Change You Can Believe In: Real Steps to Lasting Personal Growth

The season brings many good things, and this year is no exception. I was looking forward to election night and I hope everyone got out to vote today — I did, and Frankie did too.

This morning I woke with more sinus congestion. I had my flu shot yesterday, though I doubt that’s the reason my bones ache and my head feels heavy. Lately I’ve been pushing myself with lots of running and weight training, so my body is probably asking for an extra rest day. I finally crashed on the couch this afternoon; I’m learning to pay attention when my body tells me to slow down.

Change is difficult. I thrive on structure and predictability, so even small shifts can unsettle me — wearing my hair differently (as in the photo), trying a new running route, or adapting to administrative changes at work. I have a comfort zone and I often stay inside that familiar cage. Yet change can be cleansing, like a heavy rain washing away dust. Embracing change requires a leap of faith: if I want to walk on water, I have to step out of the boat. I’ve been practicing that, grateful for the slow progress.

I often think of transformation like pottery: a lump of clay becoming a crafted piece requires pounding, heat, and restarting many times. The process is intense but worthwhile. That metaphor helps me accept the changes happening within myself.

For tonight’s election results, I wanted something special: local acorn squash stuffed with apple-and-sausage and roasted pork loin.

I love being in the kitchen, preparing fresh food that nourishes the body. The acorn squash, crisp celery, and tart apple combine with seasoned pork loin that melts on the tongue. The smells of autumn, the feel of the knife in my hand — these details matter because we eat with our eyes first. Tonight I paid attention to the process instead of moving on autopilot. The first bite of perfectly cooked pork made me smile, and Stephen’s reaction made me smile even more.

I’m a tired voter tonight. Time to exercise my right to sleep.