Inspirations and Thoughts

Question after question, questioning who you are— how you speak so boldly, how you find the space to speak when you are still so new. Thought after thought whispers that something must be wrong. Until you realize—there isn’t. Though new, your voice carries meaning. It was meant to be heard. Not to be shunned. Not to be silenced. But strengthened. You learn you were never meant to quiet yourself to make others comfortable. You are not silenced because you are wrong— you are s

I found my way back to the lifelines— one day at a time. One day, slowly learning how to adjust. One day, learning how to heal. I began to understand the balance of what it means to be  a lifeline while also answering the call of the world beyond the bedside. How to hold space without losing myself. How to remain present without becoming depleted. And then came a deeper question: How do you pass that wisdom on? How do you teach someone what it means to be another person’s mi

Is it burnout, or is it something deeper? I ask myself the question often. I sit still, wanting only to remain between the lines. There is no clear purpose in that moment— only the desire to expand my world in ways that feel vast, quiet, and unimaginably safe. A voice calls out. A phone rings. Life reaches for me. And all I want is to stay right here— in between the lines. Responsibilities soften at the edges as words take over. Stories replace schedules. Pages offer refuge

Wow of wow —did I need a break. As a hectic semester wrapped up, the very first thing I did was exactly what my heart had been craving: I read. And read. And read some more—getting wonderfully lost between the lines . I think I devoured eight books in a single week, chasing stories the way you chase fresh air after holding your breath too long. And then… the slump hit. You know the one. Downloading twenty books. Opening each one with hope. Reading a few pages. Pausing. Closin

The noise doesn’t come from one room, but two. It echoes down the hallway—voices overlapping, rising and falling—telling stories I can’t fully see, only hear. Through the walls, those voices create their own lines of imaginative play. Inside those rooms are two curious boys, navigating entire worlds built not from blocks or backyard dirt, but from pixels and code. Virtual landscapes shared with friends. Quests. Strategies. Laughter that signals connection, even if I don’t un

Swiping left took on a different meaning. Each swipe revealed new words. Each swipe carried the story forward— one more page, one more breath, one more moment suspended in between. But what did the swipe do to my soul? As the story unfolded, I began to wonder— what was I really learning? Was it endless love, wrapped in hope and heartbreak? Was it the comfort of fantasy— worlds of dragons and fire, places where bravery was clear and purpose was written in bold? Or was it strat

I’ve never been someone who star-rates books. Numbers feel too small for stories that arrive at different moments in our lives. What moves one reader may quietly pass another by—and that doesn’t make either experience wrong. What matters to me is how a story meets  you. Where did it take your imagination? What did it stir while you were there? Did it offer escape, comfort, challenge, or rest? Books don’t just entertain us—they sit beside us. They hold space when life feels he

I am lost. Lost between the lines. Lost between the lifelines. My world was scripted for years— show up, lead the night, sleep stolen in daylight, changing one life at a time. And somewhere along those lifelines, I wonder— which moment shifted my path? Which moment dimmed the spark I didn’t realize I was losing? Which moment left me wandering an ever-changing landscape where certainty feels borrowed and purpose feels unfinished? What am I meant to do now? Am I meant to keep l

I get lost in the pages— not one, not two, but three… and then another, and another, until the light fades without asking permission. The house goes still. No voices. No footsteps. Just the quiet scrape of pages turning— proof that time is still moving, even if I am not. And I wonder— does the theme even matter once the story begins to unfold? When reality loosens its grip and you slip into the space between the lines, between the words, between who you are and who you’re a

I had the honor and privilege of speaking at this semester’s pinning ceremony for the graduating class. Being asked was deeply meaningful—though, truthfully, standing in front of nearly six hundred guests made me feel as if I might vomit. Once I stepped to the podium, the audience faded into a blur. I don’t think I saw a single face. My focus narrowed to one thing: trying to capture the meaning of nursing school—the weight of it, the growth, the becoming. In that moment, I wa

At some point in every nurse’s career, there is a moment of reckoning—a quiet pause that prompts the question, “Why am I still doing this?” For me, that moment did not pull me away from nursing; it pulled me deeper. It led me back into the classroom, back into the role of a novice, and back into the discomfort of learning all over again. Choosing to leave the familiarity of expertise to sit alongside students as they navigate the intensity of nursing school was not a detour—