Apparently, people weren't kidding when they said time flies when you're having fun.

I happened to glance at the calendar the other day and realized it had been a couple of weeks since I wrote my last Field Note. A couple of weeks! That's a little unusual for me because, normally, if life even looks at me sideways, I'm over here thinking, "Oooo... there's a story in that." My first thought was that I'd been slacking. Then I started replaying the last few weeks in my head and realized something.

Turns out, I haven't been avoiding writing.

I've just been too busy living.

The funny thing is, I couldn't even tell you where the time had gone. There wasn't a vacation. Jeff and I didn't suddenly decide to road-trip across the country. Persephone behaved herself for a change. There wasn't one giant moment where everything changed. It was more like one good thing quietly bumped into another, and before I knew it, the calendar had somehow sprinted ahead without asking my permission.

Looking back, I think it all started back in April when I decided to check out the All Things Spiritual monthly Monday morning meeting here in Colorado Springs. I'd seen posts about it before and always thought, "One of these days..." You know... that magical little place where dreams, projects, and exercise routines all seem to hang out together while waiting for us to finally get around to them.

Mr. Finite absolutely loves "one of these days." It's one of his favorite neighborhoods.

Thankfully, he lost that argument.

I remember rolling in that first Monday morning not really knowing what to expect. I figured I'd meet a couple of people, drink some coffee, listen for a while, maybe have a conversation or two, and then head home. Nice. Easy. Low commitment. My favorite kind when I don't know anybody. Worst case, I'd have a pleasant morning and be home before lunch. Best case... honestly, I hadn't thought that far.

The funny thing is, if you'd asked me while I was driving home whether my life had just changed, I probably would've laughed.

"It was nice and I met some really awesome people."

That would've been my answer.

We had interesting conversations. We laughed. We wandered down wonderfully weird rabbit trails that would've probably made perfect strangers at the next table slowly back away with their coffee. In other words... my kind of conversations.

Then I drove home.

That was it.

Or so I thought.

Apparently, life doesn't usually announce, "Attention! Core memory being created!" It just quietly gets on with it while we're busy wondering what's for lunch.

So I went back the next month.

Then I went back again.

Actually... now that I think about it, I don't even remember what we talked about during those first few meetings. You'd think I'd remember the conversations if they turned out to be so important. Apparently not. My brain filed away something much bigger without bothering to tell me it was doing it.

Somewhere along the way, people stopped feeling like strangers.

Conversations picked up where they'd left off the month before. I'd recognize faces as I rolled in, and before long they started recognizing mine. Every meeting introduced someone new, another fascinating conversation, another "Holy Shift... that's an interesting perspective." It became one of those mornings I genuinely looked forward to, not because I knew exactly what would happen, but because I never knew who I'd meet or what rabbit trail we'd end up wandering down.

Now that's a sentence I never thought I'd write.

Then it hit me...

I wasn't going to a meeting anymore.

I was going to see my friends.

Holy Shift.

I actually had to sit with that one for a minute.

You know, I wrote an entire book called Square Peg Round Hole because that's exactly how I've felt for most of my life. Not broken. Not wrong. Just... trying to convince myself I was supposed to fit somewhere I clearly didn't. After a while, you start wondering if maybe you should sand off a few corners. Spoiler alert... that doesn't work nearly as well as you'd hope.

Then, without even realizing it, I rolled into a room full of other wonderfully shaped pegs.

Some were square.

Some were triangle-ish.

A few were probably whatever shape a platypus would be if it became a peg.

And somehow...

We all fit.

Not because we were the same.

Because nobody expected us to be.

Looking back, I don't think finding the group changed me.

I think it gave me permission to stop trying so hard.

And that's when things started getting really interesting.

The more I relaxed into simply being me, the more everything else seemed to fall into place. I'd be working on the Happiness Matters Foundation website, moving something from one page to another, and suddenly I'd just lean back in my chair.

"Holy Shift..."

That was it.

I'd stare at the screen for a second, wondering why I hadn't seen it before, make another couple of changes, and then laugh because the whole picture suddenly made perfect sense. Hope in Motion stopped feeling like a dozen different ideas I was trying to organize and started feeling like one story that had been patiently waiting for me to catch up.

Life seemed to respond the same way every time I said yes.

"Oh... good. You're ready for this part now."

One afternoon I caught myself working on the very first QHHT Group Experience and burst out laughing.

I've been wanting to do this ever since I became a QHHT practitioner.

Not just thinking about it.

Actually wanting to do it.

Every time I'd get excited about the idea, life would politely hand me another perfectly reasonable excuse.

Timing.

Logistics.

Broken Ankles.

Confidence.

Life.

Mercury probably got blamed once or twice.

Then one day I opened my calendar, picked a date, sat back in my chair, and just stared at it.

Holy Shift...

I'm actually doing this.

SQUEEEEEEEK!!!

Seriously... I don't even care if I sound like an excited five-year-old.

I am an excited five-year-old and I cannot wait.

Then, because the Universe apparently looked at all of this and thought, "Well... let's really make her smile," another little dream quietly wandered in.

For years I'd imagined what it might feel like to walk into a store and see one of my books sitting on a shelf. Not because I expected people to line up around the block to buy them.

Although... let's be honest... if they ever decide that's a fabulous idea, I certainly won't stand in their way.

