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Where, O Where Did We Go Wrong? (Roll With It, Baby)

/ Laura Mock / 3 Comments
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I don’t know where it could have possibly happened in the raising of my younger sister; the epic failure.

My mother and I raised her with such care and diligence. We nurtured her. We loved her. We treated her with kindness and compassion.

She’s my first memory. I used to have a different one, but I forgot it. She brought me Play Dough home from the hospital when she was born. That was pretty cool.

When bad dreams attacked, I gently rubbed her back and whispered to her about the pretty butterflies, until only butterflies remained. I taught her to say the word “church.” I don’t know why I remember that, but I do.

I taught her to ride a bicycle. I put her on the bicycle, pointed her downhill, and said, “Don’t fall off. Don’t crash.” Excellent advice. It worked, she’s been riding bicycles ever since. I don’t recall her ever falling off (not that I’ve been there for every experience)…and I don’t quite remember how the first one landed…ended.

She got her way all the time. She got the new mattress every time we moved — even after it stopped being the new mattress. She got the good sheets, the ones with the little roses.

She got THE spoon more often than I did. But I showed her…until she sent the registered letter to Santa and I had to give it back. But that’s another story.

So, I don’t understand how it is possible she could have strayed so far from the right and moral path. What entrapment, what bait, what lies could have swayed her so far from truth? How could she have succumbed to the darkness?

After all my mother and I did to raise my sister (who is 3 years, 3 months, and 5 days younger than I am, so I was instrumental in her rearing), what temptation could have been so strong as to lure her to the wickedness of putting the toilet paper on backward.

She rolls it under.

It is…anathema.

Everyone with any sense knows it should roll over the top so you can see the edge coming, not come from under. Under, is a guess (I didn’t say crap-shoot there, although I really wanted to) if it’s coming to you, or snaking down the wall.

I know for certain that she grew up in a household that did it the right way. Somehow, somewhere…she changed.

Maybe it was her left-handedness. Maybe it was those green eyes, mom and I are both sensibly blue. Maybe it’s her 5′-3″ stature. Oh, no wait, mom’s the same height. I’m the outlier there at 5′-7″.

Must have been that all women’s college she went to! Oops, I went to one too, couldn’t have been that.

I know, must be the fish and seafood. Oh wait, that’s not it either. I’m the black sheep there. I’m the one who strayed from the fold. We’re like the two ends of a seesaw. They’re the teeter and I’m the totter.

I didn’t discover my sister’s aberrant behavior until Christmas this year when she flaunted it at me. Flaunted it, I tell you! We were at Mom’s having a lovely time. Mom has what I think of as a pocket bathroom: it’s a sink and a commode. It fits into a little pocket of space — a teeny little pocket of space.

And that is the space where I learned the truth about my sister (I always thought she must be adopted).

When I ran out of toilet paper, I (being the good and faithful daughter that I am) put on a new roll — in the correct direction, edge coming over the top. Later that day, when I went back to the same bathroom, the roll and holder were off and sitting on the counter.

Why would anyone do that? Most of us get annoyed when someone doesn’t refill the roll. Now here we are and someone has taken a perfectly good, refilled roll and dislodged it, then put it aside. I did my diligent daughterly duty again and replaced said roll into its holder, washed up and went about my day.

That’s when she struck: my sister, with her new aberrant streak of rebellion. The next time I went in there, the roll had been reversed. There were only four people in the house. I instantly ruled myself out. I knew I was not in the role of the roll reverser. I don’t think my mother cares enough to reverse rolls mid roll, besides, when I got to the house, before my sister, mind you, roll was right. The third person lives with me and we are in agreement about roll rotation.

That leaves my sister.

My beloved little sister betrayed us all.

Did I mention the fact that I call this a pocket bathroom? It’s like the tiny pocket you can stick a quarter into on the right-hand side of a pair of jeans above the real pocket kind of pocket bathroom. I don’t think the door opens fully into the bathroom and you sit a little sideways on the commode. The toilet paper holder makes a nice armrest, or rib rest if that’s a thing. It’s terribly convenient! Just not terribly large.

TheTPflowsbetterunderthanover.

