If I could have one thing named after me, it would be Love.

Not the kind that gets wrapped in ribbons and saved for holidays. Not just romantic love, or the kind between a parent and child. I’m talking about the kind of love that shows up quietly and powerfully, like the smile from a stranger that reaches you at the exact moment you need it. The kind of love that listens without trying to fix. The love that pulls you into alignment with your soul.

After facing cancer and having a near-death experience, I came to understand something I had never fully grasped before: Love is all there is.

As a young teacher, I had love for my students, but my career didn’t feel fulfilling. I was always searching, chasing more meaning, more money, more purpose. Even after becoming a wife and mother, experiencing a love so selfless and immense it cracked me open in new ways, I still hadn’t yet learned to love myself.

Then came February 14, 2018. While the world celebrated love, my nieces were on lockdown next door to the tragedy at Stoneman Douglas High. They hid in closets for six hours as gunfire echoed through their campus. I stayed on the phone with my sister, listening to her fear, praying with her, sending every word I could muster from a place of love. Our prayers were answered. But so many others were not. That day, something shifted in me. Love pulled me back to my purpose. I felt called to return to teaching, not for a career, but as a calling. A place to protect and serve with love.

I was hired on the spot for a kindergarten position at my old school. I had twelve beautiful days with my students before my cancer diagnosis changed everything.

And then… I left this world.

Not permanently. But enough to experience what waits beyond. I had what can only be described as a face-to-face encounter with God. And in that moment, everything changed.

There was no tunnel. No booming voice. Just presence. Pure presence. God didn’t look like anything I could describe, but I knew. I knew. And I felt more love than I have ever known, multiplied by a trillion. It wasn’t just emotional. It was physical, cellular. Every cell in my body was embraced by it. I didn’t hear words with my ears, but I received them telepathically, instantly, clearly. God’s message was simple:

“You’ve done well. I’m proud of you.”

That alone undid me. Because never in my earthly life had I received that kind of pride, that level of unconditional love. There was no judgment. No list of things I hadn’t done. Only warmth. Peace. Understanding.

I was told time wasn’t real. Fear wasn’t real. Only love existed.

God showed me that everything I had ever loved was already on the other side. That dying was like closing your eyes and waking up to find everything and everyone you’ve ever loved standing right there with you. Love is Home.

And then I was given a choice.

I could stay and know eternal peace. Or I could return. If I returned, I would be granted miracles, but the road wouldn’t be easy. I thought of my children. Even knowing they’d be with me on the other side one day, I saw what their lives might look like if I left now. I saw their grief, their confusion, the heaviness of navigating this life without their mother. And I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let that be their path, not yet.

So I chose love again. I chose to stay.

And here I am. Cancer-free. Still human. Still growing. But forever changed.

I returned to teaching special education at a local charter school. And despite the occasional energy vampire (whom we lovingly refer to as Gremlins), I love what I do. Because now, everything I do is rooted in love, not performance, not perfection, not pressure. Just love.

Love is my legacy. My language. My north star.

So if anything were ever to be named after me, let it be Love. Let it be the kind of love that listens, that uplifts, that chooses presence. The kind that survives cancer, overcomes fear, and meets God face to face.

Because love is all that exists. And it’s the only thing we truly take with us when we go

Illumined

I wasn’t born with all the answers,

but I was born with a light.

A flicker.

A knowing.

A sense that there was more beneath the surface,

and that I was here to feel it,

name it,

and guide others through it.

I’ve walked through rooms where the air felt heavy

and still knew how to breathe.

I’ve stood beside those drowning in silence

and somehow knew when to speak.

Not because I had the perfect words,

but because I carried something older than words.

Call it intuition.

Call it grace.

Call it the residue of angels

or the aftermath of being cracked open

and letting the light pour through.

I’ve been touched by moments I couldn’t explain,

lifted from danger by invisible hands,

stilled in my panic by voices that knew my name

before I ever spoke it.

And now, I understand:

I was never just surviving.

I was being illumined.

Lit from within by every trial,

every sacred whisper,

every soul that crossed my path to remind me,

you are not alone.

You are not crazy.

You are not too much.

You are the lamp in the dark,

the soft answer in the storm,

the reminder someone else has been praying for.

I carry my stories like lanterns.

I offer them without shame.

Because somewhere, someone is still standing

at the top of an escalator,

or rushing toward a bridge,

and all they need is one beam of light

to remind them.

we are held.

we are seen.

and we are never, ever walking alone.

