“Come on in,” the gray-haired gentleman waved from the middle seat of aisle 10 on my flight headed home. I looked to the elderly woman seated next to him, hoping to get some clarity on the situation.

“He has bad legs and can’t stand so good,” she quickly explained. “Would you be so kind to just slide by?”

I took a deep breath and awkwardly squeezed past to get to my window seat.

“You just saved me a whole lotta trouble,” the man said, smiling warmly. “How’s your day going?”

I knew right then and there my hopes of sticking my iPods in my ears and chilling out would have to wait. I’d just led a multi-day workshop and desperately needed to restore my internal battery.

Within a few minutes of conversation, we discovered the couple lived in the city where my family and I used to live. Amazingly, the man had even had a hand in building the homes in the neighborhood where my daughters spent their childhood. Now he was a grandpa of ten, a retired builder, with a hobby of painting on canvas with acrylics.

I learned this as the plane filled with passengers.

Just as the man’s wife was about to show me his latest works of art captured on her phone, our chat was interrupted.

“You’re in my seat,” a man in a business suit curtly informed the woman. “I am in 10D.”

She explained they’d been moved to this row at the last minute because of her husband’s leg condition. As she tried to pull up proof on her phone, the man grew increasingly agitated.

And then something happened that I did not expect.

“If we have to move,” said the white-haired gentleman beside me, “will you move with us?”

I froze.

One part of me stiffened and screamed, BOUNDARIES, Rachel! Surely you’re not going to do that??

Another part of me softened and whispered, CONNECTION, Rachel. Thank you for listening to this man. Clearly, you’ve made a difference.

What eventually came out of my mouth was a direct result of the Soul Shift practices that have guided my inner work, along with somatic therapy. Over time, I’ve learned to preserve the empath in me while setting healthy boundaries so I can live whole, protected, and fulfilled. 

“This is my seat,” I said to him gently. “So I’ll need to stay here, but maybe it’ll work out that we can stay together.”

“I sure hope so,” the man said wistfully. “You just don’t meet people like you every day.”

It turned out the couple got to remain in their current seats. I did get my rest because the friendly gentleman fell asleep as soon as he was covered in a blanket and slept the entire flight.

As we began our descent, his wife gently roused him.

“Wake up, honey,” she whispered. “It’s time for your medication.”

Once he was alert, I asked if they were going to make the late-night drive home, which I knew was about three hours from the airport.

“We are going to stay at a hotel tonight,” the man explained. “But we gotta leave first thing. It’s time for me to start cancer treatments. My doctor found three spots on my liver last month, but he let us take our anniversary cruise to Alaska.”

I told him how sorry I was to hear this news.

“No matter what happens,” he said cheerfully, “I’m just glad I met you.”

“I’m glad I met you too,” I said, feeling tears come to the surface.

Something in this man’s tenderness cracked open a place in me I’d been working hard to heal.

See, the thing is, when you begin to notice past patterns through therapy and inner work—and you see all the times you didn’t protect yourself, there’s a deep ache.

You look back and label those moments—
the times you didn’t speak up for yourself,
the times you let people take advantage of you,
the times you ignored your body’s warning signs—
as moments you abandoned yourself.

When you release fawning behaviors, you suddenly remember all the times you said yes when you wanted to say no, sometimes at the cost of your own well-being. And it’s easy to feel shame. But those were survival strategies, earnest attempts to feel safe and accepted, until you discovered that worthiness was never something you had to earn.

But in this exchange with the elderly man beside me, some of that old shame lifted. I saw my willingness to be open, trusting, and overly kind to people not as gullible or naïve, but as a soft strength worth safeguarding.

And given we are living in a time when helping our neighbors has never mattered more, the timing of that release felt perfect.

Instantly, I felt grateful for my seat in 10F…
where I was reminded that boundaries and compassion can sit side by side,
where my limits could be honored without my losing heart,
where I could rest and still care deeply,
where I could give yet also receive.

I realized then that I never want my boundaries to be so tall or so hard that they keep me from reaching – or being reached.

The world is aching for human connection right now. And I’m learning that I possess qualities that help people feel safe in my presence.

The stranger on the plane reminded me:
We were never meant to navigate life alone.
We were meant to keep reaching—
even when it scares us,
even when we’re weary,
even when it would be easier to close off.

So, I’ll keep practicing this balance:
protecting my peace while staying open to connection,
making room for grace in the middle seat,
and trusting that what’s meant to meet me will find a way through.

Because now I know,
my heart won’t lead me astray.

My hand in yours,
Rachel

If this story resonated with you—the pull between protecting your peace and staying open to connection—this is the very work that shaped Soul Shift: The Weary Human’s Guide to Getting Unstuck and Reclaiming Your Path to Joy.

I’m grateful to share the book is being released to the world in paperback on Tuesday, something that only happens when a message has found its way into many hands and hearts.

So, if you’ve been waiting for a time to bring Soul Shift into your life—or to share it with someone you love—consider this a sign.

It’s not a book of answers, but a companion for moments just like this.
Moments when you’re learning to trust yourself,
honor your boundaries,
and tend to what is true for you.

So that even in an uncertain world, you can protect your peace without closing your heart.

From readers who have walked alongside this work…

“As I approach my 50th birthday and a new stage of life, I’ve been trying to regain a sense of who I want to be. This book came at the perfect time and helped me do that in an uplifting, supportive way. I even sent a copy to my daughter in college, who is on her own journey of becoming.” —Sarah

“This beautiful book is one I return to on the hard days when I feel like I’m not enough. Rachel’s words help me reconnect with my ‘Dreamer Girl’ and find my way back to joy. This is a book to be loved and shared.” —Amy

“Listening to Rachel’s words during moments of struggle feels like a true comfort. Living with a chronic illness, I need something that is both engaging and gentle, and this book is that rare gift. Rachel seems like she understands people who struggle and meets them exactly where they are, with no judgment and a compassionate, outstretched hand.” —CM

Soul Shift is available wherever you like to buy your books, including Bookshop, Amazon, and Barnes & Noble. I am so grateful for your support.

A final note… 

It’s not too late to register for my Only Love Today Retreat for Givers happening on April 24-26 at the renowned Kripalu center in Western Massachusetts. I’ve created this restorative experience especially for those who spend much of their lives caring for others and are ready to receive care themselves — to rest, reconnect, and rebuild a kinder relationship with their inner world and their body. 

Together, we practice slowing down, listening inward, and learning how to give ourselves the same compassion we so freely offer others. Through storytelling, guided reflection, gentle practices, and supportive community, you’ll begin creating sustainable rituals of nourishment, rest, movement, and boundary-honoring that can travel home with you. 

There are currently 17 lovely souls registered—perhaps you are meant to join us. This will be my only in-person retreat in 2026. If you feel a nudge to be there, please let me know, so we can make it happen. Learn more by clicking here.

Lately, I’ve been noticing how the most ordinary moments can hold something steady and life-giving when I need it most.

