Some weekends aren’t about doing more.
Sometimes they’re about slowing down, breathing deeply, and letting your heart catch up.
This morning’s view reminded me that even heavy seasons can still hold quiet beauty.
Have a safe Memorial Day 🌿
Sometimes You Just Need A Day Away 🌲
Sometimes the best days aren’t the big vacations or perfectly planned adventures. Sometimes they’re just quiet little escapes with the person you love most.
Last week, we took a mini trip for my birthday and spent the day doing what we needed most…slowing down.
We wandered by the water, enjoyed the sunshine, and ate food that probably contained enough calories for an entire week. Totally worth it. Would absolutely do it again.
Somewhere between stacked onion rings, giant burgers, chocolate ice cream, and peaceful views of the lake, life felt a little lighter again.
Little did we know that one of our other favorite places, about 70 miles north of where we were, would soon be battling devastating wildfires. Seeing the photos afterward was heartbreaking. Places tied to memories can start to feel personal, even when they aren’t home.
It was a reminder that moments like these matter more than we realize while we’re living them.
Lately things have been heavy, so this day reminded me that joy doesn’t always arrive in huge life-changing moments. Sometimes it shows up quietly: in shared meals, calm water, a drive together, and time with someone who makes life better simply by being there.
And honestly? That’s enough for me.
This week was heavy.
I’m not going to try to dress this week up into something it wasn’t.
It was hard.
There’s been a lot happening behind the scenes: working through my disability application, trying to stay on top of everything that comes with that, and at the same time, helping my mom through appointments that didn’t go the way we hoped.
It’s the kind of week where everything stacks up at once. I was super overwhelmed.
Where your brain doesn’t really get a break, even when you’re technically “resting.”Where you’re trying to hold it together for everyone else, but you can feel yourself getting worn down in the process.
I don’t have a lesson tied up neatly at the end of this. I don’t have a big realization or a “this is what it all means” moment.
I’m just tired.
And I think that’s okay to say.
There’s a strange pressure sometimes to turn every difficult moment into something uplifting. To find the silver lining right away. To make it make sense before you’ve even had time to feel it.
But some weeks don’t need to be fixed.
Some weeks just need to be acknowledged.
So that’s what this is.
Just me saying: this week was heavy.
I’ve been trying to find small moments where I can breathe again. Nothing big. Nothing life-changing. Just small things.
Opening the windows for a little while.
Sitting outside, even if it’s just in the car.
Putting my phone on do not disturb and listening to music for a bit.
Playing my favorite video games.
Not solutions—just pauses.
And right now, that feels like enough.
If you’ve had a week like this too, where everything feels like a little too much, where you’re feeling very overwhelmed, you’re not alone in that.
Sometimes the best thing we can do is stop trying to push through so hard, and just admit where we’re at.
I’m hoping next week feels a little lighter.
But for now, I’m just giving myself permission to be where I am.
🌿The Part of Me You Haven’t Fully Met Yet
Most people who know me through this blog know me through words. They know my thoughts, my reflections, my questions, and some of the roads life has taken me down. Writing has been one of the clearest ways I’ve learned to make sense of the world.
But words have never been the only language I speak.
Photography Has Always Been Part of Me
For a long time, photography has been another way I process life. Sometimes there are things that cannot be explained nearly as well as they can be noticed: the way morning fog settles over trees, sunlight breaking through storm clouds, an old barn standing quietly against the years, or the stillness of a landscape that says more than noise ever could.
Photography has always drawn me toward those moments.
Years ago, I earned a degree in photography. Like many things in life, though, gifts and passions do not always travel in straight lines. Confidence can be shaken. Life can interrupt. Hard seasons can make parts of us grow quiet for a while. Some things we love get placed on shelves—not because they no longer matter, but because we forget they still belong to us.
That has been true for me in some ways.
And yet, even when it was quieter, photography never really left. I still noticed the sky. I still paid attention to changing seasons. I still felt that pull to preserve something fleeting before it disappeared. I still found myself reaching for whatever camera I had in my hand, even if it was only a phone, trying to hold onto beauty for one more moment.