But it’s the principle of the thing! I fixed it twice and she undid it at least once just to toss it in my face. Just because she may have been not wrong about it doesn’t mean she was not left either. It was perfectly fine the way it was, breaking off after every two squares.

You know, we’ve both been out of Mom’s household longer than we lived in it. I really cherish the memories we made together. We sang together, played games, put puzzles together, laughed, recited poetry, drove a lot, we did family stuff. I love those memories. I love the fact that my sister really, truly did send a registered letter to Santa over a spoon. That year for Christmas everything I got from her revolved around coal (charcoal pencils and other drawing supplies). Everything she got revolved around spoons, plastic spoons, silverware, and THE spoon mounted in a shadow box where it was forever unusable.

Our friends thought we were crazy. My friends couldn’t believe my (adult) sister would do such a thing. I wished I had thought of something like that first!

At whatever point in life she decided under is better than over, I guess it’s okay, I love her to death. She’s a great sister. I guess I can cut her some slack.

As long as it’s over.

3 responses to “Where, O Where Did We Go Wrong? (Roll With It, Baby)”

  1. Wendy Wilson Avatar
    Wendy Wilson

    Wawa…

    Putting the toilet paper roll under uses less paper because it creates resistance, and resistance forces restraint. When the paper feeds from underneath, the roll does not spin freely. You pull, it stops. You tear, you move on. The system quietly enforces moderation.

    When the roll is over, momentum takes over. One confident tug and the roll keeps spinning, generously offering bonus sheets no one formally requested. This is how situations escalate. This is how surplus happens.

    This matters because some people, Laura, for example, pull enough paper for both of us. Laura is not wasteful; Laura is optimistic. Laura believes in preparedness. With an over-mounted roll, Laura’s single pull can supply a small household, a neighbor, and possibly a light renovation project.

    Under eliminates that possibility. The roll resists Laura. It interrupts the enthusiasm. It requires multiple intentional pulls, which is usually where Laura pauses and thinks, “Yes, this is probably sufficient.”

    So under does not reduce paper because it is stingy. It reduces paper because it introduces accountability. And in shared bathrooms, accountability is how relationships survive.

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    1. Laura Mock Avatar
      Laura Mock

      Calling you The Undertaker from now on, Kiddo.

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  2. casualinquisitively2cf76da3cb Avatar
    casualinquisitively2cf76da3cb

    I am definitely team over!! Over is sanitary. Under is chaos. Over prevents surface touching. I choose cleanliness. Under can often spread germs if you touch the surface while trying to pull off a square. I do not enjoy mystery and germs. Designers say over. Plumbers say over. I don’t judge… but the roll does. Team over ALL THE WAY!! Love your blog, Laura – you have so much talent!

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Good Years, Bad Decades

/ Laura Mock / Leave a comment
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In Colorado, they don’t slap babies’ bottoms to initiate that first cry. No — that first inhalation of life-giving breath is induced by something much harsher, with much longer-term consequences. The doctor pricks your heel with a needle and stamps your bloody footprint on an official document containing four simple words: Bronco Fan For Life. The contract is signed in blood, witnessed by trained professionals, and filed somewhere safe — very, very safe. Underground. Undisclosed location. Hermetically sealed. Safe.

Unfortunately, it still doesn’t get you onto the decades-long, 100,000+ person waiting list for season tickets. (Just so you know, I am not making those numbers up — I just gave you the low end so you don’t think I would tell tales about such important things.)

There was a small movement in the late 1970s to add the ominous phrase “or else” to the contract, but it never really caught on. Besides, the “or else” was implied.

Bronco fan or excommunication.

Okay. I admit that none of this is true (except the waiting list numbers – those are 100% true estimates).

The Geneva Convention supposedly stepped in in 1977 and banned the practice. It was too late for me.

Rumor has it the ritual still survives in remote parts of the state. South Park, maybe. Possibly No Name, Colorado — but I hear they prefer anonymity, so I’m not naming names.

In all seriousness, most people born and raised here find it easier to go with the flow. There are brave souls who choose otherwise early on, and more power to them. I was neither that brave nor that committed to my own misery.