These are not big, life-changing events—just small moments that remind me who we are to each other… and how much our presence still matters.

I wanted to share two of those moments with you today.

My hope is that, as you read, you might begin to notice your own—and feel a little more steady as you move through this spring season in a world that feels heavy and uncertain.

Closer Than I Thought 

My young adult daughter is a few months from college graduation and finds herself facing a difficult and unexpected shift in her future plans.

“Would you come spend the weekend with me?” she asked.

I excitedly made the 2.5-hour drive. When I pulled into her apartment complex, I was surprised to find her waiting outside, standing at the top of the drive, waving in the sunshine.

My eyes filled with tears.

Suddenly, I felt so much compassion for my younger self — the mother who was learning to love herself while raising this strong, independent child.

So many times, when I knew I’d let us both down, I’d say to myself, I’m not where I want to be.

But I stayed in it… learning and trying, apologizing and loving my way through each day, hoping that someday I would get to a place I could be proud of.

Seeing my daughter waving me into a parking spot, inviting me into her world, felt like arriving somewhere sacred.

I was right where I wanted to be: fully human, fully present, ready to meet her uncertainty with love.

And I couldn’t help but feel how this is true for all of us:
 
You actually may be much closer to “where you want to be” than you think.

The willingness to show up for yourself and for those you love is taking you farther than you realize.

Keep going.

Part of Something More

I went to a high school baseball game the other night with my husband. Our 17-year-old neighbor recently made a highly competitive varsity team, and we wanted to show our support.

His parents saved us spots for our pop-up chairs. They hugged us and thanked us profusely for coming. As parents, we understood. When people who aren’t obligated come to support your kid… well, it feels like a gift you can’t quite repay.

For six innings we cheered for his team, waving to him in the dugout, hoping he might get a chance to play.

It wasn’t until the bottom of the sixth that his coach sent him in as a pinch runner. As he took his position at second base, his mom leaned in and said, “I know he doesn’t look fast, but he can run.”

I knew his hitting game had gotten off to a rocky start this season. I found myself holding my breath, wanting this small chance to go well.

The batter sent a line drive into right field. Our neighbor rounded third and headed for home. It was going to be close. 

He dove headfirst across the plate. 

He was safe!

The team ran out of the dugout and surrounded him. His parents were on their feet, hands in the air.

And me, the woman who was just there to support her neighbor? 

I got teary, the same way I did when my daughters played high school sports… lump in my throat, pride swelling.

Afterward, I had that familiar emotional high that comes from rooting for something.

It struck me on the drive home that nothing about the evening was extraordinary. It was just a regular-season high school game. A pinch runner. A close play at the plate.

And yet it felt bigger than it was.

Because showing up for someone else’s child is one of the purest ways we practice being human in a time that can feel isolating and fractured.

It comes from sharing snacks in the stands.
From holding your breath until they make it home.
From caring about an outcome that isn’t ours.

I went to bed Friday night knowing I need more of that in my life—
more reasons to cheer for someone else’s joy,
more moments that pull me out of myself and back into us.

My hand in yours,
Rachel 

P.S. Have you noticed any small moments that brought you back to what is steady and good?
I’d love to hear about them.

If your current season is bringing change or uncertainty, and you’d like support as you navigate it, I’d love to invite you into my upcoming Zoom gathering in Rachel’s Treehouse on Tuesday, March 31st at 8pm Eastern.

This month, I’ll be guiding us through something many of us are living right now: how to support the people we love without taking over, fixing, or losing ourselves in the process. This teaching is inspired by my personal experience as a parent of a high school senior who was not on the same timeline as everyone else—and what it required of me to stay present, trust, and let go of outcome.

These monthly supportive gatherings are part of my Treehouse community ($5/month), where we practice this work together in real time, with replays available the next day. There is also a free tier which includes my essays on midlife—the shifts, the letting go, and what it means to dream again. If you’ve been asking, “What now?” this is a space to land, reconnect, and rediscover. Join the community here.

One final exciting note… if you have been waiting for a time to bring Soul Shift into your life—or to share it with someone you love—it is being released in soft cover on April 14th and is now available for pre-order wherever you like to buy your books, including Bookshop and Amazon. If you happen to be a Barnes & Noble Rewards member, use the code PREORDER25 at checkout for 25% off Soul Shift through March 26^th. 

One of my favorite reviewers had this to say:

“The other day, a teacher friend said he thought we needed a new modern day Mr. Rogers to emerge in our culture. Author Rachel Macy Stafford brings this type of patience and encouragement and hope to her readers. She encourages grown-ups and young ones alike to be real with our feelings and thoughts. She honors our reality while shepherding us along towards a brighter future. Somehow, she does this while not diminishing our pain and struggle. Her work is a gift to our culture. She helps mend the frays in the fabric of our communities and our relationships.” -Jen ht

Lately I have been hearing from many parents whose children are facing unexpected disappointments, changing plans, and uncertain futures.

Watching someone you love navigate that kind of uncertainty can stir a deep ache. The instinct to fix it, to soften it, or somehow make the path smoother than it is can be strong.

A recent essay I shared with my Substack community about this tender part of loving our children sparked an outpouring of heartfelt responses and meaningful conversations between parents and their young adult children.

Because many of you have walked with me through so many seasons of parenting, it felt important to share it here as well, in case these words are something you might need today.

One of the hardest parts of loving our children is learning to stand still when their world falls apart. There is this parental instinct that urges us to rush in and do whatever we can to pick up the pieces.

That is how I felt when my young adult daughter received news that upended the plans she had built for life after college. 

As that familiar ache rose in my chest, I desperately wanted relief for her. But instead of offering certainty I couldn’t guarantee, I paused. I relied on something I have learned over the years: sometimes the most loving thing a parent can do is not promise everything will be okay but remind our children they are capable of rebuilding when it isn’t.

Later, when I reached out to ask how she was holding up, I expected to hear the heaviness I was carrying myself. Instead, my daughter’s voice was optimistic.

“I always remind myself that everything in my life that doesn’t go to plan was actually the plan all along,” Natalie said. “The best things in my life were because the original plans didn’t work.”

It was a powerful mindset—one born not from optimism alone, but from lived experience.

As she spoke, I realized I had heard echoes of this wisdom before, not in words, but in moments. Watching her steady herself in the face of disappointment carried me back to a much earlier season of motherhood, when resilience was still being formed and neither of us yet knew what it would one day make possible.

Our family had just moved to a new state, and everything familiar in my daughters’ world had suddenly disappeared—friends, routines, classrooms filled with known faces. Natalie, my older daughter, was eleven, standing at the edge of a life where nothing yet felt certain.

I can vividly recall two moments during that transitional year when I saw her pain and wanted desperately to spare her from it.

The first came when her beloved teacher abruptly left the classroom one day and never returned. For personal reasons, the teacher was unable to say goodbye. I can still hear my daughter’s guttural cries, asking why her teacher left them.

