Finding Joy in the Journey

I wrote a new song called “No House Knew My Name”

The song is rooted in the experience of housing insecurity, but also in the deeper emotional reality that can come with it: the feeling of being temporary, unnamed, unanchored, or never fully held by the places that were supposed to protect you.

I hope everyone’s day includes at least one moment of resting as intentionally as Frida.😊

Not “I should be doing something” resting.

Changing your mind is not weakness.

Sometimes it is leadership, humility, maturity, and emotional intelligence.

The better question is not, “Did you change your mind?”

It is, “What helped you see it differently?”

5 ways to say it with confidence:

“After learning more, I see this differently now.”

“I understand why I saw it that way before, and I have new information now.”

“I am adjusting my perspective to better align with our goals and values.”

“My thinking has evolved, and I see that as growth.”

“I appreciate the perspectives that helped me see this more fully.”

Changing your mind does not mean you lack conviction.

I have been physically writing again. Pen to paper - slower, messier (by a lot!), and much more intentional.

And I forgot how much that practice changes the way I think. There is something different that happens when my hand has to keep pace with my mind. Or maybe more accurately, when my mind has to slow down enough for my hand to follow. The thought becomes less rushed. The idea has more room. The reflection becomes more honest.

I have started reintegrating physical writing into my work and creativity in small ways: Writing out ideas before building a document, sketching frameworks before turning them into slides, journaling through moments when I feel stuck, overwhelmed, or unclear, writing poems, phrases, and fragments by hand before deciding what they want to become, and taking handwritten notes when I want to listen more deeply instead of just capture more information.

For me, writing by hand has become less about productivity and more about being connected to myself. It reminds me that not all thinking needs to be fast to be valuable. And not all creativity begins polished.

Sometimes clarity comes through the blank page, scratch of a pen, the pause between words, the crossing out of something that almost said what we meant, and the quiet decision to try again.

Chapter 45: NO (place like) HOME

A personal reflection on housing insecurity and belonging.

Part 1 – “There is no place like home”

“There is no place like home” Dorothy Gale proclaimed to the world as she clicked her heels three times. Upon opening her eyes, Dorthy returned home. It is one of the most recognizable lines in American culture, spoken as though home is obvious, universal, and waiting patiently for all of us to return. And home is one of the most assumed ideas in human culture. People speak about it as though it is instinctual, inherited, unquestionable. A place. A feeling. A return.

But for some of us, home never arrives as uncertainty and it requires inquiry to understand it. What happens when those words do not land? What happens when home is not a comfort? When opening your eyes does not bring resolution, but another unfamiliar room, another goodbye, another version of yourself learning how not to get too attached?

For me, I spent my whole life clicking my heels to open my eyes to nothing more than questions of what does home mean and why no one could tell me what it really meant for me. I think about home a lot…well, I use to. In a way that is not nostalgic. Nor in the way people talk about childhood bedrooms or familiar streets. I think about more like a problem that never quite resolves. Like a foreign word I keep turning over in my mouth, trying to see how to pronounce it correctly.

From years of journaling, I have come to understand that the question of home has been a constant in my life. That reflection did not emerge in isolation. It was shaped by frequent moves, repeated loss, and the absence of a space that ever felt truly safe. Home, or the idea of it, is woven so deeply into our lives that most people do not notice it. It functions like a foundation. It is quiet, assumed, and essential.

True to myself, when I have a question in my mind, I observe, ponder, research, contemplate, talk about the question and core idea. I search for meaning…not so much the answer.

I find that people talk about home like it is obvious. Like it is a place that waits for you. Like it has patience. Like it remembers you even when you forget yourself. I have always felt slightly defective in those conversations, like I missed a class everyone else attended early and then built their lives around. I did not grow up with a single place that held me. I learned early that stability was temporary, that attachment required caution. Moving became normal, leaving became practiced, and staying felt odd. I do not remember a moment where I was told, “This is yours. You can stay.”

My friends talked about home as history. As roots. As people who watched them grow up and still knew their names. I did not have that. I had death, trauma, loss, struggle. And with those so went the possibility of nostalgia. Grief was my memories.

When I saw people on television celebrating home (like laughing in childhood bedrooms, cooking family recipes, returning to parks that had their names carved in trees), I felt alienated. Not jealous. Alienated. Those narratives did not fit my nervous system. My memories were not warm. They were loud. Sharp. Reflection caused vigilance. When people talk about home as memory, I feel disconnected. I certainly learned survival before I learned belonging.

For a long time, I thought this meant something was missing in me. That I was trapped in some easy to escape room and I was really dumb (or way too smart – they feel the same sometimes) to figure how to open the door. But, lately, I feel that I was simply shaped for a different kind of work and life.

Pt. 2 – "You've always had the power, my dear. You've had it all along."

The moment that stayed with me was never Dorothy clicking her heels. It was Glinda telling her, “You’ve always had the power, my dear.” Not because Dorothy suddenly found a house to return to, but because someone finally named something she could not yet see in herself: that she belonged long before she understood what belonging meant.

