and painful and life-changing. Others are simply reminders that we get to choose how we respond when things go sideways. We could have turned that whole moment into irritation and frustration. We could have snapped at each other, gotten grumpy, or carried the annoyance into the rest of the evening.

Instead, we laughed.

Then we went shopping. Then we had our Costco dinner date. Then we came home with bulk snacks, paper towels, and another story we’ll probably laugh about for years.

Life keeps moving regardless. Problems happen. Awkward moments happen. Gas tank doors rebel against humanity. But somewhere in the middle of all of it, we still get to choose how we experience the moment.

And maybe that’s part of the secret.

Not every meaningful memory comes from the big milestones. Sometimes the best moments are built quietly in the middle of ordinary life, when nobody is trying to impress anyone anymore and love simply looks like shared laughter under fluorescent lighting while holding a $1.50 hot dog combo.

Honestly? I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Perspective Shift

Sometimes happiness is not hiding in some future perfect moment. Sometimes it’s already sitting beside you at Costco laughing because neither of you can figure out how to open the gas tank.

Maybe that’s the real magic of life.

Not the perfectly planned moments. Not the fancy stuff. Not the highlight reel.

Maybe it’s the laughter in the middle of ordinary Tuesdays, Costco date nights, stubborn gas tank doors, and the people who make even the mundane feel meaningful.

Life gets heavy enough. Don’t forget to laugh while you’re living it.

If this story resonated with you, I’d love for you to subscribe to both of our blogs:

Notes from the Wild at the Happiness Matters Foundation — for real-life adventures, perspective shifts, accessibility moments, humor, humanity, and reminders that joy still exists in the middle of real life.

The Messy Middle Files at Home of Misfits — for the deeper thoughts, perspective shifts, emotional honesty, and the beautifully messy parts of being human.

Because sometimes we need hope.
Sometimes we need honesty.
And sometimes we just need someone to remind us that we are not alone in this wonderfully weird human experience.