The second unfolded at the final championship of a divisional swim meet. Earlier that day, Natalie missed qualifying for finals in her event by one spot. She was invited back that evening as an alternate. This meant warming up as if she would swim, reporting to the blocks when called, scanning to see if a lane might open.

As a cautious planner with a tendency to worry, I was surprised Natalie wanted to put herself in such an unpredictable situation. But she did. I’ll never forget watching her eyes frantically scan the starting blocks, her hands clasped tightly in hope.

When no lane opened, I saw her shoulders fall. Her eyelids blinked rapidly as she fought back tears.

My child’s inner turmoil was palpable. Just like the day her teacher disappeared, her pain felt like my pain, and it was almost unbearable to witness.

In the car afterward, I told her how proud I was of her courage. I struggled with what to say next. This is what came out:

“Although the result was not what you hoped for, you gained valuable experience that will help you get through the next challenge you face. When something feels familiar, even something painful or disappointing, it becomes a little less frightening.”

I gave Natalie examples, personifying the emotions she was learning to face:

Hey disappointment, I know you. And I know you eventually pass.

Hey frustration, I’ve dealt with you before. You didn’t stop me then, and you won’t stop me now.

Hey obstacle, you tried to stop me, but I made it to the other side. That’s what I am going to do today.

I reminded her that every time she survives disappointment, she is building evidence of her own resilience.

As Natalie sat quietly in the backseat, I drove home wondering if I was cut out for parenting an adolescent. I knew that as she grew, her disappointments would deepen, and her falls would become harder. Standing by during those moments would never get easier.

But I also knew that the qualities I most hoped to nurture in my children—resilience, strength, determination, compassion—are often born from adversity. My role was not to rescue, minimize, or abandon her during struggle, but to listen, support, and believe in her ability to overcome.

The following year, Natalie earned a spot in the divisional finals. When it was time for her event, she asked me to walk with her to the starting blocks. There were no nerves this time. She was smiling… glowing, actually.

“This is what I’ve been working for all year, Mama,” she said. “I’m so happy I’m here.”

As she climbed onto the blocks, I realized that the disappointment from the year before had ignited something within her—determination shaped through effort and belief.

After her race, she walked toward a young swimmer standing poolside with tearful eyes. My daughter leaned in, gently touched her arm, and whispered something to her.

That swimmer was an alternate.

“I remember how it felt,” she told me later. “I wanted her to know she wasn’t alone.”

What Was Taking Root

Watching her comfort that young swimmer, I did not realize I was witnessing something that would echo years later. At the time, it simply felt like a small act of kindness born from shared disappointment. But now, listening to my grown daughter speak with calm acceptance about post-college plans that had fallen apart, I could see the through-line clearly. The child who once learned she could survive disappointment had become the young woman who trusted herself to begin again.

In many ways, her experience is not unusual right now. I hear similar stories again and again, young adults standing at the threshold of life while the ground beneath them shifts. Carefully laid plans dissolve. The future feels less like a roadmap and more like open water.

For those of us who love them, their uncertainty unsettles something deep within us too. And as I watch my daughter rebuild from the ground up, I realize something I wish more of us knew: resilience is not something we hand our children; it is something they discover while we stand beside them, resisting the urge to carry what they are capable of lifting themselves.

Perhaps this is especially true right now.

Disappointment in today’s world is no longer an occasional detour; it is becoming part of the landscape of modern adulthood. And perhaps the resilience our children need most is not confidence that life will go according to plan, but the belief that they can rebuild when it doesn’t.

Support does not always look like solutions.

Sometimes it looks like listening without rushing to reassure.
Sometimes it looks like reminding them who they have already proven themselves to be.

And perhaps this is true not only for our children, but for ourselves as well. Many of us are navigating endings we did not choose, plans that changed without permission, and futures that feel less predictable than we once imagined.

We, too, are learning to rebuild.

These days, when I talk with my daughter about what comes next, I notice something different in both of us. I no longer feel the same urgency to help resolve what feels uncertain, and she no longer waits for certainty before moving forward. There are still questions unanswered. But there is trust—trust in her ability to adapt, to reach out, and believe a better plan awaits.

Perhaps this is what our children need most from us in uncertain times, not a guarantee that everything will work out, but a steady presence that reminds them who they are when things don’t.

Because on the other side of disappointment is not just a different opportunity or a revised plan. On the other side is self-trust—the deep knowing that even when the path disappears, we are not lost.

Maybe that is the hope waiting for all of us right now.

Not certainty or perfect outcomes.

But the courage to keep moving forward, even without knowing exactly what comes next.

My hand in yours,
Rachel

For the Road Ahead…

On the drive to her December triathlon, Natalie and I listened to the latest album from Quinn XCII. That’s where she found Yellow Brick Road.

Lately, it’s become the song helping her move forward when things feel unclear.

As the chorus says, “As long as I keep moving, I know that I’ll be alright.”

Maybe it will steady you, too.

Listen here (with lyrics)

Supporting Each Other…

One of the most moving parts of sharing this essay in the Treehouse was the outpouring of support in the comments. Again and again, people reminded one another: we are not alone in this. So many of us are carrying deep love alongside deep uncertainty as we care for the people who matter most.

If you would like a place to feel less alone in what you are holding right now, I invite you to spend a few moments in the discussion section of the essay or add your own voice to the conversation. Your presence in Rachel’s Treehouse is a gift.

If the idea of gathering with like-hearted people this spring for a chance to catch your breath and remember yourself sounds nourishing, I have one in-person gathering in 2026 — and it’s just six weeks away.

The Only Love Today Retreat was created especially for those who spend much of their lives caring for others and are ready to receive care themselves — to rest, reconnect, and rebuild a kinder relationship with their inner world.

Together we practice slowing down, listening inward, and offering ourselves the same compassion we so freely give others. Through storytelling, guided reflection, gentle practices, and supportive community, you will begin creating sustainable rituals of nourishment, rest, movement, and boundary-honoring that can travel home with you.

If this season has asked much of you, perhaps this could be a time to receive some care in return. You can learn more about the retreat here. I would love to see you on April 24!

When my daughter Avery was eight years old, we moved to a new state. Her swim team practiced at a local aquatic center, and every week she asked me to stay and watch.

Her reasoning?

“I need to see you when I come up for air.”

During those practices, I noticed an older gentleman pushing an empty wheelchair through the lobby. Every day at 4:15, he would make his way to the therapy pool to retrieve his beloved companion.

“Hello,” he said to me one afternoon. “I think we’re on the same schedule.”

From then on, we spoke each time we crossed paths.

The man was generous with his stories. And over time, I learned about pain and hardship I have not lived. This man—who was no stranger to loss—did not seem to need advice or sympathy.

He just needed someone to listen.

Our afternoon conversations became so routine that even on days Avery didn’t ask me to stay, the thought of that lonely man was enough to bring me anyway.

