The Creative Nest

There’s a certain kind of fantasy we all have at some point—the “run away from everything” kind. You know the one. It usually shows up on a Tuesday when your email won’t stop pinging, your laundry is judging you from across the room, and you briefly consider becoming someone who lives in a tiny coastal town where no one knows your name and your biggest responsibility is deciding between coffee or tea. It feels freeing just thinking about it. Romantic, even. Like maybe if we could just step out of our lives for a bit, everything would reset and fall into place. But here’s the thing—running away, in real life, doesn’t always come from a place of choice. Sometimes, for people living with dementia, there’s this very real pull to “go home”… even when they are home. It’s not a dramatic escape or a whimsical fresh start. It’s a deep, internal sense that where they are doesn’t quite match what they feel. Their reality is shifting, and in that space, the need to go—somewhere that feels right...

There was a time—long, long ago—when eating was an elegant affair. People sat up straight, napkins gently placed across their laps, and took delicate, civilized bites as if someone important might be watching. Forks were used properly, elbows stayed off the table, and chewing? Oh, chewing was done quietly, with dignity. It was less about eating and more about performing. And then… somewhere along the way… we evolved. Or maybe devolved . Depends on who you ask. Because now? Now we enter what I like to call the “modern caveman era” of eating. The fork is still technically involved, sure—but the posture? Gone. The grace? Missing. Instead, we find ourselves hunched over our plates like we’re protecting our meal from imaginary competitors, shoveling food in with the intensity of someone who hasn’t eaten in three business days. Let’s be honest. There’s a very specific moment this transformation happens. It starts off normal—you sit down, take a proper bite, maybe even sip your drink like a w...

There are two types of yoga pants in this world, and somehow, I own both. On paper, they look almost identical—like they should be best friends hanging in my closet. One pair is 87% nylon and 13% spandex, and the other is 88% nylon and 12% spandex. A one percent difference. ONE. PERCENT. You would think that’s just a technical detail nobody needs to worry about… but no. That one percent is out here making life-altering decisions without my consent. One pair? Oh, she’s easy. She’s unbothered. Pet hair might glance in her direction, maybe test the waters a little, but it never fully commits. A quick lint roll, a little brush of the hand, and she’s ready to go out into the world like a functioning member of society. We love her. She understands the assignment. The other pair? Absolutely not. This pair has entered into a lifelong, unbreakable bond with pet hair. I’m talking deep emotional attachment. I’m talking “we ride together, we shed together.” I could lint roll like I’m training fo...