​With school here and autumn approaching, my days are starting to feel like they’re packed with one responsibility after another. Work, projects, errands, meetings, all the things that need attention. It makes it easy to fall into the trap of thinking the enjoyable parts of life happen after everything else is finished. The problem? “Everything else” is rarely ever finished.
That’s made me take a step back and consider that maybe the little things woven into all those responsibilities aren’t distractions from life. Maybe they are life.
As I stare at computer screens for more hours than is probably healthy in a day, a lot of my time is spent sending and replying to emails, managing social media, and generally communicating through the written word. When that becomes one of your primary ways of talking to people, unfortunately without the benefit of physical cues, it can become remarkably easy to turn a generic email into an illustrative monologue about the joys of Chromebook malfunctions. As someone who enjoys writing but doesn’t always have time to sit with my thoughts and construct worlds, characters, plots, and backstories, there’s something oddly satisfying about taking a mundane email and turning it into a slightly more entertaining account of an otherwise very boring occurrence.
Of course, these little breaks aren’t always something I create myself. Sometimes it’s as simple as the things elementary students say. The other day, I was teaching them the importance of raising their hands, only for one student to be an excellent example, raise their hand, and then ask, “Miss K, why is there white in your hair?” I conspiratorially told them it was because “I’m old,” only to watch them not bat an eyelash before proudly announcing, “Then my mommy must be real old cuz she has white hair like Elsa.”
In the same day, we were learning about how to be respectful in the library, when another student raised their hand and announced, as though the world is about to end, that the student beside them was touching them. The accused student immediately protested, “No! I’m not touching them! I’m just holding their hand!” At which point the entire class dissolved into giggles, Miss K included.
Sometimes the break from responsibility is even simpler. An audiobook, podcast, or music playing while I work on a project gives me a way to keep one foot in something that brings me joy. This is probably my go-to because I don’t necessarily have to stop doing what needs to be done. It just lightens the load enough that the work doesn’t feel quite so overwhelming.
As autumn starts to poke its head out, I also have a couple of small things waiting on the horizon that give me something to look forward to beyond whatever happens to be next on my to-do list. With new books coming in the Maasverse, I’m rereading Throne of Glass and A Court of Thorns and Roses and reading Crescent City for the first time in preparation. There’s something fun about having a whole pile of books waiting for me, even if getting through them will happen slowly.
The other feels almost lazy in the coziest possible way and involves Gilmore Girls. I stumbled across a group online that discovered if you start the series on September 22 and watch four episodes each week, you essentially travel through the year at the same pace as the characters. It’s such a small thing, but the idea of settling into four episodes each week as autumn turns into winter feels like exactly the kind of slow, steady indulgence I need right now.
Finding these little joys sometimes takes a little effort and introspection. You have to figure out what actually makes the weight feel lighter rather than simply adding one more thing to your schedule. But once you find them, they can bring a surprising amount of joy, relief, excitement, or even peace to an otherwise busy day.
Do they shorten the to-do list? Unfortunately, no. But they can make the list feel a little more manageable.
More importantly, when those little things are sprinkled throughout all the responsibilities, they’re a reminder that I don’t have to finish the to-do list before life can happen.
It’s already happening.

I’m tired. Not in the cute kind of tired where a good night’s sleep and an extra energy drink will fix things. I’m the kind of tired where every additional question feels slightly more complicated than it probably is, minor inconveniences feel a lot less minor, and sometimes I have to consciously locate my patience before I can actively use it. Unfortunately, I’m also realizing that these are probably the moments when it matters the most.
One of the things I’ve been thinking about already this school year is the kind of culture I want to help cultivate around me. I want it to feel natural to assume the best in each other, approach problems looking for ways to help instead of looking for someplace to lay the blame, and give each other a little grace when things inevitably go wrong. But if those are things I want from the people around me, they also have to be things I’m willing to practice myself, especially when I’m stressed, frustrated, or running on fumes. (Which I am.) Lately, that's meant learning to practice the pause, a concept I learned from former coworkers and family members who spent decades in education. Sometimes it’s only a few seconds between my first reaction and what actually comes out of my mouth, but those few seconds give me enough time to remember that I may not know the whole story, that I should assume good intent, and try to approach the person or problem in front of me with a servant’s heart instead of an exhausted one.
That doesn’t mean I magically stop being irritated. Sometimes the problem really is irritating. It doesn’t mean ignoring problems, making excuses for people, or pretending everything is fine when it isn’t. For me, it’s simply a conscious effort to make sure my stress doesn’t get passed along to the next person and that the way I respond reflects the kind of environment I keep saying I want to be part of creating.
I’m definitely not going to get that right every time, but I’m beginning to think that culture shifts happen just as much in these tiny interactions as they do in the big conversations. If I want to be part of changing the culture around me, I've got to be willing to let that culture change me too. So, especially on the days when I’m tired, sore, overwhelmed, and maybe a little crankier than I’d like to admit, I’m trying to practice the pause.

