Sunday, September 28, 2025

7 Questions That Will Define Your Next 10 Years

I recently came across an article titled “7 Questions That Will Define Your Next 10 Years” and it made me pause long enough to step into my own little bubble of reflection. I took the time to honestly answer each question, and what I discovered was both eye-opening and empowering. That quiet moment of self-reflection reminded me how powerful it is to stop, realign, and envision the life we truly want to create. It’s why I felt called to write this blog post — to encourage you to do the same and see just how transformative a simple set of questions can be for your next chapter.


Life doesn’t just happen to us. It unfolds according to the choices we make, the habits we build, and the clarity we have about what really matters. Yet many of us drift—checking boxes, meeting obligations, chasing goals we never stopped to question. Then one day, years later, we wake up and wonder: How did I get here?


The truth is, your future is being written today. The person you’ll be in ten years is the result of the questions you’re willing to ask yourself right now. These seven questions aren’t easy. They may stir discomfort. They may even force you to confront truths you’ve been avoiding. But if you sit with them honestly, they can become the compass that keeps you on the path toward a life you’ll actually love living.


1. Am I climbing the right mountain?


Hard work is not the problem. In fact, most of us know how to push, grind, and sacrifice to get ahead. The real problem is direction. There’s no greater tragedy than climbing for years only to realize you’ve scaled the wrong mountain.


Maybe you’ve been working in a career that looks impressive on paper but leaves you unfulfilled. Maybe you’ve been striving for financial milestones that don’t actually match your deepest values. Or perhaps you’ve been pursuing someone else’s definition of success—your parents’, your peers’, your culture’s—without ever questioning if it’s truly yours.


Pause for a moment and imagine yourself at the summit of the mountain you’re climbing right now. If you keep doing exactly what you’re doing, where will you end up? Will that view fill you with joy, or will it feel hollow?


If it’s the wrong mountain, don’t be afraid to change course. Yes, it may mean lost years, but it’s far better to correct your direction now than to live with regret later.


2. What am I avoiding just because I know the answer is painful?


We all have that one thing we shove into the shadows—the truth we don’t want to face because it will demand change. It might be the job you know you need to leave, the relationship you’ve outgrown, or the habit that’s been slowly draining your health.


The irony is that the very thing you’re most afraid to face is often the doorway to transformation. Pain avoided doesn’t disappear; it festers. But pain confronted can become the catalyst for growth.


Think about it: the conversation you’ve been putting off, the boundary you need to set, the leap you’ve been too scared to take. What if the fear isn’t a sign to run but an invitation to step into something bigger?


Courage isn’t about the absence of fear. It’s about doing what’s right despite the fear. Ten years from now, your future self won’t thank you for playing it safe. They’ll thank you for having the guts to make the move you knew deep down was necessary.


3. What beliefs about myself have expired?


The stories we tell ourselves shape the limits of our lives. Maybe you’ve been carrying around old labels that no longer serve you: I’m not a leader. I’m terrible with money. I’m just the shy one. I’m not creative.


Those beliefs might have been true once, or maybe they were never true at all. But if you keep rehearsing them, they become a self-fulfilling prophecy.


The good news? Beliefs are not permanent. You can retire old ones and replace them with new, empowering identities. Instead of I’m bad with money, you can adopt I’m learning to manage money wisely. Instead of I’m not a leader, try I’m developing the skills to lead.


This isn’t about faking it. It’s about giving yourself permission to grow beyond the version of you that existed in the past. Because if you don’t rewrite your story, you’ll stay stuck in a narrative that no longer fits who you’re becoming.


4. Are the results I’m expecting aligned with my current habits?


This is the sobering reality check: your habits today are a preview of your life tomorrow. You can’t expect financial freedom if you never save. You can’t expect health if you don’t exercise or sleep well. You can’t expect deep relationships if you never invest time in people.


Dreams are beautiful, but habits are what make them real. If your current habits don’t line up with your desired results, you have two choices: change the habits, or change the expectations.


This doesn’t mean overhauling everything overnight. Start small. Swap one unhelpful routine for a constructive one. Build momentum. Over time, those tiny, consistent choices compound into results that will either build a bridge to your future—or become the barrier that keeps you from it.


5. If I died 10 years from today, what would I regret NOT doing?


We all live like we have unlimited time, but none of us knows how many years we’ve been given. Asking yourself this question cuts through the noise of “someday” thinking.


Would you regret not writing that book? Not starting the business? Not reconciling with someone you love? Not traveling, creating, learning, or taking a chance on yourself?


Regret is a powerful teacher. It forces you to see what matters most, beyond the distractions of daily life. Don’t wait until it’s too late to do the things that are already tugging at your heart. Ten years is a blink. Start now.


6. Who brings out the best in me, and can I spend more time with them?


The people in your life are not neutral—they either pull you forward or hold you back. Some leave you drained and doubting yourself; others leave you energized and inspired. The difference is enormous.


Take a look at your circle. Who makes you feel alive, capable, and more like the best version of yourself? Who challenges you to grow, but also cheers you on? And who leaves you feeling smaller, stuck, or less than?


You don’t have to cut people off cold, but you do need to be intentional about who gets the most of your time and energy. Ten years from now, the quality of your life will reflect the quality of the relationships you nurtured. Choose wisely.


7. What would my ideal day look like, and how far is it from today?


It’s easy to think about “someday” in vague terms: someday I’ll be happy, someday I’ll have balance, someday I’ll live the life I want. But unless you define what that looks like, “someday” never arrives.


Try this exercise: write out your ideal day, hour by hour. From the moment you wake up to the moment you go to sleep, what does it look like? How do you spend your time? Who are you with? What kind of work are you doing—or not doing?


Then compare that vision to your current day. How close are you? What small steps could you take to bridge the gap? Maybe it’s adjusting your morning routine. Maybe it’s carving out more time for family, hobbies, or health. Even one small shift can move you closer to living the life you truly want.


Closing Thoughts


Your next 10 years won’t be defined by chance. They’ll be shaped by the clarity you gain, the choices you make, and the courage you have to act on them. These seven questions are a starting point—a mirror that reflects not just where you are, but where you could be.


Don’t rush past them. Don’t skim and think, I’ll get to that later. Later becomes never.


I encourage you to set aside 15–30 minutes to sit quietly and answer these questions honestly for yourself. Trust me, it’s time well spent, and you’ll be grateful you did.

Wednesday, September 24, 2025

Movie Recommendation: Mistaken (2008)

 


#DebraAndValerieMovieRecommendation


Mistaken (2008)


Cinema has the ability to reshape the way we think about human nature. At its best, a film does not merely entertain—it confronts us with truths about ourselves, others, and the world around us. Mistaken (2008), directed with quiet intensity and written with surprising depth, is a film that subverts expectations. Though it presents itself as a story about identity theft, it becomes a meditation on empathy, redemption, and the fragile construction of identity. My experience with this film was both surprising and moving, for it took what could have been a formulaic thriller and instead offered a story of grace, forgiveness, and unlikely human connection.


At first glance, the premise appears straightforward. A woman discovers that her identity has been stolen, leading the audience to anticipate a suspenseful chase narrative. We imagine escalating tension, confrontation, and the pursuit of justice. Yet Mistaken deliberately pivots away from this conventional path. When the protagonist finally encounters the woman who has stolen her identity, the expected fireworks never come. Instead, we are drawn into a slower, more intimate narrative—one about two women navigating the complexities of betrayal, forgiveness, and self-discovery.


This subversion of expectation is perhaps the film’s greatest strength. By refusing to reduce identity theft to a battle of predator and victim, the filmmakers invite us to consider the emotional and spiritual layers beneath such an act. Identity theft, after all, is not only a crime against the law but also an attack on one’s sense of self. To have one’s name, financial security, and personal narrative hijacked is to experience a profound violation. Yet in Mistaken, the violation opens the door to dialogue, to seeing the “other” not simply as a criminal but as a fellow human being shaped by desperation, mistakes, and the longing for belonging.


Personally, I found myself deeply moved by the way the relationship between the two women unfolded. The film wisely avoids rushing their connection. Trust, once broken, is not easily restored. The filmmakers honor this truth by allowing their relationship to build gradually. At first, there is guarded suspicion, then reluctant curiosity, and finally, the slow blossoming of understanding and empathy. The chemistry between the two actresses is understated yet powerful; they embody the unspoken hesitations, tentative gestures, and small acts of kindness that mark the beginnings of genuine forgiveness. This realism gives their dynamic a quiet grace, making it all the more believable.


Thematically, Mistaken confronts us with questions about identity itself. Who are we, beyond the numbers on our credit cards or the names on our official documents? What defines us when the external markers of our lives are taken away or misused? Watching the protagonist grapple with the loss of her legal identity, I found myself reflecting on the fragility of selfhood. Identity is not only a matter of paperwork—it is deeply tied to memory, relationships, and inner worth. In this sense, the impostor’s theft becomes symbolic: she steals not only financial stability but also the sense of wholeness that comes with being recognized for who we truly are.


The impostor’s arc also provides food for thought. The decision to portray her not as a one-dimensional villain but as a woman driven by circumstances adds richness to the story. Still, I felt that the film could have delved more deeply into her motivations earlier on. While her eventual transformation feels authentic, a more nuanced exploration of her backstory might have heightened the audience’s investment in her redemption. What drove her to such desperation? What fears or traumas shaped her actions? While hints are given, they arrive later in the film, leaving the early parts of her character somewhat underdeveloped. A stronger integration of her history into the narrative could have provided even greater emotional weight to her eventual growth.