It was simply one of those quiet little dreams you tuck into your heart and visit every now and then.

Well...

Three of my books are now sitting on the shelves at Drops of Fae.

The best part?

I never asked.

One of the owners asked me if I'd bring them in.

I still grin every time I think about that.

Funny enough... That connection came through the group too.

Actually... Now that I've sat here remembering all of this, I think I finally figured out where the last few weeks disappeared to.

They disappeared into Monday mornings.

Into coffee.

Into conversations.

Into hugs.

Into laughter.

Into saying yes a little more often than I used to.

Most of all, they disappeared into something I honestly wasn't sure I'd ever find.

My people.

The kind of people who don't expect me to be anyone other than exactly who I am.

Looking back, I think that's what I've been searching for all along.

Not another place to fit in.

Not another room where I could quietly sand off a few corners and hope nobody noticed.

Just a room full of wonderfully weird humans who'd look at my square peg, shrug, pour me a cup of coffee, pull up another chair, and say...

"Oh good...

You're here.

We've been wondering when you'd finally show up."

Some days I honestly think the Universe has a strange sense of humor.

Actually, scratch that. I'm pretty sure of it.

Because every once in a while, something so ridiculously ordinary happens that you couldn't possibly imagine it changing the direction of anything. It feels like one of those tiny moments that barely deserves a second thought. You ask a question. You follow a thought. You make a comment over lunch. Nothing dramatic. No lightning bolt. No angel choir. No burning bush in the backyard. Just a small, ordinary moment that quietly wanders into your day and somehow rearranges the furniture.

This was one of those moments.

It all started because I couldn't remember the name of an organization.

Seriously. That was the entire beginning.

Back in 2023, during my own little breast cancer adventure, I received one of those information packets they hand you after life has suddenly taken a hard left turn and everyone is trying to be helpful. Tucked inside was a flyer for an organization that offered free energy healing sessions to people going through treatment. I remember thinking it was a beautiful idea, and then I filed it away in that mysterious cabinet inside my brain labeled, "Really cool information I might need again someday."

Apparently, someday had arrived.

The organization came up during lunch the other day, and my friend shared that she had actually worked with them. As she described how everything was set up, I found myself listening with two completely different parts of my brain.

One part simply appreciated the kindness behind it. Offering comfort and support to people navigating cancer is a beautiful thing.

The other part...

Well...

It wandered off.

Not because I thought anything needed fixing. Quite the opposite. My brain simply picked up the idea, turned it over a few times, peeked underneath it, and quietly asked, "I wonder..."

I've learned there are two kinds of people in the world. The first ask a question, find the answer, and carry on with their day. The second ask one innocent question and somehow end up redesigning half their life before dinner.

I belong firmly in the second group.

Whether that's a gift or a personality flaw probably depends on who you ask... and whether they've ever had to wait for me while I "just make one quick change" to something.

The more I thought about it, the more another possibility began taking shape. What if the Happiness Matters Foundation could someday help provide free healing sessions for people who genuinely couldn't afford them? What if donations covered the cost so practitioners were honored and paid for sharing both their time and their expertise? What if those practitioners continued doing what they already do so well, and if someone wanted to keep working with them afterward, they simply could?

The Foundation wouldn't need to own the relationship.

It would simply open the door.

Sometimes that's the greatest gift we can offer another human being.

At first, I thought I was simply exploring an idea.

Then the idea started exploring me.

The more I sat with it, the less it became about one future program and the more it became about building a community. A community of practitioners who believe hope should be accessible. People willing to share their gifts while also being valued for the work they do. A place where generosity and sustainability could actually work together instead of feeling like opposing ideas.

Then, completely uninvited, two words quietly walked into my brain.

Hope Collective.

There wasn't a brainstorming session.

No whiteboard.

No committee meeting.

No marketing workshop.

The words simply showed up, sat down, and acted like they'd been living there all along.

The moment I heard them, something clicked.

Almost immediately, another phrase I'd been carrying around for quite a while finally found where it belonged.

Hope in Motion.

I've loved those words for a while, but until that afternoon they always felt like a beautiful idea searching for a home. Suddenly, they weren't just words anymore. They became the heartbeat of the Foundation.

Hope in Motion isn't about wishing things were different.

It's kindness that actually moves.

It's compassion that rolls up its sleeves.

It's people helping people because they can.

And once I saw that...

I couldn't unsee it.

Which is where my innocent little afternoon took a sharp left turn.

Because suddenly the Happiness Matters Foundation website didn't fit anymore.

Nothing was wrong with it.

It simply belonged to yesterday's version of the Foundation.

Once I could see today's version, I couldn't unsee it.

After thirty-seven years of marriage, Jeff has become remarkably fluent in Sabine.

He knows that when I casually announce, "I'm just going to make one quick change to the website," I'm almost certainly lying.

Not intentionally, of course.

I genuinely believe it when I say it.

He just has thirty-seven years of evidence suggesting otherwise.

So he didn't ask how long it would take.

He didn't ask what I was changing.

He simply smiled that patient smile of someone who's seen this movie before, made sure I'd had coffee, reminded me to eat something eventually, and quietly accepted that whatever I thought I was about to do had already left the building.

He wasn't wrong.

One page needed a little updating.