Lately, I’ve been reminded that creativity does not need permission to return. It does not need perfect timing, perfect health, perfect confidence, or perfect equipment. It only needs room to breathe again.
So this is simply me making room.
I Didn’t Find My Way Back Alone
While Deer Ridge Images carries my name and vision, it would not exist in the same way without my wife.
She has encouraged me to create again when I had nearly buried that part of myself. She reminded me that art still mattered. That I still mattered.
Some of the images featured here were taken by her—including the rain-soaked shed photo and the Milky Way image. Those photographs represent more than scenery. They represent partnership, patience, and the way someone can help you find your way back to yourself.
So while Deer Ridge Images began with me, it continues because of us.
What Kind of Photography I’ll Be Sharing
From time to time, I’ll be sharing photography here as well—images of landscapes, weather, quiet places, rural scenes, wildlife, and the kinds of moments that have always spoken to me. Not because they are flawless. Not because I have something to prove. But because they are real, and because they are part of me.
This blog has always been a place for honesty. Sharing this side of myself feels like another kind of honesty.
Thank you for being here long enough to meet another part of who I am. 🌿
This week, I found myself looking at my life through a lens I usually avoid.
Not because I’m in denial.
Not because I’m pretending everything is fine.
But because when you live with limitations long enough, they become normal to you.
You adapt.
You compensate.
You learn workarounds.
You keep going.
And after a while, what would shock someone else just becomes Tuesday.
After completing two disability applications back to back, reading an assessment from the county, and hearing my therapist say I shouldn’t have much trouble qualifying because of my very significant physical and mental limitations…
I had a moment.
A real one.
Not a “I hate myself” moment.
Not shame.
More like:
Oh shit.
I didn’t realize it was this bad.
There’s something strange about seeing your reality written plainly on paper.
Things you’ve minimized.
Things you’ve pushed through.
Things you’ve explained away.
Suddenly listed clearly and clinically.
And for a moment, you see yourself from the outside.
I think many of us do this.
We become so used to carrying what we carry that we stop calling it heavy.
We become so used to struggling that we stop calling it struggle.
We become so used to surviving that we forget survival has a cost.
So this week, I’m holding one gentle truth:
If your life has become hard in ways you barely notice anymore…
That doesn’t mean it isn’t hard.
It means you adapted.
And adaptation is not the same thing as ease.
Maybe some of us need to look at ourselves more kindly.
More honestly.
More gently.
Not with criticism.
But with compassion for everything we’ve been carrying while still trying to keep moving.
💛 Sometimes the clearest reflection isn’t cruel.It’s compassionate.
This week has been filled with paperwork.
The kind that sits on the table and quietly takes up space in your mind, even when you’re not actively working on it.
Social Security sent another packet, and right now, that’s where most of my energy is going.
So if things feel a little quieter here…
that’s why.
Some weeks are for writing.
Some weeks are for getting through forms, appointments, and the invisible work that doesn’t leave much room for anything else.
I’ll be back soon.
Just… one page at a time.
💛 Progress doesn’t always look like productivity.
I finally submitted my disability application.
That sentence feels small on paper.
But it doesn’t feel small in real life.
There’s a lot that goes into something like this.
The paperwork.
The remembering.
The explaining your body over and over again.
Putting words to things you’ve spent years just trying to get through.
It’s not just forms.
It’s your life, translated into boxes and timelines and medical language.
And that’s heavier than it sounds.
So this week hasn’t been about writing.
Or creating.
Or staying on schedule.
It’s been about getting through something that needed my full attention.
And now that it’s submitted…
There’s a strange mix of relief and exhaustion.
Like finishing a long climb and realizing you’re not at the top yet — but at least you reached the next marker.
I don’t know what comes next yet.
But for now, this part is done.
And that matters.
💛 Some steps are quiet. Some steps are heavy.
This one was both.
This week has been quieter here.
Not because there’s nothing to say…but because life has been asking for my attention elsewhere.
I’ve been working through a disability application — the kind of process that takes more energy than it looks like from the outside.
The paperwork.
The details.
The remembering.
