There comes a point in adulthood when you look around at your own life and realize just how much of it was built from other people’s expectations. Parents, partners, coworkers, even strangers on the internet all seem to carry opinions about what a “good” life should look like whether that’s the classic white picket fence and 2 kids, jetting around the world or having that corner office. With the shorter days and colder nights which entice us to stay inside sipping a warm cup of tea, December has a way of handing us a quiet pause in the middle of all that noise. In that stillness you can ask a gentler and more liberating question: What if the best gift you give yourself this year is a life that actually fits you? Not a life you are supposed to want. Not a life that earns gold stars. A life that feels like home when you step into it.
Most of us carry at least a few pieces of life that no longer fit. A commitment you keep out of habit. A routine that once served you but now drains you. A goal you set years ago that you are still dragging around even though it no longer reflects who you are. Just like clothes that shrink in the dryer, some roles tighten over time until they restrict your movement. One of the most compassionate things you can do for yourself is to notice what feels constricting. If something consistently brings dread or resentment, it deserves a second look.
Try asking yourself: What do I continue to do only because I feel I should? What parts of my week feel like a performance? What drains me more than it fills me? These small gut checks can reveal more truth than grand resolutions ever will. Because often resolutions are about adding things to our lives when maybe we should be asking what isn’t serving us anymore.
Wanting something different for your life can feel almost rebellious. We are taught early that desire is selfish or impractical. Yet desire is really a compass. It points you toward what brings meaning. The permission you refuse to give yourself is often the permission you most need. You are allowed to want a simple life. You are allowed to want a bold one. You are allowed to want rest, creativity, adventure, peace or a mix of them.
Let go of the guilt around wanting something others do not understand. You do not have to justify your dream life like it is a court case. Your preferences do not require a panel of approval. They only require your honesty. After all, the only person who gets to live your life is you. They have their own.
Every person inherits a set of default settings. These can be expectations from family, cultural messages or values absorbed without question. Some defaults are helpful. Others keep you living a script that never belonged to you. December is an ideal moment to ask where those settings came from. Did you choose them or were they assigned to you? Are they aligned with who you are now or with a past version of you who no longer exists?
Letting go does not always require a dramatic overhaul. It can be as simple as replacing one outdated belief with a more generous one. It can be as quiet as deciding your worth is not measured by productivity. Sometimes the life that fits begins with subtracting what never matched your shape in the first place.
Once you clear the space, you can begin creating a life that feels right in your hands. Think of it like tailoring. Small adjustments can change everything. You might shift your morning routine to match your natural rhythm. You might redefine what rest means so it supports you instead of feeling like a guilty pleasure. You might choose relationships that nourish you instead of ones that keep you hustling for belonging.
Crafting a life that fits is not a single grand gesture. It is a set of choices made consistently. When something feels peaceful instead of performative, you are moving in the right direction.
A good life should give you room. Room to breathe. Room to change your mind. Room to fail safely. Room to explore new interests without embarrassment. If your life feels like a tight shoe, it is not a sign that you need to force yourself into it. It is a sign that you need to loosen the laces. When you prioritize a life that can expand with you, you trade perfection for sustainability. You also create conditions in which joy can actually take root instead of feeling like a visitor.
The gift of a well-fitting life is not wrapped once and placed under a tree. It is something you give yourself again and again. Through honesty. Through reflection. Through paying attention to what your life is telling you. You will outgrow some things. You will discover new ones. You will learn what brings you back to yourself. The point is not to build a life that looks impressive. The point is to build one that feels true.
As this year winds down, take a moment to appreciate the small ways you have already reshaped your life into something more authentic. And if you have not started yet, that is all right. The gift is not in the timing. The gift is in choosing yourself.
Sometimes, dear reader, our own bucket lists take a polite step to the side so someone else’s long-cherished dream can finally march forward in all its glory. In this case, it wasn’t a bucket list at all. It was a basket list. A Nantucket Shiplight Basket list, to be precise, which I admit feels far more poetic. After all, who among us would not be charmed by the idea of holding a piece of maritime history in our hands.
My mother certainly was. Ever since she was a teenager, she had been enchanted by these elusive vessels after reading about them in some long-forgotten book or article. I picture her as a younger version of herself, curled up somewhere cozy, imagining the rugged New England coastline, the wild Atlantic surf and perhaps, if I know her, a sailor or two with a jawline sharp enough to cut rope. I cannot blame her. The sea does tend to conjure such visions.
I am sorry, where were we. Ah yes. Baskets. The point is, dear reader, these particular baskets are not ordinary containers for fruit or wayward junk mail. They are woven pieces of history, shaped by sailors who braved storms, isolation and boredom of legendary proportions. The romance is built right in.
A Bit of History for the Curious Soul
Long before tourist shops and Instagram feeds filled with beach scenes, the waters south of Nantucket Island were treacherous. Shoals shifted like restless spirits and ships were known to meet rather unfortunate ends. Since the terrain was not suitable for a proper lighthouse, lightships known as shiplights took up residence. Picture a floating lighthouse, bobbing in the waves, anchored against the dark and fog and hoping a vessel would notice it in time. That was the job of the lightship. Simple in theory. Terrifying in practice.
These ships were staffed by small crews who lived aboard for long stretches, typically thirty days at a time. They battled storms, loneliness and the constant fear that some overconfident captain might sail directly into them. Many did. More than one lightship was destroyed after being struck by the very boats it tried to save.
With little to do during calmer stretches, sailors turned to crafting. By the 1860s, the earliest Nantucket Lightship Baskets began to appear. These were not decorative heirlooms but practical, sturdy, beautifully utilitarian containers. Their bases, rims and staves were usually made back on the island. Sailors then brought them aboard, using the long quiet hours to weave. The moulds were created from old ships’ masts, giving the baskets yet another tie to maritime life.
