I hate him.

I can and should hate this malevolence.

All decent, loving, compassionate people should.

Every person claiming to care about what Jesus cared about should hate it.

Good people should unapologetically hate atrocities against humanity.

Christians should be fighting it instead of cultivating it.

* John Pavlovitz

I hear it a lot lately.

A Christian I follow and greatly admire just posted about why we should hate him. Smart people. Good people. People whose wisdom I’ve trusted for years—all saying the same thing. The title of the post this quote is from, “You’re right to hate him. Good people do.”

Always the contrarian, I disagree. Sorry, John.

Here’s why I can’t get on board with hate, even when it feels righteous.

No One Knowingly Does Evil

People always feel justified in what they do. Always.

The person you despise? They have a story they’re telling themselves. A narrative where they’re the hero, or at least where their actions make sense. They’ve constructed a worldview—however twisted—that validates every choice.

This doesn’t excuse anything. But understanding it matters.

Because when we reduce someone to “evil,” we stop trying to understand how we got here. We stop asking the hard questions about systems, about trauma, about the conditions that create cruelty.

People Aren’t Evil—They Do Evil

Evil isn’t a person. It’s the absence of good. The absence of Love.

A friend introduced me to this concept many years ago. I resisted. I looked for exceptions. I fought it until it won me over.

People are deluded. Living in shadow. Unskilled in compassion. Ignorant of their own wounding and how it spills onto others. But the person themselves? Not evil. Capable of evil, yes. Currently doing evil, yep. But not fundamentally, irredeemably evil.

You might think I’m playing semantic games. But if you’ve read me for any time, you know how much I value precision in language.

There’s a vast difference between “I hate him” and “I hate what he does.” While I agree with John’s point about hating the malevolence and fighting it. I disagree with his giving us permission to hate the person, even calling us to it.

Between “He is evil” and “He does evil.”

We Are All Made in the Image of the Creator

This is where it gets uncomfortable.

If we’re all One—if we’re all expressions of the same Source—then hating another person is hating a part of yourself.

It’s like a cell in the body attacking another cell. The whole organism suffers.

I’m not asking you to like him. I’m not asking you to excuse what he does or to “understand both sides” in some false equivalence.

I detest what he does. I cannot wait until the day he can no longer do it.

But I will not stoop to hating him or thinking him evil.

See Clearly. Call Evil Evil.

Let me be crystal clear: I’m not soft on evil.

I call evil what it is. Cruelty is cruelty. Exploitation is exploitation. Harm is harm.

Seeing someone as fundamentally human doesn’t mean pretending their actions aren’t causing real damage. It means looking directly at what they’re doing with steely-eyed clarity and naming it.

No spiritual bypassing. No toxic positivity. No, “it’s all love and light.”

Evil actions must be seen, named, and opposed.

Love Always Wins (But It Might Take a While)

Here’s what I hold onto: Love always wins. Always.

Not in some Pollyanna way. Not because I’m naive about how dark things can get.

But because Love is the fundamental nature of reality. It’s what we’re made of. It’s where we’re going.

The question isn’t whether Love wins. It’s whether we’ll align ourselves with it while we’re here.

And yes—it might take a while. Longer than we’d like. Longer than feels fair.

But that waiting, that apparent delay? It doesn’t change the outcome.

What Would Love Do?

So with clear eyes that see evil for what it is, and with faith that Love ultimately prevails, I ask myself the only question that matters:

What would Love do?

Not “what feels good” or “what makes me look enlightened” or “what’s easiest.”

What would Love do in response to this specific harm, in this specific moment?

Sometimes Love opposes fiercely. Sometimes Love protects boundaries. Sometimes Love says no with absolute conviction.

Love isn’t weak. Love isn’t passive. Love doesn’t tolerate abuse.

But Love also doesn’t hate the person while fighting their actions.

Love sees the humanity even while stopping the harm.

The Real Challenge: Loving Beyond the Easy Ones

Some people are easy to love. Your kids. Your partner. Your friends. The neighbor who waves every morning.