If I don’t show up, who will see him when he comes up for air?

It was a small thing. But it was a critical thing.

Lately, I find myself thinking about how many people are moving through the current days holding their breath.

Because knowing you matter is oxygen.

And when it is offered in the most difficult times, it can be lifesaving.

This is something I have been learning again in my own life this winter.

Not in big, dramatic ways.
In small, compassionate ones.

Letting myself cry when I need to cry.
Not forcing myself through what my body is asking me to pause.
Keeping small promises to myself—like stepping outside for a slow walk or sitting somewhere peaceful, long enough for my nervous system to settle.

For most of my life, I didn’t know how to do this.
I knew how to power through.
I knew how to take care of everyone else.
I knew how to stay busy, helpful, and agreeable, even when something inside me was asking me to stop.

But this season has been teaching me something different.
It has been teaching me how to stay human.
To stay with what I’m feeling instead of pushing past it.
To stay with what is tender instead of numbing it.
To stay with what is doable instead of trying to be efficient.

In Rachel’s Treehouse this winter, I’ve been hearing the same tender truth from so many readers.
They are starting this year tired.
Braced.
Overwhelmed.
Scared.

And those feelings are not letting up.
The world is asking the impossible of our nervous systems.

In times like these, we don’t need hard rules or lofty goals.

We need gentle permissions that allow us to come up for air.

Permissions like:

Let your body finish what it’s trying to do.
If you need to cry, cry. If you need to rest, rest. This is not weakness. This is your nervous system doing its honest work.

Remove one unnecessary demand.
Maybe it’s the scale. Maybe it’s one obligation. Maybe it’s lowering the bar on one thing today.

Make one small, compassionate promise you can keep.
A walk. A shower. A cup of tea by a window. Then keep it.

Bring your focus back down to where you can make your own small bit of difference.
When the world feels too big and too broken, return to what is close and reachable. A person you can comfort. A small kindness you can offer. A small corner of the world you can tend.

Sometimes, that is simply noticing who is around us, quietly hoping to be seen.

The man with the empty wheelchair taught me something I didn’t have language for back then.

Presence is not grand.
It is oxygen.

And the only reason I was in that exact place—the place where my life could intersect with his—was because Avery had already taught me the most basic human lesson of all:

When you are somewhere you’ve never been before, the face of love becomes a beacon.

“I need to see you when I come up for air.”

Some would say we are in a place we have never been before.

So, let’s be that for one another.
Let’s be the ones who stay close enough to be seen.
Gentle enough to notice.
Brave enough to keep showing up.

Because someone, somewhere near you, is quietly holding their breath.

And maybe today, without even realizing it,
you are the face they are hoping to see
when they come up for air.

My hand in yours,
Rachel

For those of us who are lifelong givers and nurturers, receiving care can sometimes feel surprisingly uncomfortable. If you’d like a little extra support, I recently recorded a short audio of me reading nine gentle permissions—ones inspired by a red cardinal (named Rudy) who began visiting me when Avery left for college last fall. This Treehouse essay + audio also includes a Take What You Need printable of those permissions, if you’d like a tangible reminder that you, too, are worthy of the same care you so freely offer. Click here to enjoy.

In-person opportunities for coming up for air…

1. I’ll be delivering the keynote address, Tend What Is True for You, at the Hanover College Women’s Brunch in southern Indiana on Saturday, March 14.

This message is being shaped very intentionally for this gathering and for the moment we are living in. It’s centered on helping women feel steadied, seen, and gently reconnected—to themselves and to one another—and on the quiet, powerful truth that healing so often happens in community. There will also be a book signing afterward, and it would truly be my joy to hug you. Click here for details.

2. April 24–26, I’ll be leading Only Love Today: A Restorative Retreat for Those Who Are Often Last on Their Own List at the Kripalu Center in western Massachusetts. This will be my only in-person retreat offering in 2026.

Women who joined me last November in North Carolina left with a renewed sense of self-trust, real restoration, and genuine connection—what one participant called “a miracle in these times.”

Because a minimum number of registrations is required for a Kripalu program to run, I’m also offering a special After-Hours Experience on Saturday night, April 25, exclusively for the first 15 retreat registrants (there are currently four spots remaining). I deeply appreciate the early registrants who already said yes and helped carry this gathering into being.

You can find all the details here, if you’d like to explore.

With no hotels near the half Ironman site, renting a small house was the norm. She’d booked it months earlier. But as our eight-hour drive was drawing to a close and the access code still hadn’t arrived, it became clear we’d been scammed.

Natalie called customer service. Thankfully, a real human answered. His name was Mohamed.

After trying unsuccessfully to reach the owner, he said gently, “I recommend you cancel the reservation and find a new one.”

“But here’s the problem,” my daughter said, trying to hold it together. “I have a race on Sunday. Thousands of athletes are coming. Everything is sold out.”

“Hold, please,” Mohamed said. “Let me look.”

She leaned toward me and whispered through tears, “I feel like I’ve failed.”

“This is a small blip in the plan,” I told Natalie, with far more conviction than I felt. “You’ve worked too hard to let this derail everything. We’ll figure it out.”

Most places with availability were at least fifty miles away…

except one.

“A small roadside motel appears to have one room available,” Mohamed said. “I can’t make the reservation for you, but I can stay on the phone with you while you call.”

After a pause, he added, “I will not leave you stranded.”

Natalie dialed the number and quickly learned she was speaking to the owner, Frank.

“I know this is a long shot,” she said, hopeful, “but do you have any availability?”

“We just had a cancellation,” Frank replied.

Tears came.

“I’m sorry,” she said, gathering herself. “I’m in the race on Sunday, and my rental just fell through.”

“I’ve been hosting participants for this race for ten years,” Frank shared. “I get it. Come on. I’ve got a place for you.”

That little rustic room wasn’t fancy. But it was close to the race site. It was quiet. It was a place to rest when we were exhausted and far from home.

And it was enough.

The most memorable December weekend unfolded from there.

Natalie crossed the finish line in five hours, nine minutes, strong and smiling. Yes, she trained her heart out—but when we needed help, real people showed up.

This is the energy I’m carrying into 2026.

Mohamed’s kindness.
Frank’s understanding.
My daughter’s perseverance.
A mother’s belief.

May we all be met when we’re far from home.
May we become the ones who stay on the line.
And may we remember how much can change when we refuse to leave one another stranded.

My hand in yours,
Rachel

When I recently shared this story on Substack, something beautiful happened. It took on a life of its own, spreading further than I ever expected, and readers began responding with their own commitments to collective care. 

“‘I will not leave you stranded.’ So much depends on our feelings of safety. May we be a safe place and a safe interaction for others in 2026.” L.B.

“‘I will not leave you stranded’ has become my new year’s growth plan. This year will be about finding people who need to be cared for. I’m stocking up my car with snacks and drinks to give out on intersection corners. The list will grow as I grow.” R.F.