Over generations, the basket-making tradition shifted from survival activity to artistic craft. Baskets became more decorative, more intricate and far more sought after. Today, Nantucket baskets are treasured symbols of New England craftsmanship. And, thanks to the price tags, they are also symbols of New England’s talent for charging quite a lot for tradition.
A Dream My Mother Tucked Away
My mother fell in love with the history long before she ever saw an actual basket in person. For decades she dreamed of owning one. But as prices climbed higher and higher, the dream began to sag under the weight of practicality. The baskets became something for “someday.” And someday, as we all know, is a tricky creature. It slinks away easily.
Years passed. Then decades. The dream gathered dust like so many silent hopes. She never complained about it. She never pined or sighed dramatically like a Victorian heroine. She simply tucked it away, which was somehow even sadder.
Thankfully, dear reader, she has me. And I am not someone who lets dreams die quietly.
A Daughter on a Mission
The spark reignited on a trip to Boston to visit a friend who, as it happened, made Nantucket baskets as a hobby. When my mother held one of his creations, her whole face softened. There was awe. There was longing. And there was that quiet little note of resignation. The “oh well, not meant to be” tone that mothers perfect somewhere around the third decade of adulthood.
Absolutely not, I thought. To hell with resignation. Not on my watch.
Now, could I have snagged her a $400 basket. Technically yes. But financially, spiritually and stubbornly, no. That felt like cheating. I wanted something more meaningful. Something rooted in effort and delight and a little bit of chaos, as most great family stories are.
The opportunity arrived in the most unexpected way, as opportunities often do. Last fall, my mother and I took an eco-dyeing class at the PA Guild of Craftsmen. We spent the morning dunking fabric into pots of botanical color like two witches brewing questionable potions. During the class, we met a man named Bob, who casually mentioned that he taught classes on Nantucket Baskets.
Was it fate. Probably. Was it the universe gently nudging me toward destiny. Quite possibly. Was it also the direct result of my inability to mind my own business and my tendency to ask questions of every friendly stranger. Absolutely yes. Sometimes, fate needs a little nudge or a full on push.
The Watch Begins
From that moment on, I became a woman possessed. I haunted the Guild’s website like a Victorian ghost with unfinished business. Week after week I checked for upcoming classes. I refreshed the page with the kind of intensity usually reserved for airline deals or Taylor Swift ticket drops.
Then one day, I saw it. A class scheduled for the weekend of my mother’s birthday. Perfect. Beautiful. A sign from the gods themselves.
I contacted my sister. I confirmed schedules. I clicked the button to register.
The class had just filled.
Great was the gnashed teeth. Fierce was the shaking of my fist. Dramatic was my lamentation to the heavens. I am after all nothing if not dramatic!
But if you know nothing else about me, know this: I do not give up. Not even when the universe tests my patience for sport.
Not two weeks later, a new class appeared. Spots: available. And I pounced. I registered so fast you would think I was trying to secure the last lifeboat on the Titanic. Victory was mine. And so was a guaranteed memory for the ages.
The Big Day Arrives
Two weeks after her birthday, my mother, sister and I arrived for our class. For those unfamiliar, Nantucket baskets are not really considered beginner friendly. They require precision, patience and a willingness to accept that reeds will snap at the least convenient moment. Luckily, we had Bob. And Bob is a gem. If basket making had spirit guides, he would be one.
With calm instruction and gentle humor, he helped us understand the mechanics behind the magic. He showed us how to keep the weave tight. How to handle breakage. How to adjust when things started to go sideways, which they did often. There was laughter. There was mild cursing. There was one moment when my mother threatened to throw her reeds into the void, but Bob intervened with the patience of a saint.
My mother struggled at times, especially early on. Her arthritis made the tight initial weaving difficult. But here is where the real beauty emerges. When her hands faltered, my sister and I stepped in. We held reeds steady. We tightened the weave. We supported her hands with our own. And together, we built something worth far more than its materials. Something no price tag could ever reflect.
When the baskets were finally complete, we sat back in awe. They were beautiful. Not flawless. Not identical. But better. They were us. They were hers. They were woven with history and love and the combined effort of three determined women.
A Dream Fulfilled at Last
My mother waited more than forty years for this. Four decades spent admiring a dream from afar, telling herself it was too impractical, too expensive, too indulgent. But standing there with her basket in her hands, crafted by her own perseverance and supported by her daughters, something shifted. The dream became real. Tangible. Hers.
At sixty-five years old, she crossed something off her list that she never thought possible. And she did it in the best way imaginable. Not by purchasing a finished piece but by creating one with her own hands.
And if that is not the very heart of bucket lists, I do not know what is.
We often think of bucket lists as daring adventures or far-flung travels, but sometimes they are simpler. Sometimes they are woven, stitch by stitch, in quiet rooms with people we love. Sometimes the most meaningful items are the ones rooted in memory and heritage and personal longing. And sometimes the best thing we can do is help someone else check off something they stopped believing was possible.
So here is the lesson for you, dear reader. Do not be fooled by dreams that go silent. They are still there, waiting for you. Whether they are big or small or slightly unexpected, they deserve air and attention and the chance to surprise you. And it is never too late. Never too strange. Never too sentimental.
Sometimes a dream is simply a basket. But sometimes that basket carries forty years of hope, a good story, a tiny bit of chaos and a whole lot of love woven into its staves.
And those are the dreams worth chasing.
How might you chase your own piece or maritime history?
If reading this has awakened something in your soul, dear reader, perhaps a tiny spark whispering that you too might enjoy owning or crafting your very own bit of seafaring heritage, then rejoice. You are not alone. There is something irresistible about holding an object shaped by hands, hope and history. It connects you to all the sailors who once sat aboard those rocking lightships, weaving to pass the time while storms rolled over the horizon.
So how might you chase your own piece of maritime magic.