But Jesus pointed out that even tax collectors and pagans love those who love them back. What’s remarkable about that?

His challenge was harder: “Love your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you.”

Not because your enemies deserve it. Not because what they’re doing is okay.

But because that’s the only love that actually transforms anything.

Loving people who are easy to love doesn’t stretch you. It doesn’t grow you. It doesn’t challenge the parts of you that want to divide the world into “us” and “them,” “good people” and “evil people.”

Loving your enemy—seeing their humanity while opposing their harm—that’s the spiritual work that actually changes things.

It’s also the hardest damn thing you’ll ever do.

The Trap of Hate

Here’s what hate does: It binds you to the very thing you despise.

It keeps you in reaction mode. It clouds your judgment. It makes you more like the thing you oppose because now you’re operating from the same energy—division, contempt, dehumanization.

And strategically? Hate makes you less effective.

You can’t dismantle what you don’t understand. You can’t protect what you’re too angry to think clearly about.

I choose discernment over hate. Fierce opposition over contempt. Strategic action over reactive rage.

I choose to remember that everyone—everyone—is doing the best they can with the consciousness they currently have.

That doesn’t mean I roll over. It doesn’t mean I stop fighting for what’s right.

It means I fight with clarity. With strategy. With an open heart that refuses to close even when closing feels safer.

What about you? When you hold these three truths together—seeing evil clearly, trusting Love’s victory, and asking what Love would do—how does it change your response to harm?

I’d love to hear your thoughts.

TL;DR

Grief ambushes you at random—at the grocery store, in the car, at work. Emotional regulation isn’t about controlling your feelings or forcing positivity. It’s about intentionally moving through them.

I use a 6-mile walk with three playlist phases:

* Processing grief with sad/angry music (Evanescence, Linkin Park)

* Transitioning with songs that hold both pain and hope (JEM, “The Climb”)

* Rising with uplifting music about reunion and growth (Stevie Wonder, Kenny Loggins)

Create your own version: pick your practice (walk, drive, bath), build your playlists, make it routine. You can’t control when grief hits, but you can decide when and how to process it.

The ambush happens when you least expect it

You’re at the grocery store, and a song comes on. You’re driving to work and pass the hospital where they died. You’re fine, you’re functioning, you’re holding it together, until you’re not.

The anger slams into you. The longing swallows you whole. The sadness wraps around your chest until you can barely breathe.

This is emotional dysregulation. When your emotions control you. When grief decides when and where it’s going to flatten you.

And everyone talks about it. The breakdowns. The triggers. The moments when you lose it in public and feel like you’re losing your mind.

But what we don’t talk about enough is the other side: emotional regulation.

Emotional regulation is not controlling your emotions. Not forcing yourself to “stay positive.” Not spiritual bypassing with gratitude journals and toxic positivity.

Real emotional regulation is something different. It’s the intentional movement through your emotions. All of them. The ugly ones, the scary ones, the ones that make you want to crawl back into bed and never come out. By giving yourself a safe, intentional space to let those emotions move through you, you reduce the risk of an ambush.

Stick with me to the end. I’m going to give you a practical way to use emotional regulation and we’re going to practice this!

The Feedback Loop You Can’t Ignore

Your thoughts and emotions exist in a constant feedback loop. Negative thoughts trigger negative emotions. Those emotions reinforce negative thoughts. Round and round it goes, pulling you deeper into the spiral.

But here’s what makes this powerful: the same loop works in reverse. Positive emotions can shift your thoughts. Positive thoughts can shift your emotional state.

The key is you can’t skip the hard part. You can’t bypass sadness and land on gratitude. You have to walk through it.

Try This Right Now

Before I show you my technique, let’s prove this feedback loop is real. You need to experience it in your body, not just understand it intellectually.

Find a quiet space where you can close your eyes for a few minutes. We’re going to deliberately shift your emotional state using only your thoughts.

First, think of something mildly irritating from your past. Not the death of someone you love—we’re not trying to blow out your emotions here. Choose something smaller. An argument with your partner. Someone cutting you off in traffic. Getting passed over for a promotion. That frustrating interaction with customer service.

