Author: KikiFikar

If you had asked me ten years ago if I thought I’d be running through waist-high mud or carrying 75-pound sandbags up and down hills, I would have called you both crazy and delusional. Ten years ago, however, I approached a line of rocks and fire, leapt to the other side, threw my hands into the air, and stood there with tears streaming down my face.

At age fifty, I had conquered a goal I never imagined I’d even consider, let alone accomplish. Running a Spartan Race was certainly not on my bingo card.

Even after nine months of training, I had no real idea what I was getting myself into. The moment I entered the start corral—which, by the way, requires climbing over a six-foot wall just to get inside—I knew I was in for a battle. An uphill battle. Literally.

I climbed the first hill and immediately saw stars. My lungs looked around and collectively asked, “What in the world is happening here?”

Somewhere ahead of me I heard one of my trainers yell, “Where the F is Karen? Keep breathing, Karen! Keep breathing!”

And so I did.

For the next four hours and fifty-one minutes, I just kept breathing.

I rolled under barbed wire and sliced open my forehead. I commando crawled across rocks and left pieces of skin behind on my elbows and forearms. I swung from monkey bars, missed a grip midway through, and came dangerously close to donating a tooth to the course. Every obstacle seemed designed to convince me to quit.

I didn’t.

I kept moving forward until I eventually reached that finish line and jumped over the fire.

The following year, I cut my time in half.

Three years later, I completed that same course in just over an hour.

Progress.

Forward.

Proof that we are capable of far more than we give ourselves credit for.

Eventually, I upgraded to races that stretched close to twenty miles. I pushed my body far beyond limits I once thought were fixed. Along the way, I learned something important: life doesn’t stop when things get hard. It keeps moving. And because it keeps moving, so must we.

My Spartan adventures are well documented throughout the pages of this blog, so there’s no need to relive every mud pit, bruise, rope climb, or bucket carry. The real message after ten years isn’t about obstacle racing at all.

It’s about refusing to stop.

When an obstacle blocks your path, find another way around it. If you aren’t strong enough yet, train harder. If the answer is no, keep searching for a yes. Don’t settle for average simply because the first attempt didn’t work. Explore every avenue. Push every door. Exhaust every possibility before you ever consider giving up.

More than anything, I wanted my children to see that resilience isn’t something you talk about—it’s something you demonstrate. Life will knock you down. It will throw mud in your face, steal your breath, and occasionally leave you bleeding. But quitting can never be the automatic response.

Lately, I’ve scaled down from course racing to station racing, and that’s okay. As one of my closest peeps recently reminded me, “You’ve done it already. Let’s concentrate on new contests for you to win.”

And maybe that’s the lesson this decade of Spartan racing was really trying to teach me. The goal was never the mud, the medals, or even the fire jump. The goal was becoming the kind of person who believes she can tackle hard things. The contests may look different now, but the mindset remains the same. Keep breathing. Keep moving. Keep finding a way forward. Because whether you’re climbing a mountain, carrying a sandbag, or facing whatever life places in your path, the finish line isn’t where the victory happens. The victory happens the moment you decide not to quit. ❤️💙💚💜

Yesterday was more than a book launch. It was the culmination of years of conversations, observations, hard work, and a deep belief that leadership is less about titles and more about people.

I have watched my sister, Kathy, lead long before she ever put pen to paper. She has a remarkable way of making people feel seen, heard, and valued while still challenging them to become the very best versions of themselves. Those qualities don’t just make her an exceptional coach and speaker—they make her an extraordinary human being.

The E3 Leadership Code: A Human Approach to High Performance is a reflection of who she is at her core. It is thoughtful, authentic, and grounded in the understanding that the most effective leaders lead with both courage and heart.

As her sister, I couldn’t be prouder. It has been a privilege to stand on the sidelines cheering her on, and an even greater honor to celebrate beside her as this dream became reality. Congratulations, Kathy. The world is getting the gift of your wisdom, but those of us lucky enough to know you have been benefiting from it for years.

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

My sister asked me to share some words from my family angle about the book. Here is what I said:

Before I raise my glass, I’d like to say a few words.

So here we are. At the end of one road and the beginning of another.

The words that have been living inside Kathy’s head about leadership are finally out in the world and printed on these pages.

Truth be told, I suspect these ideas started taking shape long before Kathy ever accepted her first job offer. Kathy and I were raised in a family that talked openly about how to treat people. We were taught that you don’t judge someone until you’ve walked a mile in their moccasins. You treat people the way you want to be treated. You listen before you speak. You respect every person who crosses your path.

Those lessons came from our father, John Eastwood, with our mother, Anne Eastwood, right beside him holding his hand through every one of them.

I had the tremendous privilege of seeing those principles in action. Every summer and school break, I worked in our dad’s company. It was there that I learned leadership wasn’t born in the corner office or announced by a title on a business card. It was cultivated in the everyday moments.

It was knowing employees by name and asking about their families. It was having honest conversations about what people were thinking and feeling. It was treating everyone—from the newest hire to the most seasoned employee—with dignity and respect.

That approach built trust. Trust built loyalty. Loyalty inspired people to give their very best. Dad’s company thrived not simply because of what he did, but because of how he led. His team respected both the man he was and the example he set. It was team building at its finest.

Those lessons were certainly not lost on Kathy.

She witnessed firsthand what leadership looked like, and she took those lessons into every room she entered. Kathy became a take-charge kind of woman—okay, maybe a little too take-charge at times… insert your laugh here—but that drive, determination, and genuine care for people produced results everywhere she landed.

And now, she’s sharing those lessons with all of us.

