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Everything Happens. Everything happens for us, not to us… | by Therese Ann Kunz | Apr, 2026

Everything happens for us, not to us. This is a belief of mine. Whatever happens I look for the gift in it. Press enter or click to view image in full size This past Saturday was my brother’s Celebration of Life in Neenah, Wisconsin, a town where he has quietly made a big impact. Over 90 people distanced themselves out on a grassy boulevard in front of their house, all wearing masks. On the following Monday morning I am walking on the sidewalk when two women on bikes pass me. One is pulling a screened-in chariot with two little girls lounging inside like Cleopatras. One girl turns her head to look, I wave, and she smiles at me likes she knows the sorrow in my heart. This is the secret world of tiny children and babies — before they know to look away or out past you — and it always charms me. They are a watching, always searching for your eyes. As I stood in front of the group on the grassy boulevard, that Saturday, thanking them for coming. All I could see were their eyes, their masks hiding the rest of their faces. All the emotion pooled there, as I faced them, mask-less. My walk takes me along a large sparkling lake. A father and son ride by. The back of the father’s t-shirt says, STAFF — of what looks like arts or theater organization. He’s probably out of work as the arts/theater industry is not recovering, may never recover. They stop to throw stones in the water like they have all the time in the world — on a Monday. The gift? A minute later, the mother comes by pushing a lightweight wheelchair with a young girl, around 14, who has a disability. It’s clear she resides in the chair, another chariot. They move fast over a bumpy road, the girls’ pony tail flying. The mother talks continuously to the young girl without reply and I understand this is the mother’s life — for all this child’s life. An unknown gift (unknown to me). The wind blows down the grassy boulevard knocking over the vases of snowball hydrangea, water darkening the blue wedding tablecloths. The Eyes are watching what I’ll do next. I say, “we’ll leave it” and turn back to the task at hand before it rains. Walking toward the park, a woman in her 80’s is walk-running by me. She falls forward into a run then back with gravity to a walk. She worries me by her herculean effort to keep moving forward, breathing hard, with the determination of the living. No matter her age. All of it, living. Until the last breath. On the boulevard I talk of honoring a life, of celebration, of closure, of setting free a spirit. Let our memories fill this space with comfort and release, I tell them, this is our time for joyful sharing. Joy and grief co-exist, good friends even, each with an arm thrown over the others’ shoulder. Give me peace, grief asks joy. Give me room, joy answers. My walk takes me through the park with the giant red-rocket playground, a young boy crosses my path without seeing me at all, his excited eyes focused out to the rocket. His mother, pregnant, follows near and his father, very tall, crosses behind me. What flashes in my mind are the words “Just stop killing us”. This is from a Minnesota Theater Conference I attended three years ago. It was right after the police shooting of Philando Castile in Minneapolis. Carlyle Brown was there to perform his show, Acting Black. His anger was palpable like it could ignite anytime with a whisper of a flame. Change comes. As each person came up to speak on the grassy boulevard, I wipe down the microphone with a Lysol cloth. The Eyes are riveted and watch to see if I will wipe the handle too, like some kind of ritual — today’s kind of ritual, ridding unwanted droplets. It slows things down. Time for us all to breathe. I round the corner of the lake for the last time and spot a Great Blue Heron through the tree branches on a dock, scratching his chin with his long backward-bending leg and I am charmed again. Birds also live in a secret world parallel to ours. Spirits set free; where do they reside if not here in a secret world next to ours? I carry the picture of