We all have stories— some passed down, some passed around, some born from glances never explained.
I’ve learned that the same story can be told a hundred different ways depending on who holds the pen. One person remembers the way the light hit the kitchen table. Another remembers the silence after a slammed door. Some recall laughter. Some can’t forget the ache. And none of it makes any of it less real.
What’s hardest is when the stories begin to live lives of their own—shaped by whispers, fueled by wounds, rewritten by those who need a version that comforts their pain.
Sometimes love is rewritten into betrayal, connection into threat, guidance into control. And suddenly, you find yourself a villain in a story you never wrote.
There is a kind of grief—no, not grief, but a reckoning— when a child is no longer allowed to speak to you. Not because of something you did, but because someone else needed them to stop listening.
Needed them to carry their pain, to make sense of their own wounds by silencing yours. And so, a legacy is broken, not by truth, but by the stories others told loud enough, long enough, that it began to sound like history.
And yet…
There are other children, other souls who are spared the chaos, who find family in love, who are given the gift of choosing their path—not out of fear or pressure, but through the soft unfolding of experience. They come to know love not as a tool or a transaction, but as a presence.
That is the hope. That is the beauty in this brokenness.
Because we cannot fix the feelings others are determined to carry. We cannot rewrite their chapters. But we can stop reading the story aloud to ourselves.
We can sit with it—not to suffer it, but to let it soften. To breathe it in only long enough to find the lesson, and then breathe it out as something lighter.
This is how we stop the inheritance of pain. This is how we leave space for joy, even if some never return.
We do not need to resent them. We do not need to chase them. We simply need to be here—fully here— with all the love that remains.
The past is not ours to fix. But the present… the present is ours to live.
Let the story pass. Let the breath deepen. Let the legacy of love be louder than the lie.
We all see life a little differently, we experience life a little differently, but to share life in the differences, that is where real roots start.
Some believe youth is eternal, at least in spirit. We laugh like we’re still teenagers, move like we’ll never grow old, and expect tomorrow to look a lot like today. But age isn’t a thief—it’s a revealer. It shows us not just how our bodies change, but how our hearts grow, soften, and begin to wonder what kind of legacy we’re leaving behind.
For me, wellness has never been just about me. It’s been the quiet gift I’ve wanted to give my children—a kind of love that doesn’t take up space or ask for credit, but exists so they never have to feel burdened by my pain or limitations. I didn’t want their lives to revolve around caring for someone who didn’t care enough to tend to herself.
I’ve watched the ripple effect of carelessness, and I felt its frustration long before I could name it. Even as a child, I knew: how we take care of ourselves touches every person who loves us.
When I married, that devotion expanded. My husband deserves my best—not because I owe it, but because I want the time we have to be rich with presence and not shortened by preventable illness. I’ve been ridiculed and labeled for how deeply I care about health. Too radical, too extreme, or paradoxically, not enough. I’ve been laughed at, questioned endlessly, and just as often—I’ve been asked for every detail. What do you eat? What do you make? Can I do what you do? I’m the one they call when someone is sick, and my heart always wants to give the remedy.
But there is no remedy that works without a shift. There is no single tea or tincture that can override a life misaligned with wellness. Healing is a choice—a commitment to a path, not a pit stop. So I no longer pour my energy into quick fixes, because they’re not the true medicine. The real work begins when someone is ready to walk a different way—not just for a moment, but for a season, or even a lifetime.
I’ve come to see that what truly helps is not handing someone my answers, but gently guiding them toward their own. Otherwise, it becomes a cycle of reaching outward instead of inward. And I’ve learned that real healing happens when we offer people a way back to themselves, not just a list of what helped us.
I’ve spent my life learning, experimenting, creating, and healing myself through deep commitment—not bandages or shortcuts. I’ve walked beside my own child through leukemia—a child who was vibrant, healthy, never even had a cavity. Raised in a home as toxin-free as I knew to create. Why did he get sick? Why do some people suffer despite all their efforts? We may never know. The world is full of invisible battles—some we inherit, some we meet unexpectedly. And in between, we must still advocate for ourselves with heart and integrity.
I’ve seen our elders age in two different ways. Some stretch their arms in Pilates and laughter. Others sit in pain, immobilized by years of neglect—not always by choice, but often by habit. It isn’t always about what we ate or did. Even the cleanest foods from fifty years ago are now filled with artificial ingredients. The purity of the past is rare today. And longevity, now, feels like a quest to navigate invisible pollutants—emotional, physical, and environmental.
There is no single answer. No universal path. There is only your path—your way of thriving, your way of healing. And it’s meant to evolve.
We live in a time of information overload. AI, social media, quick tips, endless cures. Every day, someone new says, “This is it! This is the way!” But real wellness doesn’t come from a single scroll or a trending protocol. It comes from slowing down enough to know what your body, your heart, your soul is asking for.
Sometimes, it’s frustrating to watch adventures slow down because people you love can’t—or won’t—walk the same path. It’s not my decision. But still, it affects me. Because when you love people deeply, their limitations do touch your own.
And yet—I still have the ability and the right to grow. To move. To adventure. To thrive. The word no becomes as sacred as the right foods. Boundaries begin to feel like nutrients too.
How much of yourself do you give away, and how much do you honor? That, too, is as personal as your wellness practice. This is a time of deep growth. A time to ask:
How will I honor myself… while still honoring those I love who choose differently?
How can I walk in balance—not from judgment, but with wisdom born from resistance, grace, and truth?
How can I offer presence—not to fix, but to remind someone of their own power to choose again?
SONSHINE FOR YOU 