Close your eyes. Bring that memory into focus. What were you wearing? What did the other person say? How did it feel in the moment?

Sit with it for 30 seconds.

Now check in with your body. How do you feel right now? Is there tension in your jaw? Tightness in your chest? Has your mood shifted even slightly toward irritation or frustration?

Notice that. You just changed your emotional state by directing your thoughts to something negative.

Now, shift to a happy memory. A birthday party with your kids. Your favorite vacation. Your wedding day. The day you got your dog. A perfect meal with friends. You choose.

Close your eyes again. Really feel into it. Who was there? What were you wearing? What did it smell like? What made you laugh?

Sit with this memory for 30 seconds.

Now check in again. Has your mood lifted, even slightly? Do you feel a little lighter? Maybe a small smile at the corner of your mouth?

That’s the feedback loop in action. Your thoughts directly influenced your emotions. And those emotions are now influencing your thoughts—pulling you toward more memories that match that emotional state.

This is why grief can spiral. One sad thought leads to a sad emotion, which leads to more sad thoughts, which deepen the emotion.

But here’s the powerful part: if thoughts can pull you down, thoughts can also guide you back up. Not by denying the hard emotions, but by moving through them intentionally.

Let me show you how.

My Deliberate Emotional Journey

Every morning, I walk six miles. And I use those miles to regulate my emotions, intentionally.

This isn’t random. It’s a deliberate arc: processing or metabolizing “negative” emotions (less desirable), transitioning, rising, or reinforcing desirable emotions. Music is the vehicle that carries me through each phase.

I do this by curating a list of songs designed to trigger emotions in me. Yes, I am deliberately activating emotions like longing, anger, and sadness.

This is what it means to be planted, not buried. I’m not stuffing grief down into the soil, pretending it doesn’t exist. I’m using it to grow upward. I’m moving through it with intention.

Let me show you exactly how this works.

Your Emotional Regulation Playlist: The Complete Arc

Here’s what this looks like in practice—an actual playlist that takes you through the full emotional journey.

Your songs will be different than mine. Your arc might take a different shape. But the structure—process, bridge, rise—that’s universal. This isn’t about copying my playlist. It’s about understanding how to create your own.

If you want my playlist, here you go!

PART 1: PROCESSING THE GRIEF (Miles 1-3)

These songs give voice to what you’re feeling. They don’t fix it. They witness it.

“My Heart Is Broken” - EvanescenceRaw desperation. The feeling that you can’t go on. This song doesn’t try to make you feel better—it lets you feel broken. The summer Shayna passed, I listened to Evanescence’s self-titled album almost every single day for months. This track became my anthem for those days when breathing felt impossible.

“Lost in Paradise” - EvanescenceThe disorientation of grief. You’re somewhere that should be beautiful, but you can’t feel it. Everything is muted. You’re physically present but emotionally somewhere else entirely.

“The Other Side” - EvanescencePure longing. Wanting to cross over to where they are. This is the ache that never quite goes away—the desperate desire to be reunited with the person you lost.

“Tracks of My Tears” - Go WestThe mask we wear. The pain we hide. This song acknowledges that you’re functioning on the surface while breaking underneath. There’s something validating about hearing your hidden grief named out loud.

“Numb” - Linkin ParkFeeling disconnected from everyone and everything. The exhaustion of trying to be what everyone needs you to be when you can barely hold yourself together.

“In the End” - Linkin ParkThe futility. You tried so hard, did everything right, and still lost what mattered most. Sometimes you need a song that says “yeah, it’s not fair, and it hurts like hell.”

“Breaking the Habit” - Linkin ParkThe cycles you can’t escape. Falling back into the same patterns of pain, the same thoughts, the same agonizing loops.

“Going Under” - EvanescenceDrowning. Suffocating. This is for those days when grief feels like it’s pulling you under and you’re not sure you can come back up.

“Lithium” - EvanescenceCycling between pain and numbness. Neither feels good, but at least numbness doesn’t hurt as much. This song captures that desperate negotiation with your own feelings.

