From Survival to Listening

I was born.

I grew up.

I got an education.

I got married.

I raised a family.

I had a challenging, rewarding career.

I helped care for my sick and dying parents.

Now, I’m retired.

It sounds simple, but within each sentence are countless moments—some joyful, some painful, many quietly shaping who I am.

As a child, I played in the dirt, chased tadpoles, and wore my brothers’ hand-me-downs. My grandma called me a “ragamuffin,” and I wore the name proudly. I didn’t know then how much those simple days would stay with me.

Motherhood brought fierce love and sleepless nights. My work in labor and delivery brought both the beginning and end of life into my hands. And caring for my parents taught me that love often looks like simply showing up.

This morning, over coffee, a friend and I talked about those earlier years—how busy we were, how much we gave, how little we stopped to care for our own physical, emotional, or spiritual health. We were in survival mode, doing our best but rarely pausing to check in with ourselves.

Now, life feels different. There’s more space to breathe, to reflect, to ask, What do I need? And more often, I listen for the answer.

A quote that’s stayed with me lately is from Dr. Jenn Simmons, shared on the podcast Chris Beat Cancer:

“And if you don't listen to whispers, you get screams… Cancer isn't just something that happens to you. It's not bad luck. It is a message. It is an opportunity… to create something really amazing.”

Not all wake-up calls come as illness. Sometimes they come as exhaustion, emptiness, or a quiet sense that we’ve lost touch with ourselves. But if we pay attention, we can hear the whispers before they become screams.

Now that I’m retired, people ask, “What are you up to?” I think the answer is: this. This time to slow down, reflect, write, and be present. To listen more than I speak. To pay attention to beauty, connection, and truth.

If you think your story is too ordinary to matter, please know it does. The love you’ve given, the things you’ve survived, the ways you’ve grown—they all count.

So here I am. Still learning. Still becoming. Still listening.