As a child, I did not know why that mattered. As an adult, I simultaneously understand exactly why it did and fundamentally have no clue what it means.

Dorothy does not begin the journey knowing she belongs. She struggles. She wanders. She is frightened. She is dismissed. She searches for answers outside herself because no one has yet told her that she is allowed to be where she is.

Only after the journey. Only after she has survived, learned, endured does someone finally name the truth: She always had the power. To me that meant: “You belong. You always did.” That moment resonates with me deeply. Because belonging when it finally arrives for many of those of us who did not grow up held by safe, steady places of belonging, certainty, or continuity, is not discovered alone. It must be named for us. It must be reflected to us. Spoken into existence by someone who sees you and says, “You are not lost. And you never were.” That is the power of being.

But home is something else. I spent years trying to make home and belonging the same thing or feeling. If I could just belong. If I could locate that internal permission, then perhaps home would follow. I examined home from every angle: physical place, routine, lineage, ritual, memory, faith, love. Each definition felt close, but not quite true.

Belonging, I came to understand, is existential. It is about presence. About being allowed to exist without justification. Home, for me, is contextual. It is built. It is reinforced. It is held collectively. They are related, but they are not the same.

I do belong. I belong because I am here. Because I showed up. Because I live inside my own being with clarity and care. But I do not need a home in the way the world (…or I…) insists I should.

Now I understand this to be my truth: not having a home (in all of its meanings) is not just something I survived. It is also something I bring. I bring an attunement to impermanence. I bring sensitivity to transitions. I bring an ability to sit with people in constant change. I bring a way of seeing that does not assume safety but works intentionally to create it.

I bring the knowledge that not having a home (and everything that means to the world) does not make you less than and it certainly does not mean you do not belong. So, when I watch Dorothy clicking her heels now, I think less about where she lands and more about what finally becomes visible to her. Not her home. Not the place. Not her family. But, herself.

When I tap my heels and open my eyes, I do not wake up at home or with people. I wake up to the world that is in front of me and accept that it is always changing. I do not wish for something different or someone different.

I wrote this song...and I still do not know if this came from a single moment or from a lifetime of moments. But I know this for certain. There have been times where it felt easier for me to stay quiet and to make myself smaller…to not fully step into who I am. I wrote “Rise Up in Love” with that tension in my mind and heart.

The song is about the courage to stop hiding. The choice to lead with love, even when fear is loud. And the belief that the voices that came before us…the ones who loved deeply and paid a price… still echo in how we choose to show up today. I am still learning what it means to rise. It does not always look strong or certain. Sometimes it just looks like honesty. Sometimes it looks like taking one step forward.

This song is shaped by stories. Some personal, some collective of people who have been silenced, overlooked, or asked to shrink. I used the music styles from those groups and those groups that asked them to be quiet.

The first flower of the season always makes me pause. After months of cold, gray skies, and quiet ground, something small pushes through the soil and reminds me that growth was happening the entire time even when I could not see it.

Nature has a quiet way of teaching patience. Beneath the surface, roots were forming. Energy was gathering. Life was preparing for the right moment to rise.

I try to remember that when seasons of life feel slow or uncertain. Not everything meaningful grows where we can see it right away.

Creativity, for me, is formative AND transformative. Thus, it can also feel threating. However, creative writing has always been how I process (and hopefully help others process) the complexities of life, like loss, faith, identity, grief, belonging. Lately, my writing has turned outward. More toward the culture we are living in... towards understanding division, fear, courage, religion, and what it means to stay human when it would be easier to disappear.

I hesitated to share this writing, which is not typical for me. It is not because I thought it lacks relevance or perspective, but because being seen always comes with risk. However, at some point, I realized not sharing was no longer humility or discernment. It was self-betrayal to my values of honesty and reflective community processing.

The creative piece below is a declaration to live with integrity and truth rather than comfort and safety. It is about choosing visibility over safety, refusing silence in the presence of harm, and carrying forward the legacy of those who paid a price for being seen…while widening the path for those still finding the courage to speak.

Link to song in the comments.