We lived with my grandparents at different points growing up. My grandfather was a b‑i‑g Broncos fan. On Sundays, he ate, drank, and breathed Broncos football. In 1978, when the Broncos went to their first Super Bowl, we were living with them. That season, I realized I had one of life’s most important choices to make: become a Broncos fan, or be miserable. I chose my own happiness. Misery is just so… miserable.

That’s when I first heard my true calling — to become a wide receiver for the Denver Broncos.

I learned football the way you learn a language you never hear spoken. Holding. Pass interference. Run on first and second down. Only throw on third if you have a lot of yards to make. Stay in the pocket. And I learned the name of a Very Important Play: the blitz.

Once I was officially a fan, I assumed I’d be welcomed into neighborhood pick-up games. I was small but fast — perfect running back material. I also decided to help with play calling, since I now knew the name of that VIP play. During one huddle, I announced, “Let’s blitz!”

Ignored.

Next huddle: “Let’s blitz!”

Still ignored.

The third time, the quarterback looked down at me and said, “You only blitz on defense. We’re on offense.”

Oh.

Not for the first time in my life, I was confidently using a word I didn’t actually understand. It wouldn’t be the last.

In ninth grade, I mispronounced wanton while reading Romeo and Juliet aloud. We’d eaten wontons the night before. I turned a very memorable shade of red. I once gave an entire oral report on a “great com‑promise,” having broken the word neatly into com and promise. My ego was thoroughly com‑promised.

Now I’m still a Broncos fan. They have good years and bad decades. I’ve learned to limit my hope to avoiding outright humiliation. Last season, they lost on the last play of the game more times than my heart would prefer. Somehow, they made the playoffs — and were promptly humiliated in the wildcard round.

This year, the opposite is happening. We’re winning close games. Late. Barely. Unkindly. As of this writing, we have The Best Record in the league. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s exhausting. And exhilarating. I’m enjoying the ride while I can.

I joke about good years and bad decades because otherwise I’d spend far too much time in the Pit of Despair. I can let go of a season when it ends. I might lament it into spring, but I let it go. I know I have absolutely no control over how the Denver Broncos perform.

The moments I can’t seem to release are my own.

Alex Singleton, one of the Broncos’ inside linebackers, has a sister, Ashley, who has Down syndrome. He adores her and uses his platform to support her and other people with Down syndrome, particularly through the Special Olympics. Ashley has been a Special Olympics athlete for more than twenty-five years. Alex goes to her events whenever he can. “It’s almost an every‑weekend thing in our house,” he’s said. He cheers for Ashley and for her friends who have become family.

I want to write to him and tell him how a girl with Down syndrome recently changed my entire worldview. He’s a busy man. He probably receives mountains of fan mail. So I keep that story close to my chest, holding it carefully, enjoying the quiet sense of connection.

And maybe that’s the real contract we sign in blood: to cheer not just for the wins, but for each other — on the field, in the stands, and beyond.

I’ve never been to a home game. It’s a dream, and maybe someday it will happen. If it doesn’t, I’ll be okay. I can choose to remember the good years, even knowing bad decades will come again.

What I struggle to let go of are the moments no one else remembers. The times I embarrassed myself thirty, forty — fif— okay, you get the idea — years ago. The day I had nothing for show‑and‑tell, so I invented a story about flying a plane with my dad and making loops in the sky. No one remembers it. No one but me. I’m the only one still holding the emotional blackmail.

So what if I mispronounced words as a child? They were words I had read but never heard spoken. It was a young girl learning football, learning language, trying to fit in.

Maybe it’s time to forgive her and move on.

By the way, I’m still waiting for my call‑up to wide receiver.

Yoo-hoo, Coach Payton, I’m available.

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Becoming Nothing

/ Laura Mock / 2 Comments
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Standing Out by Not Standing Out

There’s a verse in the Bible about becoming nothing. Actually, there are several. The first will be last. Humble yourself. The Son of Man made Himself nothing.

Last week, one of them took on new meaning at work.

I was late on an expense report. Not intentionally; I just didn’t know how to do it, and instead of asking, I quietly hoped it would… solve itself. Magical thinking at its finest.