First, you can absolutely look for a class in your local area. Basket weaving workshops pop up in the most unexpected places. Community art centers, craft guilds, even the occasional museum loves to host heritage craft classes. The only caveat is that the further you wander from Nantucket’s salty shores, the rarer these particular baskets become. The tradition simply never spread far inland, perhaps because weaving a basket while imagining rolling waves is far more romantic when you can actually hear them outside the window.
If you would rather skip the learning curve entirely, you can always purchase your own Nantucket basket from a skilled maker. These pieces are true works of art, and buying directly from an artisan helps keep the craft alive. It also saves you from the mild existential crisis that comes from snapping reeds for the fourth time in an hour. Trust me. I have lived it.
But maybe you are like me and prefer a little chaos with your creativity. Maybe you want to try your hand at the weaving itself. In that case, you are in luck. You do not need a ship. You do not need a lighthouse. You do not need to brave the open ocean with only six crewmates and a questionable supply of biscuits.
What you need is a guidebook, some materials and the enthusiasm of a determined dreamer.
Thanks to the endless wonders of the internet, you can now find instructional books for a very modest sum along with kits containing everything from bases to staves to the all-important mould. No need to fashion one from a retired ship’s mast like the sailors of old. Unless you happen to have a ship’s mast lying around, in which case, dear reader, I have questions.
With online tutorials, craft forums and even weaving groups on social media, it has never been easier to learn a heritage craft from the comfort of your own home. You can chase your own dream while sipping tea in your pajamas, which feels like a delightful improvement from doing it aboard a lightship in a gale.
And that is the beauty of our modern world. Dreams that once required proximity, luck or a friendly sailor now simply require curiosity and a willingness to start.
So whether you sign up for a class, purchase a handmade treasure or gather your supplies and embark on the weaving adventure yourself, may your own journey into maritime history be filled with joy, discovery and perhaps a little bit of mischief. After all, the best stories are the ones we make with our own hands.
Every Tuesday, without fail, something wonderful happens in the next town over. Long before the rest of the world has finished its morning coffee, Root’s Country Market comes alive. It starts quietly at first, a few trucks pulling in, the soft murmur of vendors setting up, the smell of early morning coffee drifting across the lots, and then, before you know it, the place is buzzing. Root’s has been a Lancaster County staple since 1925, and in the hundred years since it first opened, it’s become something more than just a market. It’s a living, breathing community tradition.
Side bar: Locals pronounce it “Ruut’s,” not like tree roots, a small detail, but one that marks you as someone who really knows the place. Welcome to Lancaster County where nothing is pronounced like you think it would be, not even Lang-kiss-ter.
Roots is a sprawling labyrinth of over 175 indoor and outdoor stalls, each one offering a little piece of local life. You’ll find farmers with fresh produce still damp from the morning dew, bakers arranging pies so fragrant you can smell them before you see them, and crafters setting out handmade candles, quilts, and wooden toys. Step a little further and you’ll stumble into antiques and flea market finds, old tools, vintage glassware, forgotten records. It’s perfect for a treasure hunt! There’s even a livestock auction, which means you might be standing in line for a soft pretzel while hearing the rhythmic chant of a fast-talking auctioneer in the background. It’s part of the charm.
Root’s is the kind of place that engages all five senses at once. The air is thick with the smells of kettle corn and barbecued chicken, mingling with freshly turned earth from the produce stands and, occasionally, that unmistakable farm scent that reminds you you’re in the heart of the country. Fresh country air takes on a new meaning in farm country. There’s the shine of ripe tomatoes, the golden glow of honey jars, the colorful chaos of flower bouquets. Vendors call out greetings to regulars.
If you visit during the busy seasons, late spring through early fall, the crowd hums like a hive. There’s a rhythm to it, a flow of movement as people drift from stall to stall, chatting, sampling, bargaining. You can lose hours wandering without realizing it. And then, just when you think you’ve seen it all, you’ll turn a corner and find something unexpected: a new baker, a quirky handmade sign, a table full of fresh herbs or a bin of farm-fresh eggs that look like they came from a paint box.
I may not be a morning person, but my favorite time at Root’s is the early morning, when the sun is barely up and the crowd hasn’t yet arrived. The vendors are still setting out their goods, the coffee is hot and strong, and there’s a quiet peace to it all. That’s when you can have those real, unhurried conversations, when you can talk to the man who grows the apples you buy every fall, or the woman who hand-pours every candle on her table. You’re not just shopping; you’re connecting.
What makes Root’s special isn’t just what you can buy, it’s who you’re buying it from. There’s something grounding about handing your money directly to the person who grew your tomatoes or baked your bread that morning. You can ask them how the season’s been, or what variety of pepper this is, or how long they’ve been coming to Root’s, and they’ll tell you, usually with a story that’s worth hearing.
Some families have been selling here for generations. Others are just starting out, testing their small business dreams one Tuesday at a time. Together, they form the heartbeat of this place, a reminder that commerce can still be personal, that community can be built over a counter full of peaches and pies.
And the prices? Let’s just say that fresh, local, and affordable aren’t mutually exclusive terms here. You can fill a tote bag with vegetables, grab a fresh-baked loaf of bread, and still have money left for lunch, maybe a chicken pot pie or a funnel cake, depending on how virtuous you’re feeling, and I am seldom neglect to give into temptation here.
Root’s began back in 1925, when local farmers gathered to sell their goods directly to neighbors. A century later, it’s grown into a sprawling market and auction complex that somehow still feels small-town. It’s open year-round, rain, snow, or sunshine (not blizzards or floods though) every Tuesday without fail. Generations have grown up wandering its aisles, marking time not by the seasons but by the rhythms of Root’s, sweet corn in July, apples in October, wreaths and crafts in December.
It’s rare, in a world where everything feels increasingly online and anonymous, to have a place like this, one where you can see the faces behind your food, hear the laughter of old friends meeting up by the pretzel stand, and know that you’re part of something with roots (pun intended) deep in local soil.