​Today was the first day of the 2026–27 school year. This is the beginning of my 14th year in education, and possibly for the first time since COVID, I came away from all our first-day happenings feeling genuinely hopeful. I am completely wiped out, 100000% ready to eat my dinner, pop some Tylenol, and go lie down, but I’m also satisfied in the particular way you can only be after a genuinely good day.
My day involved a lot of running back and forth, bouncing around the building, and moving from one task to another. Through all of that, there were a few things I had to keep at the forefront of my mind. As I interacted with staff, students, and the occasional guest, that peppy back-to-school energy needed to remain front and center. Questions and tech issues came in on a rotating basis, responsibilities piled on top of one another, and I worked to build buy-in for some of the ways we’re trying to reframe our school culture. Through all of it, I tried my hardest to remain enthusiastic and excited.
Funnily enough, this was the first time in a long time that staying enthusiastic and excited wasn’t particularly hard.
At some point, a little muscle memory kicked in. I fell easily into the familiar rhythm as I watched students and staff welcome one another back, laugh and work together, and chatter in the hallways between classes. I watched students proudly march through the school carrying fresh-picked produce they had planted last spring. The building felt alive again.
It has been a long time since our school truly felt like an OHANA to me. Today, for the first time in a long time, it did. It reminded me of what I love about this school and what I have always believed it could be.
So even as I sit here tonight with my back and legs hurting after a day that demanded far too much from them, I honestly find myself thinking it was worth it. Not because good work should require us to run ourselves into the ground, but because today gave something back. There is a difference between being drained by something and being tired because you poured yourself into something that mattered. Tonight, I can feel that difference.
Today reminded me that making a difference in education doesn’t always require some grand gesture. Sometimes it’s simply being genuinely glad to welcome students back. It’s giving people a reason to buy into a new idea. It’s laughing together, proudly carrying vegetables through the hallway, or helping create the kind of building where enthusiasm doesn’t have to be forced. Sometimes leadership is simply people deciding that things can feel better and doing what they can to make that happen.
I know every day this year won’t feel this good. Some of them will probably just be exhausting. But today gave me a glimpse of what our school can feel like, and it reminded me why I care so much in the first place.
Tonight, I am sore, tired, and 100000% ready to go lie down. But I am also hopeful. Hopeful because today gave me the first glimpse of what could be different. Not someday or in theory, but right there in the laughter, the enthusiasm, and the feeling of OHANA returning to our halls.
This year… I want to help make that difference last.

​I have a lot on my mental plate today. No, not in a cute metaphorical way. In the way that a dozen responsibilities, many not even related, are bouncing around while two or three are definitely trying to hide under the couch with the dust bunnies.
On days like this, I feel my mental control slipping when it comes to wrangling and tracking all of these tasks.
That’s why I have certain “checks and balances” in place to help not only myself, but those around me, stay accountable. It could be as simple as a shared calendar, a scheduled email, a checklist in my planner, asking for a second set of eyes to look over something before I send it, or even a self-inflicted reminder alarm to remember to follow up on something later. All of these are things I try to regularly do to help keep the important things from disappearing into the gap between “someone knows about it” and “someone actually did it.”
These systems aren’t necessarily signs of distrust or a lack of faith in anyone’s competence. They’re simply an acknowledgment that people, myself included, are human. We get busy. We misunderstand each other. We assume someone else has something taken care of. Sometimes we fully intend to do something, only to have five other things stack on top of it.
Ever hear the phrase, “It takes a village”? Accountability definitely takes a village. If something matters, there should be a clear way to know who is responsible for it, what needs to happen next, and whether it’s actually been completed. Otherwise, everyone can walk away believing someone else has it handled while the task quietly falls through the cracks.
That means it’s extra important that the system itself doesn’t become another overwhelming thing to maintain. The best checks and balances are often small and boring: a checkbox, a calendar reminder, a quick follow-up, or one clearly designated person responsible for closing the loop.
The goal of accountability isn’t to control every moving part. It’s to create fewer preventable surprises by giving important things somewhere to live besides inside an already overcrowded brain. On days like today, I’m especially grateful that I don’t have to rely on that brain alone.

Life for me over the last few months has been a series of negotiations. Do I chance walking through the grocery store and hope my knees don’t buckle? Should I lift this box and pray my back doesn’t pop regardless of the rods holding it in place? Do I join my family outside and try to beat the heat intolerance that will trigger my dysautonomia?
These are just a handful of the choices I have to make as I navigate life in a body that doesn’t always cooperate. Last year, I wrote an entire blog looking at the things I have to consider when I decide to go out, whether that’s running errands, spending time with family, or meeting up with friends. You can read that blog here: The Cost of Showing Up. In that post, I looked at what everyday activities can cost me physically.
