Our weekend away was perfect and deeply needed.
White Pine Camp is exactly that—a camp tucked way back in the forest, surrounded by towering pines and snow this time of year. It’s eerily quiet in the best way. No TV. A gas fireplace for entertainment. And the realization that a tiny space can be more than sufficient for living.
I took pictures of the night sky. I enjoyed moments without time constraints or anyone else’s needs beyond my own and Nick’s. All of it made possible by the two eldest daughters and their collaboration with our teens—something I don’t take lightly.
Life, of course, speeds right back up when we return.
Evelyn is sitting next to me now, playing with Play-Doh, trying to slow down from a busy morning of running around for things that aren’t for us. Nick was off yesterday, which gave us a gentle reset after the weekend. We came back on Sunday and hit the ground running—teenagers, toddler, routines, and of course the Super Bowl. Yesterday slowed again. Today, it’s back into the usual nonsense.
It’s school vacation week, which means the familiar game of what creative interpretation of plain legal language is going to show up this time? Someone trying to stomp into my valley—thankfully Nick isn’t allowing giants to roam freely. Some days it feels less like a giant and more like an overenthusiastic orangutan swinging its oversized arms wildly and knocking into things that aren’t theirs. Annoying, occasionally laughable, but still disruptive.
What’s stayed with me most this week isn’t irritation, though. It’s clarity.
I’ve been thinking a lot about peace—about how some people protect it quietly and fiercely. How cutting out noise isn’t avoidance; it’s intention. It’s choosing what gets access to your time, energy, and inner world.
That perspective shifted something in me.
I noticed myself second-guessing how much I share and how I share it. Not because anyone asked me to change. Simply because awareness changes things. And sometimes awareness brings a wobble before it finds its balance.
This is where my “shadow work” comes in.
Not in a clinical sense. Not as a label. Just the simple act of noticing the parts of me that learned to stay alert, to stay in control, to anticipate disruption before it happens. Those parts didn’t come from nowhere—they were built as survival tools. They helped me navigate life when things felt unpredictable.
Shadow work, for me, is learning when those tools are still useful—and when I can gently set them down. How, what, and when I write are times I set them down.
It’s not about fixing myself.
It’s about meeting myself with curiosity instead of judgment.
About understanding why certain reactions exist, rather than fighting them.
When those parts are acknowledged, they don’t run the show anymore.
Things I’ve learned over this last week or so:
I do like a slower pace of life.
I hold on to control as a form of safety.
Parents are people too, shaped by their own histories.
Not everything is personal.
And sometimes people think they know you based on what you’ve shared—until their perception teaches you something new about yourself.
You start to see what you want to change.
What you already have changed.
And what exists perfectly fine as is.
I am not too much.
I am not too little.
Life can be chaotic—but that’s where I still have choices. And peace? I know now it’s within my grasp. I just need to grab it—and hold it closer.
A close friend reminded me that writing about my experience—especially with family—is part of my freeing journey. Words have impact, and I know that release can sometimes brush up against discomfort. That isn’t my intention, but it is part of the truth. I’ve carried hurt quietly for a long time, and this is one of the ways I’m learning to let it go. Not to place blame, but to ask forgiveness of myself for all the moments I stayed small to keep the peace.
I am actively working on forgiveness for myself, allowance for myself, and acknowledging the parts of me that are healing. I realize this method of communication—writing rather than direct conversation—stems from a place of feeling that I am “too much,” and that the only room large enough to hold my expression is the page. If that hurts people because I am not coming out directly to them, I apologize. It is not an act of exclusion, but of survival.
I write because it feels safer to do so. If my words help someone else feel safe, I take pride in that. If they offer insight into where I am on this journey, I own that too. This writing comes from a place of growth, not grievance—shadow work, for me, is simply learning how to hold my inner world with more care while honoring the way others hold theirs.
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