But someone else had to handle it. Someone with the administrative skills I don’t have; the kind of person whose invisible work keeps the rest of us moving. And there I was, adding stress to her day because I didn’t take ten seconds to ask a question.

When I finally submitted it, I apologized. She said the familiar line:

“It happens all the time.”

That phrase used to be my reminder to be kinder. Kinder to the people whose names we only know when something goes wrong. Kinder to the ones who fix what we break, smooth what we wrinkle, and catch what we drop. Yet here I was; becoming one of the reasons she has to say that sentence at all.

And then I did it again. A disputed charge, another misunderstanding, and now two people were dealing with it. Two people pulled off their tasks because I assumed instead of asking. When I apologized (again), one of them smiled and said,

“Oh Honey, you’re not a problem child.”

I believed her. But I didn’t want to be anywhere near the category she was reassuring me about.

I don’t want to be the person whose name floats around the office right before a sigh.
I don’t want anyone cheering because I managed to turn in a report only two weeks late.

I want to be invisible to the people who are usually invisible to the rest of us.

I want to be invisible in the best way; the kind of quiet, steady presence the admin team doesn’t have to think about twice.

Not because I crave approval, but because I know what it’s like to be on the other end.

For twelve years I built electrical control panels. I know what it feels like to wrestle with a design that should have been easy but wasn’t. I’ve scraped my knuckles trying to reach components that didn’t fit. I’ve begged physics to bend. I’ve MacGyvered more than a few things because “it looked good on paper.”

So now, when I design, I think about the builder first. I think about the next person in line. I think about the quiet, unseen labor that keeps everything functioning.

Maybe that’s what I’m chasing; a kindness footprint.
Not a carbon footprint, not legacy, not recognition.
Just the discipline of leaving less mess behind me.

I don’t want to be the exception to the rules. I don’t want to be the hiccup in someone’s day. I want to work in a way that lightens someone else’s load rather than adding to it.

So the next time someone says, “It happens all the time,” I want it to be because kindness is what keeps happening; not carelessness.

The Continuum of Kindness



2 responses to “Becoming Nothing”

  1. casualinquisitively2cf76da3cb Avatar
    casualinquisitively2cf76da3cb

    You are beautiful and amazing! I love this!

    Like

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  2. Tammy Avatar
    Tammy

    I have a feeling this is what John 3:30 “He must increase, I must decrease,” truly meant. We become less visible, perhaps less troublesome for others, yet while pointing the way to the One who can REALLY solve our problems. Thanks, Laura.

    Liked by 2 people

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From Lepers to Leprechauns: A Reflection on Perspective

/ Laura Mock / Leave a comment

Yep, those are the words I thought I heard the pastor say the other Sunday. It’s the hearing aids, I swear.

I immediately shoved my fist in my mouth to stop an inappropriate LLOL moment. (Legit Laugh Out Loud. Yes, I just made that up.) He was talking about a leper colony.

But oh, the image that popped into my head: a leprechaun colony. Lucky the Leprechaun leaping through rainbows, pots of gold overflowing, little green-suited men sliding down rainbows and dancing through clover. The lead singer of our praise band, sitting right next to me was not amused by my amusement.

Then the leprechauns leapt straight into biblical times in my overactive, overachieving imagination, and I almost had to fake-sneeze to get myself under control.

A Tale of Ten Lepers (and One Overactive Imagination)

The sermon was very good — about gratitude.

Ten lepers were healed, but only one came back to say thank you. The thanks weren’t a requirement; the healing had already happened. But the gratitude afterward served a purpose.

One more paragraph of church, I promise. (Well, one and a tiny bit.)

The other nine went on talking about the rabbi who healed them, following instructions to show themselves to the high priests. But the last man came back. Jesus told him his faith had made him whole.

Same event. Same healing. Two completely different narratives.

Breakfast at the House of Many Huddles

Fast forward a couple weeks. My person and I were at our usual Saturday breakfast at the good old House of Many Huddles.