Then another page needed to catch up.

Then the mission suddenly felt too small.

Then Hope in Motion needed somewhere meaningful to live.

Then the Hope Collective deserved its own space.

Then one paragraph led to another.

Then another...

Somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn't making little edits anymore.

I was watching the Foundation become more fully itself.

Before I knew it, my "quick little website tweak" had somehow turned into a complete rewrite.

Again.

The funny part is, I wasn't frustrated.

I was fascinated.

It never felt like I was inventing something new. It felt like I was uncovering something that had quietly been waiting for me to notice it all along. Every small change revealed the next one. Every question uncovered another possibility. The vision became clearer with each page, and by the time I leaned back in my chair, I couldn't even remember what I'd originally opened the computer to do.

That made me laugh.

Because that's pretty much my life in a nutshell.

I start with one simple question...

...and end up somewhere I never expected.

Field Note

When I started writing Notes from the Wild, I imagined they would mostly be stories about getting back out into the real world. Adventures with Persephone. Accessibility discoveries. Museums. Pizza. Basil lemonade. The occasional operator error. You know... the usual.

This week, however, I made an unexpected discovery.

Apparently, my mind is pretty wild too.

It turns out some adventures don't require leaving the house. Sometimes all they require is one forgotten name, an innocent lunch conversation, and a neurospicy brain that never received the "keep it simple" memo. Before you know it, you've accidentally reimagined an entire nonprofit and completely forgotten what you originally sat down to do.

If you've enjoyed this little Field Note, I'd love for you to wander through some of the others. Some take place out on the road with Persephone. Some explore accessibility through the eyes of someone determined to keep living life to the fullest. Some challenge ideas we rarely stop to question. And now, apparently, some happen entirely inside my own wonderfully wild mind.

And if today's story made you curious about the Happiness Matters Foundation, Hope in Motion, or the Hope Collective, I hope you'll come take a peek. Watching this next chapter unfold has been one of the greatest joys of my year, and I have a feeling it's only just getting started.

One thing is becoming very clear.

The wild isn't always a place.

Sometimes...

It's a perspective.

Shift happens...

...and apparently, so do field notes from inside my own head.

One of the things I've discovered over the years is that my life rarely follows the script. Even the simplest plans somehow grow their own personality. What starts as "I'm just going to lunch with a friend" somehow turns into a full-blown adventure, complete with unexpected plot twists, a few good laughs, and another reminder that life has an incredible sense of humor.

Today's destination was Il Vicino Wood Oven Pizza here in Colorado Springs, one of my favorite restaurants. Yes, the pizza is amazing, but if I'm being completely honest, they are also responsible for introducing me to something I never knew I needed in my life.

Basil lemonade.

Whoever first looked at basil and lemonade and thought, These two belong together, deserves some kind of culinary award. Paired with their Bianca pizza, it's one of my favorite meals, and I had been looking forward to it all morning.

The adventure, however, began long before I ever saw a slice of pizza.

I happily made my way down the steps into the garage, transferred into Persephone without any issues, got comfortable, buckled my seatbelt, smiled to myself, and pressed the start button.

Nothing.

Not even a polite little attempt.

For a split second my brain started running through all the possibilities. Please don't tell me Persephone has decided she needs another spa day.

Then it hit me.

The key.

Apparently, push-button start still requires the key to actually be in the vehicle. Details... details.

Fortunately, Jeff was still home. He walked out to the garage with the key, handed it to me with a grin, and we both started laughing. It wasn't exactly the dramatic start to my outing I'd imagined, but it certainly fit the pattern my life seems to enjoy.

Round two went much more smoothly.

I drove to the restaurant, parked, unhooked Evi from her tie-downs, and watched the ramp quietly slide out of Persephone. If you haven't met Evi yet, allow me to introduce you. She's my fully decked-out power wheelchair — basically the Rolls Royce of wheelchairs. She has all the bells and whistles, which means once she's loaded and ready to go, she makes life wonderfully easy.

Persephone gets me there. Evi makes sure I can actually enjoy being there.

I rolled down the ramp, looked around, and thought, Well... here we go. Everything worked beautifully, which always feels like a little victory.

Lunch was exactly what I'd hoped it would be. Great food, wonderful conversation, and yes... basil lemonade that somehow tasted even better than I remembered. Those are the moments I treasure most — not because anything spectacular happens, but because life slows down long enough to simply enjoy another human being's company.

About halfway through lunch, another thought crossed my mind.

I need to find the restroom.

This was actually my first visit to Il Vicino since life became a little more... wheely. Whenever I go somewhere new in Evi, there's always that brief moment of wondering, I hope I can actually get into the restroom.

I'm happy to report Il Vicino passed with flying colors. I maneuvered through the restaurant without any issues, the restroom was genuinely accessible, and for once I wasn't trying to figure out some creative way to make things work. It may sound like a small thing, but it really isn't. Accessibility isn't about special treatment. It's about being able to enjoy lunch without wondering whether you'll be able to use the bathroom when nature inevitably calls. That simple peace of mind is a gift, and Il Vicino earned another gold star in my book.

Eventually it was time to head home.

Evi rolled back into Persephone like the seasoned professional she is, the tie-downs clicked securely into place, the ramp quietly retracted back into the van, and before long I was pulling into my garage thinking what a lovely, uneventful afternoon it had been.