“Starting in 2026, I will pledge to myself that I will ‘stay on the line’ for my friends and for strangers.” M.W.

“We know connection and community are what we need, but we’re exhausted and not sure how to create more of it. ‘I will not leave you stranded’ is what I needed to read to help guide me through this time.” K.A.

The man who tried to deceive Natalie did not win.

Kindness did.

(And for those who love small signs of grace: our room number was 143—which means I love you.)

Coming up in Rachel’s Treehouse on Substack this winter… I’ll be sharing guidance and nourishment for transitional seasons of life — parenting from afar, grief, and midlife hormonal changes — and gentle ways of staying human when everything feels tender, hard, and unfamiliar. We’ll be talking about how to be kind to ourselves and each other in an unsteady world.

If you ever feel like joining me there, the ladder is always down – and my essays come straight to your email inbox. 

Tomorrow begins the final 21 days of the year.

A small window of time… and yet, I’ve recently witnessed how little it takes for something meaningful to shift inside a human heart. Last month, at my first Only Love Today retreat, 28 women showed me what becomes possible when we gently turn toward ourselves.

I’ve been wanting to tell you about it as we enter these last days of 2025.

I hope you will take these words to heart…

Just as the retreat was about to begin on Friday night, a participant approached me.

She told me that when she saw I was hosting my first Only Love Today retreat, she knew she had to come and tell me her story in person.

A few years ago, a student with complex behavioral needs was transferred into her middle school classroom. Each morning, he’d walk in, put his head on the desk, and fall asleep. And every day, the teacher would lean close and whisper:

“Only love today.”

Every day for six months, she whispered those words.

And then one day, the student saw her at the copy machine. He walked up, wrapped his arms around her, and said,
“Only love today, Mrs. H.”

“He heard me,” she said as tears filled both our eyes. “Those words got through. And I needed you to know.”

As I walked to the front of the room, my nerves fell away. The pressure released. More than the tools I’d prepared, more than the teachings or exercises I’d designed, it would be the messages and the space—loving, safe, human—that would carry these women toward growth and healing.

I knew I could provide that.

Fast-forward to the final hour of the retreat. A participant who’d confided earlier that she wouldn’t be raising her hand because she feared she’d cry, ended up wanting to share.

When she spoke, it was through tears, but with new strength. She said practicing Only Love Today over the years had allowed her to give her kids the kind of nurturing love that helped them thrive. But this weekend was the first time she had finally directed the practice toward herself.

At last, something clicked. Only Love Today was now self-compassion she could receive.

As my eyes filled, I thought: This is everything I hoped would happen here.

I remembered the teacher’s words.

He heard me.

But this time, it was:

She heard me.

The participant heard me when I said:

• This weekend is not about fixing yourself; it’s about remembering yourself.
• You don’t have to stop giving. You simply begin by remembering you are part of the circle of care.
• You are not invisible. Your needs matter too.

“You are not here just to do stuff, just to perform duties and complete tasks. You are here also to feel happy, and content, and inspired and well within yourself. You are here to have some fun, create meaningful moments and find the sparkle in your eyes again. You are here to unravel the magic of being alive, the magic of being you. To heal, to feel whole again. You are worth the effort.” -S.C. Lourie

Over a handful of days spent practicing listening to ourselves and exploring what it feels like to finally receive, something clicked.

Witnessing this profound shift has me thinking about the final stretch of 2025. Research tells us that a new habit can take root in 21 days. What if we choose to use these last days of 2025 to gift ourselves with love, only love?

Perhaps, like Mrs. H’s student, you feel like putting your head down and sleeping your way to the end of the year. I can’t blame you; 2025 has been tough for so many. Or perhaps you’re determined to push through, checking off the boxes and rushing toward the finish line.

But let’s remember: what you are sleeping through or rushing through… that is your very life. And your story is still being written.

Why not make it a story of love?
A story of compassion, of receiving goodness?
A story of the favorite comforts you’ve set aside for too long—
warm baths, early nights, long walks, quiet breaths that belong only to you.

May the remaining days of December become the most nourishing part of a long, trying year.
May you not wish this month away, but let it live… in you.

Perhaps it starts with a tiny gesture, a hand on your own shoulder, a quiet whisper of only love today, a moment of choosing yourself.

Years ago, I learned the power of a small moment like that during a hard December when I was just holding on by a thread.

2010 was one of those let’s-just-get-this-over-with years.

My goal for December 25, 2010, revolved around boxes—checking boxes, wrapping boxes, and stuffing emotions into boxes that I knew would spill out sideways. I could already see myself collapsing on December 26 with nothing meaningful to hold onto because I’d been too busy, too distracted, too hopeless, and too overwhelmed.

A couple of days before Christmas, one small moment changed everything.

My four-year-old daughter Avery asked if she could help fold laundry. With a heavy sigh, I irritably agreed.

Avery went straight for her dad’s boxer shorts. She slid her little legs into the openings, gathered the waistband with one hand, and launched into the most hysterical song-and-dance routine around the living room.

I began to laugh… and laugh… and laugh. I couldn’t stop.

Suddenly Avery stopped. She leaned toward me and said,
“I love that sound.”

I looked around, confused. What sound?

And then it hit me: my child loved the sound of her mother’s laugh… a sound she hardly heard anymore.

In that moment of acute awareness, everything trivial fell away. I saw the big picture:
What will my loved ones remember about today?

I wanted it to be my love, my presence, and my laugh.

And here I am, fifteen years later, recognizing the truth:
Avery heard me.
She heard my joy, my exhaustion, my overwhelm—even when I could not hear myself.

And in hearing me, she helped me hear what mattered.

Just as the student heard Mrs. H…
Just as the woman at the retreat heard me…
I, too, once heard what love was trying to tell me through the smallest voice in the room.

Avery heard the joyful, unguarded part of me breaking through.
And in hearing me,
she helped me receive myself with love.

And that, my friends, is the quiet beginning of receiving Only Love Today—
not as a practice we only give away,
but as a form of self-compassion we finally allow ourselves to take in.

What if we end this year by practicing that very thing?

We cannot control much in this world, but we can control the messages we give ourselves.
And when we give love to ourselves—
when we receive it—
it ripples outward.

I hear you.
Thank you for showing up.
Only Love Today.

May the remaining 21 days of December
become the best part of a long, trying year.
May we not wish this month away.
May we let it live and breathe…
in us.

My hand in yours,
Rachel 

A possibility for the year ahead…

If you hoped to attend the first Only Love Today retreat but timing or distance made it impossible, I have good news to share. I get to offer it once more, this time at Kripalu, surrounded by the soft unfolding of spring in the Berkshires, April 24–26, 2026.

Perhaps the coming season could be your turning point—the kind of deep restoration, self-trust, and connection so many participants experienced this fall and what one attendee described as “a miracle in these times.” I would be honored to hold that space with you. Click here for all the details.

