Write about a time when you didn’t take action but wish you had. What would you do differently?
Returning home from college in New York to Florida, I found myself without a car. My parents had recently purchased a sleek new sports car, making it clear I was not to drive it-ever. However, when they couldn’t pick up my younger sister from school due to work commitments, they surprised me: “Take the new car; the keys are on the hook by the laundry door.”
I seized the opportunity, feeling exhilarated as I slid into the driver’s seat, the new car smell enveloping me, Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” blaring through the speakers. I felt like a rockstar, navigating the roads with newfound confidence.
As I approached the intersection near my sister’s school, a sudden crash jolted me from my reverie. To my left, a red Acura had been T-boned, metal crumpling like tin foil, the windshield shattering, airbags deploying. Time seemed to slow as I locked eyes with the driver, his fear mirroring my own.
Instinct urged me to help, to rush to his aid. My hand reached for the door handle, but my parents’ strict instructions echoed in my mind: no detours, no stops. Paralyzed by indecision, I remained in the car as others rushed to assist. The light turned green, and I drove on, tears streaming down my face, whispering, “Thank you, God,” that others had acted.
The guilt lingered. I grappled with the realization that I had prioritized obedience over compassion. Reflecting on that moment, I recognized the importance of listening to my moral compass, even when it conflicts with authority. Since then, I’ve vowed to act when others are in need, a promise I’ve kept.
This experience taught me the profound impact of inaction. While I adhered to my parents’ rules, I neglected a deeper responsibility to assist someone in distress. I’ve learned that true integrity involves making difficult choices, sometimes challenging authority to do what’s right. Moving forward, I strive to align my actions with my values, ensuring I won’t let fear or obedience prevent me from helping others.
Not because I don’t understand them, but because I do. I can feel when energy shifts, when something unseen presses in, watching from just beyond the veil. I don’t fear them, but I respect them deeply.
That nervousness comes from knowing how real it is-how quickly something uninvited can cling if you’re not clear, protected, or spiritually anchored.
But I navigate that nervousness with truth.
With light.
With discernment and boundaries that are energetic and sacred.
I don’t run from the dark.
But I don’t invite it in either.
I just stand firm in the light I carry and let that be enough.
I suppose it depends on how one defines “demanding.” For me, a demanding day isn’t just busy—it’s the kind of day that feels selfless, nonstop, and often unexpected. Or it could be one of those quieter battles, where nothing I do feels quite good enough.
The truth is, I’ve learned—often the hard way—to slow down. These days, the truly nonstop ones are rare, because my body has become my greatest teacher. It will speak up with a migraine or a sore back, nudging (or forcing) me to rest.
But sometimes life calls, and I answer. A friend ends up in the hospital, a child needs me, or I’m simply required in ways I didn’t plan for. On those days, adrenaline carries me, and so does something deeper—my connection to the divine sharpens. I move through it all with grace, until the crash comes. And it always comes.
When that wave passes, I unwind by slipping into spaces with zero stimulation—my bedroom, or outside where the only sounds are my own breath, the hum of the air conditioner, the birds. Sometimes, it’s a warm bath or a full glass of red wine.
So, how do I unwind? It depends on the day. But however it happens, it’s always an act of returning to me.
I’ve removed myself from traditional social media platforms like Facebook and Instagram. For me, the “Facebook life” became redundant—daily diaries and curated photo reels no longer felt genuine. Anyone can pose for a photo, smile on cue, and choose the one image they’re willing to present to the world. But where do we draw the line when even our children, our friends’ children, and our most intimate moments become content?
The grandeur wore off a long time ago.
During the uncertainty of COVID, I turned to TikTok—not for attention, but to uplift others. I began posting videos of encouragement and offering free psychic medium readings. For a time, I became popular. But again, I was met with a familiar pattern: takers, energy vampires, and performative engagement that left little room for true connection.
Now, I still use TikTok, but only passively—for entertainment, not for socializing.
Where I’ve truly returned is to writing. This isn’t about likes or algorithms—it’s about reflection, storytelling, and message-bearing. I write to entertain, to uplift, and to witness what’s real. It feels more like a return to sacred ground than a step into a digital space.
Social media, for me, is no longer a stage. It’s a quiet observation deck, and sometimes, a place to gently place a piece of truth and walk away.
Describe a random encounter with a stranger that stuck out positively to you.
There was a time I believed I had to carry everything alone. That strength meant managing the weight of the world quietly, especially as a new mother. But one moment, tucked in the middle of an ordinary day, cracked that belief wide open and let the light in.
My daughter was six months old, her stroller my steady anchor as I navigated the maze of a crowded mall. I remember feeling proud, strong, even as we approached the steep escalator. With careful confidence, I stepped on, balancing her and the stroller, riding down with a quiet sense of victory.
But at the bottom, something went wrong. The wheels caught. The stroller jammed. And in an instant, my pride turned into panic. I felt the world tilt beneath me. We were about to fall.
That’s when it happened.
Our eyes met, mine wide with fear, his calm and unwavering. A stranger, modest in size, but filled with something greater than muscle. Without hesitation, he rushed forward and, with astonishing ease, lifted me, the stroller, and my baby, all at once.
It felt like time slowed. Like we’d stepped into some still, sacred place in the middle of the noise.
I was stunned. Grateful beyond words. I turned to thank him again, to lock eyes with the man who had just saved us. But he was gone.
No trace. No name. Just gone.
For a moment, I stood there in silence, heart pounding, soul stirred. And something inside me shifted.
It was as if God had whispered through that man’s hands: You are not alone. You have never been alone.