the boy I loved and share who he was and why I love him. I tell the Eyes his life was complete and completed even if it feels too short for us, the living. He was clear on this. He showed us the way to gracefully accept his death by gracefully accepting it himself and in doing so, showed us how to face so much more. I head home from my long walk as the 8o-year-old runner passes me again, still living, still doggedly on life’s path. The path of the living is the path of the witness, holding steady the line we will all cross someday. In closing I tell the Eyes that meditation is a kind of prayer that allows for a softening of the heart, an acceptance of what is. The grief we carry is part of the grief of the world, I tell them. We create peace and space for ourselves when we wish it for others. With eyes open or closed, bring your focus to your breath. Release any tension in your body. Bring forth all who are present in this space. Those you know and love and those you don’t know. Hold them all gently in your mind. Silently repeat these words. May you be at peace. May you feel loved. May you be comforted. May you be released. When you are ready, open your eyes. Let the rain come. Source link

What My Body Taught Me: 13 Surgeries, One Coma, Countless Powerful Lessons

“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” ~Khalil Gibran I was born with spina bifida. When I was ten years old, doctors told me I might not walk again after a surgery that would change my life. I don’t remember every word they said, but I remember the feeling, the air shifting in the room, the adults speaking carefully, the quiet that followed. Paralysis was a possibility. By that point, my body already knew hospital ceilings well. I had been through multiple surgeries before I fully understood what surgery meant. By adulthood, that number would grow to thirteen. I was born with VACTERL syndrome. I had a surgery to remove a kidney and another to correct my bladder. I also underwent open heart surgery and multiple surgeries on my bowels, including receiving a colostomy bag and having it repaired. But at ten years old, I only knew one thing: my body felt uncertain. Four days later, I stood up. I was in the hospital. Alone in a cold room. I couldn’t feel anything but pain. I pressed the pain button and sat up. I manually swung my legs to the side of the bed and pushed off the bed with my arms. Not because I felt strong. Not because I wasn’t afraid. But because something inside me refused to accept that prediction as final. My legs trembled. My balance wavered. But I stood. I didn’t feel anything, and the next thing I knew, I hit the floor. This happened three days in a row. On the third day, the nurse walked in on me as I stood, and she said, “I’m calling physical therapy. You are going to walk again.” As she picked me up off the floor, I stared at a wheelchair that was no longer a dark place. And that was the beginning of my relationship with resilience. Basketball became more than a sport. It became my conversation with my body. Every dribble felt like proof. Every sprint felt like defiance. The court didn’t care about medical charts; it only responded to effort. Through repetition and discipline, I built strength where fear had lived. I went on to play in high school and later in college, not because my body was untouched by struggle, but because it adapted. Then life tested me again. As a young adult, after twelve surgeries, scar tissue led to another. Due to complications and losing six pints of blood, I fell into a coma. When I woke up, walking was no longer automatic. Muscles that once responded quickly felt distant. I had to relearn balance and rebuild my strength. Again. There’s something humbling about teaching your body how to move twice in one lifetime. It strips away ego and teaches patience. I had moments of frustration. Moments of anger. Moments when I wished I’d had an easier path. I compared myself to people whose medical history didn’t follow them into every room. But something shifted in me during recovery. I gave up. I was tired. I was over the hospital rooms and medications. A friend encouraged me to eat healthier, and