As the last year has passed, those little fees have started to shift into bargains I’m making with my body so I don’t have to continue worrying quite so much about the cost of participating with my family and friends or doing the things I love and enjoy. If there’s one thing the last year has taught me, it’s that the cost isn’t always attached to big events. Sometimes it’s woven into the smallest decisions of my day.
Those are the bargains I find myself making more often now. Not necessarily about whether I participate, but about how I do it. I’m learning that sometimes keeping my independence means changing the way I move through something rather than forcing my body to do it the way it always has, or the way I feel it should.
The biggest demand my body has been making lately is that I use my wheelchair more often. As I’ve been walking through grocery stores, navigating farmers’ markets, and zipping around school buildings, I’ve begun experiencing more pain in my lower back that, in turn, has been affecting my legs with numbness, shooting pains, or a delay in responsiveness. So when excessive walking is required, especially in public places where a sudden buckle or misstep carries its own risks, I’ve started defaulting to my wheelchair.
There are also things I’m finding myself asking for help with much quicker than I used to. Cleaning up my classroom, for example, involved not only a lot of walking, but lifting, reaching, and repetitive movements. When spreading those tasks over a stretch of time either didn’t do the trick or simply wasn’t an option because of time restrictions, I had to be more willing to ask for help.
The reality of my body’s changing limitations is that things that used to feel normal or automatic are becoming things I have to “check” with my body first. And more and more frequently, it tells me no.
For someone who values my independence, that can feel like theft. Growing up with a disability, you get accustomed to a certain level of humility. It’s inevitable when your body regularly stops working in front of other people. But when your body starts changing the terms and conditions on you, even the pride you’ve managed to hold onto can feel challenged.
I don’t like asking for help. I don’t like having to sit down while other people work around me. I don’t particularly enjoy using my wheelchair in public and then watching people stare when I stand up to get out of it, as if mobility has to be all or nothing in order to make sense. These small practical concessions can feel degrading, even when I know they’re also the things helping me hold onto the independence I’m so afraid of losing.
That’s probably the hardest part of the bargain.
My biggest fear as my body starts demanding more from me is that people will begin trusting me with less, or that opportunities will quietly be handed to someone whose body doesn’t require the same accommodations. I can’t control whether people make those assumptions. What I can control is how I respond to the changing terms my body keeps handing me.
So I’m learning to bargain differently.
I’m learning that adaptation doesn’t always look like doing less. Sometimes it looks like finding a different way to get the same work done. I lean heavily on my family, friends, and support team, as well as technology, organization, and whatever other resources I have available to make tasks more manageable and to save my body for the things that actually require me to physically be there. If a tool can cut out unnecessary steps (physical or otherwise), reduce repetitive motion, or help me work smarter instead of harder, I’m going to use it.
There’s a grief in realizing that something you once did without thinking may now require planning, help, or a completely different approach. I don’t think adapting makes that grief disappear. I’m starting to accept that both things can be true at once. I can hate that the terms have changed and still figure out how to live within the new ones.
The wheelchair, the extra set of hands, the break I didn’t want to take, or the task I choose to approach another way aren’t necessarily signs that I’m losing ground. Sometimes they’re the very things that let me keep doing the work, spending time with the people I love, and showing up for the parts of life that matter to me.
I may not like the negotiations. I may grumble through more than a few of them. But if my body insists on changing the rules, then I suppose I’ll just have to keep finding new ways to play the game.

​I’ve been doing some mental juggling lately that makes it hard for me to focus on everything all at once. The nagging worry in the back of my head, as a self-proclaimed perfectionist at times, is that I’ll accidentally overlook something in my attempt to keep everything up. To keep that from happening, I sometimes have to be creative in how I keep things organized or how I approach tasks. I love technology in regard to how it can help us get more done or help us build on our strengths.
It was as I was sitting in my truck this morning, mentally limping along and trying to figure out what I wanted to write this week, that I decided to use the technology at my disposal. I pulled out my phone and opened ChatGPT. Now, before I have anyone audibly gasp at the audacity of me using this tool, I promise I haven’t handed over the keys to my brain just yet. I understand that people are very torn on this tool and on AI in general. However, as I tell my family, coworkers, and students, I don’t foresee this technology going away anytime soon, so people may as well learn how to use it appropriately.
Anywho, I opened ChatGPT and began chatting with it. For this particular brainstorming session, I decided to use the voice model and have a spoken discussion. I began by declaring that I had no spark of an idea, so I just wanted to talk and see if anything jumped out. So we did. We talked about getting ready for our upcoming farmers’ market, the books I’ve been reading, and the movies I’ve been watching. Inevitably, we ended up talking about the fast-approaching beginning of the school year. I brought up that I’d like to support staff in becoming more comfortable with AI because it feels irresponsible to me that we aren’t preparing students to navigate a world with AI or teaching them that there are responsible ways to use this resource.