If you’d like support sooner, this what I’ll be writing about — and teaching live — inside Rachel’s Treehouse, my Substack community, as we close out 2025 and begin 2026. For $5/month, you receive the Dear Rachel guidance column and access to my restorative monthly Zoom gatherings (a special one is happening on Monday afternoon, December 29th), while all other essays remain free and come straight into your email inbox.

Here are the most popular essays from this fall:
* The Softest Parts of Ourselves Don’t Need to Be Erased 
* Be Inconvenienced to Find Belonging in This New Season of Life
* How One Simple Affirmation Empowers Me to Name What I Need
* Speaking of Rejection: Spread the Word 
* Dear Rachel: I’m Grieving the Future I Dreamed for My Child. How Can I Find Hope Again?
* Dear Rachel: My kids want to revisit my parenting mistakes. Help?

*Never will I forget the women who showed up for themselves, for each other, and for me at the 2025 Only Love Today Retreat in North Carolina. Let’s make more memories this spring in Massachusetts.

Last week I shared a story in Rachel’s Treehouse that garnered a beautiful response. Readers indicated it met them “right where they are” and made them feel less alone. This is why I started a blog back in 2010… and is why I continue writing today. If your heart needs a lift, please read on… 

Early in my life, I learned that my inclination to care deeply and feel deeply, which often showed in visible ways, made other people uncomfortable.

So, I learned to hide my tears,
blink them back,
keep them in check
until I was alone.
It was there, in solitude, that I could feel to my heart’s content.

Throughout October, I carried an on-the-verge-of-tears tenderness, and I spent a lot of time by myself again.

It feels risky and vulnerable to even admit that. But the October Treehouse Zoom gathering with therapist and longtime friend Kerry Foreman helped me put some important pieces together – particularly when we talked about protecting both the tender parts and the strong parts within us.

When I watched the replay, I realized why it had felt so raw and yet so right. In my vulnerability, I make space for others to be vulnerable too. That realization opened something in me.

The next day, though, I had what Brené Brown calls a “vulnerability hangover.”

That unpleasant feeling resulted from sharing how much I’ve missed Avery since she left for college – the rite of passage that marked the true beginning of the empty nest.

After all, the suffering in the world is immense. Do I even have the right to talk about this?

But the absence of a human being in the spaces they once inhabited – no matter the reason – is loss.

The following day, I opened up to a friend who immediately put it into perspective.

“Of course it hurts. Of course you’re in pain,” she said gently. “Rachel, you’re grieving a loss of role. The way you parented Natalie changed a few years ago; the way you parent Avery changed when she left home this fall, and it will never be quite the same. Add to that the fact that her physical presence is suddenly gone, and the fact that you are deeply troubled by the distance between the world as it is and the world as it should be. You are grieving, Rach. Give yourself grace.”

As tears streaked my cheeks, I felt so seen.

In our Treehouse gathering, a member asked a powerful question to those who identify as “the strong ones” about being willing to receive help when someone notices something is off. I realized this was my chance to practice what we’d talked about – to listen to what my friend was saying.

Give yourself grace.

She meant stop being so hard on myself in this season of personal and collective grief… and allow myself to feel, fully.

But what does that look like? I wondered. Giving myself grace doesn’t come easily, especially under the current circumstances we find ourselves in. So, I decided to approach it differently. I asked myself, where do I feel grace?

That answer came quickly: when I am in nature. Specifically, when I watch the birds at my feeder.

Avery knew this when she bought me the “Messenger” Willow Tree figurine last Christmas.

“When I’m at college,” Avery explained, “and you see a red bird come to your feeder, it can be our point of connection.”

When I first spotted Rudy this fall – the brightest cherry-apple-red cardinal I’ve ever laid eyes on – I knew Avery had sent him. At first, Rudy visited the feeder at dawn and dusk, as cardinals typically do. But over time, he began showing up more often, until it seemed our bird feeder had become his personal diner.

What does it mean when a red cardinal never leaves? I finally typed into Google. I couldn’t find an answer online, so last week, I decided to simply observe.

And do you know what I saw?

Rudy, our self-appointed head chef of the feeder, plucked off a seed and gently placed it in the mouth of a small sparrow struggling to get food.

Aren’t cardinals only supposed to feed their own? I wondered, a bit stunned.

And then it struck me… maybe this was what I was meant to see: a glimpse of the world as it could be. The birds showing us how care might look when we stop drawing lines around who is worthy of it.

As I began to cry, past conditioning told me it was silly to cry over such a thing.

But then I heard a little voice from long ago say, “It’s okay. Cry if you need to. That’s just who you are, Mama.”

It was Avery at five years old. The first time she noticed me holding back my emotions.

That was it. That was grace I needed in this moment – the point of connection that transcends distance and time, the reminder that love expressed in care and tenderness is never lost.

Later, I came across these poignant words from author and psychotherapist Lisa Olivera that gave language to what I’d been feeling as I watched Rudy feed the sparrow:

“Feeling the relief of not trying to rise above the grief and ache of the moment we’re in; feeling the tenderness of facing and meeting the hurt of it all with a loving presence, with an ‘of course it hurts,’ with gratitude for the willingness to face it little by little, day by day, moment by moment. This willingness to face it helps me also face and feel the beauty, the gifts, the goodness; together, they become a spiral of aliveness that bolsters and nurtures amid it all.”

Lisa’s words reminded me that when we stop trying to rise above grief – our own or the world’s – we open ourselves up to feel both the ache and the beauty. We become part of the circulation of life, the one that keeps us connected to the living, breathing world and fiercely determined to do our part in protecting it.

So, when the ache returns, whether from the state of the world or the empty chair across the table, let’s pause long enough to say, of course it hurts. Then step outside and remember: goodness and grace are still within our sight.

We won’t close our (teary) eyes.

We won’t stop believing in what could be.

My hand in yours,
Rachel

At the end of the essay, I explained that the Treehouse comment section has become my weekly Hope Scroll (the opposite of Doom Scroll, which I wrote an essay about in September) — and so often what keeps me going. “If you have the bandwidth,” I wrote, “please tell us: Have you ever received a small sign that reminded you that you are not alone? or What’s been helping you keep your eyes (and heart) open lately?”

Here is a small sample from the over 50 uplifting comments that were shared. Please enjoy, and feel free to add your stories and experiences to the collection:

As always, you’re welcome to receive my free writings from Rachel’s Treehouse straight to your inbox—and, if you wish, engage with a like-hearted community on a path to self acceptance and true belonging. Through vulnerable reflections on midlife, empty-nesting, and dreaming again, the Treehouse offers a place to land softly, reconnect deeply, and rediscover what makes you come alive.
If you’ve been asking, “What now?” the Treehouse is a safe space to begin again.