I discovered herbalism, along with holistic modalities, yoga, rebounding, and chiropractic care. I stopped asking, “Why is my body like this?” And I started asking, “What is my body teaching me?” It taught me that strength is not loud. It’s consistent. It’s showing up to physical therapy when progress is slow. It’s repeating small movements until they feel natural again. It’s trusting your body even when it feels unfamiliar. It taught me that healing is rarely dramatic. It’s repetitive. It’s quiet. It’s a thousand small decisions to keep trying. Thirteen surgeries could have become my identity. Instead, they became my training. I learned that the body is not fragile simply because it has scars. Scars are evidence of repair. They are proof that something was damaged and healed. My body has been opened, stitched, sedated, and measured more times than I can count. It has been judged and doubted. And yet, it continues to move. I no longer resent its limitations. I respect its endurance. It has survived stillness. It has survived unconsciousness. It has survived uncertainty. And it keeps choosing life. I used to believe resilience meant pushing through pain at all costs. Now I understand it means listening. It means working with your body instead of fighting against it. My body has taught me discipline. It has taught me faith. It has taught me that rebuilding is possible, even when you have to start over. Twice. If you are in a season where your body feels like a burden instead of a blessing, I hope you give it patience. I hope you look at your scars, physical or invisible, and see evidence of survival, not weakness. Sometimes the miracle is not avoiding hardship. Sometimes the miracle is adapting. And sometimes, the quietest strength is simply standing again. About Jewel Jones Jewel Jones is an herbalist, educator, and founder of Alkaline Academy, dedicated to helping others heal through plant-based nutrition and holistic practices. Drawing from personal experience overcoming serious health challenges, she teaches individuals how to reconnect with their bodies and reclaim their wellness naturally. Her work blends traditional herbal wisdom, spiritual insight, and practical lifestyle changes to empower communities, especially those underserved, to take their health into their own hands. See a typo or inaccuracy? Please contact us so we can fix it! Source link

A Sky-Blue House Full of Music. Some places don’t just exist, they hum… | by June | Write Your World | Apr, 2026

Some places don’t just exist, they hum softly inside you long after you leave. Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Anastasia Dimitri on Unsplash Today, after a long time, I rode a scooty again.There was something almost freeing about it — the familiar feeling of the road, the air brushing past, and that small sense of independence returning after a pause.I was on my way to a violin class for my sister’s admission.I didn’t know then that I was about to step into a place that would stay with me long after I left.The teacher’s house was painted sky blue.It instantly caught my eye. There was something so calm and welcoming about that shade, as if even the walls had decided to reflect peace.As I entered the music room, it felt like stepping into another world.There were five or six violins placed carefully in one corner.A tabla rested nearby.A guitar leaned against the wall.Two harmoniums sat in the room, almost like old companions that had witnessed years of melodies.The room was already alive.Five students were present, each lost in their own instrument. Two little boys were playing the violin, and honestly, they were incredibly impressive.A little girl was playing the tanpura on the harmonium.Another boy was focused on the guitar.One more sat near the harmonium, creating soft notes that blended beautifully with everything else.For a moment, it felt less like a class and more like a living symphony.Every sound in that room carried a strange calmness.The violins sang softly.The harmonium breathed.The tabla added its quiet rhythm.Everything together felt so soothing that I almost forgot why I had come there in the first place. Then I noticed