By Sandra Allison

Laughter, for me, lives in the unexpected. It’s in those unfiltered, spontaneous moments where something just hits so wrong that it feels so right. Like when someone close to me gets their words tangled in a rush, saying something completely backwards or absurd without even realizing it. That alone can send me into a fit of giggles.

One time, my mother-in-law confidently referred to Chick-fil-A as “Chicka-fil.” Not once. Not as a joke. Like she was introducing a friend she’s known for years. I had to walk away before I lost it. That little gem had me randomly cracking up for weeks.

Then there are those physical comedy moments-like the time a teacher wore one of those blown-up unicorn costumes to school. She tried walking down the hallway like everything was normal, but ended up bouncing off the doorframe, then pinballing off the wall like a human bumper car. I nearly passed out from laughing. I was flat on the floor, gasping for air, seriously considering a change of clothes.

But nothing tops the time my mom and I saw Kevin Hart perform at a comedy club, before he was famous. We were seated in the second row, two cocktails in (thanks to the club’s drink minimum), already a little giddy. Kevin launched into this hilarious bit where he mimicked his two-year old daughter cursing him out. My mom lost it. Like, really lost it. She spit out her drink and straight-up fell out of her chair laughing. Kevin stopped mid-set, looked at her wide-eyed, and asked, “Whoa! You alright there?”

All eyes were suddenly on us, and I could barely function. I was doubled over, laughing so hard I was useless trying to help her off the carpeted floor. Kevin, with perfect comedic timing, raises his hand like he’s calling for backup. “Um, hey… medic over here.” The entire room erupted. That only made my mom and I laugh harder, because let’s be honest-other people laughing? That’s pure comedy fuel.

We finally made it back into our seats to a round of applause from the audience. Kevin paused, stared at us with his finger on his chin, and asked my mom, “You good now?” Then, in a mock announcer voice, he said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, please remember to fasten your seatbelts at all times and keep all limbs inside the vehicle. Thank you.” It was comedy gold. And every time I need a mood lift, I replay that moment in my mind.

Of course, my favorite laughter always comes from home, from the sound of my children’s uncontrollable giggles. Each of them has their own unique laugh: one of my sons has this bray-like “haw” that sounds like a donkey mid-laugh. My other son cackles like a hyena, and my daughter lets out a soprano “hehehe” that spirals with twirling breaths like a dolphin that’s also low-key choking. When they all laugh together, I’m gone. Full-body laughter. Crying. Wheezing. Probably a puddle of pee.

Then…there’s laughing at myself. Especially when I’m home alone (well, almost alone, my cat is always silently judging), and I stumble upon something random that throws me off. Like yesterday, when I walked into the kitchen to make coffee and spotted a mysterious pile of clothes on the floor. Mind you, I had just done five loads of laundry the day before. The scene reminded me of The Time Traveler’s Wife, where the time traveler vanishes out of nowhere, leaving nothing behind but a pile of his clothes, underwear and all.

That visual alone sent me into full-on Broadway mode. I twirled dramatically toward the fridge, grabbed my creamer with flair, and belted, “Where did you go?! What did I do to deserve this? I am just a mom-not a cuuuustoooo-diiiaaaan!” (And yes, “custodian” was sung in dramatic syllables as I slammed the fridge.) In my mind, a team of strong male ballerinas lifted me onto their shoulders so I could reach my coffee mug from the top shelf. My cat watched the entire performance unimpressed, but I gave myself a standing ovation anyway.

But it’s in those moments, whether it’s a celebrity on the rise, a jumbled word, a ridiculous fall, the pure joy of my kids’ laughter, or laughing at myself, that I’m reminded how beautiful it is to lose it over something silly. Those are the memories that stick. The ones I return to when I need a reset. The ones that remind me: joy doesn’t have to be big, it just has to be real. Because a day without laughter is a day without living. So laugh. Even if you have to laugh at yourself.

When I was five, I had it all figured out. I was going to be a teacher, the kind with perfectly organized sticker charts, scented markers, and sparkly stars handed out like candy. My classroom (which was really just the living room) was full of stuffed animals who dutifully followed my lessons and never talked back. I had a clipboard, construction paper assignments, and big dreams of handing out gold foil smiley faces for a living. That was the plan. Simple. Sweet. Safe.

What I didn’t expect to be was… this.

I didn’t expect to grow up and become a psychic medium empath, a job title you don’t exactly find on career day posters. I didn’t expect to be someone who feels everything, who walks into a room and immediately senses who’s hurting, who’s lying, or who just had a fight with their sister. I didn’t expect to know things before they happened, or to have dreams that delivered more truth than the evening news. I certainly didn’t expect to smell cigarette smoke with no source or hear whispered messages from souls who’ve left this world but not my heart.