Nevertheless, the restraint shown in storytelling is commendable. Rather than overwhelming the audience with exposition or melodrama, the film allows its emotional beats to unfold naturally. Silence, pauses, and glances are used to communicate as much as dialogue, creating a sense of authenticity. I found myself leaning into these moments, listening not only to the words spoken but also to the quiet space between them. It is within these silences that the humanity of both characters shines through.


What surprised me most was how hopeful the film left me feeling. So often, stories of theft, betrayal, or crime end with bitterness, punishment, or a sense of irreparable loss. Mistaken dares to suggest otherwise—that grace can emerge from violation, that forgiveness is possible, and that the “twist” in life is not always betrayal but, sometimes, unexpected kindness. This message resonates powerfully in a world often dominated by cynicism and vengeance. It reminded me that while justice is necessary, mercy can sometimes transform lives in ways punishment cannot.


From a cinematic standpoint, the film’s visual style complements its themes. The muted color palette and intimate framing mirror the subdued yet emotionally charged atmosphere. Rather than leaning into the adrenaline of a thriller, the camera lingers on faces, gestures, and quiet exchanges, underscoring the intimacy of the story. The pacing, while slow, serves the purpose of grounding the film in realism. Some viewers may find it meandering, but for me, the deliberate tempo gave room to reflect and connect with the characters on a deeper level.


In terms of recommendations, I believe Mistaken could benefit from a few enhancements. First, as mentioned earlier, providing a more detailed exploration of the impostor’s motivations earlier in the narrative would have added richness. Secondly, a stronger resolution to the protagonist’s external struggles (such as legal and financial repercussions) would have helped balance the personal and societal dimensions of identity theft. The focus on personal transformation is beautiful, but the practical consequences of such a crime are significant, and addressing them more fully could have provided a more holistic picture. Lastly, while the film excels in subtlety, an additional layer of symbolic imagery—perhaps tied to mirrors, names, or documents—might have further emphasized the theme of identity and its fragility.


Despite these areas for improvement, Mistaken succeeds as a work of art that transcends its genre. It begins as a thriller but ends as a meditation on grace. It teaches us that people are more than their mistakes, and that forgiveness, while difficult, is a form of liberation—for both the giver and the receiver. For me, this film was a reminder of the redemptive power of empathy and the transformative potential of second chances.


In conclusion, Mistaken (2008) is not the film I expected, but it is the film I needed. It is a story that goes beyond the legalities of identity theft to explore the spiritual and emotional dimensions of human identity. Through its nuanced performances, restrained storytelling, and courageous thematic choices, it invites us to reconsider our assumptions about crime, punishment, and redemption. While not without flaws, it left me with a sense of hope and a renewed belief in the possibility of grace. And that, I believe, is the mark of cinema that truly matters.

Tuesday, September 23, 2025

What’s One Way You Can Improve Your Time Management Today?

 


Time is one of those things I often feel I don’t have enough of, yet I know deep down it’s not about the hours on the clock—it’s about how I choose to use them. When I think about the question, “What’s one way you can improve your time management today?” the answer that keeps circling back to me is learning how to protect my mornings better. It sounds simple, almost too simple, but when I sit with it, I realize that the way I start my day sets the rhythm for everything else that follows. If I can get my mornings right—guarding them with intention, structure, and a sense of focus—I believe I can transform the way I handle my time, not just today, but in the long run.


I’ve always had a complicated relationship with mornings. On one hand, I love them: the quiet, the sense of freshness, the feeling that the world hasn’t yet placed demands on me. On the other hand, mornings have a way of slipping away when I’m not careful. I’ll wake up with the best intentions—to pray, to write, to move my body, to plan out my day—and before I know it, I’m caught in the vortex of distractions. I check my phone, I scroll through messages, I fall into other people’s priorities before I’ve even touched my own. And then, almost inevitably, I feel guilty for not having done what I had set out to do.


So for me, improving time management today isn’t about downloading another productivity app, color-coding my Google Calendar, or writing out long to-do lists. I’ve tried all those things, and while they help in the short term, they don’t address the root. The real shift comes from something more personal: drawing a boundary around my mornings so they belong to me, not to anyone else.


I think about it like this: my mornings are like the seedbed of my day. If I plant distraction, chaos, and reaction there, that’s the fruit I’m going to harvest. But if I plant presence, order, and clarity, then the rest of the day has a better chance of flourishing. Protecting my mornings means consciously deciding what deserves space in those first few hours and what doesn’t. And that decision-making, though small, becomes the foundation of better time management.


This idea didn’t come out of nowhere. It grew from moments of frustration when I realized how often I let time control me instead of the other way around. I remember one particular day not long ago when I woke up earlier than usual with the hope of tackling some writing that I’d been putting off. I was excited because I could feel the words inside me, waiting to be shaped. But instead of sitting down at my desk right away, I made the mistake of “just checking” my notifications. That “just checking” spiraled into half an hour of replying to messages that weren’t urgent, scrolling through social media, and losing myself in news headlines that only left me feeling drained. By the time I finally sat down to write, my mind was already cluttered. The blank page stared back at me, but the clarity I had felt upon waking was gone.


That day taught me something important: it’s not that I don’t have time; it’s that I don’t always give my best time to what matters. I’ve read somewhere that every decision is a trade-off, and I can see how true that is in how I use my mornings. If I give those first hours away to distractions, I’m trading my creativity, my peace, and my energy for something that doesn’t nourish me. But if I protect those hours, I’m making a different kind of trade—one that gives me a return throughout the day.


Improving my time management today, then, means waking up tomorrow and treating my morning as sacred. It means setting the intention before I go to sleep: what is the one thing I want to give myself time for before the rest of the world barges in? Maybe it’s writing a page in my journal. Maybe it’s spending half an hour in prayer, grounding myself in gratitude. Maybe it’s going for a walk, letting my body move and my thoughts breathe. The activity might change, but the principle is the same: start the day with something that matters, and everything else will fall more easily into place.


Of course, saying this and actually doing it are two different things. Old habits have a way of creeping back in. I know myself—I can justify anything if I’m not careful. I’ll say, “I’ll just answer this one message” or “I’ll just check the news for a minute” and then, before I know it, the morning slips through my fingers. That’s why protecting my mornings requires not just intention but also discipline. Discipline doesn’t have to mean being harsh with myself; it means being loving enough to create boundaries that serve me. It means putting my phone in another room if I know I can’t resist it. It means writing down the one thing I want to focus on in the morning so I have a clear target. It means choosing to begin with purpose rather than drift.


What I’ve noticed is that when I do manage to protect my mornings, everything else in my day feels lighter. My time management naturally improves because I’ve already given energy to something important. It’s like paying myself first, but instead of money, it’s time. And when I do that, I don’t feel as frantic or guilty later in the day. I don’t chase time as much because I know I’ve already anchored myself in what matters.


I’ve also come to realize that mornings are not just about productivity; they’re about identity. The way I start my day shapes the story I tell myself about who I am. If I start the day rushing, distracted, or reactive, I’m telling myself that I’m someone who lives at the mercy of circumstances. But if I start the day intentionally, whether through prayer, writing, or movement, I’m telling myself that I’m someone who creates, someone who chooses, someone who values presence. That shift in identity spills into how I manage time throughout the day.


So, what’s one way I can improve my time management today? It’s by deciding, right now, that tomorrow morning belongs to me. It’s by refusing to trade away those early hours for things that don’t matter. It’s by planting seeds of intention that will grow into a harvest of clarity and peace.


Time management, I’m learning, is less about squeezing more into the hours I have and more about aligning those hours with what matters most. And for me, that alignment starts in the morning. I don’t have to overhaul my entire schedule in one go. I don’t have to fix every bad habit or find the perfect routine. I just have to begin by protecting the small, sacred space of morning and letting it ripple outwards into the rest of my day.


If I can do that today—if I can claim my morning as my own—then I believe I’ll find myself not just managing time better but living it more fully. And maybe that’s the real point: it’s not just about managing time, but about honoring it, shaping it, and making it reflect the life I truly want to live.

Friday, September 19, 2025

Started from the Bottom

 


“Started from the Bottom, Now I’m Here.” These words carry a weight that goes beyond a catchy phrase or a popular lyric. For me, they tell the story of my life’s journey—a path marked by obstacles, moments of doubt, relentless effort, and ultimately, the triumph of reaching a place I once only dreamed of. This phrase encapsulates my transformation from humble beginnings to a space where I can finally say I have arrived, not just in success but in confidence, self-awareness, and purpose.


Growing up, my circumstances were far from easy. I didn’t come from privilege or a family that handed down opportunities on a silver platter. My environment was a mix of financial struggles, uncertainty, and the kind of pressures that weigh heavily on a young person’s mind. There was a time when I didn’t fully understand what it meant to “start from the bottom,” but looking back, it’s clear how those early years shaped my resolve. I watched people around me fight battles—some visible, others hidden—and I learned early on that life doesn’t give out second chances easily. Every day was a test of how much I wanted more, how far I was willing to push against the odds.


