It was one of those still, hot August mornings when the air feels heavy with possibility. I woke with a quiet determination to transform the tiny powder room just off the kitchen.
Aspen trotted at my side, her paws keeping rhythm with my steps, as we set out into the soft hush of the early morning toward Home Depot.
We gathered a gallon of soft pink paint, two smooth wooden mixing sticks, a crinkling sheet of plastic to guard the floor, a handful of fresh brushes, a sturdy roller with its long extension, and a clean, empty pan—simple tools in my hands, yet carrying the quiet promise of transformation, something far more profound than a mere coat of paint.
I stirred the paint in the garage, then made my way toward the house—gallon in one hand, plastic drop cloth tucked under one arm, paintbrush held lightly between my teeth, and the roller with its extension wrapped in the cloth and cradled against my side.
As for the clean, empty pan?
I’d slipped it into the waistband at the small of my back, hands too full for anything else.
Aspen trotted at my feet, eager to get back inside. Even now, I laugh remembering what happened next.
Standing on the small landing, I stubbornly tried to open the door without setting anything down. I had it almost open when my grip slipped, sending me stumbling backward, down the three steps, and onto the ground in front of my car.
Miraculously, the pink paint stayed in the can—and off both Aspen and me.
Once I knew I was unhurt, laughter spilled out of me—part amusement, part embarrassment, part recognition.
This wasn’t my first tumble born from stubbornness; I’ve played out the same scene with grocery bags cutting into my arms, determined to make it all in one trip.
It’s a small act in the moment, but it holds a deeper truth.
Sometimes, the weight we cling to is less about necessity and more about pride.
In love and life, the lesson is the same: you cannot step into a new space with your hands full of what no longer serves you. To pass through the doorway, you must release your grip, let some things rest, and carry forward only what your heart truly needs.
Life moves in a simple rhythm—gather, prepare, release, enter. And when I stumble, as I will, I remember: every fall is an invitation to rise, and every rise is brighter with laughter.
Today, I’m taking a moment to notice whether my hands—and my heart—are too full to open the door, and to see which burdens I’m ready to lay down.
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