The shift started early, before I had words for it. My first vivid memory came when my Uncle Gary passed away. I was young—too young to explain it—but I knew he was still around. His presence was gentle but unmistakable, like a warm breeze brushing through a closed room. He didn’t speak, but I felt him. Not just in that poetic, “you’ll always be with me” way. No, I mean I felt him. It was as if he was saying, “Hey kiddo, I’m still here.” And somehow, I believed him. Not because I wanted to, but because I could feel the truth of it in my bones.

That’s how it always begins, isn’t it? Quietly. In the spaces no one else seems to notice.

Over time, the moments got louder. More vivid. A smell. A dream. A vision. A sudden burst of emotion that wasn’t mine. I used to think I was just sensitive, too soft for the world, too emotional, too much. But I wasn’t too much. I was just tuned in.

It took years to understand that being an empath isn’t a weakness. It’s a superpower. A complicated, exhausting, awe-inspiring superpower that means I’m constantly reading between the lines of conversations, of energy, of life and death. As a psychic medium, I’ve learned that the veil is thinner than most people realize. That love doesn’t die with the body. That messages come in whispers, in signs, in cigarette smoke no one else smells.

And somehow, even with all of this, I did become a teacher. I did the five-year-old me proud, with stickers and all. But the classroom is just one part of the work now. The real teaching happens in the quiet spaces, in the moments when a message from a loved one brings healing, when I help someone feel seen, or when I sit with grief and remind it that it’s not alone.

No, I didn’t expect to be this. But now I can’t imagine being anything else.

Because while five-year-old me wanted to hand out stars, grown-up me gets to help people find theirs again. And that? That’s a gift I never saw coming.

Most people don’t understand that love never dies. Nor do kept promises.

We weren’t just mother and daughter-in-law, we were colleagues first. We met through teaching, formed a friendship in the trenches of education, and that friendship only deepened as our lives became more entwined. Over time, she became more than family. She became someone I trusted, laughed with, and learned from.

In the 18 years I knew her, I never once heard her complain of pain. Not even when she had every right to. Even with her COPD, she never made a fuss, never rushed to the ER. She was strong, stubborn, and self sufficient. I remember one time I insisted she let me take her to the hospital when her cough just didn’t sit right with me. She ended up staying for three days. For years, she’d bring it up, thanking me again and again for taking her that day.

That’s why I believe she came to me at the end, because she knew I’d never let her suffer. And I didn’t. I kept my promise.

In the days leading up to her death, she hadn’t been feeling well. She was misdiagnosed with constipation and prescribed a strong bowel prep, something typically used for colonoscopy patients. It did what it was supposed to, but something wasn’t right.

When she arrived at our home to see us and the kids, I knew instantly something was off. Her skin was pale, the whites of her eyes had turned yellow, and her balance was unsteady. But what struck me most was how she spoke, more emotionally than usual, sharing regrets, personal wounds, even old betrayals. It was as if she was clearing space.

She was supposed to spend the weekend with us, but the pain in her lower abdomen became too much. I led her to the guest room, helped her get comfortable, and she looked at me and softly said, “Thank you.” I think we both knew, on some level, that this was different.

An hour later, I went to check on her, thinking I’d find her napping. But she wasn’t sleeping. She was pale, sweating, and clearly in pain. I knelt beside her and asked, “What can I do for you, sweetheart?” She could only moan. I gently asked, “Do you need me to call 911?” She paused, then nodded.

I ran to my husband. At first, he thought I might be overreacting, but when he saw her and asked for himself, she gave the same nod. He called.

At the hospital, the diagnosis came quickly and cruelly: her colon had burst. She was in septic shock. Surgery was immediate, but there were no guarantees.

She died three days later.

It was sudden. It was brutal. But she didn’t die in pain or alone. She died with dignity. And I believe with my whole heart she came to our house because she trusted me to do what was right, to speak up when she couldn’t, to make the call, to hold her hand through the worst. I had done it before, and this time, I kept my promise again.

For a while, I waited for a sign. I needed to know she was okay. That she had crossed over in peace.

That week, a red cardinal landed on the windowsill and wouldn’t leave. The scent of her perfume filled the room while I was folding laundry. My daughter would laugh in her sleep, and I’d wonder if Nana had whispered something funny in her ear.

Little things. Powerful things.

She loved ladybugs.