What “the bottom” looked like for me wasn’t just poverty or lack of material wealth; it was a state of mind too. It was the feeling of invisibility in a world that often overlooks those without status or connections. It was facing expectations that were so low they almost became internalized, telling me that I wouldn’t amount to much. There were times when I questioned my own worth, doubted my abilities, and wondered if my dreams were simply too big for someone like me. But those moments of doubt became the fuel for my determination rather than defeat. I realized that if I was going to change my story, I had to take ownership of my path and push forward even when the way wasn’t clear.


The journey from those early days to where I am now was neither straight nor smooth. It was filled with countless setbacks that sometimes felt like defeats, but in hindsight, they were lessons wrapped in disguise. I remember working jobs that didn’t feel connected to my dreams, juggling responsibilities that left little room for rest, and facing rejection that stung deeply. There were times when I wanted to give up, to settle for what was comfortable or familiar. But a persistent voice inside me kept reminding me that “now I’m here” was possible if I refused to quit.


One of the most important realizations I had during this journey was that success isn’t just about achieving a goal; it’s about the person you become along the way. Every challenge shaped my character—teaching me patience, humility, and resilience. I learned that setbacks don’t define failure unless you let them. Instead, they are stepping stones to growth if you’re willing to learn and adapt. I also understood that “starting from the bottom” meant I had a unique perspective and empathy that many others didn’t. I could relate to struggle in a way that kept me grounded and motivated to lift others as I rose.


“Now I’m here” is more than a statement of arrival—it is a declaration of transformation. It means I have reached a place where I can look back and appreciate how far I have come, not just materially or professionally, but emotionally and spiritually. I have gained confidence in my voice, clarity in my purpose, and a sense of peace with my past. The journey has made me more than just successful; it has made me whole.


Yet, reaching this point also brought new challenges. Success changed my relationships, expectations, and how I saw myself. It forced me to confront the pressure to maintain what I had achieved and to keep growing despite comfort and complacency tempting me to stay still. I realized that “here” is not a final destination but a milestone—an invitation to continue evolving and contributing. It also deepened my awareness of responsibility: to use my platform, however big or small, to inspire and support others who are still at their own bottoms.


Reflecting on this journey, I understand now that starting from the bottom gave me a foundation of strength that no privilege could provide. It taught me that resilience is built through experience, that perseverance is born of struggle, and that true success is intertwined with gratitude and humility. This journey also instilled in me a belief that everyone’s story matters, and no matter how difficult the start, the possibility of “now I’m here” exists for all who dare to keep going.


Personalizing this phrase—“Started from the Bottom, Now I’m Here”—means embracing the entirety of my story. It means acknowledging the pain and sacrifice alongside the joy and accomplishment. It means celebrating the small wins that added up over time and honoring the people who supported me, even when I couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. Most importantly, it means holding on to the lessons of my journey so that I never forget where I came from, even as I reach for where I’m going.


For anyone reading these words, know that the bottom is not a permanent place. It is a place of potential, of learning, and of starting anew. Your “here” might look different from mine, but it will carry the same meaning—the victory of persistence, the power of belief, and the beauty of growth. The journey is yours, and while the road may be tough, the destination is worth every step.


In sharing my story, I hope to remind you that your beginnings do not limit your endings. Embrace your journey with courage, patience, and faith in your own worth. “Started from the Bottom, Now I’m Here” is not just my story—it’s a universal anthem for anyone daring to dream, work hard, and rise above.

Wednesday, September 17, 2025

Movie Recommendation: Lilo & Stitch (2025)

 



#DebraAndValerieMovieRecommendation


Lilo & Stitch (2025)


Watching Lilo & Stitch (2025) was one of those experiences that caught me completely by surprise. I didn’t go in expecting much, thinking perhaps it would be a straightforward remake of a beloved classic. Instead, I found myself unexpectedly invested, moved, and thoroughly entertained. What captivated me most, almost immediately, was Lilo herself. From the very first scene, she drew me in. There’s something about her presence on screen that felt genuine and magnetic. The young actress playing her, making her very first foray into acting, carried the weight of the film with an ease and authenticity that was remarkable. It’s rare to see such raw talent paired with such emotional depth in a first-time performer, and I found myself completely rooting for her throughout the movie.


Lilo is not just the central character; she is the heart of the story. Her energy, her spunk, and her vulnerability made her instantly relatable. Even as an adult, I could feel the sting of her loneliness, the quiet desperation of a child who wants to belong, and the stubborn hope that refuses to let her give up on love and family. Every gesture, every line of dialogue, every expression felt so layered and alive. It’s clear that the actress approached the role with thoughtfulness and care, imbuing Lilo with a humanity that made her struggles feel real. Watching her, I felt a deep connection not just to her character, but to the universal experience of longing for understanding and connection.


Of course, no film is without its imperfections. As I watched, there were moments when the pacing slowed a little, when certain scenes lingered longer than necessary, or when the live-action effects didn’t quite capture the same whimsical charm that the animated version managed so effortlessly. Initially, these aspects caught my attention, and I wondered if they would pull me out of the story. But then, Lilo would appear again on screen, and all of those small distractions faded away. Her presence was so commanding, so emotionally engaging, that the rest of the film seemed to revolve around her in the most natural way. In hindsight, I realized that these imperfections didn’t diminish the experience at all; they made the moments of genuine connection and emotion stand out even more.


One of the things I loved most about this adaptation was how it leaned into Lilo’s emotional journey rather than simply relying on nostalgia. The bond between Lilo and Nani is at the core of the story, and the film took the time to explore it in a nuanced and heartfelt way. I found myself reflecting on my own relationships, particularly those within my family, as I watched the sisters navigate the messy, complicated, yet deeply loving terrain of sibling connection. Lilo’s stubbornness and Nani’s patience, their moments of frustration and tenderness, reminded me of the way love is rarely simple but always worth the effort. The story didn’t shy away from showing their struggles, but it also celebrated the moments of joy and understanding that hold families together even when life feels chaotic.


Another element that struck me was the film’s ability to balance lighthearted fun with genuine emotion. The humor and whimsical moments are charming, but they never overshadow the emotional stakes. The original animated film always had a way of tugging at the heartstrings while making you laugh, and this adaptation managed to do the same. I found myself laughing out loud at Stitch’s antics, but just as often wiping away a tear during quieter, more tender scenes. It’s rare to encounter a film that can navigate such a wide emotional spectrum without feeling disjointed, yet this one did it seamlessly. The result is a story that feels alive and vibrant, a story that lingers with you long after the credits roll.


What also resonated with me personally was the way the film depicted resilience and hope. Lilo is not a perfect child; she is messy, stubborn, and vulnerable, yet she possesses an unyielding spirit that refuses to give in to despair. Watching her navigate her challenges reminded me of moments in my own life when I had to summon courage and determination even when the odds felt against me. Her journey is a reminder that hope and love are not about perfection or ease; they are about persistence, empathy, and the courage to keep moving forward despite setbacks. In that sense, the film felt deeply inspiring. It wasn’t just a remake of a childhood favorite—it was a story with meaningful lessons that resonate at any age.


The relationship between Lilo and Stitch is another standout aspect of the movie. Stitch, as the chaotic and mischievous companion, brings a playful energy that contrasts beautifully with Lilo’s emotional depth. Their connection develops in a way that feels organic and genuine. I found myself rooting for both of them, not just because their antics were entertaining, but because their bond symbolized something much deeper: the possibility of finding love, acceptance, and family in unexpected places. It’s a theme that never gets old, and this film captured it with warmth and sincerity. The chemistry between the two characters felt effortless, and it made every shared moment of joy, fear, or triumph resonate on a personal level.


Even as I reflected on the technical aspects of the film—the live-action effects, the pacing, the occasional awkward transitions—I realized that these elements were secondary to what truly mattered: the heart of the story. The young actress playing Lilo carried the film with a natural grace and emotional intelligence that made every scene meaningful. She reminded me of why I fell in love with storytelling in the first place—the power of a well-told story to make you feel, reflect, and connect with characters who, in their own ways, become part of your own life. Watching her performance, I felt a mix of admiration, empathy, and nostalgia. It was a reminder that even in a world full of technological spectacle, the essence of storytelling always comes down to human emotion.


By the time the credits rolled, I felt a sense of gratitude. Gratitude for the way the film honored the original while carving its own path, for the moments of laughter and tears, and for the young actress who brought so much heart and authenticity to Lilo. Lilo & Stitch left me with more than just entertainment; it left me with a renewed appreciation for the bonds that hold us together, the resilience we summon in difficult times, and the magic that comes from seeing new talent shine in iconic roles. It reminded me that stories—especially those about family, love, and acceptance—have the power to touch us deeply, no matter our age or stage of life.


In the end, what makes this adaptation memorable is not its perfection, but its heart. The imperfections—slightly slow pacing, occasional awkward effects—fade in comparison to the warmth, vulnerability, and energy that the lead actress brings to the screen. Lilo is a character I will carry with me for a long time, not just because of her charm, but because she embodies hope, courage, and the messy, beautiful reality of human connection. Seeing her story unfold reminded me of the importance of empathy, patience, and the little acts of love that sustain us.


