Burnt Sage & Blunt Truths

  This week felt off. Not dramatic-off. Not crisis-off. Just… misaligned. Like my words were half a beat ahead of my thoughts. Like I talked too much, explained too much, offered context no one asked for. The kind of week where you replay conversations later and wince, wondering if you overshared or just forgot how to be contained. When routines fracture, so do our usual guardrails. Travel will do that. Disruption will do that. Being yanked out of your normal orbit by decisions made far above your pay grade will definitely do that. You start narrating yourself because the ground feels unsteady, and narration is a way to check that you still exist. And then—unexpectedly—I ran into my first supervisor from the agency. From way back. 2018. A lifetime ago in the line of work we do.  And I was remembered. Not vaguely. Not politely. Not with the generic “Oh yeah, you worked there too.” I was remembered with specificity. With warmth. With stories. With affection that hadn’t ex...

It didn’t arrive with fanfare. It didn’t land in my inbox like something important. It was sitting in my spam folder. I almost deleted it without opening it, the way you do when you’re tired and done checking for signs that the universe hasn’t sent in years. But something made me pause. So I opened it. It was a letter. Formal. Careful. Written by people who do not waste words or hand out gratitude lightly. It thanked me for work I stopped talking about a long time ago. Work that required cooperating with investigators at every level. Work that demanded patience, access, and a willingness to keep showing up when it would have been easier—and safer—to disappear. Work that helped pull back the curtain on an organization that had learned how to look harmless, even benevolent, to those who didn’t know what to look for. The letter said, plainly, that what I provided helped move things from speculation to clarity. That it contributed to a formal designation made in 2018—after years of ...

There are moments when the land speaks clearly—not loudly, not theatrically, but with a precision that leaves very little room for doubt. Yesterday was one of those days. Dakota and I caught the Noon ferry out of Edmonds and proceeded to make our way to Highway 101, for what started out as a quest for views, turned out to be something quite different.  It started at Crescent Lake , where the smell of evergreens permeated the air and the water so clear it felt less like looking at something and more like looking through it. No wind. No surface agitation. The kind of clarity that doesn’t perform—it just exists. Crescent water doesn’t rush. It holds. It reflects exactly what’s there and refuses to embellish. And silence. The sort of silence that creeps up on you and steals your breath.  That was when the ravens appeared. Two of them. Identical. Silent. Close enough to register as intentional rather than incidental. Ravens don’t need to announce themselves to be felt. Their ...

 https://www.skool.com/the-hollow-bone-path-5452/about?ref=7ebf0f3dbb284ffb810fa06bbf2ef91f

(Or: When the Math Stops Making Sense) I don’t make insurance decisions emotionally. I don’t loyalty-shop, either. I pay attention to patterns, numbers, and how I’m treated when things actually matter. And that’s exactly why I’m leaving Progressive. Let’s start with the part that broke the spell: Progressive charged me $189 for the remainder of January . Fine. That part I expected. But when I called to cancel my policy effective February 1 , I was told I would still owe another $180 . For what, exactly? Coverage I wasn’t using? Time that hadn’t happened yet? The explanation was vague, circular, and ended with a shrug disguised as policy language. That’s a recurring theme. Over the past several weeks, Progressive’s customer service has been inconsistent, unclear, and exhausting . Long holds. Different answers from different representatives. No clean explanation of charges. No sense that anyone owned the problem or even understood it fully. Just a steady hum of “that’s how it works” wit...

I get asked this question more often than I expected: Why are you leaving the Pacific Northwest? Sometimes it comes with genuine curiosity. Sometimes it comes wrapped in assumptions. And often, it comes from people who sense that something here isn’t quite holding — even if they can’t name it yet. So let’s name it. We aren’t leaving because the land isn’t beautiful. It is. We aren’t leaving because we don’t care about justice, equity, or community. We do. We aren’t leaving lightly. We’re leaving because the social fabric here is no longer intact — and living inside a place where connection is thin but performance is constant eventually becomes unsustainable. Socially Active, Relationally Hollow The Pacific Northwest is busy. There are events, causes, workshops, panels, groups, meetups, statements, alignments. On paper, it looks like a thriving civic culture. In practice, it often feels like a place where people orbit one another without ever truly connecting. Friendships sta...

Dakota and I have made the decision to leave the Pacific Northwest. That sentence has been sitting with us for a while now. Not as an impulse, not as a reaction, but as a quiet conclusion reached after years of paying attention. This place has been beautiful to us in many ways. It has also asked more than it has given, and that imbalance has finally become impossible to ignore. One of the hardest things to name is the loneliness. People talk about the Seattle Freeze as if it’s a quirky regional trait—an inside joke, a cultural shrug. But lived over time, it isn’t quirky. It’s wearing. We’ve found ourselves active, engaged, curious, and open, yet somehow untethered. Conversations happen easily enough. Moments sparkle. There are kind faces, shared laughs, brief connections that feel promising. And then—nothing. No follow-up. No weaving into anything lasting. The thread just… stops. Over and over again. It’s not that we haven’t met good people. We have. Truly wonderful ones, in fact....

I had an appointment. Confirmed. On the calendar. Mental health. Jumped through insurance hoops and their 7 page life questionnaire.  I showed up on time—because when you’re already carrying too much, the least you can do is not be the problem. Ten minutes passed. No call. No text. No message. Nothing. So I emailed her to say she was ten minutes late. Only then did she respond. “This Never Happens, But Something Came Up.” Ah yes. The classic. If this never happens, you wouldn’t already have the sentence locked and loaded. Here’s the truth: If something comes up, you communicate before the appointment time. Not after you’ve been nudged like a forgotten casserole in the oven. That’s not grace. That’s professionalism. And Then Came the Audacity After ghosting me, she tried to move me into a new time slot— during my working hours . When I declined, she tried to get me to move it to TOMORROW, on a SUNDAY.  Translation: Her schedule is sacred. Mine is flexib...