something that made the room feel even more special.There was an old 90s television in the corner.It gave the whole house an old-school charm, the kind of warmth that modern spaces often lack.It didn’t feel outdated.It felt timeless.The walls carried several trophies, lined up with quiet pride.I couldn’t help but think they must belong to the teacher.Silent witnesses to years of dedication, discipline, and music.The teacher himself was a middle-aged man with grey hair and the calmest personality. There was something deeply reassuring about his presence.The kind of calm that only comes from years of devotion to an art.His wife was so graceful and beautiful, adding even more warmth to the home.And then came the most beautiful moment of all.His little granddaughter saw her dadu.The moment her eyes found him, her face lit up with pure joy.She ran toward him with a happiness so innocent and complete that for a second, the entire room felt brighter.Some moments are too tender to fully capture in words.This was one of them. As I sat there, listening to the instruments and watching life quietly unfold inside that sky-blue house, one thought stayed with me:how lucky the neighbours must be.Imagine living next to a house where every evening sounds like a free concert.Where melodies drift out of windows and settle into the street.Where music becomes part of everyday life.Some houses hold furniture.Some hold memories.And some, like this one, hold music. Source link

Gelar Pertama, dari Doa Mereka. Aku tidak pernah benar-benar… | by Raisyal D | Apr, 2026

Press enter or click to view image in full size Aku tidak pernah benar-benar membayangkan akan sampai di titik ini memegang gelar S.Pd, berdiri sebagai sarjana pertama di keluarga kecilku. Bukan karena aku tidak mampu, tapi karena perjalanan menuju sini terlalu tidak pasti untuk bisa diyakini sejak awal. Stage I : Jalan yang Tidak Pernah Direncanakan Universitas Pendidikan Indonesia, khususnya Program Studi Pendidikan Sistem dan Teknologi Informasi, bukanlah tujuan yang pernah aku tuliskan dalam daftar mimpi. Bahkan, jujur saja, itu bukan jalur yang aku kenal sebelumnya. Aku pernah mencoba masuk ke tempat lain, dua kali. Dua kali berharap, dua kali juga ditolak. IPB dan Unpad menutup pintu mereka untukku, dan di saat yang sama, aku juga harus menutup pintu lain yang sebenarnya masih terbuka: hukum dan kedokteran. Bukan karena tidak ingin, tapi karena aku tahu, ada harga yang harus dibayar, dan orang tuaku tidak seharusnya menanggung beban sebesar itu. Ayahku hanya seorang karyawan swasta biasa. Tidak ada gelar tinggi, tidak ada jabatan besar. Hanya seseorang yang setiap hari bekerja untuk memastikan dapur tetap mengepul. Dan ibuku, seorang ibu rumah tangga yang pada akhirnya harus turun langsung berjuang ketika keadaan tidak lagi cukup hanya ditopang doa. Aku masih ingat, di tengah-tengah perjalanan kuliahku, sekitar semester 4, ayahku harus menghadapi realita yang seringkali tidak kita siap: pensiun. Bukan pensiun karena siap, tapi karena usia di dunia kerja memaksanya berhenti. Sejak saat itu, semuanya berubah. Ayah mulai mencari cara lain untuk tetap menghasilkan uang. Dari pekerjaan sampingan yang tidak menentu, hingga akhirnya mencoba menjadi agen perumahan yang bahkan penghasilannya pun bergantung pada apakah ada orang yang membeli rumah atau tidak.Tidak ada kepastian. Tidak ada jaminan. Di sisi lain, ibuku mulai bangun setiap pukul 2 pagi.Bukan untuk tahajud saja, tapi untuk memasak nasi uduk. Untuk dijual.Untuk membantuku tetap kuliah. Dan aku hanya bisa melihat semuanya sambil diam-diam menahan satu hal: aku tidak boleh gagal. Karena di belakangku, ada adik yang masih duduk di bangku SD, yang suatu saat juga akan membutuhkan biaya pendidikan. Dan entah sejak kapan, tanpa pernah benar-benar dibicarakan, aku tahu tanggung jawab itu perlahan akan jatuh ke pundakku. Di titik itu juga, aku mulai mencoba berdiri dengan caraku sendiri.Sejak akhir 2024, aku mulai mencari penghasilan tambahan dengan cara yang aku bisa. Menjoki tugas, membantu projek orang lain, dari mahasiswa sampai pemilik usaha kecil. Hasilnya tidak besar, bahkan seringkali tidak menentu. Tapi cukup, untuk