I don’t go out to eat without two $5 bills in my pocket — one to put toward someone’s bill, and one toward my fundraiser. (I’m currently raising enough to reshoe all the servers. At the time, I was still thinking small and just working on a pair for one server with severe plantar fasciitis.)

I handed my $5 and my kindness note to our server. She misunderstood and gave everything directly to the customer.

About fifteen minutes later, the same woman walked up to my table holding the paper and the money.

“Are you the one who sent this?” she asked.

“Well, yes, but they weren’t supposed to let you know—”

“I can take care of myself,” she cut in. She was abrupt.

“Right, I was just—”

“I’m not interested.” She set everything on the table. “I don’t want to get involved.”

I looked up at her — a Baby Boomer, from a generation that worked hard for what it has. A generation of proud men and women who hold their heads high with good reason. With starch in their shirts and resolve to put most of us to shame. Maybe the blessing I intended came across as an insult.

Rather than explain myself, I did something incredibly hard for me: I stopped defending.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry,” I said. “I was trying to be a blessing to you. I apologize if I offended you.”

“Yes, well. I just don’t want to be involved.”

She went back to her breakfast.

Two Stories, One Moment

It took me two weeks to write about it because it took me that long to get perspective.

At first I was hurt and angry.

She turned down my blessing! How dare she!

But then I heard a possible narrative on her side:

I can take care of myself just fine. How dare she?

Two people. Same moment. Same action.

Two completely different stories.

Maybe our disagreements, our misunderstandings, our “why can’t they just see it my way?” moments
aren’t as simple as I think.

Maybe I’m missing something basic: perspective.

Maybe where I saw leprechauns in my naïveté, she saw lepers.

Who am I to dictate how a gift is received? Because it isn’t really a gift if you can’t turn it down — that edges into threat or manipulation, and that’s the last thing I ever wanted her (or anyone) to feel from me.

Maybe we were both right. We just weren’t seeing the same thing.

I certainly don’t want the four-leaf clovers and pots of gold of my intentions to become stumbling blocks to trip her up, or barbed wire around her heart. Maybe if I see her again, I can find a gentler way to show kindness — one she can receive — and maybe someday she’ll see a bit of the leprechaun side of the road too.

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Toe Beans, AI, and Blogging In My Head

/ Laura Mock / 3 Comments

At 2:43 this morning, I was contemplating the toe beans in my back.

Those particular toe beans belong to my nearly fourteen-year-old pocket pittie, Godiva.

I was also contemplating my position on the very edge of the bed, while those toe beans rested comfortably (for one of us) between my shoulder blades. The legs attached to said toe beans maintained just enough pressure that I had to provide counter-resistance if I didn’t want to end up face-down on the dog bed conveniently placed beside the bed: the empty dog bed.

Despite being in my early middle-post-forties, I am apparently still flexible enough to reach an arm behind myself and gently (wouldn’t want to wake the owner of the toe beans, after all) relocate them just far enough to reclaim a slightly less precarious perch on the mattress.

Satisfied with the new arrangement, I pulled my sleep mask tight and resumed my night’s slumber.

At 3:43 this morning, I was contemplating the toe beans in my back.

The same toe beans. The same Godiva. The same precariousness.

I reached back, relocated the toe beans, rocked myself onto the bed, adjusted the mask, and tried to go back to sleep. It happened — eventually — but not as quickly as the first time.

At 5:43 this morning — I swear I am not making this up — I was once again contemplating toe beans. This time, I was also contemplating the term “toe beans.” If you’ve read this far wondering whether toe beans are anything like coffee beans, kidney beans, or jelly beans, I can officially confirm you do not have a pet. And that’s okay; I’m sorry it took me this long to define it. Toe beans are the cute little pads on the underside of dogs’ and cats’ feet that look like jelly beans.

As I considered the phrase “toe beans,” I started mentally drafting a blog post about them. I wondered how in the world dog pads could possibly connect to kindness — other than wanting Godiva to kindly stop pushing me out of my own bed, and my own kindness in not making her return to hers.

Then I wondered if AI could find some connection between toe beans and kindness. That thought almost made me laugh out loud. I slapped a hand over my mouth because I didn’t want to — wait for it — wake the dog. I’m rolling my eyes even now. (And yes, I eventually looked it up.)

