This story matters to me. Not because it is dramatic. Not because it is historical. Not even because it happens to be mine. It matters because it reminds us that even when we feel unimportant, we are never insignificant.

In this deeply personal reflection, I share the childhood memory I’ve never spoken aloud. This post explores childhood abuse, family complicity, generational trauma, and the shame survivors carry. It’s about understanding that silence was survival — and what it means, decades later, to finally find my voice.

This is a personal note on living at the edge of my capacity — where creative drive, motherhood, teaching, leadership, and ambition all collide. As I stare at my overflowing desk, I recognize both the exhaustion and the aliveness that come from pushing myself to my limits. This brief reflection explores why some of us feel most ourselves when we’re stretched thin, and the deeper fear underneath it all: reaching the end of life and realizing we left parts of ourselves undiscovered.

This past month has tested my ability to hold onto hope when the world feels heavy with grief and disillusionment. After encountering yet another story of harm, I found myself reflecting on the loss of my sister and the symbol my family holds onto — daisies — as a reminder that hope is not naïve, but a deliberate choice. This is a personal reflection on grief, faith, and how I keep my small light flickering, even in dark times.

My friends, we do not have to walk the path of violence again. We do not have to surrender to hatred, anger, and destruction. There is not an inevitability here if we can harness the power of who we are in our smaller communities.

I thought that love had been lost to me. It turned out that the love that I needed was still waiting for me in my future. And even that everyday kind of lesson resonates in all parts of my life. We don’t always know why our path is unwinding the way it is. But we have to believe that the path is leading us somewhere.

I want to be honest here. I felt like a librarian (from 1982). And not the “sexy she just needs to take off her glasses and wow” kind, but the “old lady with the gray bun and reading glasses” kind. I wanted to shush everybody.

Our childhoods wire us in complicated ways. If that wiring got crossed, the work of adulthood is re-wiring—cycle breaking. And cycle breaking doesn’t just mean facing the big things; it also means meeting the little everyday fears with the same tenacity.

In this post, I share ten practical (and maybe off beat) strategies that helped me overcome procrastination and finish my first novel in the Ruth trilogy—while balancing family, a full music studio, volunteer work, and life’s everyday demands. From finding the right planner to protecting creative time, knowing my “why,” and keeping promises to myself, these tips are for anyone chasing a big creative goal.

I stared at him. It had never occurred to me that we had two significantly different experiences (and therefore two significantly different understandings) of this one creamy soft flower. What was even more striking to me was that we both had deep memory roots attached to it. His gardenias lived in climate-controlled dining rooms by tall windows; mine grew wild in the heat. For both of us, their fragrance reached soul-deep in our memory.

A note of gratitude to a small Virginia town for the best day ever.

What happens when four teenage boys learn to cook Chicken Parmesan? A story of memory, motherhood, and the recipes we carry forward. Sauce recipe included.

Use “When I die” to build connection, not guilt. Learn to talk about death in ways that support healing, honesty, and generational love.

As a parent, I’m trying to accept the times I’ve let my children down (which is so hard). As an adult child, I’m trying to offer my parents the same grace I hope my own kids will give me. It’s all connected: who we were as children shapes who we become as parents, and the cycle continues.

After launching Sugarcane Saint, a debut historical novel rooted in generational trauma and healing, Christy Tallamy reflects on the sacred cycle of storytelling—writing, sharing, listening, and passing stories forward. A moving meditation on community, memory, and the power of books to break cycles and carry us home.

Tag along on a Seattle literary journey: gifting an indie novel, wandering bookshops, sharing stories of women, breaking cycles, healing generational trauma, and finding unexpected magic in human connection and herbal apothecaries.

Discover the beauty of intentional, unruly gardening that defies suburban rules. Explore how planting what you love becomes an act of self-governance and healing—breaking cycles, honoring memory, and tending generational trauma with joyful, deliberate roots.