sekadar membuatku tidak selalu meminta. Dan di tengah semua itu, ada satu hal yang sampai sekarang aku yakini:aku sering diselamatkan oleh rezeki yang tidak pernah aku duga. Aku pernah mendapatkan beasiswa selama dua semester, semester 4 dan 5 yang sangat membantu untuk membayar UKT-ku. Di saat kondisi keluarga sedang tidak baik-baik saja, bantuan itu datang seperti jawaban dari doa-doa yang tidak pernah berhenti dipanjatkan. Karena di rumah, doa mereka tidak pernah putus.Di setiap lima waktu.Di sepertiga malam. Aku punya keluarga kecil yang mungkin sederhana, tapi hangat.Dan mungkin, tidak semua orang punya itu. Di titik ini, aku mulai mengerti satu hal:perjalanan ini bukan hanya tentang aku yang ingin berhasil,tapi tentang mereka yang tidak pernah berhenti percaya. Dan mungkin, dari situlah semuanya mulai berjalan, bukan karena aku hebat, tapi karena aku tidak pernah benar-benar berjalan sendirian. Stage II : Terlalu Nyaman, sampai Akhirnya Jatuh Kalau dipikir-pikir, aku bukan mahasiswa yang ideal. Dari semester 1 sampai semester 5, aku hidup di zona yang aneh, bukan malas sepenuhnya, tapi juga tidak benar-benar serius sebagai mahasiswa. Aku jarang belajar. Jarang membawa buku. Bahkan sering merasa cukup hanya dengan hadir, memperhatikan, dan aktif di kelas. Dan anehnya, semuanya tetap berjalan. Nilai-nilaiku tidak jatuh.IPK-ku tidak buruk. Tapi sekarang aku sadar, lagi-lagi itu bukan karena aku hebat.Itu karena aku beruntung. Beruntung punya teman-teman yang rajin, yang pintar, yang seringkali “menyelamatkan” tugas-tugas kelompok. Sementara aku, terlalu sibuk di dunia lain. Organisasi. Aku tenggelam di sana, menjadi ketua pelaksana kaderisasi tingkat jurusan, masuk ke tim evaluasi di tingkat fakultas, sampai akhirnya dipercaya menjadi ketua himpunan. Aku menikmati semuanya, merasa punya peran, rasa dianggap, rasa dibutuhkan. Dan mungkin, tanpa sadar, aku mulai merasa cukup dengan itu. Sampai akhirnya aku mengambil langkah yang lebih jauh, yakni mencalonkan diri menjadi ketua BEM kampus. Aku pikir, dengan semua pengalaman yang aku punya, itu cukup. Tapi ternyata tidak. Aku kalah. Dan untuk pertama kalinya setelah sekian lama, aku benar-benar merasa jatuh, bukan karena jabatannya, tapi karena tamparan yang datang bersamaan: “aku tidak sebaik yang aku kira.” Kekalahan itu seperti membuka sesuatu yang selama ini aku abaikan. Bahwa di balik semua aktivitas dan posisi, ada satu hal yang tertinggal jauh diriku sendiri, kemampuanku, hardskill-ku, arahku. Tamparan itu semakin terasa ketika aku masuk semester 6. Aku mulai mencari tempat magang dan kesulitan, portofolioku kosong, hampir tidak ada yang bisa aku banggakan selain riwayat organisasi. Aku melamar ke enam perusahaan, dan hanya satu yang menerima. Dan entah kenapa, dari semua kemungkinan yang ada, itu adalah tempat yang bahkan tidak pernah aku bayangkan sebelumnya, PT Pupuk Kujang. Di sana, realita benar-benar tidak bisa ditawar lagi. Aku dipaksa melihat diriku apa adanya. Sudah lima semester aku kuliah, tapi aku tidak bisa coding, di saat orang lain sudah punya skill, aku baru mulai dari nol, dan untuk pertama kalinya, aku merasa benar-benar tertinggal, tidak ada lagi tempat bersembunyi di balik “aktif organisasi”, tidak ada lagi rasa cukup. Yang ada hanya satu pilihan:berubah, atau terus tertinggal. Dan di titik itu, aku memilih sesuatu yang selama ini jarang aku lakukan : memaksa diriku sendiri. Stage III : Memaksa diri untuk Bertumbuh Sejak hari itu, semuanya berubah. Magang di PT Pupuk Kujang bukan hanya soal bekerja, tapi tentang bertahan. Tentang bagaimana aku harus beradaptasi dengan ritme yang tidak pernah aku rasakan sebelumnya. Aku tidak punya pilihan selain belajar. Belajar coding dari nol.Belajar memahami sistem kerja.Belajar mengejar ketertinggalan yang selama ini aku abaikan. Dan untuk pertama kalinya dalam hidupku, aku benar-benar memaksa diriku sendiri. Ada hari-hari di mana aku belajar hampir 12 jam. Bukan karena aku ingin terlihat hebat, tapi karena aku tahu, aku sudah terlalu jauh tertinggal untuk berjalan santai. Perlahan, semuanya mulai berubah. Aku mulai memahami apa yang dulu terasa…

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