By this point in my walk, I’ve cried. I’ve felt the anger. I’ve acknowledged the longing. I’m not stuffing it down. I’m not pretending. I’m honoring what’s real.

And here’s the thing: listening to sad music doesn’t make me sadder. It gives my sadness a container. It makes me feel less alone. Someone else took the time to write down, to perform, the words that mean so much to me. Amy Lee knows my pain. Chester Bennington knows my anger. You share this universal thing with another human being who understands.

PART 2: THE BRIDGE - HOLDING BOTH TRUTHS (The Turn for Home)

This is the pivot point. These songs don’t deny the pain, but they begin to shift your gaze toward hope.

This is the most important part of the entire technique: you can’t go straight from “My Heart Is Broken” to “Walking on Sunshine.” Your nervous system will reject it. It’ll feel false, like you’re lying to yourself.

You need songs that say “this is brutally hard AND you’re going to survive it.” Songs that hold both truths at the same time. The pain is real. Your resilience is real too.

“You Will Make It” - JEM“You will make it through this.” This song sits perfectly in that liminal space between acknowledging how hard it is and believing you’ll survive it. It’s not bypassing—it’s that gentle hand on your shoulder saying “I see your pain, and I believe in your resilience.”

“Hall of Fame” - The Script ft. will.i.amAspirational but grounded. It acknowledges where you are while lifting your eyes to what’s possible. “You can be a champion” even when you’re in the struggle. Especially when you’re in the struggle.

“The Climb” - Miley CyrusMaybe the ultimate transition song. It’s literally about the journey being hard but that’s where the growth happens. “Keep on moving, keep climbing, keep the faith.” It doesn’t promise it gets easy. It promises it’s worth it.

This is where the real emotional regulation happens. I’m not flipping a switch from sad to happy. I’m acknowledging “yes, this is brutally hard AND I’m choosing to keep moving toward life.”

PART 3: RISING TOWARD LIFE (Miles 4-6)

By the time I hit these songs, I’m ready to lift my head. To remember what I’m living for.

“Sweet Reunion” - Kenny LogginsThis one’s about coming back together. About the promise that separation isn’t forever. It lifts me up with the reminder that Shayna and I will be reunited. Not as a someday fantasy, but as a spiritual certainty grounded in evidence and experience.

“Higher Ground” - Stevie WonderI didn’t learn until much later in life that this song is about reincarnation. About spiritual evolution. About moving upward even through struggle. It shifts my perspective from “why did this happen to me” to “what am I meant to learn and become through this?”

“A Place With No Name” - Michael JacksonThere’s something hopeful and mysterious about this song. It points toward something beyond our everyday reality—a place of peace, of reunion, of transformation. It helps me remember that physical death isn’t the end of the story.

“Here Comes the Sun” - The BeatlesAfter the long, cold, lonely winter—here comes the sun. It’s been a long time. But things are getting better. This song acknowledges the darkness while celebrating the light breaking through.

“I Can See Clearly Now” - Johnny NashThe obstacles are removed. You can see the bright, bright sunlit way. Not because the rain never happened, but because it’s passed. The clouds are gone and you can see forward again.

“Walking on Sunshine” - Katrina and the WavesPure joy. By this point in my walk, I’m ready for it. I’ve earned it. I’ve walked through the valley and I’m climbing back out into the light.

“Don’t Stop Believin’” - JourneyKeep going. Don’t give up. The journey continues. This is about persistence and hope and refusing to let grief have the final word.

“Rise Up” - Andra DayThe resilience anthem. “I’ll rise up, I’ll rise like the day, I’ll rise up in spite of the ache.” This is choosing life even when life has broken your heart.

By the time I reach my house and I’m starting my day, I’ve gone through the complete cycle. I’ve processed the guilt, the anger, the sadness, the longing. I’ve gotten all that stuff out. I’ve cried the tears that needed to be cried. (And tears are good for you—I wrote a whole article on that recently.)

And then I’ve reset myself. I’m starting my day with gratitude, with hope, with the ability to look forward.