Not everyone is lucky enough to have a place like Root’s right outside their door. For me, it’s not just a market, it’s a midweek adventure, a reminder to slow down and savor the simple joys: fresh food, friendly faces, a good deal, and a connection to the land and people that make up my home. Every visit feels different, but it always leaves me with that same contented feeling — a mix of nostalgia, community, and appreciation for the abundance that surrounds us.
So if you ever find yourself in Lancaster County on a Tuesday, make your way to Root’s. Come early, bring cash (although most vendors do now accept cards), and be ready to wander. Take in the smells, the sounds, the cheerful chaos of it all. Chat with the farmers and crafters, find something unexpected, and maybe grab a slice of shoo-fly pie for the road.
Because at Root’s, you’re not just shopping, you’re stepping into a century-old story that still unfolds, week after week, right in the heart of the community.
How can you experience your own farmer’s market adventure?
If you don’t live near Lancaster County, don’t worry, almost every community has its own version of Root’s tucked away somewhere. Previously, it seemed farmer’s markets were going the way of the dodo, but community efforts have revived the practice all over as determined locals, with pride and love for their communities decided to reconnect us all with our roots. Look for local farmers markets or seasonal pop-ups in your town or the next one over. Many run weekly through the spring and summer, while others operate year-round. Visit early, bring cash, and take the time to talk with the people behind the tables. You’ll find that even the smallest market has its own personality, its own rhythm, and its own sense of community. It’s one of the easiest, and most rewarding, ways to connect with the place you call home.
Completed: A Tuesday in my childhood and ongoing into my adulthood
Miles from home: About 10
Cost: Free parking and however much you want to spend. My most recent visit was about 6 dollars.
Still looking for ideas to do in your own local community? Check out the rest of my Bucket List – most of the items completed from my own backyard!
I spend a lot of time writing about things that you ought to do. I share adventures I’ve taken that I think you might enjoy and encourage the choices that make our lives better. After all, my goal, both for myself and for you, dear reader, is to build a life so rich and fulfilling that we no longer crave escape from it.
A life where our bucket list adventures don’t act as brief breaks from monotony, but as extensions of a life we already love.
Seldom do I write about what we shouldn’t do. But as we work toward creating lives worthy of gracing any bucket list, there are habits, beliefs, and quiet mental traps that can drag us down. They don’t announce themselves with flashing lights. They sneak in through our routines, our comparisons, our “shoulds.” And before long, they sap the joy right out of us.
This post kicks off a new mini-series: things to avoid if you want to protect your joy.
The first joy-sucker on our list? Measuring your life by how it “should” be by now.
The Tyranny of the Timeline
Many of us were handed a script early on.
Go to school. Get a job. Meet someone nice. Get married. Buy a house. Have kids. Work hard. Retire. Enjoy your golden years.
It’s tidy, it’s predictable, and for some people, it works. But for many of us, life doesn’t follow that script. We graduate later, or not at all. We change jobs. We move. We fall in and out of love. We skip the house. We skip the kids. Or we find new dreams entirely.
And yet, that little voice in the back of our heads still whispers: “You should have figured it out by now.” “You should be married by 30.” “You should have your dream job by 40.”
As if our lives are meant to unfold like clockwork, all hitting the same milestones at the same time.
And when we don’t? We call ourselves failures.
Not married by 30? Spinster. Might as well get a cat and a cardigan. Didn’t make partner by 40? A has-been. Still renting at 50? Must’ve done something wrong.
But let’s pause here. Whose voice is that, really? Society’s? Our parents’? Our own inner critic, parroting what we were taught?
The truth is, there’s no such thing as “too late.”
Colonel Sanders didn’t start Kentucky Fried Chicken until he was 62. Julia Child didn’t write her first cookbook until she was 50. Stan Lee didn’t create Spider-Man until his 40s. Milton Hershey failed with multiple candy shops before founding Hershey’s Chocolate. And sliced bread? It took over a decade to catch on as an idea people actually wanted.
Even Abraham Lincoln, that pillar of perseverance, lost job after job and election after election before becoming one of the greatest presidents in history.
If any of these people had believed the story that they’d “missed their window,” they would’ve stopped before success ever arrived.
And if that seems like ancient history, look around today. Some of the most interesting, creative, and fulfilled people I know are those who stopped trying to follow the timeline and started following their curiosity instead.
They’re going back to school at 45. They’re switching careers at 50. They’re learning to paint or surf or start a business long after the world says they should’ve “settled down.”
You’re Not Late. You’re Just on Your Path.
Julius Caesar once lamented, at age 32, that he hadn’t yet achieved what Alexander the Great had by the same age. At the time, Caesar was a minor administrator with little acclaim. He had no idea that his greatest accomplishments were still ahead of him.
We all have those moments, standing before the metaphorical statue of someone else’s success, feeling small by comparison.
But your path isn’t supposed to look like anyone else’s. You’re not on Alexander’s timeline, or your neighbor’s, or your sibling’s. You’re on yours.
Every detour, every pause, every “failure” teaches you something that smooth sailing never could.
Spending time lamenting what hasn’t happened yet only keeps us stuck. It traps us in the past, in a cycle of comparison and self-judgment. We get so focused on the shoulds, what we should have done, where we should be, that we miss what’s right in front of us.
It’s like staring at the GPS instead of enjoying the drive. You’ll get to where you’re going, but you’ll have missed all the scenery along the way.
And let’s be honest: nobody builds a bucket list life by following someone else’s map.
Charting a Different Course
Here’s the thing: your “timeline” is just a story. You can rewrite it anytime you want.
Maybe your bucket list includes seeing the Northern Lights, writing a book, starting a garden, or falling in love again. None of those dreams come with an expiration date.
