Where She Sat

Every so often, a particular memory resurfaces—one that, with the wisdom of adulthood, takes on an entirely new meaning. This one comes from my childhood, spent mostly along the Frio River in Concan, Texas.

From about eight years old, weekends at the river were our ritual. My mom eventually bought a few acres, and it became our second home. We camped there—our land—while spending our days a couple of miles away at a small park that gave us access to the river.

For a few years after her divorce in ’77, it was just the two of us. A quiet, steady rhythm of mother and daughter.

My Mom had a spark—playful, a little wild, and completely at home out there.

Concan sits in the heart of the Texas Hill Country—clear, cool water winding through limestone, cypress trees stretching over the riverbanks, sunlight dancing across everything. In the summer, it could be crowded—families, coolers, laughter echoing across the water, every good spot claimed early.

But this day wasn’t like that.

It was quiet—almost too quiet.

I don’t remember many people at all—no clusters of campers, no steady line of tubers drifting by. It felt more like a weekday than the busy weekends we were used to. Open. Still.

The Texas Hill Country—open, safe, and mine to explore.

The part of the river we loved sat just beside Neal’s Lodges—
a place full of hidden corners I knew by heart.

The Bear Cave. The Blue Hole. Casey’s Fall. 

Names I had given them myself, as if I were claiming little pieces of the world.

Trails crisscrossed the area, and I wandered them freely—sometimes with my mom, often on my own—completely at ease in a place that felt like it belonged to me.

“Bear Cave”—a name I gave it, and a place that felt like my own little discovery.

One day, I ran into a couple of older kids—teenagers, I realize now—near the river. I was probably ten. A total tomboy. Completely trusting.

I started showing them my favorite places—the ones that felt like mine.

We wandered through the quiet, nearly empty campground, cutting across areas that were usually filled with people. I proudly pointed out the Bear Cave—one of my favorite places to explore. Massive boulders sat stacked and scattered, like they had fallen from the cliffs hundreds of years ago. At least, that’s how I imagined it.

We searched for tadpoles in the shallow water, moving slowly along the edges, but I also made sure to take them to what I considered the best spot—the deepest part of the campground. A place where one large boulder sat alone in the water, the surface dropping off into something darker and quieter. It felt different there. Still. Like its own little world.

I remember feeling proud—like I was letting them in on something special.

The deepest spot I knew—quiet, still, and a little mysterious.

At some point, they asked if I wanted to join them for dinner. I told them I needed to check with my mom—it was getting close to dark—and they didn’t hesitate. They walked back with me without question.

We headed toward the park—the one we used during the day, a couple of miles from where we camped.

I didn’t realize then how much she was always watching out for me.

As we came around the bend, I saw her.

She was sitting alone at one of the concrete picnic tables.

Everything else was gone.

The cooler, the tubes, the lawn chairs—the usual mess of a full day—had all been packed up and put away. That alone told me something was off. I always helped her pack everything up. That was just what we did.

But this time, it was already done.

It was just her. A drink. A book sitting open in front of her—one she clearly hadn’t been able to read. Her cigarettes nearby.

Waiting.

“Hey, Mom,” I said, casually introducing them. “They invited me to cook out with them.”

Her response came fast and sharp:

“No. We need to leave. Right now.”

There was no discussion. No softening. Just urgency.

The boys backed off immediately.

At ten years old, I didn’t fully understand what I was seeing—but I felt it. Something wasn’t right.

Looking back now, I think she was caught somewhere between two instincts in that moment—relief that I was okay, and anger that I had been gone so long. The kind of split-second tension only a parent could feel.

But what stayed on the surface was the urgency.

We were leaving.

What I didn’t realize then—and what she never needed to say—was what those hours must have been like for her.

Now, I can picture it. Calling my name into empty trails. Walking farther and farther, trying to stay calm while something deeper starts to take over. That moment when time stretches just a little too long, and the questions begin.

Where is she?

Is she okay?

I had wandered farther than she could find me. Out of sight. Out of reach.

And I had no idea.

As a child, I was just doing what children do—exploring a world that felt safe, trusting the people in it, never questioning that I would be fine.

But now, I see the other side of that day.

Not as something I did wrong—but as something she carried.

The fear.
The waiting.
The not knowing.

My mom is the one who taught me to love the outdoors—to wander, to explore, to feel at home in places like that river.

She passed away in 2011, and she is still my best friend.

I still tell her I love her most nights before I fall asleep.

And sometimes, when this memory comes back, I think about that day—not from where I stood—

but from where she sat.

Alone.

Waiting for me to come back.

The Kindest Thing You Can Do is Let Someone Else Be Kind

I’ve learned countless lessons from my friend June, and while one of the biggest was a life changing moment for me, another little tidbit has stuck with me for years.

It’s a small, simple moment that reveals so much about human connection.

(And shows what a a wonderful person June was.)

I was with June downtown one day when a woman asked us if we needed directions. I knew June was familiar with the area, but for some reason she politely told the woman she didn't know the way. The woman then happily gave June a detailed set of directions.

As we walked away, I asked June why she pretended not to know where we were going.

June’s answer was simple and profound: “People like to help others. It makes them feel good.”

I can still picture the scene perfectly:

June listened intently, nodding and smiling, and the woman genuinely happy to be helping, as she pointed to the direction down around the corner where we needed go. When she finished, June thanked her with a huge, grateful smile - and even a hug! They both walked away a little happier.

In that small interaction, June taught me that sometimes, the kindest thing you can do is let someone else be kind.

It’s a beautiful reminder that connection and shared joy can be found in the simplest of exchanges.

(Gemini created)

The Unseen Burden of Certain Questions

It's incredibly tough when seemingly innocent questions cause deep pain, especially during vulnerable times. And they aren't trivial instances - some have a significant emotional impact, and they stay with us.

Sometimes, a seemingly simple question can inflict deep emotional distress, even if that's not the asker's intent. While "terrible" might not be the exact word, there are moments when a question, innocently posed, places you in an incredibly difficult and uncomfortable position. It's hard to explain, but there have been a few times in my life where such a question has left me feeling profoundly upset, precisely because of the unfair position I felt like I was in.

I'll share an example that still brings me to tears (even as I type this out), even almost 14 years later. When my Mom was in hospice, someone asked if they could visit her... during her final hours. My Mom and I were incredibly close, and I knew she would only want one person by her side during that intimate time: me; the love of her life (she would always exclaim). She wouldn't have wanted a crowd; or people gawking at her, or anything like that; she just wanted me there by her side. Further, this person was someone my Mom didn't really like.

So, through my own grief and tears, I gently said no. But then, they asked again. Having to reiterate "no" while my Mom was dying and all I wanted was to be fully present with her was excruciating. It was an unimaginable burden to be forced into that conflict during such a raw, suffering time.

I was very upset that someone would place me in such a position when I was already so vulnerable. Their focus seemed to be solely on their own desire to "be there," without considering the immense emotional cost to me, or my Mom's wishes. This person had barely been present in my Mom's life for the past two years, only showing up once when she was very sick, and then suddenly wanting to be there at the very end just didn't align with what I knew my Mom wanted. As someone who naturally tries to please others, it's already incredibly difficult for me to say no or risk hurting feelings. To do so while enduring such profound personal suffering felt almost unbearable.

This experience highlights the invisible weight certain questions can carry. It serves as a powerful reminder to consider the impact of our inquiries on others, especially when they may be navigating difficult circumstances. Even now, facing a personal medical procedure that requires assistance, I find myself hesitant to ask for help, fearing I'll inconvenience someone or put them in an awkward position where they feel obligated rather than genuinely wanting to help.