Ultimately, watching Lilo & Stitch was a deeply personal experience. It wasn’t just a movie I watched; it was a story that resonated with my own experiences, my reflections on family and resilience, and my appreciation for storytelling that touches the heart. I left the theater feeling uplifted, nostalgic, and inspired, with a renewed belief in the power of hope, love, and the extraordinary impact that a newcomer can have when given the chance to shine. The film is far more than a remake; it is a heartfelt adaptation that reminded me why I love movies in the first place. It’s a story of heart, humor, and humanity—a story I know I’ll return to again and again.

Monday, September 15, 2025

What Helps Me Stay Motivated on Tough Days

 


There are mornings when the weight of the world seems to sit squarely on my chest. I wake up and, before my feet even hit the floor, a cloud of heaviness lingers: deadlines, family responsibilities, unfinished projects, worries about people I love, or simply the ache of missing someone I’ve lost. On those days, motivation feels like an elusive friend—close enough to glimpse but too far to grasp. Over time, though, I’ve learned that staying motivated isn’t about waiting for a spark of inspiration to magically appear; it’s about cultivating small anchors that keep me steady when everything else is shifting.


One of the strongest anchors I have is remembering why I do the things I do. Purpose is a quiet but powerful force. When I’m tempted to stay curled up in bed or scroll endlessly through my phone, I remind myself of the people who believe in me, of the work that has meaning beyond the surface. I think about my children and how their laughter, creativity, and resilience deserve a parent who doesn’t give up easily. I think about the mentors and friends who once took chances on me, expecting I would keep trying even when it got hard. On days when my energy runs thin, those faces come to mind, and I realize my efforts aren’t just for me—they ripple outward into lives I care about.


Another thing that helps is choosing one manageable action, even if it’s embarrassingly small. There have been mornings when the most I could do was make the bed or drink a glass of water. It seems trivial, but those little victories are a way of whispering to myself: You’re still moving forward. Once I take that first step, it’s easier to take another. Sometimes motivation is just momentum in disguise.


I also lean into rituals that make space for calm before the storm of the day. A quiet cup of tea, a prayer, or a walk at sunrise reminds me that I’m part of something larger than whatever problem I’m wrestling with. Nature has a way of resetting my perspective. When I watch sunlight paint the edges of the sky or see birds tracing patterns across the air, I remember that life is bigger than my present discomfort. Those scenes don’t erase hardship, but they soften its edges enough for me to keep going.


Supportive voices matter too. I’ve learned not to underestimate the value of a phone call to a friend who listens without judgment or a text from someone who simply says, “Thinking of you.” Sometimes I find motivation in encouraging others, which paradoxically encourages me. Sharing words of hope or humor with someone else can break the spell of self-focus and remind me that strength is often found in connection.


There’s also an inner conversation I have with myself on tough days. It’s gentle but firm: You’ve made it through difficult seasons before; you can do this again. I recount moments when I thought I couldn’t keep going but did anyway. That catalogue of survival becomes proof against the whisper that says I’m not capable. Even if today doesn’t look perfect, even if I stumble, I know resilience isn’t about never faltering—it’s about refusing to stay down.


Creative outlets are another source of motivation. Writing, sketching, or even photographing a fleeting moment helps me translate feelings into something tangible. They turn chaos into color and shape, giving meaning to what could otherwise feel like a void. Creativity gives me permission to explore my emotions without being consumed by them.


Faith is, for me, a quiet undercurrent that carries me when I feel drained. I don’t mean a loud or rigid kind of faith, but rather a steady trust that there’s purpose even in struggle, that grace meets me in my weakness. On rough days, I sometimes sit with a verse or a reflection, letting it remind me that I don’t have to summon all the strength alone. There’s comfort in believing that the story isn’t finished, that light has a way of piercing through the dimmest hours.


Another lesson I’ve gathered is to allow rest without guilt. Motivation doesn’t always mean relentless action; sometimes it’s permission to pause and refill my own well. Pushing past exhaustion only breeds resentment and burnout. Learning to rest—a nap, a walk without a phone, or simply staring out of the window—often restores the capacity to try again later with clearer focus and softer determination.


Gratitude is another steadying hand. When I list even the simplest blessings—a warm meal, a loyal pet, a loved one’s smile, a song that lifts my mood—I see how abundance still weaves through my life, even in seasons of loss or uncertainty. Gratitude doesn’t deny pain, but it insists on noticing the good that coexists with it. That awareness invites a kind of quiet hope that fuels perseverance.


Finally, I remind myself that tough days are just that—days. They’re not permanent verdicts on who I am or what my life will become. Storms pass, wounds heal, and perspective returns. I try to hold challenges lightly, like passing weather, rather than treating them as the whole forecast. Some evenings I look back and see how even the difficult hours held small mercies: a conversation, a good meal, an idea sparked in the middle of chaos. Those moments reassure me that not every hard day ends in defeat.


Staying motivated on tough days is an art more than a science. It’s a blend of compassion, persistence, and remembering that life is layered: there’s still beauty, still possibility, even when shadows loom. It’s knowing I can take one step, and then another, trusting that the path will clear as I move forward. And on the days when all I can do is breathe and hold on, that’s enough too. Because resilience isn’t always grand or loud—sometimes it’s just the quiet choice to keep showing up, even when everything in me wants to hide.

Saturday, September 13, 2025

What Will You Believe Today?

 


Every morning, when I open my eyes, I am greeted not just by the light of a new day, but by a quiet, persistent question: What will I believe today? It is a question that seems simple at first glance, yet it is one of the most profound decisions I make, often without even realizing it. Beliefs are the lens through which I see the world, the internal compass guiding my actions, thoughts, and emotions. Each day, I have the opportunity to choose my lens, to decide whether I will let fear, doubt, or cynicism color my reality—or whether I will embrace hope, courage, and possibility.


I remember a time when I didn’t think much about what I believed. I was guided largely by habit, by what I had been taught, or by the opinions of those around me. I believed what I was told, without questioning it. I believed in the safety of routine, the comfort of predictability, and the security of avoiding risk. Yet, life has a way of shaking you awake. A sudden loss, a disappointment, a moment of unexpected vulnerability—these are the moments when the question of belief becomes unavoidable. When my soul mate passed away, for instance, I realized that much of what I had believed about life, love, and resilience was untested. I was forced to confront my own capacity for grief and to ask myself: Do I believe I can endure this? Do I believe life can still hold meaning?


Belief is not only about how we respond to crises. It permeates the small moments too—the subtle decisions that, collectively, define who we are. When I meet a stranger, do I believe in their kindness, or do I assume the worst? When I face a challenge at work, do I believe in my own abilities, or do I assume failure is inevitable? When I see my daughter struggle with a project or a setback, do I believe in her resilience, or do I let doubt overshadow my encouragement? Every belief carries consequences, shaping both perception and action. Choosing what to believe is not passive; it is active, even transformative.


I have come to see belief as a daily choice, almost like a practice. Each morning, I have to decide whether I will believe in hope or despair, in possibility or limitation, in kindness or suspicion. Some days, it is easy. I wake up feeling grateful, ready to trust in the good around me. Other days, the weight of exhaustion, disappointment, or fear makes belief feel like a fragile act of courage. On those days, I have to remind myself that belief is not always a reflection of certainty; it is often a conscious act of will. It is deciding, despite uncertainty, to see the world through a lens that nurtures growth, connection, and meaning.


I think a lot about how belief shapes relationships. When my loved ones hurt me, intentionally or unintentionally, I have the choice to believe in the persistence of love and forgiveness—or to believe in bitterness and resentment. I have seen how my choice in these moments can ripple far beyond myself. Believing in compassion does not mean denying hurt; it means allowing space for understanding, for healing, and for growth. It is a daily, sometimes difficult, practice of choosing perspective, and I have learned that the more consciously I choose my beliefs, the more grounded and peaceful I feel, even amidst chaos.


Belief is also deeply intertwined with self-identity. I have lived moments where I questioned my own worth, my abilities, or my potential. In those times, belief became the most essential tool I had. To believe that I was capable of more, that I could learn, grow, and adapt, was to give myself permission to act despite fear. Believing in oneself is not a one-time declaration; it is a repeated, intentional act. Each small decision—to speak up, to try again, to extend kindness, to learn something new—is a reaffirmation of belief in one’s own value and agency.


I have noticed that belief is contagious. When I show up with faith in someone else’s potential, when I believe in their goodness, they often respond in kind. I see it with my family, my friends, and even casual encounters with strangers. A smile, a word of encouragement, a patient gesture—these small acts are rooted in belief. When I choose to believe that people are capable of kindness, I often witness it manifest before my eyes. Conversely, when I let skepticism or cynicism dominate, I notice how it taints interactions, making even neutral moments feel tense or cold. Belief, I have realized, is not just a private matter; it is a subtle force that shapes the atmosphere around us.


Choosing belief is not always easy. Life has a way of testing it, of confronting us with evidence that challenges our assumptions. I have had days where I felt the weight of betrayal, failure, or disappointment so heavily that choosing belief seemed impossible. On those days, I have learned the importance of humility and reflection. Belief does not require blind faith; it requires discernment. It requires asking questions, observing patterns, and considering not just what feels true, but what is useful, ethical, and constructive. To choose belief wisely is to cultivate self-awareness and courage, to admit uncertainty while still committing to values that elevate rather than diminish life.