You don’t have to “make it big” to make your life meaningful. Sometimes the best things we build are small, moments of joy, quiet progress, and self-acceptance.
The most extraordinary lives often grow from the most ordinary days, repeated with care and curiosity.
Stop measuring yourself by where you should be. Start asking where you want to be—and what small step you can take today to move in that direction.
Because life isn’t a race. It’s not a checklist. It’s a collection of moments that, if we’re lucky, we get to fill with wonder, growth, and connection.
You’re not behind. You’re becoming.
And that, dear reader, is exactly where you’re supposed to be.
There’s a particular kind of grit that comes with chasing a dream. We love to imagine it looks like early morning coffee, crisp planners, and perfectly color-coded calendars. But more often? It looks like forgetting to do your make up in the morning, an ever growing to do list, and you googling things like “how do small business taxes even work??” at 1:43 a.m.
At least, that’s been my experience.
When I first decided to start my own business, I thought the hard part would be the leap, the “yes” moment of committing. I have a master’s degree in social work, after all. I know how to put in effort, write long papers, and juggle competing deadlines. But what I didn’t know at the time was that starting a business has less to do with your shiny diplomas and more to do with your tolerance for uncertainty.
Here’s the thing no one told me when I hung out my proverbial shingle: running a business isn’t just doing the work you’re trained for. It’s marketing. It’s budgeting. It’s answering emails without throwing your laptop out the window when you become overwhelmed.
There have been days where I thought, “Maybe I should’ve gone for an MBA instead,” because suddenly I’m learning about SEO, website analytics, and why my carefully written social media post only reached three people (two of which were my mom and my sister).
I didn’t expect to be stretched in so many directions at once. But somewhere along the way, I realized that every spreadsheet conquered, every awkward networking event survived, and every late-night “YouTube crash course in branding” is not just a skill gained; it’s evidence of perseverance.
The Myth of Straight Lines
I’ll be honest: I’m a “goal person.” Always have been. There’s a thrill in setting a finish line and then running toward it with laser focus. But the problem with laser focus is that you miss everything happening around you. The flowers along the path. The unexpected detours. The side quests.
When I started this business, I wanted to sprint. Set it up, succeed immediately, then coast on the satisfaction of a dream realized. But that’s not how growth works.
Instead, it looks more like two steps forward, one step back, and then an unplanned sideways shuffle because some new challenge popped up. It’s messy. It’s nonlinear. And if you only measure yourself against the end goal, you’re going to feel like you’re failing most of the time.
There’s this dangerous narrative out there that if you’re not crushing your goals 24/7, you’re doing it wrong. I call nonsense.
Setbacks are not failure; they’re part of the process. And boy is it a process!
That day you spent spinning your wheels on a project that went nowhere? You learned something. The week you felt unmotivated and questioned if you were even cut out for this? That’s not wasted time, that’s recovery. Muscles grow in rest, not constant strain.
The truth is, perseverance isn’t about never stumbling. It’s about stumbling, catching your breath, and saying, “Well, that was humbling,” before you get up and try again.
Kindness Along the Way
Here’s where I’ve had to check myself: I’m quick to extend kindness to others, but when it comes to me, I have a default setting of “be harder, push more, no excuses.” That mindset can be useful when you’re grinding out a degree or chasing a deadline, but in long-haul pursuits like building a business? It’s a recipe for burnout. And honestly, as a therapist I need to practice what I preach.
If a friend told me they were exhausted from learning ten new skills at once, would I say, “Well, tough luck, push harder”? No. I’d probably say, “Wow, you’ve already stretched so much. Celebrate that, then rest.”
And maybe I’d hand them a cookie.
So why is it so hard to give ourselves that same gentleness? Maybe because we think perseverance has to look like suffering. But what if true perseverance includes kindness? What if the only way to keep going is to balance the push with the pause?
Here’s what I’ve learned: success isn’t just reaching the goal. Success is in the stretch. In the skills I never thought I’d learn. In the ways I’ve been humbled, refined, and sometimes (begrudgingly) patient.
Don’t get me wrong, I still want the goal. I still picture what it’ll feel like when all the pieces finally fit together. But I’m learning to appreciate the scenery on the way. To actually stop and smell the flowers (sometimes literally, when I escape to my garden after too many hours at my laptop).
Because the truth is, if you’re only happy at the finish line, you’re going to spend most of your life discontent. Goals take time. Growth takes time. And joy doesn’t live exclusively in the future, it’s right here in the messy middle, if we let ourselves see it.
Final Thoughts
So if you’re in the thick of pursuing something big, whether that’s starting a business, chasing a personal dream, or just trying to hold it together during a tough season, here’s what I want you to know:
Perseverance isn’t a straight line.
Setbacks don’t mean failure.
You deserve kindness from yourself, not just from others.
The journey itself matters as much as the destination.
If you need to pause, pause. If you need to pivot, pivot. None of it erases your progress. In fact, it’s proof that you’re still in the game.
And if you’re like me, so laser-focused on the goal that you forget the beauty of the in-between, take this as your gentle reminder: stop for a moment. Breathe. Smell the flowers.
The finish line will still be there when you’re ready to run again.
I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, dear reader, but we’re in the thick of a technological revolution—what with artificial intelligence, immersive media, and smart devices popping up faster than I can finish my morning coffee. With every leap forward, the world reshapes itself: some innovations are delightful, others… decidedly less so.
But before you brace for a philosophical tirade, rest easy. This isn’t about the doom and gloom of progress. Today’s post is about something far more charming, and perhaps a bit science fiction, how technology is transforming the way we experience visual art, and how I got to see that transformation firsthand through the Immersive Van Gogh Experience.
For centuries, visual art has been something we look at, admired behind velvet ropes or under museum lighting. We view a painting, reflect on its symbolism, absorb its mood, and then move on. It’s typically a passive interaction, appreciated but always held at arm’s length.