In The Flame

By Scott S Criqui

Lyrics

Verse 1

He was tied to a fence

Under a wide, cold sky

Beaten and bleeding,

Left there to die

And I saw myself

In his eyes

Not because I knew him

But because I did

Because we both dared

To love like we did

Pre-Chorus

That day I stopped

Praying to pass

Stopped betraying myself

Just to last

In the silence,

I stood still,

I felt the fire,

I chose the pain,

Then I made my will

Chorus

I’ll live in the flame

Even if it burns

I’ll speak my truth

Without fear or shame

Comfort is gone

And safety withdrawn

I’ll live in the flame

If it means living true

I’ll live in the flame

Even if it scars

I’ll live in the flame

To thrive out loud

And alive

Verse 2

They told me to lie

To be safe, to survive

To bury my heart

And feel nothing at all

But I saw the scarecrow

They left out to die

And I knew if I waited

I’d rot just the same

So I made a promise

To ghosts in the wind

To never go silent

To let the truth win

To carry our stories

And raise up our voices

Chorus

I’ll live in the flame

Even if it burns

I’ll speak my truth

Without fear or shame

Comfort is gone

And safety withdrawn

But I’ll live in the flame

If it means living true

I’ll live in the flame

Even if it scars

I’ll live in the flame

To thrive out loud

And alive

Bridge

This is not caution

This is love made of steel

Forged in the fire

Too deep to conceal

I don’t want to be safe

I want to be real

Outro

Because hate only wins

When we choose not to feel

They came with fear

But we came with grace

And love held its ground

In the darkest place

It does not yield

It does not fall

It rises, it stands tall

Because love never dies

Love lives,

Forever,

Even in the flame

And I’ll live in the flame

Yes, I’ll live in the flame

Birthdays always invite me into a quiet kind of reflection. A pause between what has unfolded and what is still taking shape. When I saw this image of a sprout pushing through the soil, something in me recognized a truth I have been living my way into: We do not get to begin again in the sense of rewinding life. Yet every day is a beginning in its own way. It is an unfolding, an opening, a return to possibility.

This is the beautiful dialectic of growth: Life never resets, and yet life is always renewing. Both things are true at the same time.

As I step into another year, I am struck by how many beginnings arrive quietly. Not through dramatic reinvention, but through small shifts. It can be an insight, a moment of courage, a deeper breath, a conversation that softens or strengthens us. These beginnings gather over time and reshape us in ways we may not see until we look back.

My own journey has taught me that beginnings are less about erasing what came before and more about expanding what is possible. They grow from compassion, from curiosity, from the lessons carried forward. They grow from the willingness to stand in awe of our own becoming.

So on this birthday, I am choosing to honor the beginnings already stirring within me - new perspectives, deeper connection, a renewed commitment to belonging and purpose, and an openness to whatever emerges next.

September is Suicide Prevention Awareness Month. A time to raise awareness, reduce stigma, and remind ourselves that noticing the signs and reaching out can save lives.

Suicide warning signs are not always obvious. They can be subtle or easy to dismiss, but noticing them can save a life.

Here are a few red flags to watch for in colleagues, friends, or loved ones:

--- Talking about death or suicide (directly or indirectly)

--- Expressing hopelessness (“What’s the point of living?”)

--- Posting or writing about self-harm

--- Searching for means (guns, pills)

--- Withdrawing, neglecting appearance, reckless behavior

--- Giving away possessions or “tying up” affairs

If you notice these signs, especially after a painful event, do not ignore them. Instead, reach out with empathy and compassion. Sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do is ask directly: “Are you thinking about suicide?”

You do not need perfect words. You just need to care.

Listening is more than polite manners. It is the foundation of human connection and a pillar of mental health.

--- A 2022 study found that high-quality listening (giving someone your full attention and understanding) can actually reduce feelings of loneliness.

---In therapy and counseling, the simple act of being heard often meets a deep human need. It eases anxiety, supports healing, and strengthens resilience.

---On the flip side, when people are not listened to, the result is often isolation, disconnection, and worsening mental health. Journalist Kate Murphy, after reviewing two years of listening research, warns that our failure to listen is fueling both loneliness and polarization.

Look at this beauty! 💜 The passion flower and chocolate mint are more than just pretty faces in the garden. They’re pollinator magnets. They are bringing in bees, butterflies, moths, flies, and even hummingbirds. Every visitor helps keep the garden thriving.

We spend a lot of time talking about how to listen.

Maintain eye contact. Nod. Summarize what you heard.

But here’s the truth: techniques only work if the mindset is there.

Real listening begins with two commitments:

1) Interest: Be genuinely curious about the other person. Listen because you actually want to understand, not because you’re waiting for your turn.

2) Humility: Set your ego aside. Resist the urge to fix, judge, or make it about you.

When those two elements are in place, the “how” takes care of itself. People feel valued, trust deepens, and conversations become transformational instead of transactional.

The research is clear:

--- High-quality listening reduces loneliness and fosters connection.

--- Couples who learn to truly listen (instead of trying to “fix” each other) experience greater intimacy.

--- At work, when leaders genuinely listen, engagement and performance rise.

Sometimes, shining your light costs you something.

"Bringing light into darkness may burn, but it also reveals paths where hope can walk again."

I have felt that burn in my own life—through loss, challenge, and the moments where I had to speak up even when it was not easy. But what I learned is this: the burn reminds us we are alive, we are present, and we are doing work that matters.

My garden has always been a place where my spirit finds renewal. It grounds me in the present, reminding me that growth takes both patience and resilience. Each season, the blooms shift and change, but every flower teaches me something about life. .

This sunflower, standing tall in my yard, carries more than beauty. it carries meaning. In Ukrainian culture, the sunflower is a national symbol of peace, resilience, and unity. Families plant them as a sign of hope for brighter days ahead. To me, that symbolism ties deeply to what I see in this flower: standing firm, turning toward the light, and finding strength in simplicity.

Much like the sunflower, we too are drawn toward light. Toward moments of purpose, connection, and belonging. When life pulls us into shadows, it helps to remember that we have within us the same instinct as this flower: to seek light and to keep growing.