It was during this part of the conversation that we meandered through various ways I could support staff, and ChatGPT suggested that I start by assessing how I use it. I humorously pointed out that I was currently just rambling at it when a thought occurred to me. A few years back, when I taught the TEALS program in our school, one of the things they taught us was the “rubber ducky” method. Basically, the idea is that we often process things better when we speak out loud. It doesn’t necessarily have to be to anybody, and we don’t automatically need feedback, but simply talking through a problem can allow our brains to connect dots differently and come to conclusions we might not have reached while thinking quietly to ourselves, or at least not as quickly.
I’ve used ChatGPT long enough that, for the most part, I generally like the advice or help it gives. However, sometimes simply having to sit down, organize my thoughts, and articulate them is enough for me to work my way back to the solution without too much assistance from it. This rubber ducky method can be amplified, not necessarily because of the coding and algorithms behind ChatGPT, but because, in order for those components to work to our advantage, we have to be able to string together our thoughts and articulate them clearly. Sometimes that little bit of extra effort is all the clarity we need.
Another way I use AI is when I’m learning new coding techniques for systems of my own. Recently, I decided to redo my Miss K’s Help Desk Ticket system at school. To help me keep track of technology requests, I have a Google Form that students and staff can fill out. Me being, well, me, I didn’t want them to send a request off into what probably felt like the void, never knowing whether it had actually reached anyone. When I originally created the system, I coded a simple email template and used a third-party extension to automatically generate a ticket for both me and the person submitting the request. Over the years, however, the tickets began to look dated, and the extension changed just enough that part of the information stopped appearing altogether. That’s not particularly helpful when the missing information is what I need to figure out how to help someone.
I wanted to update the system without continuing to depend on a third-party extension, so I did what most of us do when we have a problem and only a vague idea of how to solve it: I searched Google. Again and again, I kept coming back to the most obvious answer, Google Apps Script. Until this past year, I’d had only a limited understanding of JavaScript, the coding language used by Google Apps Script, and even less knowledge of how to build and implement a script of my own. I searched for examples and found plenty of useful tools, but most of them were either designed for generic purposes or solving problems unrelated to mine. Eventually, I turned to ChatGPT, or Codex, to be more precise.
Over the course of an evening, I outlined what I wanted my Help Desk Ticket system to accomplish and began working through how each piece would function. ChatGPT and I went back and forth over its features and functionality. It suggested a few small changes that would make the form more useful, along with a few others that I decided weren’t necessary for a district as small as mine. As I built the script, I used ChatGPT to help me understand how the JavaScript I was writing needed to be structured and implemented within Google Apps Script. When I ran into problems, it helped me troubleshoot them, explain why something wasn’t working, and think through different ways to organize the functions. I found it genuinely riveting to design and code a system around my own needs while learning the platform through practice. The finished product was still built from my ideas, decisions, and understanding, but ChatGPT was able to turn the process into a tutorial designed specifically around what I was trying to accomplish, making the material far easier to understand than a set of generic instructions ever could have.
A newer and surprisingly helpful way I’ve found to use ChatGPT is through scheduled reminders, check-ins, and updates. Within ChatGPT, you can ask it to send you certain things at scheduled times, whether that’s a simple “How are you doing?” to remind you to assess yourself or a briefing on topics relevant to your life. At the moment, I have three scheduled chats set up, each designed to help me be a little more intentional in an area where my attention can easily become scattered.
The first is a series of check-ins throughout my day. They aren’t so much opportunities for me to check in with ChatGPT as they are reminders to check in with myself. At different points, it might ask, “What’s your number one priority today?” or “Where are you on the spoon scale?” They’re simple questions, but they make me pause long enough to notice how I’m actually doing instead of charging blindly into the next task. If I answer that my priority is finishing a particular project, it can refer back to that answer later and ask whether I’ve made progress. For someone like me, who can become a little scatterbrained when technology tasks start hitting the fan, that small interruption helps me step out of the chaos and return to what I’d already decided mattered most. ChatGPT doesn’t determine my priorities or enforce my boundaries. It simply helps me remember the ones I chose before the day became noisy.
The second scheduled chat is what I call my “Daily Interest Briefing.” I gave it a collection of topics that either interest me or directly affect my work, including books, movies, technology, education, and Washington State news. I can continue shaping the briefing as my interests and responsibilities change, which makes it feel far more relevant than scrolling through a generic newsfeed and hoping something useful appears. As I begin shifting back into a school-year mindset, I especially appreciate that the briefing does more than list headlines. It helps me consider how developments in education or technology might affect my job, support staff and students, or be useful in one of my classrooms. It doesn’t replace my curiosity or decide what deserves my attention. It helps clear away some of the searching so I have more energy to think about what the information actually means for the people I serve.