Now, thanks to clever combinations of projection mapping, music, props, and sometimes even VR goggles, we can step into the world of a painting. These experiences dissolve the frame. The art swirls around us, alive with movement, sound, and color. It invites not just observation, but participation. We’re transported into a world shaped by brushstroke and emotion, where time bends and the impossible feels touchable. If you’re a fan of Star Trek it can feel as though the Holodeck isn’t far behind us – or would it be ahead of us?
Such was my adventure on the outskirts of Philadelphia. I attended the Immersive Van Gogh Exhibit, where his iconic works leapt from flat canvas into full surround. It was a modest production by immersive art standards, but well worth the 50-minute drive. The exhibit unfolded in three rooms, beginning with a respectful introduction to the artist’s life: the genius, the grief, and the legacy.
Vincent Willem van Gogh, the Dutch Post-Impressionist painter, is now recognized as one of the most influential artists in Western history. He created over 2,000 works, 800 of which were oil paintings, many during the final two years of his life. Though immensely talented, he also struggled deeply with mental illness, most likely Bipolar Disorder, experiencing intense periods of depression and mania. He spent time in psychiatric hospitals, often neglected his health, and famously cut off part of his left ear after a dispute with a close friend.
I would be remiss if not highlighting the efforts of his sister-in-law. As It’s entirely possible the world would have forgotten him, had it not been for her, Johanna van Gogh-Bonger, who championed his work and preserved his letters after his death. Her tireless efforts not only shared his story but helped cement his artistic legacy. Too often we focus on the face and talent of a given operation without appreciating the supporting cast of characters. After all in any endeavor it takes a village to succeed.
While the trope of the “tortured artist” is often romanticized, Van Gogh’s story has opened broader conversations about mental health, creativity, and resilience. Beyond the mythos, his art also sparked interest in unexpected fields, like fluid dynamics. Scientists have observed that Starry Night mirrors real-world mathematical models of turbulence, patterns that weren’t formally understood until decades after Van Gogh painted them. He may not have known the equations, but his brush captured the energy of the cosmos with stunning intuition.
His story gently unfolded as I walked through the exhibit. I heard excerpts from his letters and watched his still-lifes float, twist, and evolve across the walls. One moment, I was standing in his bedroom; the next, sunflowers danced around me, filling the space with golden light. My favorite moment was in the largest room, reclining on a seat and watching Starry Night come to life, accompanied by music that echoed the emotion of each painting. I could’ve stayed there for hours, had my parking meter not rudely reminded me of the outside world.
There was something deeply calming about it all. The way the paintings moved, the soft narration, the glow of color, it felt like being wrapped in a blanket of light and sound. The only thing missing was a hot cup of tea to sip while I drifted through it all.
Eventually, I had to peel myself away from Van Gogh’s swirling skies and rejoin reality. I refilled the meter and met my traveling companion (my mom) in the gift shop to find a souvenir. She chose a beautiful necklace that still earns her compliments. I, ever the practical one, picked up a set of coasters, because if I must collect things, they might as well be useful. Additionally, if I must have things, they may as well be beautiful. A memento with function and a memory with purpose.
While technology certainly has its downsides, I’m genuinely excited to see how it will continue to open new windows into the past, especially when it’s done with care, creativity, and reverence. If we can blend art and innovation without losing the soul of either, I’d say that’s progress worth celebrating.
Finding Your Own Immersive Art Adventure
If your curiosity is piqued and you’re ready to step inside a painting (or at least escape your laundry pile for an afternoon), immersive art exhibits are popping up in cities all over the world. A quick search for “immersive art experience near me” or checking sites like Exhibit Listings, Eventbrite, and even local museum calendars can help you find upcoming shows. Popular exhibitions include Immersive Van Gogh, Monet: The Immersive Experience, and Frida Kahlo: Immersive Biography, among others. Many cities now have dedicated digital art spaces that rotate different artists throughout the year. Social media is also surprisingly helpful, follow local art museums, galleries, and pop-up exhibit pages to stay in the loop. And don’t be afraid to go solo! These exhibits are made to be experienced personally, and sometimes the quietest wanderings are the most rewarding.
Before we clutch our pearls at such a title, you must first indulge me in a bit of theatrical storytelling.
There was once a painting known to the art world but given little regard by the general public. Sure, some waxed poetic about it, but the intelligentsia has always been a bit eccentric in its proclamations of greatness. To anyone outside the art world, it was unremarkable. It may have hung in a museum, but no one would have gone out of their way to see it. Like so many other paintings in a gallery, it was forgettable, small, dark, and easy to overlook.
Then it was stolen.
No one knew how. One day, it was just gone. And suddenly, people noticed. For two years, the public speculated wildly. The fever-dream of mystery only grew with every twist. Perhaps absence does make the heart grow fonder, or at least more curious. While the intelligentsia is eccentric, the general public is fickle, like a cat who demands to be let out only to want back in the moment the door shuts.
When the painting was returned, it became a sensation. A must-see. A cultural event. And not just any painting – THE painting.
The painting in question? The Mona Lisa. The real reason it’s famous? The drama. The theft. The story. The hype.
Without that? It might still be hanging half-forgotten, quietly smirking at a handful of art students instead of hoarding crowds behind velvet ropes.
And that, dear reader, is what your bucket list might be made of: hype.
So many bucket list items are fueled not by intrinsic value, but by the frenzy that surrounds them. Don’t get me wrong, the Mona Lisa is a lovely painting, and Da Vinci was no slouch, but why that painting? Why not another of his works? Why not another artist entirely? Yes, yes, I am sure you’ll tell me all the reasons it’s such a great painting, a master piece of its time, blah, blah, blah., but there’s lots of great paintings you can’t name or even are aware of. The answer lies in marketing. In myth-making. In the way a compelling narrative shapes our desires
Travel magazines dazzle, influencers entice, advertisements whisper, “You must go here.” But what’s really behind that? How many times have you visited a place only to find it…underwhelming? A glorified photo op? Something that looks better on Instagram than it feels in person?
