As 2025 comes to a close, I find myself reflecting not on how much I produced, but on how much I noticed. This year wasn’t about chasing milestones or measuring success by numbers. It was quieter than that. Slower. More rooted. And in many ways, more meaningful. 2025 taught me that growth doesn’t always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it happens in stillness — in returning to the same places, watching the same animals, and allowing presence to matter more than momentum. One

Christmas has changed for me. When most of your family has passed, the day no longer looks like busy houses, loud gatherings, or long traditions. It becomes quieter. More reflective. And for me, it has become something else entirely—an invitation to step outside and let nature hold the space instead. This Christmas morning, my Aunt, Finnegan, and I bundled ourselves into the car and headed out into the cold. It was –1°C, off-and-on raining, and far from ideal weather—but perf

What sane person goes crabbing in December—when it’s raining, windy, and absolutely freezing—for the very first time? Apparently… this one. I went crabbing today not because the conditions were ideal (they very much were not), but because a young otter is currently in care with a wonderful wildlife organization—and she is in need of live crabs to learn how to hunt. When I heard that, my brain immediately said, I can do this. How hard can crabbing be? (Insert aggressive eye-ro