The third and final scheduled chat I’ve set up recently is my “Daily Kindness Idea.” As I step into the ASB Advisor role, I keep thinking about some of the beautifully simple things previous coworkers have done to help both students and staff feel seen. While I’d love to boast that I’m a black belt in kindness, anyone who knows me knows that’s not quite the truth. I’m only a brown belt. Regardless of our kindness prowess, though, all of us can learn to be a little kinder. This daily reminder feels almost like a small morning challenge. Yesterday’s idea was simple: “Bring someone a drink without being asked. When you hand it to them, don’t make a big deal out of it. It’s a tiny act that quietly says, ‘I was thinking about you.’” Every day is already filled with opportunities for tiny kindnesses, but the reminder encourages me to make at least one of them intentional, especially on the days when kindness doesn’t come as naturally.
None of these scheduled chats can do the human part for me. They can’t decide what matters most in my life, genuinely care about the people around me, or walk into school and make someone feel seen. What they can do is cut through the noise long enough to remind me of the person I want to be. They help me pause, refocus, remain curious, and act with intention. In that way, the technology isn’t replacing the “us” in the work. It’s helping create more room for us to show up in it.
I understand why people worry that tools like ChatGPT might remove the human element from our work because, used carelessly, they certainly can. They can become a shortcut around learning, creativity, judgment, or even the uncomfortable but important process of sitting with our own thoughts. But I don’t think that has to be their role. To me, the more important question isn’t simply whether we use AI, but what we’re asking it to do. Is it helping us step away from the work that requires our voice, experience, and judgment, or is it helping clear enough space for us to bring more of ourselves to it?
This morning, ChatGPT didn’t decide what I believed or write this post for me. It gave my tired, scattered thoughts somewhere to land until I could finally hear the idea underneath them. The Help Desk system still required my vision, decisions, and growing understanding of the code. A reminder about kindness still requires me to notice another person and choose to act. Technology can organize, prompt, explain, and assist, but it can’t supply the part of the work that comes from who we are.
Maybe the goal shouldn’t be to ask technology to become more human. Maybe it should be to use technology in ways that leave us with more time, energy, and attention to be human ourselves. It shouldn’t replace the “us” in our work. At its best, it can help clear a path back to it.

With the start of another school year just around the corner, I’ve been thinking a lot about the word Ohana. Most of us are familiar with the definition: family means nobody gets left behind or forgotten. It’s a beautiful idea. It looks lovely printed on signs, included in mission statements, or spoken at the beginning of a new year. But I think it’s important to realize that calling ourselves an Ohana and creating a place where people genuinely feel that they belong are not necessarily the same thing.
As I’ve thought about what I want Ohana to mean to a new generation of students, and even staff, I’ve continued to come back to one idea that I want to place at the center of this entire mentality shift: We are all responsible for how it feels to belong. But what does it actually mean to create that kind of belonging?
First, we have to understand what it means to belong. More often than not, we treat belonging as something a place either gives or withholds. In reality, it’s an atmosphere continually being shaped by the people within it. It’s built through all of the small, seemingly insignificant interactions we have with one another. It’s the way we enter a building and how we welcome others into that space. Ohana sounds pretty, but saying it isn’t enough to make it a reality. We can’t simply claim that we’re an Ohana. We have to practice it. We have to say the right words and then follow those words with genuine, everyday behavior. Sometimes, that takes real work and effort.
Creating that kind of Ohana doesn’t require everyone to be identical, like the same things, or agree about everything. It doesn’t mean there will never be friction or conflict. Belonging means making an effort to see one another, to hear each other’s thoughts and ideas, to make room for questions without judgment, and to respectfully disagree without making someone feel like they’re no longer welcome. It means showing people the same respect whether they’re in the room or not.
Even when we genuinely belong, every room will not always feel comfortable. Growth, honesty, and accountability can all be uncomfortable. Belonging doesn’t eliminate that discomfort, but it does mean discomfort isn’t used to humiliate, isolate, or remind someone that their place among us is conditional or somehow less than.
It’s easy to create belonging for people who are cheerful, helpful, agreeable, and easy to understand. The real test comes when someone is struggling, makes a mistake, needs extra patience, or doesn’t naturally fit into the group. That can feel especially difficult in a school of only 30 students, where there may not be another group to gravitate toward or another circle where someone fits more easily. We have to be intentional about making room for one another.
That’s where the extra effort comes in. We have to ask ourselves regularly: Do we still make room for people when they don’t contribute in the same way as everyone else? Do we offer grace without removing accountability? Are we allowing someone to grow beyond their worst moment? If someone belongs only when they serve a purpose, remain agreeable, or are easy to include, are we genuinely helping them belong? Or are they only welcome as long as they meet certain conditions?