Faith, I have discovered, is belief in its most resilient form. Faith is believing without seeing, trusting without proof, and moving forward even when the path is unclear. I have experienced moments where faith in myself, in others, or in a higher purpose carried me through challenges that seemed insurmountable. Faith does not erase difficulty, but it frames experience in a way that allows endurance, learning, and growth. It is a choice to see possibility, even when circumstances suggest limitation. In many ways, faith is the essence of believing consciously, courageously, and purposefully.


I try to apply this understanding in everyday life, in small, intentional ways. When I walk into a room full of strangers, I try to believe in connection rather than isolation. When I face setbacks, I try to believe in opportunity rather than defeat. When I encounter someone struggling, I try to believe in their resilience rather than their failure. These choices are not always automatic, but they become a practice—a conscious shaping of perception and action. Each belief I choose today becomes a thread in the fabric of my day, ultimately forming the pattern of my life.


What will I believe today? I choose to believe in growth, even when it is painful. I choose to believe in resilience, even when I feel weary. I choose to believe in the goodness of people, even when they disappoint me. I choose to believe in my own worth, even when doubt creeps in. I choose to believe that each small act of kindness, courage, or curiosity matters. These beliefs are not abstract ideals; they are commitments that shape how I act, how I think, and how I respond to the world.


Belief is an exercise of agency. Each day, the sunrise presents a new opportunity to decide what will guide my mind, heart, and actions. I may not control the circumstances I face, but I do control my interpretation and response. To decide consciously what to believe is to reclaim power in a world that often feels uncertain. It is to assert, in both small and significant ways, that my perspective, my choices, and my values matter. Belief, in this sense, is both personal and powerful—a private act with public resonance.


I have also learned that belief evolves. What I choose to believe today may differ from what I choose tomorrow, and that is not failure; it is growth. Life brings new experiences, knowledge, and insights, all of which challenge me to reconsider and refine my beliefs. To hold onto belief rigidly is to close off opportunity, but to choose it thoughtfully is to cultivate adaptability, wisdom, and resilience. Belief is not a static possession; it is a living practice, renewed daily, shaped by reflection and experience.


In the quiet moments, when I sit with myself and reflect on the day ahead, I am reminded of the power inherent in choosing belief. It is an act of courage, a declaration of values, and a deliberate shaping of reality. I have learned that by believing consciously, I influence not only my own life but also the lives of those around me. A smile, a word, a gesture of understanding or encouragement—they all stem from belief. Belief is not abstract; it is lived, and it is transformative.


So, I ask myself again: What will I believe today? Today, I will believe in hope. Today, I will believe in kindness. Today, I will believe in resilience. Today, I will believe that every challenge contains a lesson, every setback contains opportunity, and every interaction contains the potential for growth. Today, I will believe in myself, in my family, in my friends, and in the small but profound goodness that exists in the world. And with each belief, I will move forward—intentionally, courageously, and with an openness to the life I am creating, moment by moment.


Belief is, ultimately, a choice—a daily, intimate act of agency. It is the lens through which we see the world, the engine that drives our actions, and the anchor that holds us steady amid uncertainty. To ask oneself, What will I believe today?, is to engage in an act of self-definition, reflection, and intention. The answer we choose today becomes the reality we live tomorrow. I have learned that by choosing wisely, with courage and awareness, we can shape not only our own lives but the lives of those around us. And so, I make the choice, renewed with each sunrise, each breath, and each new moment: I will believe.

Wednesday, September 10, 2025

Movie Recommendation: Cobweb (2023)

 


#DebraAndValerieMovieRecommendation


Cobweb (2023)


Horror films have always occupied an unusual space in cinema. They provoke discomfort, confront audiences with fears they would normally avoid, and yet paradoxically draw viewers back time and again. For me, Cobweb (2023) fits squarely into that paradox. It is not a flawless film by any means, but it left me both unsettled and intrigued—an experience that lingered long after the credits rolled.


At its core, Cobweb thrives on atmosphere. The film wastes no time in establishing a sense of unease, the kind of creeping tension that makes you wonder what is hiding just beyond the frame. I found myself tensing at small sounds, quick glances, and the kind of shadowy visuals that horror so often relies upon. The filmmakers clearly understood how to build suspense: not through cheap jump scares alone, but through pacing, mood, and an unsettling environment that gradually grows more claustrophobic. As an audience member, I was pulled into that dread-filled space where anything could happen—and that is part of what makes horror so delicious.


And yet, while I admired this tension-building, there were moments that felt somewhat absurd. Certain narrative choices or twists stretched the boundaries of believability, making me pause and question the logic of the story. I remember sitting there thinking, “Really? That’s the direction we’re going?” Horror, of course, often asks us to suspend disbelief, but there is a delicate balance between stretching reality and breaking it entirely. Cobweb occasionally leaned toward the latter, risking the immersion it had so carefully crafted.


Still, I cannot dismiss the thrill I experienced in those moments of excess. There is a strange kind of enjoyment in watching a film lean into the bizarre, even when it edges on the ridiculous. Horror fans often appreciate extremity—the willingness to push beyond the boundaries of normal storytelling into something more grotesque or uncanny. While Cobweb may not achieve perfect consistency, its willingness to explore twisted family dynamics and unsettling psychological undertones gave it a unique flavor.


The theme of family dysfunction particularly struck me. Many horror stories rely on external monsters—creatures, killers, supernatural forces—but some of the most disturbing tales focus inward, on the darkness within the home. Cobweb plays with this effectively, reminding viewers that sometimes the scariest secrets are the ones kept by those closest to us. The morbidness of these dynamics thrilled me, even as they made me squirm. Horror at its best exposes what we would rather not acknowledge: that love, safety, and trust can sometimes mask manipulation, violence, or secrets too terrifying to face.


This psychological dimension is what elevates Cobweb above the level of mere gore or shock value. It resists relying entirely on bloodshed and instead leans into dread, ambiguity, and twisted relationships. While it does include startling and gruesome imagery, the true weight of the film lies in its suggestion that the family unit itself may be corrupted, and that childhood innocence can quickly morph into terror when trust is betrayed. This layer of depth reminded me that horror can be more than spectacle—it can be allegory, metaphor, or critique, hidden within the trappings of fright.


That being said, Cobweb is far from a masterpiece. It suffers from uneven storytelling and a lack of refinement in certain areas. The film’s tone sometimes wavers between chilling and campy, leaving me unsure of how seriously to take it. But perhaps that tension is part of its charm. For all its imperfections, the movie made me feel something—and in a genre where predictability often dulls the edge, Cobweb succeeded in leaving an impression.


What I appreciate most is that the film sparked reflection. It reminded me of why horror is such a compelling genre despite, or perhaps because of, its flaws. Horror allows us to explore fear in a safe container, to confront the grotesque without being truly harmed. It also allows for experimentation—sometimes messy, sometimes brilliant—where filmmakers can bend rules in ways other genres would not tolerate. Cobweb may not deliver perfection, but it embodies that spirit of experimentation. It dares to push boundaries, to mix psychological dread with surreal twists, even if the result occasionally falters.


When recommending a film, I try to balance honesty with openness. I would not claim Cobweb is essential viewing for everyone. Viewers who demand airtight plots or strictly realistic storytelling may leave frustrated. But for those who appreciate eerie atmospheres, disturbing secrets, and the uneasy marriage of the believable with the bizarre, this film offers an experience worth engaging with. It is the kind of movie that works best when you allow yourself to sink into its mood rather than overanalyze every detail.


Ultimately, my feelings about Cobweb can best be described as mixed but fascinated. I liked it—more than I expected at times—but I also rolled my eyes on occasion. It startled me, unsettled me, and even made me laugh at its excesses. Most importantly, it reminded me that horror does not need to be flawless to be effective. Sometimes, the imperfections themselves add texture to the experience, forcing us to grapple with what frightens us, what entertains us, and what makes us keep watching even when we are uneasy.


So, would I recommend Cobweb? Yes—with qualifications. Go in with an open mind and an appetite for strangeness. Do not expect perfection, but do expect atmosphere, tension, and a narrative that twists in ways both intriguing and absurd. It may not become your favorite horror film, but it will likely leave you thinking, even if what you are thinking is, “What on earth did I just watch?” And in the end, that lingering impression is one of the highest compliments you can give a film, horror or otherwise.


In short, Cobweb is not a masterpiece, but it is memorable. For me, that is reason enough to watch—and perhaps reason enough for you to do the same.



Tuesday, September 9, 2025

Staying Focused on Your Goals Amid Distractions

 


In a world buzzing with constant notifications, endless streams of information, and countless demands on our attention, staying focused on personal goals often feels like swimming against a current. I’ve experienced firsthand how easy it is to become derailed by distractions, no matter how committed or passionate I am about a goal. Yet, through years of trial, error, and self-reflection, I’ve learned that maintaining focus isn’t about eliminating distractions entirely—it’s about creating structures, mindsets, and habits that help me keep my eyes on the prize even when the world insists I look elsewhere.

For me, the struggle with focus begins internally. Distractions aren’t always external; they often originate from my own thoughts. Worries about the future, regrets about the past, or even doubts about my capabilities can steal attention from what I’m trying to achieve. I remember a time when I was working on completing a major project, and despite having a clear plan, I found myself constantly checking my phone, scrolling through social media, and convincing myself that a five-minute break wouldn’t hurt. Before I knew it, hours had passed with little accomplished. It was frustrating, but it also highlighted an important lesson: focus isn’t a passive state—it’s an active practice, one that requires awareness and discipline.