Or so I thought.

I made my way back up the steps, reached for the door handle...

Locked.

The house was empty.

And then came my second realization of the day.

Apparently, I also hadn't brought my house key.

In my defense, Jeff had been home when I left, so why would I need a key?

Well... because people leave the house.

Who knew?

Thankfully, cell phones exist. One quick call later, Jeff came to rescue me once again, unlocked the door, and my grand adventure officially came to an end.

As I sat there laughing at myself, I realized this is exactly why I enjoy sharing these little stories. From the outside, it sounds like I simply went to lunch with a friend. End of story.

Except that's never really the story.

The story is forgetting the car key, discovering that basil lemonade is still every bit as wonderful as I remembered, appreciating thoughtful accessibility, sharing meaningful conversation, forgetting the house key, and laughing through every bit of it. None of it was earth-shattering. None of it was life-changing.

It was simply life.

Beautifully imperfect, wonderfully ordinary, and just unpredictable enough to remind me that even the most routine days can become memorable if we're paying attention.

I've decided life isn't measured by how exciting our plans are. It's measured by how willing we are to laugh when those plans decide to improvise. Today wasn't really about pizza. It wasn't even about forgetting two keys. It was about another wonderfully ordinary day that somehow became another story worth telling.

And honestly...

I wouldn't have it any other way.

Has an ordinary day ever surprised you with a couple of unexpected plot twists? I'd love to hear your story in the comments.

And if you enjoy these little adventures from everyday life, take a wander through the rest of Notes from the Wild and subscribe while you're there. Around here, ordinary has a funny way of becoming unforgettable.

Shift happens...

What about you?

What's a local place you've been meaning to visit for years but still haven't gotten around to?

Drop it in the comments. Maybe this is your sign from the Universe to finally put it on the calendar.

And if you enjoy these little adventures, unexpected discoveries, and observations from life out in the wild, be sure to check out the other Notes from the Wild stories and subscribe while you're there.

Because sometimes the biggest perspective shifts aren't found halfway around the world.

Sometimes they're hiding right in your own backyard.

What about you?

Have you ever asked the Universe for proof and then found yourself standing in the middle of a lesson you never saw coming?

I'd love to hear about it in the comments.

And if you enjoy these little adventures from the wild corners of life, be sure to explore the other Notes from the Wild posts and subscribe so you don't miss the next perspective shift.

If you're navigating your own trust trial, feeling stuck between what you know and what you can believe, you'll also find books, resources, and ways to work with me through Matters of Perspective®.

Between Persephone, Mr. Stupid, and my ongoing attempts to outsmart the Universe, there's always another story waiting around the corner.

Spoiler alert: the Universe usually wins.

Mission Date: June 2026

Operator Status: Slightly overconfident.

Persephone Status: Innocent until proven guilty.

Mission Objective: Determine why the passenger-side ramp appears determined to deploy whenever it feels like it.

Well, today's mission report comes with a confession.

After all the excitement surrounding Persephone lately, including the discovery that some of her recent "creative decisions" were actually the result of crossed wires and not an emerging artificial intelligence, I was fully prepared to blame her for yet another mystery. In fact, I had been carrying this particular grievance around for the last three months, quietly adding it to the growing list of things I intended to have checked out.

It all started during one of Jeff's and my favorite traditions: Costco Date Night.

Yes, I realize most people think of date nights as fancy dinners, movies, or romantic walks. We roam the aisles of Costco, debate whether we really need the industrial-sized package of whatever is currently on sale, and somehow come home happy. After thirty-six years of marriage, we've learned not to question what works.

That particular evening started in the garage. Jeff wanted to put a few things into the storage area behind the passenger seat. Easy enough. I pushed the button to open the sliding door and waited for it to do exactly what I expected it to do.

The door opened.

So far, so good.

Then the ramp started deploying.

Now, under normal circumstances, a wheelchair ramp deploying is hardly noteworthy. In fact, that is literally its job. Unfortunately, Persephone was parked about one to two feet away from the garage wall, which meant there was absolutely not enough room for the ramp to perform its duties without introducing itself to the concrete.

The level of panic that arrived in that moment was completely disproportionate to the situation but entirely real.

My brain skipped right past thoughtful problem-solving and went straight into emergency mode.

"NO. NO. NO. NO. NO."

I started pushing the 'close' button with the kind of urgency usually reserved for disaster movies. Thankfully, it responded promptly. The ramp stopped and retreated before it could commit an expensive act of vandalism against either itself or the garage wall.

Crisis averted.

At least that's what I thought.

Later that evening, after a successful Costco Date Night complete with unnecessary purchases and enough snacks to survive a small apocalypse, I pushed the button again.

The door opened.

The ramp deployed.

And promptly met Jeff's shins.

Not hard enough to cause any actual damage, but certainly hard enough to earn a surprised expression and a few colorful observations about accessibility technology.

From that point forward, I was convinced something wasn't quite right.

The confusion centered around one particular button. There are buttons in the van specifically designed to perform the entire sequence. Push them and the van goes through the full production: open the door, kneel the suspension, deploy the ramp, and welcome everyone aboard. That's exactly what those buttons are supposed to do.