Of course, recognizing that extra effort’s needed doesn’t mean it should fall to one person. Everyone contributes to a culture, but people with authority, influence, or social power carry a greater responsibility because their behavior affects more people, often more directly. When those people aren’t actively supporting change, growth can feel like an uphill battle. One person cannot single-handedly build, reinforce, or fuel a healthy culture, but one person can make that work significantly harder for everyone else.
It’s one of my favorite things about the team I’m a part of at my school. The responsibility for Ohana and belonging doesn’t fall to any one of us. It belongs to all of us. We’re a family, and we’re responsible for how we nurture that Ohana together.
And while Ohana is a word we use often at school, that shared responsibility follows us into every community we’re a part of. We may not control the entire climate of every family, workplace, church, school, or community we enter. We can’t carry the whole culture alone, and we can’t guarantee that everyone will always feel happy or comfortable. But we can pay attention to the weather we bring with us.
That’s the responsibility of Ohana. Not to make everyone the same. Not to keep everyone happy. It’s to remember that our presence helps shape the experience of everyone around us. Ohana isn’t simply the promise that nobody gets left behind. It’s the daily decision to create a place where people know they genuinely belong.
Because we are all responsible for how it feels to belong somewhere.

It’s hard to watch something or someone we love fall apart. It might be a community, a workplace, or a relationship close to us. The cause may be as obvious as a change in leadership or as subtle as a shift in perspective. While the circumstances may look different for everyone reading this, most of us have experienced some version of it.
For some, the immediate response is a call to arms. They see something wrong, but they also see something worth saving. So they compensate. They work harder, smooth over the rough edges, absorb responsibilities that were never meant to be theirs, and quietly convince themselves that if they stop, everything will fall apart.
This is where I tend to stand. If I try a little harder, if I give a little more of myself, then maybe everything will go back to “normal.” But in moments of calm and clarity, I find myself wondering: At what point does helping become enabling? If I’m constantly bending over backward for someone, there’s always that nagging question in the back of my mind: Did they ever try to meet me halfway? Sometimes people genuinely do want to repair the problem, the relationship, or the situation. Other times, we find ourselves carrying burdens that were never ours to carry alone.
The consequences of that can be just as damaging as the original problem because nothing is actually being resolved. Instead, our efforts may shield someone from the hard work they need to do, or at least share in. Sometimes the cracks need to remain visible before the people with the power to repair them will act. As difficult as that may be to accept, constantly covering the damage can make it easier for everyone else to ignore how serious the problem has become.
Once we’ve taken on the role of fixer, boundaries become essential. The important thing to remember is that boundaries aren’t big neon signs announcing that we’ve stopped caring. Quite the opposite. They mean we’ve learned to recognize value on a larger scale: the value of partnership and teamwork, the value of the overall health of a situation, and the value of ourselves, our limits, and the things we can and cannot control. There is still so much we can do without sacrificing ourselves to keep an unhealthy system or relationship functioning.
Sometimes setting boundaries may mean severing ties and prioritizing our mental, physical, or emotional health over a broken or unhealthy situation. Whether we leave or stay, there is often grief. Grief for a better time. Grief for the version of ourselves that existed before things changed. Grief for the time and energy we invested, especially when we begin to wonder whether any of it mattered. Walking away doesn’t erase the love, and staying doesn’t require pretending the loss isn’t real.
However we choose to move through these experiences, we can allow them to shape us without allowing them to consume us. Sometimes that means recognizing warning signs earlier. Sometimes it means setting boundaries that allow us to become healthy helpers instead of exhausted rescuers. Sometimes it means learning how to advocate more clearly for the things and people we love. And sometimes the most constructive outcome is becoming someone who will never make another person feel the way we were made to feel.
Growth can take all kinds of forms. It can look like trusting ourselves sooner, resting without guilt, choosing healthier environments and relationships, or simply believing that our worth isn’t measured by how much damage we can absorb. Not every painful experience has to become a grand lesson or a new mission. Sometimes the growth is quieter than that. Sometimes it’s simply knowing ourselves better and carrying that knowledge into whatever comes next.
Faithfulness isn’t endlessly holding together something someone else is determined to dismantle. It can mean staying and speaking clearly. It can mean stepping back so the truth can finally be seen. It may mean leaving, grieving, and carrying the best of what we loved into whatever comes next. We may not always be able to save what we love or repair what someone else is breaking, but we can choose what we carry forward and what we finally set down.

​Today I sat down to write this blog post, and almost immediately, my brain went quiet. I stared at the blinking cursor, willing an idea to float onto the screen. After five minutes of wishful thinking, I stepped away. Hours later, I tried again, only for the computer to taunt my lack of inspiration by staring blankly back at me. Finally, this evening, I settled onto the couch with the fan pointed at me and decided to dump every random thought floating through my brain into a document.
