Vegas with family, Friday night football and a seven-year-old cheerleader, a farm festival, another bleacher for a tiny cheerleader, daughter flying home, and a trip to Texas—-all on top of the most intense work season in a while. This fall feels less like a whirlwind and more like a hurricane. Here's how I'm learning to S.T.A.Y. in the middle of it, and why I wouldn't change one windy part.

A wagon ride at Lynd Fruit Farm with my kids and grandkids took me back to my grandparents' farm. For a moment I was both the grandchild and the Gramma, and I found myself thinking about what it means to move forward without treating the past as a mistake or a bad thing.

Some weeks hold everything

A week that held grief, pride, comfort, laughter, and a relationship none of us can explain the loss of. Anchoring doesn't mean feeling one clean thing.

The house hasn't changed. The rail is the same rail. The light comes up over the same trees. I'm the one who changed. Some places aren't scenery — they're fixed points, and standing in one again shows you exactly how far the water has carried you.

Two weeks ago, I was at a county fair with my grandbabies. This week, I was at a very different kind of fair in Wisconsin—thinking about AI, healthcare and how quickly “eventually” can become “November.” Somewhere along the midway, I found myself coming back to one question: What if?