“In this terrifying world, you continuously have the power to offer someone else a little relief. Why would you withhold that? Do you remember what a little relief feels like? It feels like a lot.” -Unknown 

I stumbled across this quote one year ago, and it quickly became a guiding force in my life. It reminded me that I am not power-less in offsetting the pain of the world that feels quite over-powering. I can offer relief through words and actions – and sometimes, on a good day, words and actions merge to create a beautiful story. Here are two stories of belonging + one invitation. May they bring hope in desolate times…

Classroom Connection 

Like many freshmen, my daughter found the first few weeks of college overwhelming. She watched cliques form and wondered where she might fit in, even questioning if she had chosen the wrong place.

One bright spot was her government class. In a lecture hall, a small, white-haired professor shared stories from a life that had taken him across the globe. He’d come to know people caught in conflict, struggles that are still unfolding today. He was a storyteller in the truest sense, bringing history and humanity to life with tears in his eyes.

“Sometimes I get tears in my eyes too,” my daughter said. As a deep feeler from an early age, Avery has always cared deeply about human suffering and injustice.

In this professor, she found both a kindred soul and a fascinating teacher. And for the first couple of weeks, this class was what kept her going.

The mother in me hopes one day I’ll get the chance to thank her professor. But the educator in me knows he already saw my daughter — noticed her hanging on every word as if everything depended on it.

Teachers like him — soul builders, I like to call them — understand that their classrooms, their words, can be the only connection that feels real and true in a world that feels superficial and isolating. They’re aware they don’t simply relay knowledge — they relay possibility, making students feel they matter. 

Now, weeks later, my daughter is beginning to find her footing — growing more confident as she navigates new friendships, dorm life, and academic demands.

Avery tells me she decided to move closer to the front of her favorite class so her professor could see how much she enjoys his teachings. 

Apparently, not all the students are engaged in his stories, and she doesn’t want him to get discouraged.

That’s the beauty of real connection; it creates a circle where encouragement flows both ways.

As her mom, I feel both proud and deeply at peace knowing she’s finding her place within it. 

As a human being, I will be looking for ways to move closer to let people know I enjoy their presence and contribution. 

Canyon Connection

I recently had the unique opportunity to host a group of 10 women on a hiking expedition through four of Utah’s national parks with an incredible guide. Along the way, our vivacious group sparked a lot of curiosity. People often assumed we were longtime friends. It wasn’t easy to explain we were strangers—but through a shared love of one author’s work, we trusted our hearts, took a leap of faith, and showed up for this journey together.

One of my favorite encounters came in Bryce Canyon, where an older couple sat outside their camper one evening, watching us cook dinner and fix fallen tents. After a warm hello, the woman smiled and asked, “Are you in some kind of club?” She said they could tell we were something special.

I explained that I am an author with a background in special education, which deeply informs my work—messages and teachings that emphasize connection, inclusion, compassion, and self-awareness—and these women had been brought together through that work.

“It’s amazing,” I told them, “This group of strangers, each with a unique story and background, has come together to listen, learn, and support one another through emotional and physical challenges—and in doing so, we will all leave transformed and more connected than when we arrived.”

The man wiped his eyes. “Thank you for talking to us,” he said quietly. His wife asked if she could give me a hug.

It seems strange to say, but the connections this group and I made on this trip with people from all over the world were every bit as stunning as the landscapes we hiked through. Each interaction reminded me why I started writing Hands Free Mama in 2011, with the tagline: letting go of distraction to grasp what really matters:

• face-to-face conversations matter
• looking into people’s eyes matters
• hearing stories we have not lived – and responding with curiosity matters

And now, after walking miles of red rock trails with ten brave women who took a leap of faith, I know this too: the world feels less heavy when we create small circles of belonging, wherever we go.

Mountain Connection: An Invitation 

In 6 weeks, I’ll be forming another circle of belonging at my favorite Autumn respite destination on earth: the Art of Living Retreat Center – this time with a brand-new retreat!

This one’s for the givers. The ones who hold it all together… until they breakdown. For the ones who forget they have limits, needs, and dreams. For the ones who offer compassion but rarely receive their own.

I get it. I’ve been there too. Those very struggles became the seeds for my new offering:

Only Love Today: 
A restorative retreat for those who are often last on their own list
November 7–9 in the Blue Ridge Mountains

This gathering is designed as a sacred pause—nestled right between the busyness of fall and the whirlwind of the holidays. Together, we’ll:

• Reconnect with your true needs (without guilt)
• Set boundaries and redefine how you measure your worth
• Lower your stress and reclaim what brings you joy
• Design a self-care plan rooted in compassion—not obligation

You can expect nourishing meals, meaningful conversations, and the rare gift of space to simply be—all in the company of a warm, inclusive community that gets it.

This isn’t about adding more to your plate. It’s about finally tending to your own heart.

Reserve your spot now with just your lodging deposit (starting at $464). Pay the retreat tuition ($355) closer to the event.
 Note: This option is only available by calling the center at 800.392.6870. It cannot be accessed through the online form.

Enrollment is nearing capacity, so please don’t delay if you’d like to be part of my very first Only Love Today retreat experience.

Dear ones, whether in an office or classroom, on a subway or a trail, in the valleys or the mountain tops of life, may you find—or create—your own circle of belonging right where you are. Gestures of inclusion – no matter how small – matter greatly. Now more than ever.

My hand in yours,
Rachel

And please remember, everyone has a place in Rachel’s Treehouse. Part journal, part gathering place, it’s where I reflect weekly on midlife, empty nesting, cultivating hope and healing by planting pauses and building community right where we are. Free essays arrive straight to your inbox—you don’t even need to open the internet. It’s supportive, enlightening, and encouraging. Join the community today.

“What’s the kindest thing anyone has ever done for you?”

That question came up on a conversation card at a large family gathering not long ago.

My answer came instantly—so clear, so certain—yet I couldn’t bring myself to share it.

In that moment, the story felt too heavy, too vulnerable. So I held it close, carrying it with me for months. But as my youngest daughter’s graduation day approached, I knew with growing clarity that it needed to be told.

In May, I published the story in Rachel’s Treehouse—a space that’s become a safe haven for honest midlife reflections and brave leaps into new chapters. I had no idea just how deeply it would resonate.

“Our whole life has been turned upside down by a story that is not mine to tell,” one commenter wrote. “Possibly the loneliest place on earth. When a loved one has a terminal illness or an accident, people rally round. But there are some things where nobody can know, so nobody comes to comfort you, and life is expected to go on, and you can’t explain, and it’s an excruciating place to be.”

If you’re needing the kind of love that doesn’t demand the details… or wondering how to offer it, please read on…

As both of my daughters began a new school year in August 2021, I was quietly aching from the internal wounds left by what I’ve come to call the Summer of Devastation. A traumatic event had occurred. Then came the aftermath. Then the downward spiral.

Perhaps the only thing worse than the world turning against you during adolescence is turning against yourself.

And as a mother, watching your child spiral is its own kind of heartbreak.