One of the first strategies I developed to stay focused was to cultivate clarity about my goals. I realized that when I have a vague idea of what I want to achieve, distractions seem more alluring because the destination isn’t compelling enough. I began writing down my goals in detail, not just what I wanted to achieve but why it mattered to me. For example, when I wanted to build a business, I didn’t just say, “I want to earn money.” I wrote down that I wanted to create something meaningful that could help people, that could provide for my family, and that could reflect my personal values. This sense of purpose became a compass, guiding me back whenever distractions threatened to pull me off course.

Beyond clarity, I found that breaking goals into smaller, manageable steps was essential. Large, ambitious goals can feel overwhelming, making it easy to procrastinate or seek distraction. I remember my early attempts at writing a book; staring at a blank page with the pressure to write an entire manuscript was paralyzing. But when I divided the task into daily writing goals, even something as small as a hundred words a day, it became much easier to stay focused. Each small step reinforced my sense of progress, which in turn motivated me to keep going, even when interruptions occurred.

Another key element has been the deliberate management of my environment. I’ve learned that discipline alone can only take me so far if my surroundings constantly invite distraction. For instance, trying to work on a laptop while my phone buzzed beside me or my email inbox pinged every few minutes was a recipe for losing focus. To counter this, I created physical and digital spaces dedicated to work. I keep my phone in another room when I need deep focus and use apps to block distracting websites during work sessions. Over time, these small environmental changes have had a profound impact on my ability to concentrate. It’s not about eliminating all pleasure or curiosity from life; it’s about designing conditions that make staying focused the easier choice.

Mindset has played an equally important role. I’ve discovered that flexibility and self-compassion are crucial when distractions inevitably occur. There are days when I can work for hours without interruption and days when even a ten-minute task seems insurmountable. Early in my journey, I would berate myself for these lapses, which only fueled guilt and further distraction. Gradually, I learned to view focus as a muscle: it strengthens with practice but needs patience, rest, and encouragement. Accepting that distractions will happen, and that perfection isn’t the goal, has paradoxically made it easier to maintain long-term focus.

Routine and habit have become my allies in this endeavor. I’ve noticed that when I operate without structure, distractions creep in effortlessly. Conversely, consistent routines create a rhythm that naturally channels attention toward my goals. Every morning, I start with a focused session on my most important task before checking emails or social media. Over time, this simple habit of prioritizing my high-value work has drastically improved my productivity. The power of routine lies in its ability to automate focus; when a behavior becomes habitual, it requires less mental energy, leaving me more capacity for creativity and problem-solving.

I also rely on accountability to stay on track. Sharing my goals with trusted friends, mentors, or colleagues creates a sense of responsibility that keeps me from drifting. I remember telling a close friend about a project I was nervous to tackle. Knowing that they would check in on my progress pushed me to stay disciplined, even when distractions tempted me to procrastinate. Accountability doesn’t replace internal motivation, but it amplifies it, providing an external nudge that complements the internal drive.

One of the more subtle but powerful tools I’ve discovered is mindfulness. Staying present in the moment, paying attention to what I am doing, and noticing when my mind wanders helps me regain focus quickly. Meditation, journaling, or even a few deep breaths during the day have been surprisingly effective. They allow me to observe distractions without getting swept away by them. I’ve come to understand that focus is not just about doing; it’s about being aware—aware of my attention, my priorities, and the forces that pull me away from them.

Despite all these strategies, I would be dishonest if I claimed that staying focused is ever easy. Life is messy, and distractions are often unavoidable. What has changed for me is perspective. I no longer see distractions as failures but as signals—reminders that I need to reset, refocus, or re-evaluate my approach. Sometimes, a distraction is an opportunity to step back and gain clarity, to rest, or to address an underlying need that, if ignored, would undermine my long-term goals. By reframing distractions in this way, I’ve reduced the frustration and guilt that once accompanied them, making it easier to return to my work with renewed energy.

Ultimately, staying focused on goals amid distractions is a lifelong practice. It requires a combination of clarity, structure, habit, mindfulness, and self-compassion. It demands that I pay attention not just to my external environment but to my internal state, recognizing the subtle ways thoughts and emotions can divert my attention. And it reminds me that focus is not a rigid rule but a flexible, resilient commitment to what matters most.

Through personal experience, I’ve come to appreciate that the journey toward focus is as valuable as the achievement of the goal itself. Each time I navigate a distraction, set a boundary, or complete a small step, I strengthen not only my progress but also my capacity for self-discipline, awareness, and resilience. In a world full of noise and temptation, these skills are perhaps as important as any tangible outcome.

In conclusion, staying focused amid distractions is less about perfection and more about intentionality. It is about creating clarity around goals, building supportive environments, cultivating habits, practicing mindfulness, and embracing self-compassion. Distractions will always exist, but by approaching them with awareness and strategy, I’ve learned to remain committed to my goals while maintaining balance and well-being. Focus, I’ve realized, is not merely a state of mind—it is a daily practice, a choice renewed moment by moment, and ultimately, a reflection of the life I wish to lead.

How do you stay focused on your goals amid distractions?

Sunday, September 7, 2025

The Heart of Our Home: Safety, Comfort, and Unconditional Welcome

 


Home is more than a structure of walls and a roof; it is a feeling, a sanctuary, a heartbeat that pulses with love, safety, and the quiet promise of acceptance. For me, creating a safe space for my children and their friends—especially those in need—has become one of the most meaningful and important parts of parenting. It is not something I set out to do with a deliberate plan or rulebook. Instead, it is something that has grown organically out of my own life experiences, shaped by both pain and deep, abiding gratitude.


My daughter has two close friends who visit our home regularly. They come over almost every week, often staying for hours, sometimes longer. They aren’t just here for fun or company—they are here, I believe, because our home offers something they may not consistently find in their own: safety, warmth, and acceptance. Both come from broken homes. Their stories are laced with hardship—neglect, emotional wounds, even abuse. I don’t pry, but I see it in their eyes, in the way they move when they first arrive—cautiously, quietly, almost as if waiting to be scolded or turned away. I recognize that look because I wore it once too. And my daughter confirmed it was true.


When they walk through our doors, I always say the same thing: “Make yourself at home.” It’s simple, but I mean it with all my heart. I want them to know they don’t have to earn their place here. I want them to feel seen, heard, fed, and embraced without conditions. So I cook. I ask about their day. Over time, I’ve seen their walls come down. They laugh more freely now. They linger at the dinner table. They fall asleep on the couch with my daughter watching movies. In those moments, I know: our home is doing what I always hoped it would.


The truth is, I learned the importance of safe spaces not through theory but through lived experience. When I was younger, my own home didn’t always feel like a refuge. Life could be loud, chaotic, and at times, emotionally unsafe. I often sought solace elsewhere. That solace came in the form of my best friend Matt and his father, Pete. From the moment I stepped into their home, something changed in me. I felt welcomed without question. Pete was the kind of father who saw through your silence, who gave you space to just be, who never made you feel like a burden.


Matt was more than a friend—he was family. We could talk for hours or say nothing at all and still feel understood. Their home was filled with warmth—not just the physical kind from cozy lamps and hearty meals, but the emotional kind that comes from being loved without conditions. There, I wasn’t walking on eggshells. I wasn’t afraid of doing or saying the wrong thing. I was safe. I was home.


That experience changed me forever. It taught me that the greatest gift we can give someone isn’t money or status or advice—it’s the gift of a space where they can breathe, where they can lay their burdens down without fear. I will forever be grateful for Matt and Pete. They didn’t just open their door to me—they opened their hearts. They became my chosen family, and that bond shaped how I’ve gone on to build my own home.


Now, as a parent, I carry that lesson forward. I want our home to be a haven—not just for my children, but for their friends, too. Especially the ones who are struggling. Because I know how much it means to have that place—the place you can go when you feel like the rest of your world is falling apart. I want to be the adult who sees the child behind the behavior. I want to be the warm voice, the soft landing, the kind presence who says, “You’re safe here.”


There is something sacred about the role a home can play in a young person’s life. It can heal what the world has broken. It can quiet the chaos. It can make someone feel human again. I watch my daughter with her friends, and I see how protective she is of them. She knows their stories. She feels their pain. And she has inherited, perhaps unknowingly, this understanding that our house is not just a place to live—it’s a refuge. That makes me proud in ways words can’t fully express.


Of course, it’s not always easy. There are times when I wonder if I’m doing too much, giving too much, or if I’m overstepping boundaries. But then I remember: the world is full of places that demand, that take, that judge. Why not be one of the rare places that gives freely, that nourishes, that offers love without needing to be earned?


There’s a quiet beauty in knowing someone feels comfortable enough to open your fridge, kick off their shoes, and fall asleep on your couch. It means they feel at home. And for some kids, that feeling is rare. If I can provide that—if I can give just a little bit of peace to a heart that’s been battered by life—then I know I’m doing something right.


It’s not about being perfect. Our home has its flaws—cluttered rooms, mismatched furniture, noise, and mess. But it’s full of life. Full of love. Full of second helpings and second chances. It’s a place where the door is always open, where laughter is encouraged, and where tears are met with understanding, not judgment.