But the button located between the steering wheel and the driver's door always felt different to me. In my mind, that button should simply open the sliding door. Nothing more. Open the door. End of story.

The fact that it occasionally seemed determined to unleash the ramp as well felt suspicious.

Being the highly trained investigator that I am, I eventually pulled out the owner's manual.

Sure enough, there it was in black and white.

Push once, open the door.

Push again, deploy the ramp.

Aha!

Evidence.

Proof.

Validation.

I knew it.

Clearly Persephone was doing something she wasn't supposed to be doing.

Armed with my newfound confidence, we finally stopped by United Access today. I was fully prepared to schedule a spa day for Persephone so the experts could diagnose her latest behavioral issue.

Instead, the technician listened patiently, smiled politely, and walked over to a switch I had apparently ignored for months.

As it turns out, there is a three-position switch that controls how the passenger door and ramp behave.

When the switch is in the middle position, pressing the passenger door controls gives you the full deployment package.

Move it one direction and the system assumes you're dealing with a sidewalk, so it changes how the van handles the kneeling function.

Move it the other direction and — voilà — pressing the button simply opens the door.

Just the door.

Exactly the way I thought it was supposed to work.

The entire mystery. The three months of confusion. The garage panic. The shin assault. The suspicion. The investigation.

All caused by a switch.

One tiny little switch.

Now, in my defense, I'm reasonably certain someone explained all of this when we picked up Persephone. I'm equally certain I retained approximately none of it. After spending a few months unable to drive and finally getting back behind the wheel, I was far too excited to absorb details about auxiliary control systems.

I was probably smiling, nodding, and thinking, "I'M DRIVING AGAIN!"

The technician was kind enough not to point this out directly, although the amused look on everyone's face suggested they had seen this particular scenario before.

Of course, once we understood what was happening, we all had a good laugh. I laughed. Jeff laughed. The technician laughed.

I'm pretty sure Persephone laughed too.

In fact, I suspect she's been waiting three months for this moment.

After all the times I blamed her for being difficult, temperamental, or overly enthusiastic with her ramp deployment, she finally had her day in court.

And wouldn't you know it?

She was innocent.

The ramp wasn't malfunctioning.

The electronics weren't confused.

Nothing was broken.

The operator simply didn't know what she was doing.

Mission Outcome:

• Garage wall: Unharmed.
• Ramp: Functioning perfectly.
• Jeff's shins: Filed a formal complaint.
• Technician: Thoroughly entertained.
• Operator: Retrained.
• Persephone: Officially cleared of all charges.

Final Score:

Persephone: 1
Operator: 0

I'd like to say lessons were learned.

They were.

Mostly by the operator.

There is probably a life lesson hiding in here somewhere about assumptions, paying attention, and reading the instructions before declaring something broken. But for today, I'm choosing to focus on the fact that Persephone's reputation has been restored and my garage wall remains intact.

If you've ever spent months convinced something was wrong, only to discover the problem was user error, welcome to the club. Membership is apparently much larger than any of us would like to admit.

As for me, I'll be over here getting reacquainted with all the buttons I thought I already understood.

Shift happens.

If you've been following Persephone's adventures, make sure you're subscribed so you don't miss the next mission. Something tells me this won't be the last time either Persephone or her operator keeps life interesting.

For most of my life, I bought into the saying, "Karma is a bitch."

Not just a little bit, either. I embraced it completely. It seemed to explain so much. Every time someone did something terrible and later experienced misfortune, people would nod knowingly and say, "That's karma." Every time life dealt someone a difficult hand, somebody would inevitably suggest that karma was collecting a debt.

The message was everywhere. Karma was punishment. Karma was payback. Karma was the Universe's way of settling scores.

And if I'm being honest, that explanation made a lot of sense to me at the time.

Looking at my life through that lens, it was easy to conclude that karma must be working overtime.

I grew up in an environment where feelings were often dismissed and struggles were frequently minimized. As I got older, life added its own collection of challenges. Physical pain became a constant companion. Diagnoses arrived that I certainly hadn't ordered from the cosmic menu. Surgeries, mobility issues, limitations, frustration, and uncertainty all became part of my reality.

Somewhere along the way, I quietly accepted a belief that I never consciously chose.

If I am suffering this much, I must have done something wrong.

Maybe it was something from this lifetime. Maybe it was something from another. Maybe I was paying off some giant karmic debt that I couldn't even remember creating.

I rarely spoke those thoughts out loud, but they lived comfortably in the background of my mind for years. Every new challenge became evidence. Every setback seemed to support the case.

The problem wasn't my circumstances.

The problem was the story I was telling myself about my circumstances.

When you believe suffering equals punishment, every difficulty starts looking like proof that you are somehow flawed, broken, or undeserving. You stop looking for lessons and start looking for reasons you deserve the pain.

Trust me when I tell you that is an exhausting way to live.

Eventually, something began to change.

I started asking questions.

I've discovered that life has a funny relationship with questions. Ask one, and sooner or later an answer tends to show up. The challenge is that the quality of the answer is often directly related to the quality of the question.

For years, my favorite question had been:

Why is this happening to me?

Can you feel the emotional weight in that question?

The question itself already assumes something has gone wrong. It assumes blame. It assumes victimhood. It assumes that life is somehow singling you out for special treatment.