By August, I was a shell of myself. Everything felt dark, and I couldn’t talk about it—because it wasn’t my story to tell. I’d pulled away from almost everyone outside of my immediate family.

A neighbor and friend, whose child was in the same grade as mine, knew we’d had a difficult summer. She reached out and offered to take me to a place she visits when she needs to feel restored and cared for.

“You don’t have to tell me anything about what happened,” she added gently.

The relief that left my body in that moment was immense. It was as if she had both named—and erased—my greatest fear: that she would expect an explanation.

A few days later, we pulled up to a fancy hotel in the city that housed a very special spa.

As we walked toward the entrance, I could feel her excitement.

“I just love the way this place smells,” she said with a smile. “The minute I walk in, I instantly relax.”

Tears came to my eyes. This truly was her place of peace—and she was sharing it with me.

That day, I received the most nourishing massage. There was mandarin orange–scented oil, warm towels wrapped around me, and soft music playing in the background. Gentle hands eased the tension I’d been carrying as silent tears slipped into the face cradle.

For the first time all summer, I felt safe.
I felt cared for.
I felt unalone.

It was the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.

No strings.
No expectations.
Just love.

What I learned from my friend’s quiet act is something I’ll never forget:
When someone is in pain, they don’t need our curiosity—they need our presence.
True kindness doesn’t demand a story.
It simply offers itself with open hands and no expectations.

That kind of love is powerful.
That kind of love can carry people.

There was a time I couldn’t imagine this day: my daughter in her cap and gown, walking across that stage radiant and strong. But we made it. And while the journey was shaped by resilience and healing, it was kindness—steady, quiet, unwavering—that brought us through.

When Avery turned her tassel, I thought not only of how far she’s come, but of the people who helped us get here. This wasn’t just a celebration of achievement. It was a celebration of life.

The sacredness of that will never be lost on me.

A Blessing for the Silent Ache
by Rachel Macy Stafford

For those holding a sorrow they cannot share,
whose stories are not theirs to tell—
may you feel the deep compassion
that does not ask for explanations.

May you be met with gentleness
in a world that so often demands words.

May someone offer you presence—
without questions, without pressure—
just quiet kindness,
soft as a hand resting on yours in the dark.

May you find spaces where your heart can exhale,
where your grief is not invisible,
even if unspoken.

And when the path feels loneliest,
may you remember:
you do not walk alone.

And may you trust:
there is light ahead.

My hand in yours,
Rachel

Climb the Treehouse Ladder…

If this piece spoke to something tender inside you, I hope you’ll consider joining me in Rachel’s Treehouse. Part journal, part gathering place—this is where I make sense of midlife as my daughters leave home, and I find myself with space to dream again.

For anyone asking “what now?”—this is a place to land, reflect, and rediscover.

If you’ve ever felt alone in your ache, your longing for worthiness, your pursuit of joy and play—you’ll feel at home in the treehouse.

When you subscribe, my personal reflections and invitations that aren’t shared anywhere else will be sent directly to your email inbox—no extra steps or apps needed. And it’s free.

 Join me here where you will find these recent essays and more…

Today, I want to give voice to something that’s rarely talked about.

There’s a hidden ache that surfaces during high-celebration months — and May is one of them.

Graduations, Mother’s Day, award ceremonies, weddings, and seasonal gatherings can be incredibly painful when life doesn’t look the way you imagined it would.

Maybe your story carries the quiet weight of loss, strained relationships, financial hardship, health challenges, or unspoken trauma, the kind of pain that whispers, ‘It wasn’t supposed to be like this’. 

And now May has arrived — a month that highlights milestones — and with it, a fresh wave of grief. These events can pull you deep into what should have been.

I’ll never forget the gut-wrenching pain of watching smiling teens in prom attire gathering for photos with their parents in our neighborhood in 2022. That seemingly ordinary moment landed heavier than expected, making the gap in my reality feel vast, and the heartbreak nearly impossible to hold.

When I finally made it through that two-year family crisis, I promised myself something:

• That I wouldn’t forget the sting of seeing “milestone” reminders that only deepened my grief.
  
• That during these celebration-heavy months, I would offer a soft place to land for anyone quietly hurting on the outskirts.

Because the pain of “this isn’t how it’s supposed to be” often has nowhere to go. It’s not something we can easily explain or even say out loud. 

And the loneliness of it can be the most isolating part.

So, over the past few days, I’ve done my best to give that pain some words. What follows is a poem I wrote from that tender place — for anyone carrying quiet sorrow in a season of celebration. It’s for the ones smiling through tears, staying home from the gathering, or simply trying to make it through the month.

A May Blessing for Hidden Hurt
by Rachel Macy Stafford

May you proceed knowing that your story is sacred—
even the parts that broke your heart,
even the moments that didn’t go as planned.

May you give yourself permission to feel,
to grieve without rushing,
to rest without guilt,
and to honor the ache asking to be seen.

And when sadness rises again, as it will,
may you meet it with softness—not shame.
With breath, not blame.
With the quiet courage to say: “Maybe it just is.”

In your brave release of “what should be”,
may comfort reach what hurts
and assure you that you are not alone.

My hand in yours,
Rachel

AN INVITATION…

One of the most profound lessons I learned while supporting my family during a challenging season was this: I am a worthy recipient of my own caregiving.

As givers, we often show up for others, pouring our energy into helping them heal and grow. But we sometimes forget that we too need space to rest, replenish, and reset. Good caregivers need good care, and it’s never too late to claim that for ourselves.

That’s why I’m excited to invite you to an opportunity for deep nourishment and healing: a retreat designed for those who give so much to others but often forget to care for themselves.

This fall, I’m offering a brand-new ONLY LOVE TODAY weekend retreat for givers, helpers, and hearts in need of a reset, hosted at the Art of Living Retreat Center in Boone, NC, from November 7-9.

Imagine:

• Setting aside the weight of your daily responsibilities and reconnecting with the parts of yourself that need your care.
• Breaking free from the cycles of stress and exhaustion that keep you stuck.
• Creating a personalized plan to offer yourself the same love, care, and compassion you so generously give to others.
• Immersing yourself in the serenity of the Blue Ridge Mountains, with nourishing meals and the support of like-hearted individuals on a similar path.

This late Autumn respite is a chance to pause, reset, and nourish your soul before the busy holiday season begins. Space is limited, so if you’re ready to prioritize your own well-being, please sign up today. 

And if traveling is out of the question, you can still experience a similar sense of community and restorative teachings through my metaphorical home, Rachel’s Treehouse. It’s a place for my words and a shared connection with each other, where we can dive deep into healing, self-love, and compassion from wherever you are. Some of the most-read essays so far in 2025 have been:

• Your Unmet Needs Might Need My Therapist’s Advice
  
• Pain Caves and Bringing More Light to the Walls
  
• Disappointed No More: Setting a Self-Love Precedent for 2025
  
• When Past Shame is Met with the Compassion of Now