Why This Works

When you listen to music that matches your emotional state, something powerful happens. You’re not suppressing or avoiding—you’re processing. You’re giving your nervous system permission to feel what it’s feeling in a safe, bounded container.

And here’s the key: you’re doing it intentionally.

You’re not waiting for grief to ambush you at the grocery store or flatten you in the middle of your workday. You’re creating space for it. Honoring it. Moving through it. And then gently guiding yourself back to the surface.

This is the opposite of emotional dysregulation, where feelings control you.

This is also the opposite of toxic positivity, where you pretend feelings don’t exist.

This is intentional movement through the full spectrum of human emotion.

How to Customize This Practice for Your Life

Maybe it’s not a 6-mile walk for you. Maybe it’s:

* A 20-minute drive to work

* Your morning coffee ritual

* An evening bath

* A workout at the gym

* Journaling with background music

The practice doesn’t matter. The structure does:

* Create space for the difficult emotions

* Honor them fully—don’t rush through or minimize

* Intentionally shift toward emotions that serve your forward movement

* Make it routine so your nervous system knows what to expect

And the music doesn’t have to be these songs. What matters is finding:

* Songs that witness your pain

* Songs that hold both pain and promise

* Songs that lift your eyes toward hope and meaning

The Gift of Going Through

Here’s what I know after years of walking those six miles: the only way out is through. But “through” doesn’t have to be chaotic. It doesn’t have to be random. It doesn’t have to flatten you when you least expect it.

You can create a container for your grief. You can give it time and space and music and tears. And then you can gently—without denying its existence—guide yourself back to the surface.

That’s emotional regulation. Not control. Not denial. Intentional movement.

You can’t control when grief hits. But you can decide when and how to process it.

Grief will ambush you. But it doesn’t have to control you.

Create the container. Walk through it. Rise.

What songs give voice to your grief? What songs help you rise toward life again? I’d love to hear how you move through your emotions intentionally.

“I’m sorry,” she said, reaching for the tissue box. “I didn’t mean to cry.”

I hear this in almost every session. Clients apologizing for their tears. As if grief should be neat and dry. As if showing emotion is something to be embarrassed about.

But here’s what I always tell them: Please don’t apologize. This is exactly what’s supposed to happen.

When I see tears in a session, I don’t see weakness or loss of control. I see processing. I see grief moving through someone instead of staying stuck inside them. Tears are one of the clearest signs that healing work is happening.

Yet so many people fight them. They blink hard. Hold their breath. Push the wave back down.

This morning, Tampa, Florida was colder than Juneau, Alaska.

Let that sink in. The Sunshine State shivered at 27°F while the Alaskan capital sat at a balmy 33°F. Polar vortexes buckling. Weather patterns flipping upside down.

And honestly? The weather is the least of it.

Our leaders are being exposed as predators. Not just ripping us off economically. They’re actual sexual predators. The economy feels like a house of cards held together by hope, bubble gum, and duct tape. AI threatens to take all of our jobs. The institutions we trusted to hold things together seem to be crumbling in real time.

If you’re feeling like the ground beneath your feet is shifting, you’re not imagining it. It is.

So what do we do?

I’ve spent nearly a decade helping people navigate the worst moments of their lives. After my daughter Shayna passed suddenly in 2015, I had to figure out how to survive when everything I thought I knew about life got ripped away. What I learned then applies now more than ever.

There are three things we need to survive trying times. Not one. Not two. Three— working together.

Be Realistic About Your Situation

I am not a fan of spiritual bypassing.

You know what I mean. That tendency to slap a “everything happens for a reason” sticker over genuine pain. To pretend things are fine when they’re clearly not. To “love and light” our way past real problems that demand real attention. Bull hockey.

Sometimes things suck. And it’s not just okay to say they suck—it’s necessary.

We cannot confront a problem until we realistically assess it. Denial isn’t protection. It’s just delayed reckoning.

This doesn’t mean drowning in negativity, either. It means looking clearly at what’s in front of you. Acknowledging the difficulties without catastrophizing. Seeing reality as it is, not as you wish it were or fear it might become.