I think of him often, not just the way he helped, but the way he appeared in perfect timing, like grace itself had stepped in wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Was he an angel? I’ll never know for sure. But I do know this:
Some souls walk this earth as messengers. They show up in the exact moment we forget we’re held. They remind us that the divine isn’t always thunder and fire, it’s sometimes the quiet strength of a stranger who sees your fear and answers it with love.
Since that day, I’ve come to believe that we are guided, surrounded, and deeply connected, even when we can’t see it. And that maybe, just maybe, heaven sometimes walks beside us in human form, lifting us up when we forget how to stand.
Describe a decision you made in the past that helped you learn or grow.
Everything changed on February 14, 2018.
That was the day of the Stoneman Douglas tragedy, my nieces were enrolled at that Middle School on the shared property. By the grace of God, both were safe. But that day pierced something deep within me, cracking open a place I had kept quiet for too long. In that opening, I felt it: the unmistakable nudge of God. Gentle, firm, undeniable. I was being called back to teaching.
I had spent years away from the classroom. Life had taken me on different paths, and while the desire to return flickered from time to time, I had always pushed it aside. But this was different. I could no longer ignore the pull. It wasn’t just a career change, it was a calling.
That inner prompting led me to apply for an interim kindergarten position at the same public school I taught for 10 years prior to babies. The interview was warm and welcoming. As I drove across the bridge toward the school, I thought about the long commute and the changes it would bring. But I also felt a deep peace, a sense that something bigger than myself was at work.
I was offered the position on the spot and asked to take some time to think it over. That evening, my husband and I had a heartfelt conversation. We didn’t need the extra income, and logistically, it wouldn’t be easy. But we both felt the same thing: this wasn’t about money. It was about purpose. So we agreed to trust that everything would work out as it was meant to.
I accepted the offer that night. My start date was set for late September.
But the week before I was due to return, I began feeling unwell. Subtle symptoms at first. Fatigue. Discomfort. I scheduled an appointment with my gynecologist. During the exam, I caught something in her eyes, a quiet concern she couldn’t quite mask. She stayed calm and professional, but I left the office with a deep, unshakable feeling: something was wrong.
That evening, the doctor who had delivered my children called. Thank God my husband was by my side, because as she spoke, my mind blurred. I caught only fragments: lesion, cancer, chemo, hysterectomy. It wasn’t a confirmed diagnosis, not yet. We’d need to wait 7 to 10 days. But the fear had already arrived.
I called the school immediately. The response I received was nothing short of grace. I was told we’d cross whatever bridge came, and that in the meantime, the children still needed a teacher. That moment gave me peace I didn’t know I needed.
But that night, everything inside me fell apart. After tucking my children into bed, I sat beside my sleeping husband and cried. Silently. Deeply. My two little dogs curled beside me, unaware that I was unraveling inside.
And that’s when it happened.
In the stillness of my grief, I had a vision.
I saw Jesus.
I know how that might sound. But I know what I experienced. I wasn’t dreaming. I wasn’t imagining. He was there, not in a physical sense, but in a presence so powerful, so consuming, that I felt every fear melt away. I was overwhelmed by love. Not the kind we talk about in passing, but the kind that reaches every broken part of you. The kind that knows every scar and doesn’t flinch. The kind that heals by simply being.
I didn’t hear words, but I understood everything.
If I chose to stay, I would be healed. I would be happy.
If I chose to go, I would be reunited with loved ones and I would still be happy.
Either way, I would be safe. Either way, I was held.
And in that moment, I chose to stay.
A few days later, I walked into my kindergarten classroom and greeted my students with a heart full of quiet gratitude. I was gifted eleven beautiful days with them. On the twelfth day, the call came. The diagnosis was confirmed: it was cancer.
Two weeks later, I underwent a radical hysterectomy to remove the tumor.
Recovery was humbling. I had to lean on others, my husband, my family, my friends. Asking for help didn’t come easily. But grace showed up again and again, in meals delivered, in prayers whispered, in the steady hands that held mine.
And here’s the miracle: everything Jesus promised came to pass.
I am cancer-free.
More than that, I am free from fear. Free from the things that once kept me small, quiet, unsure. That experience, the illness, the vision, the healing, transformed me. It deepened my faith, clarified my path, and stripped away every illusion I once clung to.
I was given a second chance at life, and I don’t intend to waste it.
I share this story not for sympathy, but for someone who might be where I once was afraid, uncertain, searching for answers in the dark. I want you to know: you are seen. You are loved. Deeply. Eternally. Without condition. It doesn’t matter your race, your religion, your background, or your gender. God’s love is not limited. It is limitless.
My favorite restaurant is Nona Maria’s. What began as a humble hole-in-the-wall shack tucked away in the middle of nowhere, Florida, has blossomed into a renowned white-tablecloth Italian restaurant with a touch of French elegance. Every dish is a masterpiece—each bite tasting as if it were lovingly crafted in a sun-drenched Parisian kitchen or seared to perfection in a charming Roman café. The experience is less a meal and more a passport to the heart of European cuisine.
But with presence. With listening. With the courage to say,
“You matter. I see you. Let’s get through this-together.”
Sometimes saving a life looks like recognizing when something’s off.
Sometimes it’s trusting your gut when a friend says, “I’m just tired.”
Sometimes it’s listening not just with your ears, but with your heart.
And sometimes, most powerfully, it’s helping someone find the courage to speak up.
Because when they do, everything can change.
I’ve seen it happen.
A strong, grounded man I care about nearly lost his life, not from what you’d expect, but from staying silent too long. What looked like confusion or even mental illness turned out to be viral meningitis.
Deadly. Invisible. Treatable, if caught in time.
And he’s still here.
Not because he toughed it out.
But because he said, “Something’s not right.”
And someone listened.
So yes, I’d do that job for free.
Every time.
Because one moment of courage, one honest conversation, one act of listening with love-
The Empathetic Chronicles 