Every year, I renew my Minnesota State Park pass. It’s always on my windshield — a little square sticker that catches the sunlight just right — even if I don’t make it out to the parks as often as I used to.

It might not sound like much, but to me, that pass means hope.

I live right next door to a state park, and for years it was like my second home. From spring through fall, I was there nearly five days a week — hiking, taking photos, or just breathing in the scent of pine and damp earth. It was my place to think, or not think at all. Just be.

And I wasn’t alone. My Newfoundland mix, Koda, was my constant companion. He was big, goofy, and endlessly patient with me — and with everyone else, too. Every Friday, a mother and her daughter would come down to the river. Her daughter had special needs, and one day, Koda just knew. He gently nudged his way over, tail wagging, and started playing with her. The little girl laughed — full, bright belly laughs. Her mom teared up and said she hadn’t heard that sound in years.

That moment stuck with me. That’s what the park is for — connection, healing, joy. It’s more than trails and trees. It’s life happening quietly all around us.

Of course, not every memory is that poetic. Like the day Koda decided he was done walking and laid down right in the river. There I was, trying not to slip or fall in myself, while also making sure his giant, happy head stayed above water. He looked absolutely content, as if the current was his personal spa treatment. People down at the river where laughing hysterically as I struggled with him

And then there was the time we accidentally ended up on a trail that turned out way steeper than I expected. My balance isn’t the best, and before I could panic, Koda stepped in front of me, pressed against my legs, and side-stepped all the way down that hill — slowly, carefully — letting me lean on him the whole way. He was my silly boy, but he was also my steady ground.

These days, I can’t walk those trails like I used to. My body doesn’t always cooperate. But every year, I still buy that state park pass — because it’s not just a sticker. It’s a promise to myself.

It’s my reminder that I still belong out there — under the trees, by the river, with the wind on my face.

I love seeing more Minnesota parks adding all-terrain wheelchairs, making nature more accessible for people like me. It’s a small thing that means the world. It tells us, “You’re still welcome here.”

So yes, that little pass stays on my windshield. It’s more than a ticket for entry — it’s a symbol of hope, of connection, and of the simple truth that nature doesn’t give up on us.

Sometimes, hope looks like a sticker.

There’s this idea floating around that you can’t be a “real” photographer unless you’re carrying a heavy camera bag full of expensive lenses.I used to believe that, too. I thought I needed the fancy gear — the full-frame body, the tripod, the lenses with names that sound like spacecraft. But here’s the thing: chronic pain doesn’t care about brand names, and neither does art. On flare-up days, when my arthritis or fibro makes lifting a camera painful, I reach for my phone. It’s light, easy to hold, and lets me capture beauty without pushing my body past its limits. And you know what? Some of my favorite photos — the ones that still make me pause — were taken that way.—

✨ The Night I Captured the Milky Way

One quiet night, the sky was clear enough that I could see the Milky Way stretching across the horizon like spilled sugar. I propped my phone on a light weight tripod, waited for the star button to pop up for astrophotography, and held my breath. When I looked at the result later, I couldn’t stop smiling. The shot wasn’t perfect, and I can’t blow it up to couch size — but it was mine. It was perfect for me.

🌈 The Night the Sky Danced

And then there was the night the sky decided to dance.The northern lights appeared — soft purples, greens, and reds weaving like ribbons above the trees. We were along the north shore of Lake Superior, when my Aurora alert apps were going crazy! I was having an “I’m so cool” moment with my phone in one hand, and my camera in the other. I’m so glad I had my phone with me — because guess who forgot to focus properly on their “big fancy” camera? 🤦‍♀️Yep. My best shots of the purple aurora came from the phone. It’s funny, in a way — all that expensive gear sitting there, and the photo that captured the moment best was the one taken with the device I use to check the weather. That night reminded me that creativity isn’t about the perfect setup. It’s about showing up when the sky starts to glow, and using whatever you’ve got to hold onto the magic.

💚 Accessibility Is Not a Limitation

It drives me a little crazy when people say you need an expensive, heavy camera to make “real” art. Because for many of us — disabled, chronically ill, neurodivergent — accessibility is creativity. “Accessibility isn’t about lowering the bar — it’s about widening the gate.” I can’t hike miles with a backpack of lenses anymore. But I can take quiet, intentional photos from a scooter or wheelchair, or propping myself up with my crutches, or in my front yard. I can use my phone’s RAW mode and edit my shots the same way I would from a DSLR. Art doesn’t care what camera you use. What matters is the eye behind the lens.

🌿 For My Fellow Disabled Photographers

If you’re out there with a phone in your hand, thinking it’s not enough — I promise, it is. Your photos count. Your vision counts. The best camera will always be the one you can hold. And the best artist will always be the one who keeps noticing the light, no matter where they’re standing. So keep taking the shot. Even if it’s just with your phone. Especially if it’s just with your phone.

“I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread.”

— Bilbo Baggins, The Lord of the Rings

Some days, that line runs through my head like a quiet refrain. It’s the best description I’ve found for what it feels like to be both a caregiver and someone who needs care myself.

Between helping my cousin navigate their world and supporting my mom’s health, I sometimes forget where my own edges are. My energy becomes a shared resource — part of me, part of them, part of everything that needs to be done.There’s love in that. Real love. But there’s also exhaustion that seeps into the bones — a kind that no amount of coffee or naps can fix.

And still, I show up. Not perfectly, not always gracefully, but I do. Because love doesn’t have to look like balance — sometimes it just looks like trying again tomorrow.

So for now, I’m learning to rest when I can, ask for help without guilt, and remind myself that “good enough” is, in fact, good enough.

Maybe someday I’ll write more about this — the push and pull of care, the guilt that sneaks in, and the quiet lessons hidden in fatigue. But tonight, I just needed to say: if you’re stretched thin too, you’re not alone.