It’s a different kind of work.
So this week, I’m choosing not to rush.
Not to force words onto the page just to stay on schedule.
Instead, I’m giving myself a little space to move through what’s in front of me.
The stories will still be here.
The words will still come.
Just… maybe a little more gently.
💛 Some weeks are for writing. Some weeks are for getting through.
I went into the assessment thinking I needed to hold it together.
Answer clearly. Stay composed. Explain things in a way that made sense.
Not too much. Not too emotional. Just enough.
I’ve gotten pretty good at that over the years — finding a way to explain my life so it sounds manageable. Something people can understand without sitting in it too long.
But this time… it didn’t really work like that.
She started asking questions about my day-to-day. About what I can do. What I can’t. What things actually look like at home.
And I tried to answer the way I usually do. Clean. Simple. Contained.
But somewhere in the middle of it, my body had other plans.
The words didn’t come out the way I expected them to. My chest tightened, my throat closed up, and before I could stop it, I was crying.
Not dramatically. Not uncontrollably.
Just… enough that I couldn’t pretend everything was fine.
I remember thinking, this is not how this is supposed to go.
I was supposed to explain things. Not… show them.
There were moments where I couldn’t find the words I wanted. Where my brain just stalled out. And my wife stepped in — filling in the gaps, explaining things I couldn’t quite get out.
Not over me. Just… alongside me.
And honestly, I think that mattered more than anything I could have said perfectly.
At some point, I realized I wasn’t going to be able to present my life in a neat, understandable way.
There wasn’t going to be a version of this that sounded “okay.”
And maybe that was the point.
Because when it was over, she said she was going to recommend PCA services.
Which means help.
Actual, tangible help.
Not because I explained things well.
But because, for once, I didn’t.
I didn’t hold it together.
I didn’t translate everything into something easier to hear.
I just… showed what it looks like.
And somehow, that was enough.
And I think I’m starting to understand that maybe it doesn’t have to come out clean to be real.
Maybe it just… has to be honest.
Have you ever had a moment where you couldn’t hold it together the way you thought you should?
The other day I had a realization.
A deeply humbling realization.
I still have Christmas presents I started making two years ago.
And not only that…I also have presents from last Christmas that still need to be finished.
Which means, technically speaking, my holiday production schedule is running somewhere between “fashionably late” and “archaeological discovery.”
But in my defense…Handmade gifts take time.
Sometimes that time is measured in weeks.
Sometimes months.
And sometimes… apparently…multiple Christmases.
🎄 The Handmade Gift Timeline
When you decide to make gifts instead of buying them, there’s always this hopeful moment where you think:
“I’ll start early this year.”
And you mean it.
You really do.
But then life happens.
Chronic illness happens.
Caregiving happens.
Executive function goes on vacation.
And suddenly the calendar flips forward like a scene from a time-lapse nature documentary.
🧠 ADHD Holiday Math
Normal holiday math says:
Start gift → finish gift → wrap gift → Christmas morning.
My brain’s version looks more like this:
Start gift → set aside temporarily → forget about it → rediscover it six months later → feel hopeful again → repeat.
At this point my handmade gifts are less “Christmas presents” and more long-term creative investments.
🌿 Why I’m Not Beating Myself Up About It
There was a time when realizing this would have made me feel like I’d failed.
Like I should have been more organized.
More disciplined.More on top of things.
But life has taught me something important:
The timeline of a handmade gift doesn’t actually determine its value.
Care does.
Intention does.
Love does.
Even if that love takes a slightly… scenic route.
🎁 The Honest Truth
The truth is, when you live with chronic pain, ADHD, caregiving responsibilities, and the general chaos of being human…
Some things just move slower.
And that’s okay.
The people I love don’t care whether a gift shows up in December…or February…or occasionally two Christmases later.
What they care about is the thought behind it.
🌲 Field Notes From a Slightly Chaotic Holiday Schedule
Good things take time.
Sometimes that time is measured in days.
Sometimes in months.
And sometimes…apparently…in multiple holiday seasons.
Which is fine.
Because Christmas happens every year.
No rush.