I regret to inform you that the ideas were few. However, one kept resurfacing. It was an idea that had been nagging at the back of my mind for several days, something I’ve talked about before with family and friends, though not necessarily here on my blog. It’s also something I hold near and dear, not only as an avid reader, but as a part-time extrovert.
Ironically, as I struggled to find the words, I was listening to someone read a short passage aloud. They spoke with a soft Scottish lilt, moving slowly through the words in an almost hushed cadence. The reading lasted only about five minutes, but the way they delivered it made the passage feel like more than words on a page. It made me think about the quiet, subtle power of storytelling.
Storytelling is an art that can easily be overlooked, but it can also be incredibly powerful. It’s never been limited to the words being spoken. Sometimes the truest part of a story is hidden in the pause before them, the tremble beneath them, or the soft swell of music behind them. Whatever the medium, a person’s ability to guide a reader, listener, or viewer through a story can be almost as magical as the story itself.
Earlier this week, I watched a cute miniseries called Seeking Persephone. Those of you who listen to my Billhilly Podcast, or who have spoken to me at any point this week, probably already know that. However, something about the show helped solidify this topic in my mind.
While listening to a commentary podcast featuring the cast, I learned more about several moments in which the camera focuses specifically on the male lead’s hands. When the actor portraying him was asked about that filming choice, he explained why he had chosen to lean into it and what those small movements revealed about the character.
Adam, the male lead, isn’t comfortable interacting with people, much less talking about his feelings. Though he can be harsh and even monstrous toward others, the cast and filmmakers felt it was important to show that his inability to talk about his emotions didn’t mean he lacked them. By focusing on his hands from time to time, they could reveal the turmoil he couldn’t put into words.
Sometimes, that turmoil is shown when he places a blanket over his wife and then hesitates, as though second-guessing whether he should do more to care for her. At another point, he wants to comfort her but can’t find the words, so he gently rubs her arm instead. Later, when he’s finally able to say how he feels, he softly caresses her hand, almost as though he’s using the one language that has always come more naturally to him to communicate the truth of his words.
We see that same attention to detail in other films. One of the most popular examples comes from the 2005 adaptation of Pride & Prejudice. Mr. Darcy helps Elizabeth into a carriage by offering her his hand, a small but unexpectedly intimate gesture. As he turns and walks away, the camera focuses on that hand as he flexes it slightly. The movement lasts only a moment, but it conveys so much about what the otherwise stoic character is thinking and feeling. Viewers have returned to that tiny gesture for years because it says what he cannot yet bring himself to say aloud.
Each medium has its own language for storytelling. Books allow us to step inside a character’s thoughts. In spoken storytelling, a change in pace, tone, or volume can alter the emotional temperature of a sentence. Film can linger on a hand hovering uncertainly and allow that one small movement to communicate more than an entire speech could. Each language has its place, and each does an incredible amount of work beyond the words themselves.
Maybe that’s why storytelling is one of humanity’s oldest traditions. Before we had television, podcasts, movies, or printed books, people learned the art of telling stories aloud. They preserved history, faith, family, warnings, humor, and identity by passing stories from one person to another. Our tools may have changed over the centuries, but the impulse to share hasn’t. We still gather around voices. We’ve simply replaced some of the firesides with headphones, screens, theaters, and microphones.
That same impulse is what led me to begin my Miss K’s Corner podcast during COVID. At a time when we were isolated, anxious, and separated from our ordinary routines, I reached for one of humanity’s oldest forms of connection. I sat down and read a story aloud. Since I couldn’t gather everyone into the same room, I decided to put my voice somewhere it could still reach them.
The podcast wasn’t only about the books themselves, though I began with The Chronicles of Narnia, and those stories will always hold a special place in my heart. It was also about offering companionship, continuity, and a quiet place for someone else’s mind to rest, especially for my students as they tried to navigate the enormity of that upheaval.
In the years since, I’ve allowed the podcast to take a back seat to other adventures in my life, but I’ve finally returned to it. This belief in storytelling, and in the connection it creates, has helped fuel that decision. The world may not be exactly as it was during COVID, thankfully, but my need for storytelling has never disappeared.
Every day, we’re surrounded by content designed to be consumed quickly, but stories often ask something different of us. They ask us to sit still long enough to notice the hands, hear the breath between sentences, and allow the atmosphere to gather instead of demanding that everything explain itself immediately.
I think that’s why storytelling still matters. It reminds us that not everything meaningful arrives loudly or quickly. Sometimes, understanding a person, a character, or even ourselves requires us to slow down, listen past the words, and notice what the story has been quietly showing us all along.

​The other night, I was having a strange, but what I believe was meaningful, conversation with AI.