Creating a safe home doesn’t require grand gestures. It’s in the small things. The hot meals. The listening ear. The quiet acceptance. The gentle reminder that you matter, just as you are. It’s a mindset, a value system, a way of being in the world that says, “You belong.”


I often think back to the times I spent in Matt’s house, the mornings I was there to the smell of breakfast, the afternoons I was invited to stay a little longer, the evenings we spent making dinner together. I think of Pete’s steady presence, the comfort in knowing someone cared just because I existed. That experience planted something in me—something that continues to bloom in the way I show up for others now.


My daughter’s friends aren’t just guests. They are young souls navigating hard realities. And when they step into our home, I want them to leave feeling a little lighter. A little more seen. A little more loved. I may not be able to change their home life, but I can change this space. I can make this room feel safe. I can feed them until they’re full, listen until they’re heard, and care until they feel it deep in their bones.


Because everyone deserves that kind of love.


As I reflect on this journey, I realize that the real heart of our home isn’t in its physical design—it’s in its emotional architecture. It’s built on the foundation laid years ago by two people who opened their home to me when I needed it most. Now I build on that foundation daily—with every meal I cook and every time I say, “Make yourself at home.”


Home should never be a place of fear. It should never be a place where a child hides or feels invisible. Home should be where they learn they are lovable, valuable, and worthy. Where they are reminded, in ways big and small, that there is goodness in the world.


In our home, the door will always be open. The table will always have room for one more. And my heart will always have space for the kids who just need somewhere to be safe, to be seen, to just be.


That is the legacy Matt and Pete gave me.


And now, it’s mine to pass on.

Thursday, September 4, 2025

Movie Recommendation: Everybody’s Fine (2009)

 


#DebraAndValerieMovieRecommendation


Everybody’s Fine (2009)


When I finished watching Everybody’s Fine (2009), starring Robert De Niro, I found myself sitting in silence for a while, trying to process what I had just seen. The movie isn’t flashy. It doesn’t rely on twists or grand spectacle. Instead, it lingers quietly, like a soft echo in the heart, leaving you with the kind of ache that feels both tender and painful. And yet, I loved it. I loved it precisely because it broke my heart in that subtle, human way.


At its core, the film tells the story of Frank Goode, a widowed father who sets out on a journey to reconnect with his grown children after they fail to show up for a family gathering. Frank has spent most of his life working hard, laying telephone cables coated with PVC that left his lungs scarred, to provide for his family. Like so many parents of his generation, he believed that his sacrifice and his encouragement for his children to “aim high” would translate into closeness, love, and gratitude. But life, as the film gently reveals, rarely works out so neatly.


Robert De Niro gives Frank a kind of quiet dignity mixed with a fragility that’s hard to ignore. He’s not portrayed as a perfect father, nor as an overly flawed one. Instead, he’s deeply human—someone who did the best he could, who wanted his children to succeed, but who also unintentionally built walls between himself and them. Watching him struggle to bridge that distance stirred something in me.


I think what makes this film so powerful is how it reflects a truth many of us live but rarely admit: families often function on half-truths and reassurances. “Everybody’s fine” becomes a shield, a phrase that covers up disappointments, struggles, and even heartbreaks. In the movie, Frank’s children are far from “fine.” They’re carrying burdens they don’t want their father to see. They protect him with silence and omissions, not realizing that their distance hurts him more than the truth ever could.


That theme made me reflect on my own relationships—with my parents, with my children, with those I hold close. How often do I say “I’m okay” when I’m not? How often do I downplay my struggles because I don’t want to worry the people I love? And in return, how often do I accept “I’m fine” from someone without really digging deeper, without asking again, without making the effort to see past the façade?


There’s a quiet sadness that runs through this film, but it isn’t melodramatic. It feels real. There are no explosive fights or over-the-top confrontations. Instead, the sadness seeps in through missed connections, through the small, awkward silences between a father and his children, through the realization that time has slipped away while everyone was busy living their own lives. That subtlety is what made it hit me so hard—it felt less like a movie and more like holding up a mirror to the quiet regrets we all carry.


As Frank travels from city to city, trying to piece together the truth about his children, I couldn’t help but think of my own father and mother. How well do I truly know them—not just as parents, but as people with their own struggles, their own hidden battles? And in the same breath, how well do my children know me? Have I been fully honest with them about who I am, about my own vulnerabilities? Or do I, too, hide behind “everything’s fine” because it feels safer?


One of the most poignant things the film reminded me of is how easy it is to take family for granted. We assume there will always be time—time to visit, time to talk, time to repair relationships. But time has a way of running out. Watching Frank’s journey, I thought about moments I let slip by, about phone calls I could have made but didn’t, about conversations I postponed for another day. The film is a gentle but firm reminder that “another day” isn’t promised.


It also made me think about the weight parents carry. Frank wanted his children to succeed, to become more than he was, to live brighter and fuller lives than his own. But that pressure, even though it came from love, became a source of distance. His children didn’t want to disappoint him, so they hid their failures. How many of us have done the same? Pretended our lives were better than they were because we couldn’t bear the thought of letting someone down? That dynamic resonated with me deeply because it’s not just a movie trope—it’s real life.


What I admire most about Everybody’s Fine is that it doesn’t offer easy resolutions. It doesn’t tie everything up neatly with a bow. Instead, it leaves you with a bittersweet understanding: families are complicated, love is imperfect, and connection requires effort—sometimes effort we don’t realize we need to make until it’s too late. The film doesn’t scream this lesson at you; it whispers it. And somehow, that whisper stays with you long after the credits roll.


By the time the movie ended, I felt a strange mix of heaviness and hope. Heaviness, because it reminded me of the fragility of family bonds and the pain of disconnection. Hope, because it also reminded me that it’s not too late to change, not too late to reach out, not too late to say what needs to be said.


After watching, I found myself wanting to pick up the phone, to call someone I hadn’t spoken to in too long, to check in beyond the superficial “I’m fine.” I wanted to sit down with my children and have deeper conversations, the kind that go beyond the safe updates about school or work. The film stirred something in me that felt like both a wound and a gift: the wound of recognizing my own missed connections, and the gift of realizing I still have time to mend them.


In the end, Everybody’s Fine is not just a movie about a father and his children. It’s a movie about all of us. It’s about the lies we tell to protect each other, the silence that grows in the space between generations, and the longing we all share to be truly known by the people we love. It’s about regret, but also about the possibility of reconnection—if we’re brave enough to face the truth.


It may not be a blockbuster or a film that wins awards for spectacle, but it’s one of the most honest movies I’ve seen in a long time. And honesty, I think, is far rarer and more powerful than flash.


So if you’ve ever felt disconnected from family, if you’ve ever struggled to bridge the gap between generations, if you’ve ever said “I’m fine” when you weren’t, I think you’ll find something in Everybody’s Fine that speaks to you. It’s not just a story—it’s a mirror. And it’s a reminder that the time to connect, the time to show up, the time to say how you feel, is now.


Because sometimes, “everybody’s fine” is the furthest thing from the truth.

Tuesday, September 2, 2025

What skills do you want to develop, and how can you start working on them today?

 


When I think about the skills I want to develop, I don’t just picture a résumé or a checklist of competencies that might impress someone else. Instead, I think about the qualities that will make my life more meaningful, fulfilling, and aligned with who I really want to be. Skills, to me, are not just tools for a career but also instruments for living with purpose. They shape the way I interact with people, handle challenges, and even how I see myself. The older I get, the clearer it becomes that some of the most valuable skills are not flashy or easily measurable, but rather deeply personal and long-lasting.


One of the first skills I want to develop is patience. I’ve always had a tendency to want things to happen quickly. Whether it’s waiting for results, learning something new, or even dealing with people, I find myself struggling when things take longer than I expect. Patience isn’t just about waiting without complaint—it’s about being fully present in the waiting. I’ve noticed that the times when I lose patience are also the times when I miss out on small details or lessons that could have helped me. Developing patience means learning to slow down, breathe, and remind myself that not everything needs to happen on my timeline. I can start working on this today simply by being mindful in daily routines: waiting for my coffee to brew without reaching for my phone, listening fully when someone is talking instead of preparing my response, or practicing deep breathing when I feel restless. It’s a small start, but small habits build strong skills over time.


Another skill I want to strengthen is communication, not just in terms of speaking clearly but also in listening with intent. I’ve realized that so much of good communication comes from listening—really listening—without interrupting or planning my next line. It sounds simple, but it’s harder than it seems. Too often I catch myself half-hearing what someone is saying because my mind is already racing ahead. To work on this, I’ve been trying to put my phone aside when having conversations, making eye contact, and repeating back what I’ve understood before responding. Writing also helps me refine my communication. Keeping a journal, jotting down my thoughts, and even writing essays like this one allow me to structure my ideas more clearly. By practicing both verbal and written communication every day, I can become better at expressing myself in ways that connect rather than just inform.


I also want to cultivate resilience. Life has taught me, sometimes harshly, that things will not always go as planned. Losses, setbacks, and disappointments come when least expected, and while I cannot stop them, I can choose how to respond. Resilience doesn’t mean pretending I’m unaffected, but rather, it’s about allowing myself to feel the weight of challenges while still believing that I can stand back up. This is a skill I’ve been building slowly, especially after personal losses that shook me deeply. Working on resilience starts today by reframing how I see difficulties—not as punishments, but as opportunities to grow stronger and more compassionate. It’s about telling myself, “This hurts, but it won’t break me.” Building resilience also means leaning on healthy habits like exercise, prayer, journaling, and talking to loved ones instead of isolating myself when times get tough.