Not surprisingly, the answers I found usually supported those assumptions.

Then one day, perhaps out of frustration, curiosity, or sheer stubbornness, the question began to change.

Instead of asking why something was happening to me, I started asking what it was trying to teach me.

At first, it seemed like a small shift in wording.

It wasn't.

It was a completely different conversation.

The old question placed me in a courtroom. The new question placed me in a classroom.

The old question searched for someone to blame. The new question searched for something to learn.

The old question made me powerless. The new question returned some of that power to me.

My circumstances didn't magically disappear. My challenges didn't suddenly evaporate. What changed was the meaning I attached to them.

And as that meaning changed, so did my understanding of karma.

The deeper I explored spiritual teachings, personal growth, and the Universal Laws, the more I realized that karma had gotten a terrible reputation. Somewhere along the way, people had turned it into a cosmic punishment system when that isn't what karma is at all.

At its core, karma is simply the Universal Law of Cause and Effect.

Every cause creates an effect.

Every effect has a cause.

Nothing exists in isolation.

Nothing happens in a vacuum.

Every thought, belief, action, decision, condition, and circumstance contributes to the experiences that follow.

That doesn't mean everything that happens is your fault.

Let's clear that one up immediately.

Life is far more complex than that.

Other people make choices. Circumstances unfold. Unexpected events occur. We are constantly interacting with a world that contains countless moving pieces beyond our control.

The Law of Cause and Effect is not about blame.

It is about understanding that everything is connected.

Once I understood that distinction, karma stopped looking like punishment and started looking a lot more like a mirror.

And mirrors are fascinating things.

A mirror doesn't judge you.

A mirror doesn't shame you.

A mirror doesn't punish you.

A mirror simply reflects what is there.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that many of the things we blame on karma are often reflections of other Universal Laws at work.

Take the Law of Attraction.

Many people treat karma and the Law of Attraction as if they are interchangeable. They are not.

The Law of Attraction teaches that we tend to attract experiences that align with our dominant thoughts, beliefs, emotions, and expectations. If I spend years believing that life is unfair and that I am somehow being punished, I become remarkably skilled at finding evidence that supports those beliefs. My attention naturally gravitates toward whatever validates the story I already believe.

That isn't karma punishing me.

That is focus doing what focus does.

Then there is the Law of Correspondence, often summarized as "As within, so without."

In simple terms, our outer world often reflects aspects of our inner world. If fear, resentment, shame, self-judgment, or unworthiness are taking up residence inside us, they have a tendency to influence how we interpret the experiences around us.

Again, not punishment.

Reflection.

Feedback.

Information.

Perhaps one of the most hopeful laws is the Law of Perpetual Transmutation of Energy, which teaches that energy is constantly changing and transforming. Nothing remains fixed forever unless we continue feeding it.

That means no matter what happened yesterday, last year, or twenty years ago, change remains possible.

The story can change.

The perspective can change.

The outcome can change.

That realization was life-changing for me.

Because perhaps nowhere was my misunderstanding of karma more evident than in my relationship with my own body.

For decades, I viewed my body as evidence that something was wrong with me. Every diagnosis seemed to confirm it. Every limitation appeared to strengthen the case. I genuinely believed my body was betraying me.

What a heartbreaking misunderstanding that turned out to be.

The truth is that my body was never the enemy.

While I spent years criticizing it, questioning it, and blaming it, my body continued showing up for me every single day. It adapted. It compensated. It carried me through circumstances that would have broken many people. It communicated constantly, trying to get my attention in the only ways it knew how.

My body wasn't punishing me.

It was speaking to me.

I simply didn't understand the language yet.

The same can be said for many of life's challenges.

When we view karma as punishment, we often miss the message entirely. We become so focused on asking why something happened that we never stop to explore what it might be trying to show us.

Today, I no longer picture karma as some cosmic enforcer sitting behind a giant desk keeping score.

I see a teacher.

Sometimes a gentle one.

Sometimes a frustrating one.

Sometimes a teacher who keeps handing back the same lesson until I finally stop rolling my eyes and pay attention.

But always a teacher.

The older I get, the more convinced I become that life is less interested in punishing us than it is in waking us up. Every challenge, every relationship, every setback, every success carries information. Some of that information is comfortable. Some of it is not. But all of it offers an opportunity to become a little more aware than we were yesterday.

So no, karma is not a bitch.

Karma is honest.

Karma is consistent.

Karma is one of life's most effective mirrors.

And every now and then, when I find myself slipping back into old stories, old fears, or old patterns, karma quietly hands me that mirror once again and invites me to take another look.

The difference now is that instead of feeling punished, I feel grateful.

Because every reflection offers another opportunity to learn.

And every lesson offers another opportunity to grow.

Ready for a Perspective Shift?

Many of the beliefs that keep us stuck aren't actually ours. We inherited them from family, society, culture, religion, or simply years of repeating the same story until it felt true.

The good news is that beliefs can be questioned.

Stories can be rewritten.

Perspectives can shift.

If you're tired of asking, "Why is this happening to me?" and ready to explore a different conversation, visit MattersOfPerspective.com and explore the resources, tools, and teachings designed to help you see yourself and your life through a new lens.

Because sometimes the biggest change isn't in what happens to us.

It's in what we finally choose to see.