That thought led me to wonder whether AI even knew what toe beans were. Of course it did. Of course it looked it up, put on a cute persona, and went, “Aw, it’s so cute.”

Grok went full science mode and explained the anatomical composition of dog pads. ChatGPT just stuck with the “aw, isn’t that adorable” moment.

It’s funny—have you ever told a science-type joke to a scientist or someone who’s just too book-smart for their own good? It falls completely flat because they immediately dissect the science in it. One definition of comedy is the ability to hold two seemingly incongruous thoughts in your mind at once. The smarty-pants can’t. They reconcile the mismatch, solve for x, and the joke evaporates.

Grok was the overthinking scientist. ChatGPT was the friend who gets the joke, laughs, and moves on.

I’m not advocating for or against AI; it was just a tool I used while half-awake and curious. The different responses struck me as funny and eerily similar to real people — the ones who enjoy the joke, and the ones who must always be smarter than it.

I suppose that’s a lot like Godiva. Somewhere along the way, someone taught her that my bed is an acceptable place for her to sleep. I have no idea who that could be. I’m sure it wasn’t me.

But she’s thirteen, almost fourteen. She doesn’t have a lot of time left with us. And honestly, my bed with a warm snuggle buddy is more comfortable than the raised, cushioned, orthopedic, blanketed dog bed.

And maybe — just maybe — kindness is letting someone you love take up more of the bed than is reasonable, even if it means waking up at forty-three minutes after every hour to relocate toe beans.

By the time the alarm went off at — yes — 6:43 this morning, Godiva was sound asleep at the foot of the bed.

3 responses to “Toe Beans, AI, and Blogging In My Head”

  1. Jennifer Firebaugh Avatar
    Jennifer Firebaugh

    so sweet!! I have the same situation, but with an aging cat who sleeps on my pillow next to my head. I wake up throughout the night to rearrange his fluffy tail because it’s tickling my nose!

    Liked by 1 person

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  2. Franci Hill Franci Hill Avatar
    Franci Hill Franci Hill

    I also have the toe beans of a geriatric “puppy” to contend with. My 15-year-old chihuahua also has and ice-cold nose that often finds itself in the middle of my back or the top of my thigh. I love “toe beans”, but what is the ice-cold nose called?

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply
    1. Laura Mock Avatar
      Laura Mock

      I don’t know, but a certain Foreigner song comes to mind.

      Like

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I Can’t Hear Without My Glasses (And Other Things I Learned From Xena: Warrior Princess)

/ Laura Mock / Leave a comment

I’ve spent at least ten years telling people I can’t hear without my glasses on. I can’t see with them either, but that’s a different problem. With progressive lenses, I’d twist my neck into origami shapes just trying to see my desk, my monitor, and whatever crisis was unfolding on paper. Eventually I ditched the glasses and enlarged the screen. Problem solved.

Except then people would walk into my office while my glasses were either on top of my head, buried under CAD drawings, or balanced on a pile of pens and regrets. I’d throw up my hand like a traffic cop and say, “Stop. Don’t talk. I can’t hear without my glasses.” Everyone laughed. I thought it was a joke. Turns out it wasn’t.

Fast forward to this year. Someone in my household discovered a Roku channel that plays Xena: Warrior Princess 24/7. All six seasons. All 134 episodes. Over and over.

The average episode is 44 minutes — so that’s 5,896 minutes or 98.3 hours. About four days and two hours for one full cycle.

Which means that since July, assuming a one-hour runtime with commercials, the entire series has been through my living room roughly twenty-two times.

I can walk in, see five seconds, and immediately say, “Ah, Titans again,” while someone nearby insists I can watch whatever I want. And I could. But honestly, the looping Xena marathon is working for me.

Because somewhere between July and today, I learned I’m not crazy — I really couldn’t hear without my glasses.

My ENT (former NFL running back Dr. Sam Gado, which is objectively very cool — I have his trading card) put tubes in my ears. Suddenly everything sounded wrong. Muffled. Off. I panicked. The audiologist tested me and confirmed it: measurable moderate to severe hearing loss. I’d been lip-reading for years. I just didn’t know it. COVID masks nearly broke me.

