Life Lessons from a Baseball Scoreboard

Boys… ever watch a baseball game and actually look at the scoreboard?

Not just the score—but everything it’s tracking.
Home team and visitors.
Innings.
Balls, strikes, outs.
Runs, hits, and errors.

It’s a lot. Which makes sense, because life is a lot too.

Some seasons you’re up at bat. Other times it’s someone else’s turn—and no, it doesn’t always feel fair. Sometimes you hit it just right, clean and solid, maybe even a home run. Other times… you make an error. Or two. Or a few in a row. And yes, you will groan and roll your eyes, because apparently life thinks sarcasm is a necessary seasoning.

Here’s the thing the scoreboard quietly teaches: the game doesn’t end because of an error. It just records it and keeps going. You’ll strike out. You’ll watch someone else get the win you worked hard for. You’ll have innings that feel endless and quiet ones, where everything changes in a single swing. And some losses… well, they don’t make sense. Ever.

Life doesn’t explain itself neatly. It doesn’t promise balance. And it doesn’t always give us the answers we want.

What it does give you is another inning. Another chance to show up. Another pitch—whether you feel ready or not.

So, here’s the mom part (yes, humor me—you’re adults, but I still get a vote):
Pay attention. Be kind to yourself when you miss. Learn what you can, then let it go. Don’t let the scoreboard decide your worth, —it’s just a snapshot, not the whole story. And remember, even when the game changes forever, love doesn’t disappear. It stays. It echoes. It counts.

I’ll always be in the stands—sometimes cheering, sometimes quietly watching, occasionally shaking my head at all the “brilliant” decisions you make (yes, I see them), but always believing in you more than you know.

Love,
Mom 💙

P.S. Errors are allowed. Grace is required. And no matter what inning you’re in, you never play alone.

Why I’m Here

I didn’t start this because I had a plan.

I started it because I needed a place to put what I was carrying.

Somewhere along the way, life stopped moving in straight lines. There was before, and after, and then there was the long stretch in the middle where things didn’t resolve neatly. I learned that becoming doesn’t always look like forward motion — sometimes it looks like staying.

This space is called Becoming–Still because that’s where I find myself most days: learning how to grow without rushing, how to breathe without escaping, how to live inside the dash instead of trying to leap over it.

The dash matters to me. It’s the space between beginnings and endings — the part that holds all the ordinary days, the laughter, the grief, the quiet strength it takes to keep going. It’s where life actually happens.

Here, I’ll write about simple things that carry more weight than we give them credit for. Bread. Blankets. Words. The kinds of things that offer warmth without asking questions. The kinds of things that don’t fix anything, but help us stay.

This isn’t a place for answers.

It’s a place for presence.

I don’t know exactly what this will become. I only know that I wanted to create something that moves at the pace of real life — slow, imperfect, and held together with care.

If you’re here because you’re tired of rushing, or pretending, or being fine — you’re welcome.

If you’re here because you’re still becoming, and learning how to be still — you’re in the right place.

I’m glad you found your way here.