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A few years ago, I began to notice a pattern. As soon as the Halloween festivities were over, I began to dread the oncoming winter months--the shorter days, the colder weather, lower energy and lack of motivation. Lots of people I knew said they hated winter too, but it seemed to affect me much more than it did them. Year after year I'd brace myself to face the inevitable. I tried counseling and light therapy. I even thought about moving to a location that was warm and sunny

"He'll be fine," my husband assured me when I sobbed into his shoulder Sunday night. "Lots of kids ride the bus, kids who are even younger than him." The hard lump in my throat wouldn't let the words running through my mind escape. I'm not worried about him. He's going to be great. I'm sad. Letting go is hard. I've taken him to school and picked him up almost every single day since he started preschool when he was 3. Now he's 6 and in 1st grade. Time is flying by, and he's gr

The words are inside, but what good will they do? What harm will they do? Just writing this is an act of courage.

What's stopping you? What are you waiting for? What if you gave yourself permission?