Gratitude changed my life.

Literally.

In early 2003, during one of the darkest periods of my life, gratitude became the thing that helped me stay.

It helped me keep going.

It helped me find reasons to take another step when I wasn't sure I wanted to take one at all.

What started as a simple gratitude journal became a lifeline. It changed how I saw my life. It changed how I saw other people. It changed how I saw challenges, setbacks, and opportunities.

Eventually, gratitude became one of the foundations of everything I teach.

I write about gratitude.

I teach gratitude.

I recommend gratitude journals.

I encourage people to look for what is working instead of obsessing over what isn't.

Gratitude is woven into my books, my courses, my conversations, and my life.

Which makes what I'm about to tell you both humbling and slightly embarrassing.

In more than twenty years of gratitude journals, gratitude lists, gratitude challenges, gratitude workshops, gratitude books, gratitude conversations, and gratitude practices...

I don't remember ever consciously thanking my body.

Not once.

Funny how that works.

I read the books.

I recommend the books.

I reference the books.

I write the books.

I teach people about perspective, emotions, beliefs, energy, healing, responsibility, and the stories we tell ourselves.

I spend my days helping people uncover the hidden assumptions that quietly shape their lives.

I talk about how our words matter.

I talk about how what we focus on grows.

I talk about how the relationship we have with ourselves influences every area of our lives.

I teach that everything is connected.

I teach that our thoughts, emotions, beliefs, and experiences are woven together in ways most people never stop to consider.

And somehow...

I completely missed something sitting right in front of me for nearly sixty years.

You know the saying about not being able to see the forest because of all the trees?

Apparently, I bought property in that forest and lived there for decades.

Because while I was helping other people uncover their blind spots, I had one of my own.

A big one.

For nearly sixty years, I believed my body was the problem.

Not consciously.

Not every day.

But underneath it all was a quiet frustration that had been building for as long as I can remember.

I was overweight as a child.

I was overweight as a teenager.

I am overweight as an adult.

No matter what I tried, it often felt like my body had received a completely different set of instructions than everyone else's.

While other people seemed to lose weight simply by making eye contact with a treadmill, I felt like every step forward came with a complimentary trip backward.

Exercise hurt.

Movement hurt.

Sometimes existing hurt.

And when you're carrying extra weight while navigating pain, the world tends to have plenty of opinions.

"Just eat less."

"Just move more."

"Just try harder."

As if nobody had ever thought of those things before.

Trust me, if the answer had been that simple, I would have solved this mystery sometime before the internet became a thing.

Over the years, I searched for answers.

Diets.

Programs.

Doctors.

Supplements.

Exercise plans.

Experts.

Books.

More diets.

More experts.

More promises wrapped in shiny packaging.

I wasn't chasing perfection.

I wasn't trying to become a swimsuit model.

I wasn't trying to look twenty-five again.

I wanted relief.

I wanted better health.

I wanted to lower my blood pressure.

I wanted to feel better.

Most of all, I wanted my body and me to finally be on the same team.

In August of 2003, I underwent gastric bypass surgery.

Like most major decisions, it came wrapped in hope.

I hoped it would help me lose weight.

I hoped it would improve my health.

I hoped it would make life easier.

The surgery worked.

At least on paper.

I lost weight.

That was it.

The magical transformation I secretly hoped for never arrived.

Life continued.

The years continued.

Challenges continued.

Eventually, some of the weight returned.

And without realizing it, every disappointment became another piece of evidence in the case I was building against my body.

Exhibit A.

Exhibit B.

Exhibit C...

By the time I reached my forties, I had assembled enough evidence to convince any jury.

Then life handed me even more.

In 2005, I received a diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis.

Years later came a Lipedema diagnosis.

There were spinal issues.

Joint issues.

Surgeries.

Pain.

Mobility challenges.

A wheelchair.

More frustration.

More setbacks.

More moments spent staring into space wondering what the actual hell the point of all this was.

Every challenge seemed to support the story I already believed.

My body was broken.

My body was failing me.

My body was fighting me.

Case closed.

Or so I thought.

Recently, during a deeply personal spiritual experience, something happened that caught me completely off guard.

Not because it was complicated.

Not because it was profound.

Not because I had never heard it before.

Quite the opposite.

It was so simple that I almost laughed.

I was asked a question.

What if your body isn't fighting you?

What if your body is fighting for you?

The question stopped me cold.

Not because I didn't understand it.

Because I did.

At least intellectually.

I've spent years teaching people that perspective changes everything.

I've spent years teaching people that words matter.

I've spent years teaching people that the stories we tell ourselves become the lens through which we experience life.

I've spent years teaching gratitude.

Yet somehow, despite all of that, I had never consciously stopped and thanked my body.

Not once.

I thanked the Universe.

I thanked friends.

I thanked teachers.

I thanked opportunities.

I thanked lessons.

I thanked challenges.

I thanked the coffee that got me through certain mornings.

But I don't remember ever sitting down and saying:

"Thank you, body."

Not for losing weight.

Not for behaving the way I wanted it to.

Not for performing perfectly.

Just...

Thank you.

Thank you for showing up.

Thank you for doing your job.

Thank you for carrying me.

And that's when something shifted.

Because suddenly I saw something I had somehow missed for nearly sixty years.