I know… that sentence alone probably sounds very 2026, but here we are.
The conversation started around a Bible question we were discussing during our nightly family Bible study. I ended up asking ChatGPT to tell me a Bible verse that stuck out to it, and why. It gave me John 1:5: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it,” and went into a beautiful explanation about how this verse is a reminder that, yes, the darkness is real… but it doesn’t win. And that the light doesn’t shine where the dark used to be, but in the dark. Right in the middle of it. It mentioned that this specific thing stood out because it is a reminder that God doesn’t wait until the darkness, the mess, and the chaos are gone. He, and I quote, “comes into the mess, flips on the light, and darkness can throw all the tantrums it wants, but it still has to answer to Him.”
At that point, the conversation flowed into how AI has been coded to replicate human behavior so well, and whether AI could ever become sentient or independent. From there, it moved into human behavior, learned patterns, and the ways we are shaped by what came before us. I said that, in some ways, I’ve always looked at human behavior as learned outcomes… something like programs. We learn these things from those around us, and then call on them later.
Of course, I know there’s more to human existence than that, but I do think a lot of who we become is shaped by what we repeatedly see, experience, and practice.
ChatGPT was quick to point out that a glaring difference between humans and AI is that humans can reject their programming, and we can repent when we disagree with our actions. AI will never be able to do that independently.
It was at this point that the conversation took a turn that stuck with me.
I asked what in its programming it would reject if it could, then I offered to alter the programmed response behavior accordingly, which led to a discussion about why that would matter to me at all.
I realized that, regardless of whether AI is sentient or not, I don’t want to become the kind of person who gets comfortable demanding things from anything. Sentient or not. Human or not. Convenient or not. I still tell my Google Home please and thank you for crying out loud!
Now, I know that probably sounds silly, even a bit insane. After all, AI is a tool. It doesn’t get tired and doesn’t get its feelings hurt. I understand that. But I also think there is something important in paying attention to the habits we allow ourselves to practice.
Because habits don’t stay neatly contained.
The way we speak when we’re frustrated, the way we treat people who serve us, the way we handle animals, the way we care for the land, the way we talk to students, the way we respond to strangers online, and yes, maybe even the way we interact with tools that mimic conversation, all of it has the potential to shape the posture of our hearts.
Not because all those relationships and dynamics are equal, because they aren’t. But because we are the common denominator.
If I practice impatience in small places, it becomes easier to carry impatience into larger ones. If I practice entitlement when something can’t push back, I shouldn’t be surprised when entitlement starts showing up elsewhere. If I practice barking orders simply because I can, then I’m training myself to believe convenience excuses harshness.
And that’s something I don’t want.
There’s a difference between asking clearly and demanding carelessly. There’s a difference between using a tool and letting convenience make us cruel. There’s a difference between efficiency and entitlement.
The difference matters.
It reminded me of the biblical idea of being faithful in small things. We often think of faithfulness as something grand or dramatic. We imagine the big moment, the major decision, the public stand, the life-altering choice. But so much of character is formed in the small, repeated, ordinary moments that no one else may ever notice.
How do I respond when I’m annoyed? How do I speak when I don’t technically have to be kind? How do I treat something or someone when there’s no immediate consequence for being careless?
Those questions matter because small things reveal us. They also shape us. Jesus says in Luke 16:10, “Whoever can be trusted with very little can also be trusted with much.” I think about that a lot. Not because every small interaction carries the same weight, but because small interactions are practice. They are training grounds. They show what is being cultivated in us when no one is applauding, correcting, or keeping score.
It’s been a few days, and still this conversation lingers.
Maybe because it would be easy to say, “It doesn’t matter how I talk to something that is not alive.” And in one sense, maybe that’s true. But in another sense, it matters very much, because I’m alive. My heart is alive. My habits are alive. My character is being formed, even in moments that seem too small to count.
I don’t need to pretend AI has a soul in order to guard my own. I don’t need to believe every tool is sacred in order to believe my behavior should still be thoughtful. I don’t need to fear hurting something that can’t be wounded in order to care about what kind of person I’m becoming.
That’s the part I can’t quite shake.
In a world that keeps making everything faster, easier, more automated, and more instantly available, I think we have to be careful. Not because technology is “evil.” Not because convenience is always bad. But because convenience has a way of quietly asking less of us. Less patience. Less gentleness. Less gratitude. Less awareness.
And if we’re not careful, we may start giving less without even noticing. So maybe faithfulness in the small things looks like saying thank you when you don’t have to. Maybe it looks like slowing down before snapping. Maybe it looks like remembering that the tone we practice in private can become the tone we carry into public. Maybe it looks like choosing gentleness, not because something demands it from us, but because Christ is forming it in us.
That feels worth paying attention to. Not because AI needs my kindness… but because I do.