Traffic & Dandelions

Field Notes from the Creative Life. On the road ahead.

I was trapped in noonday traffic today, wall-to-wall cars for as far as my eyes could see. It probably is more accurate to call it a parking lot where a few aggressive SUVs were squeezing their way between the idling cars.

I always love a “Give Jesus a chance. He died for the opportunity” license plate frame on a large SUV as it barrels down, practically pushing my car out of its way so it can take my place. Congratulations, you gained 3 whole feet.

As I sat there, NPR replayed Terry Gross’s 2016 interview with Stephen Colbert. (I already miss his opening monologues.) They were talking about his first years in the Ed Sullivan Theater. Stephen explained that, at first, he thought he needed Broadway energy to fill the space: high kicks and all. It was, after all, a literal Broadway stage.

But then, as he settled into the role, he began to realize that he didn’t need main-character high-kick energy to fill a gigantic space. Authentic presence was just as powerful, maybe more.

I turned the radio off, sat in traffic, and cried. Perhaps I’ve just been trying too hard here. Dandelions fill fields just by being themselves and letting the wind carry their seeds.

I’ve been quieter because things have been rearranging beneath the surface. In some ways, I think I’ve been trying to figure out the right high-kick routine to keep this space growing, when everything in me simply wants to write you letters and stories. Hot takes and hopeful rants about living with wonder in an age of algorithms. Messy confessions from the middle of my gloriously imperfect humanity. Big observations after leaving decades of leadership inside high-control religious ecosystems and living with chronic pain. Musings on creativity while currently in a creative rut.

I know some of you came initially for creative prompts and challenges. They have always been a part of the vision for this space, and they were the part that took off—in stunning ways. I am so grateful for that.

But this writer has ink in her marrow. And deep determination in her soul to use her words and time on this earth to create a space where wonder is a path back to ourselves and one another in a distracted, divided, and disconnected world.

We’ve never needed wonder more—not as a glowing aesthetic, but as a way of remaining human inside systems designed to fracture our attention and optimize our worth.

We need voices that name our griefs and guide us back to the joy that lives alongside them.

We need friends who offer strength when we cannot fathom taking even one more step. I hope I can be that here for you.

As for the proverbial elephant in the room… I hear from many places, “Now don’t be political. You’ll lose people.” Here’s the deal. You will probably never see me with a decision board breaking down election odds unless I was drawing on it. Not my lane. I’m going to leave government and political analysis to the pros like Heather Cox Richardson, Sharon McMahon , and Matthew D. Taylor.

But wonder is political. Creativity is political. Living in a disabled, female body in the state of Florida in 2026 is very political. Medical access is political.

You might occasionally see my spicy side because I am all in for team human decency, and I’m done tiptoeing. I firmly believe Christian nationalism undermines both the love of Christ and democratic freedom. I don’t say that as an outsider. I say that as someone who spent almost 20 years of her professional life inside those systems before leaving in 2013.

The gold SUV with a platitude plate frame sped between lanes ahead of me. I let out the deep breath-breath-sigh that settles your nervous system.

And I kept thinking: Wonder and whimsy change things, because they change us.

We may be living through a time of profound uncertainty. But that doesn’t mean we have to navigate it alone.

I’m exhausted by internet gurus and living in a culture where visibility is mistaken for expertise. Maybe you are too.

I’m not entirely sure what the road ahead will look like. But I know I want it to be curious, alive, and filled with honest stories and audacious hope, belly laughs, and, yes, creative community. Things that celebrate what is good and kind, without looking away from the things that are not.

And I believe down to my mitochondria that love will outlast all of this.

We will find our way forward together.

I am so glad you’re here.

All my love,