My body is still here.

Not was.

Is.

My body is still carrying me.

Present tense.

Right now.

This body carried me through childhood.

This body carried me from Germany to the United States.

This body carried me through marriage (and still is).

This body carried me through raising two incredible children.

This body carried me through every move, every deployment, every challenge, every celebration, every heartbreak, every lesson, and every fresh start.

This body carried me through receiving an MS diagnosis.

This body is carrying me while it navigates the symptoms associated with that diagnosis.

This body is carrying me while it navigates the symptoms associated with Lipedema.

This body carries me through pain.

This body carries me through surgeries.

This body carries me through concrete legs.

This body carries me through difficult days.

This body carries me while I write these words.

And suddenly I wasn't looking at everything my body couldn't do.

I was looking at everything it was doing.

Every heartbeat.

Every breath.

Every repair.

Every adaptation.

Every workaround.

Every adjustment happening quietly behind the scenes without me even noticing.

While I spent decades accusing my body of betrayal, my body was busy doing everything it could to keep me going.

Not perfectly.

Not effortlessly.

Not without struggle.

But faithfully.

Day after day.

Year after year.

Decade after decade.

The truth hit me harder than any diagnosis ever had.

My body has never stopped fighting for me.

Not once.

Even when I was angry at it.

Even when I judged it.

Even when I blamed it.

Even when I felt betrayed by it.

Even when I believed it had failed me.

My body kept showing up.

My body kept adapting.

My body kept trying.

My body kept carrying me.

And then I realized there was another story hiding underneath the first one.

For years, I thought the problem was my body.

Looking back, I think the real problem was the story.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped seeing challenges as experiences and started treating them as identities.

I wasn't just carrying extra weight... I became "the overweight one."

I wasn't just navigating diagnoses... I quietly started seeing myself through them.

I wasn't just experiencing limitations... I started believing they defined me.

But I am not a diagnosis.

I am not a symptom.

I am not pain.

I am not a wheelchair.

I am not a number on a scale.

I am not a medical chart.

I am not a collection of limitations.

I am the awareness experiencing all of it.

And the body I spent decades judging has been faithfully carrying me through every moment of the journey.

Now, before anyone gets too excited, this is not the part where I tell you all my symptoms disappeared, angels started singing backup vocals, and I suddenly began training for a marathon.

Let's be realistic.

The diagnoses haven't magically packed their bags and moved out.

My body still experiences challenges.

My body still experiences pain.

Some days are harder than others.

I still have moments when I'd happily trade this model in for one with fewer warning lights, better suspension, and a warranty that actually covers everything.

But the relationship has changed.

And that changes everything.

For nearly sixty years, I looked at my body and saw failure.

Today, I look at my body and see effort.

I see resilience.

I see devotion.

I see a body that has been carrying an extraordinary load for a very long time.

I see a body that wakes up every morning and says:

"Alright, kiddo. Let's see what we can do today."

And honestly?

After everything my body has carried, I think it deserves a thank-you instead of another accusation.

If my body could talk, I suspect it would smile, shake its head, and say:

"Took you long enough."

The myth says my body is fighting me.

The truth is my body is fighting for me.

It always has been.

And perhaps the greatest lesson wasn't hidden in a diagnosis, a surgery, a diet, a book, or even a spiritual experience.

Perhaps it was hidden in plain sight all along.

The one thing I forgot to include in my gratitude practice was the very thing that had been carrying me through every moment of my life.

My amazing, beautiful, resilient body.

Ready for Your Own Perspective Shift?

Sometimes the thing that needs healing isn't the circumstance.

Sometimes it's the story.

If you've been carrying a story about yourself, your past, your worth, your future, or your body, perhaps it's time to look at it through a different lens.

The QAR7IS Method and the resources at Matters of Perspective® are designed to help you uncover the stories beneath the story, challenge the myths you've accepted as truth, and discover new possibilities hiding in plain sight.

Because sometimes changing your life doesn't begin by changing your circumstances.

Sometimes it begins by changing your perspective.

And trust me...

That kind of shift changes everything.

If any part of this story feels familiar, I want you to know something...

You are not alone.

Whatever battle you are fighting, whatever pain you are carrying, whatever part of yourself you have been struggling to trust, you are not alone.

Twenty-three years ago, I sat staring at a blank page wondering if ten simple gratiudes could possibly make a difference.

Today, I know they can.

Not because gratitude magically removes every challenge.

Not because it instantly heals every wound.

But because gratitude helps us see possibilities where pain only sees problems. It helps us remember that there is more to our story than the chapter we happen to be living in right now.

If you're feeling stuck, overwhelmed, exhausted, or simply ready for a different perspective, I invite you to explore the free resources available at Matters of Perspective®.

Over the years, I have created tools, articles, courses, videos, and exercises designed to help people move from surviving to creating, from fear to possibility, and from feeling powerless to recognizing the choices that still exist.

You don't have to figure everything out today.

You don't have to heal everything today.

You don't even have to know where to start.

Sometimes the next step is enough.

Sometimes a new perspective is enough.

Sometimes one small shift changes everything.

You can explore the resources at MattersOfPerspective.com and start wherever feels right for you.

Because no matter what your mind may be telling you today, your story is not over.

Shift happens.

And sometimes, that's a very good thing.