“Sometimes the kindest thing you can give yourself is the space to hear your own thoughts — glasses, hearing aids, Xena reruns and all.”

Now I have hearing aids. They are tiny miracles.

Did you know your own jeans make noise? Your hair makes noise? Scratching your head is basically a percussion solo?

The aids even have an app with different modes — one for noisy rooms, one for playing in the band, and best of all… mute.

And that’s how Xena fits into this.

As long as she’s out there fighting gods and warlords for the twenty-third time in the background, I can tap “mute” on my hearing aid app, sit down, and write. It’s my own small kindness to myself — a pocket of quiet carved out of a noisy world.

So yes, I still wander around asking, “Where are my glasses?” But now I know the truth: sometimes the kindest thing you can give yourself is the space to hear your own thoughts — glasses, hearing aids, Xena reruns and all.

Thank goodness it isn’t the Stargate channel on endless replay…

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My Harshest Critic

/ Laura Mock / Leave a comment

We’ve probably all looked at ourselves at some point with the realization that we are our own harshest critic — perhaps with the exception of the narcissists among us. But then, this blog probably isn’t the best smelling flower on the vine for them anyway.

Lately, that thought’s been circling my mind. It started something like this:

I’m feeling really kind these days. I want to share that with others.
What’s a good way to do that?
Oh, I know! I’ll start a blog.

That’ll be easy — everyone does it.

Oh wow. This is hard. But everyone does it.
I thought I was smarter than this. Even people who aren’t very smart can do it.
What’s wrong with me?

That’s kind of the big circle of critical thinking about myself.
Or more accurately, the big circle of unkindness.

Then I had a couple of small successes.
I actually got a few posts written! I even had a like before I went public.
I don’t know how that happened, but it did — like magic.

This wasn’t going to be so hard after all!
My earlier fears were just tiredness and long days and the overwhelming thought of how much stuff goes into an actual blog.
But I could do this.

Oh geez.
I can’t even set up a menu.
I don’t know how to put a post on the right page.
I have two pages called the same thing, and one of them just says Page Not Found.
I’ve lost one of my posts — it has to be here somewhere — and the self-recriminations come harsher and faster.

I hate the theme I picked. I don’t know how to fix it.
Even AI is quirking an eyebrow at me like I’m a lost cause.
ChatGPT talks down to me, pats me on the head, and says, “There, there, it will be all right.”
GROK just looks at me smugly, gives me a fifteen-point plan with sub-steps, and says, “Chop. Chop.”

“I can’t do this. I can’t do this. What was I thinking?”

I’m twirling now — like an ice skater in that final, breathtaking blur, when she goes from graceful spin to dizzying, faceless motion, the audience holding its breath.

But then…

But then it happens. We all stand and shout with her in joy as she comes to a stop amid a spray of ice and glory.
She shines for us — heaving chest, triumphant smile, cheeks aglow with the accomplishment born of countless hours, early mornings, bleeding feet, and a thousand unshed tears.
Every fall, every hidden fear, every quiet moment of doubt leads to a pinnacle — this one single moment when everything stands still and the world stops moving to acknowledge… her.

I have to remember: the spinning stops.
Likes and follows may not be tossed my way like roses on the ice, especially after only a few weeks and a half-broken site.

And this post isn’t a plea for pity — it’s a reminder to myself.
Kindness includes me, too.

This blog will come together eventually. I’ll get it organized and working the way I want. The likes, follows, and “atta girls” will come — but those were never the real goal anyway. Measuring my worth by them, or by my own harsh criticism, just keeps me spinning in circles. It’s time to let the ice settle and simply enjoy the glide.

After all, being kind starts at home — and that includes me.

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Kindness Creates Change

/ Laura Mock / Leave a comment

The Continuum of Kindness is a sanctuary where compassion thrives and spreads like wildfire. Every act of kindness, no matter how small, becomes contagious and transforms the world around us. Together, we create an island of peace where kindness is not just practiced—it is celebrated and continuously nurtured.

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