That summer, I was nervous about my son’s first day of camp. My stomach churned with worry as we searched for his group. until we found his cabana. A small sign hung above it, sweet and simple: The Ladybugs. I smiled through tears. I just knew it was Nana.

Later that fall, I stepped outside beneath my favorite tree, craving a moment of peace. There, nestled beneath a soft fern leaf, was a tiny ladybug. Quiet, gentle, unmistakable. Nana was still with us.

During one of the hardest times in our lives, when fear sat like a weight in our chests and we didn’t know how we’d make it, she came to me, between waking and sleep. She glowed with vibrant health, dressed in her favorite shade of peach, and looked like the most beautiful painting I’d ever seen.

She didn’t say much. Just one word.

“Soon.”

And she was right.

Two months later, my husband received a job offer from a company that would change everything for us. We had been held. We had been guided. And even now, when I see a ladybug, I smile.

Nana never left.

She’s still here.

She trusted me in life and I feel her in death. Still showing up. Still letting me know I did right by her.

Love doesn’t die. It just changes form.

How has technology changed my job?

By Sandra Allison

Technology has definitely changed education, but as a special education teacher, I like to say I still teach in the real world. You know, the one where students actually move, feel, and think out loud.

At our school, we follow an 80/20 charter model, which means 80% of students are in general education classrooms, glued to their laptops, and the other 20% are with me, getting the hands-on, sensory-rich, sometimes-chaotic-but-always-creative version of learning. Basically, while the general ed kids are peering at screens that replaced chalkboards, I’m leading a math problem-solving parade at the whiteboard.

My students don’t just read a fourth-grade passage, we act it out like we’re auditioning for Broadway. Math? We ditch the mouse clicks and grab some bright, colorful manipulatives to count, sort, and maybe accidentally fling across the room (hey, it happens). The whiteboard isn’t just for me, it’s a privilege, a stage, and my kids love being the teacher for a minute.

Here’s the thing: my job requires a level of human connection that no screen can match. Sometimes my students need a listening ear. Sometimes they just need a quiet moment to breathe. And sometimes… they need a snack and a pep talk.

So yes, technology is everywhere. But has it changed my job? Not really. Because I still teach with heart, with movement, with real-life experiences. Until technology can give ESE kids a hug, a laugh, and a hands-on, sensory learning experience… I’m still in the game, doing it my way.

How often would you say no to things that would interfere with your goals?

These days, I mostly surround myself with people I trust, love, and who genuinely love me back. Love has a big part in whether I say yes or no. And honestly? I prefer doing things on the spur of the moment. It’s part of the “move in silence” lifestyle. 

If there are NO plans, then I can only expect better than unexpected. I’ve found that expectations lead to disappointments, and spontaneity leaves room for magic.

But it wasn’t always like that.

For me, learning to say no didn’t happen until after too many betrayals, disappointments, almost dying, and-of course-three kids. 

In my teens and twenties, I was a Yes Girl. Call it naive or just plain dumb, but I said yes to everything.

Do you want to get in a limo with men celebrating a bachelor party? Yes.

Outcome: Found myself stuck in a sketchy situation, no exit strategy, and absolutely no business being there.

Do you want to go to Disney for the weekend? Yes.

Outcome: Came back home without my brand-new car-because it got stolen.

Do you want to go on a Carnival cruise and gamble? Yes.

Outcome: Lost more than just money-also lost dignity and a little piece of my sanity.

Do you want to have a family gathering in hopes to heal past wounds? Yes.

Outcome: One of the children got attacked by a psychotic family member. So much for healing.

Of course, my intentions were always pure. I wanted connection, fun, love, and maybe a little adventure. But the outcomes? Never quite matched the hope I put into them.

Eventually, I had to learn boundaries-something I wasn’t used to and only a near-death experience could initiate. It was like the universe had to literally bring me to the edge to teach me how to protect my peace.

Nowadays…I don’t necessarily say “No” as quickly or often as I want to, but I’ve learned the importance of moving in silence. When it comes to invitations or new commitments, I give myself at least three days to sit with it. My brain will cycle through every possible scenario-like a personal risk assessor with a PhD in “What Could Go Wrong.”

If the good outweighs the bad, I’m typically in. But if something feels off or overly complicated, I’ll pass without explanation. That’s growth. That’s peace. That’s survival.

I didn’t always know how to say no. But now I know my worth, my energy, and what I’m no longer willing to gamble.

Because peace doesn’t just happen-it’s chosen, protected, and earned one “NO” at a time.