That clear seeing? That’s where wisdom starts. That’s when we move to step two.

Keep Faith That Love Wins

Here’s where it gets tricky. Because after I tell you to be realistic, I’m going to tell you something that sounds like its opposite.

I believe everything will turn out okay in the end.

Not naive optimism. Not wishful thinking. Something deeper. Something earned through walking through the fire and coming out the other side.

John Lennon said it best: “Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.”

This is my type of faith. Not faith that bad things won’t happen. Not faith that I’ll be spared difficulty. Faith that Love wins in the end. Always. No matter what it looks like in the middle of the storm.

I’ve studied near-death experiences for years. I’ve talked to hundreds of people who’ve glimpsed what’s on the other side. And if there’s one consistent message they bring back, it’s this: Love is the only thing that’s ultimately real. And Love always wins.

The arc of the universe bends toward light—even when you can’t see it.

Take the Right Action at the Right Time

Step three. We don’t rest on the promise that everything’s going to turn out OK because Love isn’t passive. Love doesn’t win without us.

Faith isn’t passive. It’s not sitting back and waiting for the universe to sort things out while we binge Netflix and doomscroll. Love needs hands. It needs feet. It needs us to show up and do the work.

This is the third key, and it’s where it’s easy to get tripped up.

Outrage moves fast, but it often moves wrong. How many times have you fired off that angry email, that heated social media post, that sharp word—only to regret it later? Reaction isn’t action. It’s reflex. And reflexes don’t solve complex problems.

Despair, on the other hand, doesn’t move at all. It extinguishes the ability to act. It whispers that nothing matters, nothing will help, so why bother trying?

The ground between outrage and despair—that’s where real change happens. Clarity first. Then action. Not before.

Right action at the right time. Not too fast. Not too slow. Not paralyzed by fear. Not driven by rage. Discerned. Deliberate. Aligned with the deeper knowing that Love will prevail.

Holding All Three

These three things aren’t a checklist. They’re a practice.

Be realistic about your situation. Keep faith that Love wins. Take the right action at the right time.

Not one of these alone. All three. Together. In dynamic tension with each other. Each one tempering and strengthening the others.

Realism without faith becomes despair. Faith without realism becomes delusion. Either one without action becomes impotence.

But all three together? That’s how we survive. That’s how we do more than survive. That’s how we transform.

I won’t pretend these are easy times. They’re not. The polar vortex isn’t just disrupting weather patterns—it feels like everything is getting scrambled. Old certainties are melting. Trusted structures are buckling.

But I’ve seen what humans are capable of when they hold these three things together. I’ve watched people walk through unimaginable loss and come out transformed. Not unchanged—transformed. Deeper. More compassionate. More alive.

We’re going to get through this. Not because things will magically get easier. But because Love wins. It always has. It always will.

And because people like you are willing to do the work. To see clearly. To trust deeply. To act wisely.

That’s enough. It’s always been enough.

What’s helping you hold it together right now? I’d genuinely like to know. Leave a comment below or reach out—these conversations matter more than ever.

TL;DR

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That’s why I rarely paywall anything. I want these reflections, questions, and stories to stay accessible—whether or not someone can pay.

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I don’t know how to do this.

You were the first to see me in the morning and the last at night. My days began and ended because you were there to hold them.

When I had a good day, you made me tell it again, so we could live it twice.

When I had a bad one, you listened while I unloaded everything, never trying to fix the weight of it. Just being with me.

I was so excited about coming to Earth.I had it all planned out.The people I would love.The life I thought I was going to live.

I couldn’t wait.I heard Earth was this great adventure.

And just before I left, as I was turning toward the door,someone gently pulled me aside.

Not urgently.Not dramatically.Just enough to make me stop.

And they said:

One last thing.

Before you go, there are a few things to remember.

You will forget almost everything.Where you came from.Why you chose this life.How certain you were that love would survive even death.

This forgetting is not a mistake.

It’s the cost of total immersion.

You are not being sent.You are volunteering.