Another important skill for me is time management. With so many responsibilities pulling me in different directions, I often feel like time slips away faster than I can hold it. I’ve learned that good time management isn’t about filling every minute with tasks, but rather about prioritizing what matters most. I want to be more intentional with how I spend my time—balancing work with rest, productivity with creativity, and responsibility with joy. To begin improving this today, I can start with small but impactful practices like setting daily priorities, breaking big tasks into manageable steps, and giving myself realistic timelines. It also means saying “no” when I need to, without guilt. The skill of managing time is really about managing energy and focus, and learning to protect them.


I also feel drawn to develop empathy. The world can be harsh and fast-moving, and it’s easy to forget the silent struggles others carry. Empathy is the skill that allows me to slow down, to notice, to feel with others rather than just for them. It’s not about having solutions for everyone but about being present and kind. I can start practicing empathy by asking deeper questions, truly listening, and putting myself in someone else’s shoes. Even simple gestures—sending a message to check on a friend, or offering patience to someone who’s short-tempered—can strengthen this skill. It’s one of those abilities that not only makes me a better person but also strengthens every relationship I have.


Finally, I want to sharpen my skill of self-discipline. Dreams and goals are important, but without the discipline to follow through, they remain dreams. Self-discipline is about showing up even when I don’t feel like it, about keeping promises I make to myself, and about building consistency. Whether it’s waking up early, sticking to an exercise routine, or finishing a project on time, self-discipline fuels progress. Today, I can work on this by setting one non-negotiable task for myself and completing it before I allow distractions to take over. Over time, these small daily disciplines become habits, and habits shape character.


Looking at all these skills together, I realize that they overlap and support each other. Patience strengthens communication. Resilience reinforces self-discipline. Empathy enriches relationships. Time management makes space for all of it. None of these can be mastered overnight, but that’s not the point. The point is to start—today, with what I have, where I am. Skills are like muscles; the more I use them, the stronger they become.


In the end, the skills I want to develop are not just about achievement but about becoming a fuller version of myself. They help me navigate the world with more grace, connect with others more deeply, and face life’s unpredictability with courage. And while the journey of developing these skills may take years, the work begins right now, in the smallest of choices—listening instead of interrupting, showing compassion instead of judgment, choosing focus instead of distraction. It’s a lifelong practice, but one worth dedicating myself to, because the person I become tomorrow depends on the effort I make today.

Monday, September 1, 2025

When Joy and Sorrow Collide: My (A Mother's) Reflection on the Minnesota Tragedy

 


On August 27, 2025, in Minneapolis, Minnesota, during what should have been the gentle beginnings of a new school year, tragedy struck with a cruelty so unimaginable that the entire world felt the tremors of its sorrow. At the Annunciation Catholic Church, where children and their families gathered for an all-school Mass, a scene that should have been filled with prayer, song, and the comfort of faith was shattered by gunfire. Parents had sent their little ones to school that morning with the same trust that generations before them had held—that classrooms and chapels were sanctuaries, places of learning and worship where children could thrive without fear. But that day, as sunlight poured through the stained-glass windows, bullets rained down instead. A gunman, armed with a rifle, a shotgun, and a pistol, opened fire on innocent worshippers. The stillness of prayer was replaced by screams, shattered glass, and the chaos of violence.


Two children—8-year-old Fletcher Merkel and 10-year-old Harper Moyski—lost their lives in that instant. Fourteen more children, ranging in age from 6 to 15, were wounded, along with three elderly parishioners who had come to Mass that morning. Though doctors say the survivors will recover physically, everyone knows the deeper truth: the emotional and spiritual scars left behind may never fade. A community that gathered in faith was left broken in fear. Parents who sent their children to school to grow in faith and knowledge instead had to face the unimaginable task of identifying bodies, of watching their children cling to life in hospital beds, of holding hands that might never be the same again.


I heard this news on the very same day my daughter Lani received her certificate of proof of loss of U.S. citizenship. I can still see the joy radiating from her face as she clutched that document at the U.S. Consulate. For her, it was not just a piece of paper; it was liberation, a final step toward closing one chapter and embracing another. She was so relieved, so happy, and I felt that same relief with her—like we had walked into a safer, freer space. Yet, at almost the same moment, news broke from Minnesota that children—just like her once upon a time—were dragged into the depths of terror and violence while sitting in church, of all places. How cruel life can be, to let me watch my daughter rejoice in freedom while other parents were being crushed under grief. My heart broke wide open for them. Their joy had been stolen. Their futures altered in a blink. I could not stop praying for them then, and I cannot stop now.


When I try to imagine what those grieving parents must be going through, I almost cannot bear it. To lose a child—your heart, your hope, your flesh and blood—is unthinkable. Even picturing it for a second makes my chest tighten. To know your child will never again run into your arms, laugh at your table, or make their dreams known—that is the kind of grief that breaks a person into pieces. And for those parents whose children survived but are now scarred, physically or emotionally, the pain takes a different but equally cruel shape. The helplessness must be overwhelming: sitting beside a hospital bed, watching monitors beep, hoping, begging, that your child makes it through. It is enough to undo anyone. If anything like that happened to my own children, I would be a basket case. I would crumble entirely. My world would lose all meaning.


And it is precisely because of that awareness—the fragility of children’s safety in America—that I am grateful beyond words that Ed and I made a promise early in our marriage. When we were still living in America, before our children were born, we looked at the world around us and quietly agreed: if we were ever blessed with children, we would return to Singapore before they reached school age. We wanted them to grow up safe, to have the kind of childhood every parent dreams of for their child—one free from fear. By God’s grace, we were able to keep that promise. When our oldest was ready to start kindergarten, we packed up our lives and crossed the globe. It wasn’t an easy decision—no move of that magnitude ever is—but it was the best one we ever made.


In Singapore, I never had to wake up to nightmares about school shootings. I never had to worry about sending my daughter off to school and wondering if she would return alive. I never had to fear my teenage daughter walking home after dark, or my son being kidnapped in broad daylight. I never had to think about bullet-proof backpacks or evacuation drills designed to prepare children for gunfire. I never feared that a casual trip to the mall could end with us caught in a shooting spree. My children had the gift of being children—innocent, carefree, and safe. They laughed, played, and grew without the heavy burden of worry hanging over them. I cannot express enough gratitude for that. Every time a tragedy like this appears in the news, I thank God we made that move when we did. And yet, even in my gratitude, I weep for the countless families who did not and do not have that option.


It is devastating to think that in a country like America—wealthy, powerful, and proud—children are being taught how to survive school shootings. That parents shop for bullet-proof inserts as though they were just another school supply, as normal as pencils and notebooks. That little children practice lockdown drills instead of simply learning how to read and write. What kind of life is that? What kind of society accepts this as normal? Children should be learning multiplication tables, not survival tactics. They should be giggling at recess, not hiding in closets and trying to stay silent in the face of simulated gunfire. It is wrong. It is heartbreaking. And it should not be tolerated any longer.


This is why my heart burns with both sorrow and frustration. I cannot help but ask: if leaders like Donald Trump can bend amendments and policies to benefit themselves, why has no one in power had the courage to truly confront the Second Amendment? Why has no one said, “Enough is enough,” and pushed for real change? The right to bear arms should never outweigh the right of a child to live. It should never be placed above the sanctity of innocent lives. If Australia could act after one tragedy and abolish guns, why can’t America? If other countries around the world can create safer environments by placing limits on weapons of war, why can’t the supposed “land of the free” do the same? How many more children need to die before something changes?


The problem is not unsolvable. It requires courage, compassion, and the willingness to prioritize people over politics. It requires waking up to the reality that no amendment, no lobby, no right to carry a weapon is more sacred than the life of a child sitting in a pew, holding hands in prayer, or laughing in a classroom. America needs to wake up. Wake up to the blood on its streets, the tears in its classrooms, the fear in its families. Wake up before another Fletcher, another Harper, is taken too soon.


As a mother, as a Catholic, and as a human being, I pray fervently for healing—for the children who survived, for the parents who lost their precious ones, for the teachers, priests, and communities scarred by this horror. I pray that those families are surrounded by love and comfort, that God cradles them in their sorrow, and that they somehow find the strength to carry on. I pray also for America itself—that this tragedy not be just another headline that fades, but a turning point that awakens leaders and citizens alike to demand change.


Every life lost is a call to conscience. Every tear shed is a plea for reform. Every innocent child’s name should be remembered not just with grief, but with action. I may live far from America now, and my children may never have to practice those lockdown drills, but I will never stop praying for the ones who do. I will never stop lifting up those families in my heart. And I will never stop urging America: wake up. Let this be the moment when words turn into action, when prayers are matched with policy, when love for children finally outweighs love for guns.


Until then, I hold my children close, grateful for their safety but mindful of the pain others carry. I whisper prayers for Fletcher, for Harper, for every wounded child, and for every parent shattered by loss. And I pray for a future where no parent, in America or anywhere else, ever has to fear that sending their child to school or church could be the last goodbye.

  © I Am S.P.G.

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