Perception shapes reality. And marketing shapes perception. Don’t believe me? Riddle me this, dear reader why do we consider Jackson Pollock a great artist? The CIA orchestrated the entire Art Movement of Abstract Expressionism’s rise to prominence, engineering hype around the artist Jackson Pollock by buying his paintings and creating a frenzy around the art movement through bought and paid for critics. It was for political reasons and to combat the dangers of Soviet Russia. However, until the CIA engineered the hype, it was mostly ignored and barely considered real art. After all, it looked like a five year old could have painted it.
Nor is the art world, the only place where bought and paid for critics shape our perceptions. There was an rather large controversy in the video game world of creators influencing magazines and reviewers to generate hype around game releases. Those travel influencers filling your feed are often being paid by travel magazines, hotels and even the local department of tourism to promote various locations and experiences.
Signature of Jackson Pollock on Pasiphaë (1943; Metropolitan Museum of Art) Ned Hartley – Own work
Let’s be clear: I’m not criticizing your personal travel goals. I’m encouraging you to interrogate them.
Are your bucket list items there because you want to experience them, or because someone told you they’re “must-see”? Would another location fulfill the same desire, perhaps with less hype and fewer crowds?
For instance: Why London? What do you actually want to see there? Do you even know the history behind the city’s major attractions? Could a neighboring town offer the same experience without the same price tag?
Yes, Stonehenge is cool. But have you heard of the Calanais Standing Stones in Scotland? Same vibe. Fewer tour buses. Also, older.
We should be asking ourselves:
Do I understand why this place matters?
Does it resonate with me personally?
I, for example, will probably never visit the Great Wall of China. It’s a feat of engineering, sure. But so was ancient Rome. And frankly, the Wall didn’t even fulfill its intended purpose, more a monument to hubris than a functional defense system. And trust, me there are plenty of monuments to hubris. There are other ancient walls, built with equal ingenuity, that never make the “Top 10 Things to See Before You Die” lists. Just because it’s the biggest, doesn’t mean it’s the best or even the most impressive.
Take Napa Valley, for example, America’s answer to French wine country. It became famous after a 1976 wine tasting in which Napa wines beat out French ones and cementing its place in the wine world as one of the premier wine regions. But wine tasting is…flawed. Studies show judges rate wines inconsistently. Presentation plays an outsized role. In one study, the same wine earned wildly different scores when served in different bottles.
So why is Napa “the place” and not, say, the Finger Lakes or Walla Walla? Marketing. Perception. Hype. South-central Pennsylvania has lots of wineries that produce lots of delicious wines.
If we let others dictate what’s “best,” we surrender our own preferences to their story. But if we challenge that narrative, we open the door to a world of options.
Maybe that famed “must-see” destination isn’t any better than the quieter, lesser-known place next door. And that’s great news for the budget-conscious among us. It means you can experience something wonderful without the tourist trap markup, and maybe even get a more authentic experience while you’re at it.
More importantly, it means you’re not missing out.
So many bucket list items are inaccessible to people with normal jobs and normal paychecks. That doesn’t make your life less fulfilling. It just means your version of “extraordinary” isn’t dictated by a Top 10 list.
Why the Panama Canal and not the Welland Canal in Canada? They use the same technology. One just has better PR. Okay, yes, there are certain historical contexts which does make the Panama extremely significant, perhaps more so than Welland Canal. But could you honestly, tell me what those are without looking them up? I didn’t think so. Would you have done that research before booking your trip to Panama? Probably not.
If you told your friend you went to Welland, they might look at you funny. But unless they’re an engineering nerd (in which case, they’d love it), they probably can’t explain why Panama is “better.” They’re just repeating what they’ve heard.
To help you separate real desires from borrowed hype, ask yourself:
What is the historical or cultural significance of this place or experience?
Do I genuinely care about that significance?
Are there other options that fulfill the same interest or vibe?
If it’s “the best,” who decided that—and how subjective is that claim?
Is it overrun with tourists to the point of losing what made it special?
Are there similar or adjacent experiences nearby that are less crowded, more affordable, or more authentic?
Am I excited for this because it aligns with my values and interests, or because I saw an influencer do it?
Once you start asking these questions, you may find your list isn’t a map of your soul’s desires—but a collage of other people’s priorities.
The good news? You can scrap that list and make your own.
Because the best journeys aren’t built on hype, they’re built on what matters to you.
Hello, dear reader, just a quick update and a bit of exciting news.
I’m in the process of pursuing a really BIG bucket list goal: opening my own therapy practice. After years of studying through college, then grad school, working under the supervision of seasoned professionals, and passing not one but two licensing exams (first as a Licensed Social Worker, then as a Licensed Clinical Social Worker, yes we have to take two different tests one for each level), I’m finally able to practice independently.
I’ve officially launched my website, joined a few corners of social media to market myself, and, perhaps most exciting of all, I’ve welcomed my first client. It’s a huge milestone… but as you can probably guess, one client doesn’t quite pay the bills.
I’m still working full-time as a therapist for another organization while devoting most of my spare time to building this practice from the ground up. Which brings me to the main point of this announcement: I’ll be adjusting my blog posting schedule.
Instead of posting twice a week (Tuesdays and Fridays), I’ll now be sharing new content once a week, on Wednesdays. I’ll continue alternating between posts about local adventures and posts about making everyday life more intentional, joyful, and sustainable.
This decision wasn’t made lightly, but it’s in line with something I talk about often here: the power of choice. Saying yes to one thing often means saying no to something else, and right now, I’m choosing to prioritize building my small business.