You will enter a body that feels vulnerable.A world that feels heavy.Time will move only in one direction,and answers will not arrive on schedule.

That’s part of the design.

You will love deeply,and you will lose.

Not as punishment,but as initiation.

When someone you love leaves their body,it will feel like the end of everything.

It is not.

It is a change in how love speaks.

Love does not end.It learns a new language.

You will be tempted to believe that silence means absence.

It doesn’t.

Some forms of communication are quieterand require stillness to hear.

You will feel anger—at God,at fate,at the very idea that this was planned.

Your honesty matters more than your politeness.

Do not rush your grief.

Grief is not something to fix.It’s something to listen to.

You will try to return to who you were before.

You cannot.

That version of you completed its assignment.

You are here to become someone who can holdboth love and loss,certainty and mystery,attachment and freedom.

There will be moments when you wonderif any of this mattered.

It did.It does.It will.

And when the homesickness comes—the longing for something you can’t quite name—remember this:

Even the most beautiful journeycreates a desire to go home.

And after everything—the loving,the losing,the questioning—

there is one thing I hope you remember.

When you’re there,there will be voices.

Oh yes, there will be many voices.

Some will tell you that your body is all there is.That there was nothing before,nothing after,and that nothing really matters.

Other voices will tell you that they have all the answers.That if you just follow them,believe what they say,do what they do,everything will be fine.

And if you don’t listen,they will threaten you—with guilt,with fear,with punishment.

Here is the key, my friend.

The voice you’re listening foris not out there.

It’s the one inside you.

The still, small voice within.

Now, you won’t be able to remembereverything I’m telling you now.

The greater part of youwill be left here.

But if you can remember this—if you can remember to turn within,to listen beneath the noise—

you will be fine.

When your time there ends,you will not be evaluatedby how productive you were,or how well you performed.

You will be recognizedby how deeply you loved.

The relationships you havedo not end at death.

They mature.

You’ve done this before.

You will do it again.

For now, forget.

You’ll rememberwhen it matters most

I’m a solar-driven person.

All year long, we’re told that after December 22nd, “the light returns.”

It sounds dramatic. Reassuring. Almost instant.

But that’s not really how it works.

The winter solstice isn’t the sudden return of light — it’s simply the end of the descent into darkness.

The turnaround is real, but it’s subtle. At first, the change is measured in seconds, not minutes.

Sunrise still comes painfully late. The days don’t suddenly feel brighter. You have to trust the math, not your mood.

And yet… something important has shifted.

By the end of January, here in Ohio, we’ll gain roughly 40 minutes of daylight. Not all at once. Not evenly. Day by day. Small, almost imperceptible changes that quietly add up.

Grief works the same way.

When someone we love dies, we often wait for the day the light comes back — the morning we wake up and feel like ourselves again. But healing doesn’t arrive like flipping a switch. It arrives like January sunlight: slowly, inconsistently, sometimes so subtly you doubt it’s happening at all.

First, it’s a second of peace.

Then a moment where you breathe without effort.

Then a short walk that doesn’t feel as heavy.

Then one evening where the darkness doesn’t last quite as long.

You’re not failing because the light hasn’t flooded back yet.

You’re adjusting — one day, one second, one small shift at a time.

The light is returning.

It just doesn’t announce itself.

And maybe that’s the most honest kind of hope there is.

Something is happening right now that feels different.

It’s not just the headlines.It’s not just politics.It’s not even just fear or anger.

It’s the feeling of being constantly provoked.

I didn’t expect to encounter an old fear when I started watching Pluribus.

I thought I was just watching a piece of science fiction.

Instead, I found myself staring directly at a fear I’ve been circling for years—one that has changed shape many times over my life. It’s the fear(s) of death. It’s not a single fear, but a progression: fear of punishment. Then, fear of annihilation— nothingness. That fear was then eased by the belief that we continue without punishment. And then—unexpectedly—fear stirred again by the idea of Oneness itself. A different form of annihilation— being absorbed.Here’s where I’ve been and where I am now with this ever-changing fear of death.