Once I’m able to transition out of my full-time job and run my practice full-time, I fully intend to circle back and grow this blog and community even more. I still believe in everything this space stands for:
✦ That you don’t need to spend a fortune or cross an ocean to live a life filled with wonder. ✦ That adventure can be found right where you are. ✦ That a meaningful life is built, not bought.
So this isn’t goodbye. Just a bit of a slowdown.
I hope to report back in a few months with stories from this new adventure, lessons learned, challenges conquered, and one more dream crossed off the list.
If a bottle of wine contains more philosophy than all the books in the world, then a barrel of freshly picked grapes awaiting their fate must contain all the mysteries of the ancients. Wine making has been a centuries-old tradition, originating over 8,000 years ago when the transformation of juice to wine was thought to be a divine mystery. Though the modern era has brought stainless steel presses and fermentation machines, it may have lost some of its ancient wisdom and mystery, rendering the process more mundane. Perhaps that’s why there’s such allure in the old ways, hand-picked grapes tossed into wooden barrels, squished by stomping feet, then carefully aged in wood to absorb its complex flavors over time.
The crushing releases the grape’s juice, allowing it to mix with the skins to absorb flavor, color, and tannins. Depending on the type of wine desired, the presence of stems or skins may be either vital or avoided. After the initial crushing, yeast is added; the juice is fermented, pressed, and finally aged. While details may vary, the process has remained largely unchanged for centuries.
Many were first introduced to grape stomping through the infamous I Love Lucy episode. For me, it was A Walk in the Clouds, the laughter, singing, and juice-splashing celebration enchanted me. It transformed wine into a celebration of life and love. Hollywood may have romanticized it, but wine itself is inherently romantic, so I can be forgiven my idealized vision of the process.
Determined to check off this long-standing bucket list item, I began searching for grape stomping opportunities. While I was certain a plane ticket to Portugal wouldn’t be necessary, I was surprised to discover just how few vineyards in my state actually offered it. Some festivals held stomping competitions, but alas, I lacked a team. And most options were three to four hours away, not exactly convenient for a quick outing. Perhaps, if I could make a weekend of it, but I was loathe to do an overnight.
Undeterred, I expanded my search. That’s how I found Four Sisters Winery, just across the Pennsylvania/New Jersey border, only two hours away. They offered barefoot grape stomping, wine tasting, and dinner. When I floated the idea to my sister, she declined, apparently, squishy, slimly, sticky grapes between the toes was not her idea of a good time. Which, fair. It’s not everyone’s glass of wine.
What is a bucketlister to do when one’s partner in crime is not up for the proposed heist? Would I need to shelve the idea? Remove it from possibility altogether? Fear not, dear reader, I had a backup adventurer: my mother. As fate would have it, she also had grape stomping on her bucket list. And thus, it became a perfect Mother’s Day gift.
We registered for the event on June 21st, a fine way to ring in the summer. With the heatwave beginning, we drove through picturesque farm hills dotted with vineyards, perfect for a potential wine-themed day trip. We used the time to chat and simply enjoy each other’s company.
Four Sisters Winery was tucked among the trees with an unassuming sign and small shop. It belied the expansive four-acre vineyard boasting 19 varieties of grapes and three event spaces. We arrived early and relaxed under an awning listening to live music. The rustic benches and tables added to the atmosphere that they’ve clung to the older ways (although they probably have the modern machinery tucked away).
Once ushered into the event space, we were seated at a table with two other adult children treating their mothers and a pair of friends. It was delightful to make new acquaintances over the course of the evening.
Before the dinner commenced, we were given a short overview of the winery. The Four Sisters has been in operation for over 40 years, having begun by a farmer from Essex in 1984. His main focus was on vegetables but began to produce wine as a secondary revenue stream. It was such a success, the vineyard paid for all four sisters to go to college and obtain both their masters and PhD. However, it meant that none of the sisters were much interested in continuing to manage the vineyard and it was sold to the new owners a few years ago.
We tasted ten wines, ranging from whites to reds, dry to sweet. My preference leaned toward the reds and dry varieties, though a semi-dry called Cayuga stood out. We rated each wine, chatted about pairings, and judged grape varietals like seasoned sommeliers.
Dinner included a raspberry vinaigrette salad, parmesan chicken with pasta and seasonal vegetables, and a brownie for dessert. Dietary restrictions? Accommodated with grace. The vegan dessert of peaches and blueberries looked particularly delicious, a strong case for food envy.
Then came the moment we’d been waiting for: the stomp. Three barrels were prepped for us to take turns. Slipping off my shoes, I stepped in. The sensation was surprising; the grapes rolled like a foot massage, slick and dense underfoot. They slipped around as I tried to crush them and the barrel became slick underneath me. Grapes are a bit more dense than one may imagine. The stems of the grapes added an extra texture which lightly scraped my feet. I could not help but remember the songs about crushing the grapes as I moved around in the small barrel. It was clumsy, slippery, and joyful. I paused for a photo, then climbed out to let others have their turn.
A rinse station awaited to wash off the sticky grape residue. I grabbed my complimentary wine glass, said my goodbyes, and my mother and I set off, bottles of our favorite wines in hand, winding our way home with laughter and plans for our next adventure.
Most of my escapades happen close to home, but sometimes a short road trip delivers a memory worth bottling. This one was certainly like walking among the clouds.
How can you have a stomping good time?
If you’re lucky, you may live near a winery offering grape stomping events. A quick Google search of local wineries or wine festivals may reveal hidden gems. If it requires a road trip, consider turning it into a full-day or weekend experience.
But for those far from the vines? Bring the stomp to you. Invite friends, fill a barrel with grapes, spin some music, open a few bottles, and get stomping. (Just don’t drink the juice!) When you’re done, convert the barrel into a flower planter or save it for your next party.
Whether we go to the adventure or bring the adventure to us, life tastes better when we take the time to stomp the grapes.
Budget Bliss: Bucket List 