Kathy, today may feel like the completion of your first book’s journey, but I have a feeling this is only the beginning. This book will travel farther than you can imagine. It will sit on desks, nightstands, conference tables, and bookshelves. It will encourage leaders who have lost their way, inspire those just beginning their careers, and remind people that leadership isn’t about power—it’s about people.

You are about to touch lives, strengthen businesses, and change the way people think about leading others because of the wisdom, compassion, and experience you’ve poured into these pages.

So tonight, let’s celebrate not just the accomplishment of publishing a book, but the woman behind it—the sister, daughter, wife, leader, mentor, and now author.

Please raise your glasses with me.

Here’s to our newest author, Kathy Eastwood. May this be the first of many books, and may the road ahead be even more extraordinary than the one that brought you here.

Cheers.

I spend many mornings here with all of you on WordPress and Jetpack. After my morning meditation and mindfulness practice, followed by my wildly competitive Wordle showdown, I settle into my favorite chair with a cup of coffee and read your beautifully crafted blogs. You make me laugh, think, cry, and occasionally nod my head so hard I nearly spill my coffee.

Most nights, though, sleep and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms. Anxiety likes to clock in for the overnight shift, leaving me restless and, if I’m being honest, a little down by morning. But by the time I hit the start button on the Jeep and begin my drive toward my little coastal work town, something shifts. The sea salt air sneaks in through the cracks of the day ahead and reminds me to exhale. Another sunrise. Another chance to begin again.

Lately, I’ve found myself wrestling with the realization that the light switch can be turned off at any moment.

This week on one of those sleepless nights, my mind wandered back to that awful childhood game of Musical Chairs. What sadist invented that game anyway? A bunch of kids circling chairs like tiny caffeinated bulls, waiting for the music to stop so they could dive for survival. If you didn’t find a seat, you were out. That’s it. Game over.

Honestly, that game should come with a lifetime supply of co-payments for future therapy sessions.

I’m a realist. I know the music eventually stops for all of us. That’s the game of life. It’s not death itself that unsettles me so much as the thought that I still have things left undone. Stories I want to write. Places I want to see. People I want to hug a little tighter. Some days I make peace with that truth. Other days, it taps me on the shoulder and whispers, “Are you sure you’re making the most of this?”

This morning, the answer arrived courtesy of Jimmy Buffett.

I pulled out of the driveway early and headed to the gym. No Shoes Radio played through the speakers. Then came “Last Mango in Paris.”

Always one of my favorites.

It’s a song about a colorful Key West character who’s done his share of living loudly and loving deeply, yet still understands there are adventures left to chase and dreams left to pursue. The chorus rolled in, familiar and comforting:

“And Jimmy, there’s still so much to be done.”

The workout ended. I was drenched. My watch informed me that I’d burned 676 calories in 1 hour, 13 minutes, and 45 seconds. Despite feeling like a wet noodle that had been run through a spin cycle, I smiled climbing back into the Jeep.

At my age, I don’t take any of this for granted. The ability to move my body. The privilege of showing up. The friends waiting beside me at the gym. The coffee waiting at home. The ridiculous concern that my sleepless night might somehow ruin pool opening day at Chez Kiki.

Ninety minutes earlier, I’d been carrying the weight of all my worries. Now, I was ready to tackle the rest of the day.

Another cup of coffee. A Zero Sugar Gatorade. This blog. Tiny sparks, perhaps, but enough to light the way forward.

The music hasn’t stopped yet.

So I’ll keep reading your words each morning. I’ll keep singing Buffett songs in the Jeep. I’ll keep sweating through workouts, opening the pool, loving my people, and writing these stories while I still can. And every once in a while, when fear tries to convince me that time is running out, I’ll answer it the only way I know how.

“And Kiki… there’s still so much to be done.”

The calendar reads June 4, 2026. Apparently, it is National Cheese Day.

Why not? There seems to be a national day for absolutely everything these days.

Today, however, I received a reminder of why cheese holds such a special place in my world. Please hold while I explain…

Cheese and I are old friends. There really isn’t a type of cheese I don’t enjoy (although Monterey Jack and I have never quite been on a first-name basis, and that’s okay. We smile politely and nod when we pass each other.)

Even now, after all these years, I automatically say “cheese” when posing for a picture. Truth be told, after a cocktail or two, I’ll often say fromage, which is French for cheese and somehow sounds far more sophisticated than anything I usually say.

Anyhoo, back to this morning’s reminder and how cheese came knocking on my Thursday door.

Ding.

A text from Jake.

He tells me that our local News12 station is reporting that today is National Cheese Day. He follows that up by saying cheese always reminds him of his former classmate, Matt.

Instantly, I smiled.

And instantly, I remembered why cheese became such an important part of our family’s story.

We were somewhere around the year 2000. Jake wandered into the kitchen wearing a tiny velour bathrobe, his hair sticking up in every possible direction. He shuffled toward the refrigerator with the confidence of a twenty-year-old who had been out all night and was desperately searching for something to revive him.

He knew exactly where he was going.

He also had a lot to say.

The words weren’t entirely clear, but the conversation coming out of this little human seemed endless. I stood there trying not to laugh because I didn’t want to interrupt whatever important business he was conducting. The running commentary lasted several minutes before he finally settled on milk. I swooped in, grabbed it for him, and went on with my day.

Months later, we returned to the pediatrician for a routine visit.

The usual questions came first.

Height?

Weight?

Walking?

Jumping?

Standing?

Then came speech.

“Any speech?”

I froze.

No.

Not recently.

My once-chatty little boy had gone silent.

The babbling, the chatter, the endless observations about his world had disappeared. There were blank stares and occasional outbursts of frustration, but very few words.

The doctor must have seen the panic spreading across my marquee-sized forehead.

“No need for alarm,” he said gently. “Let’s just explore some options and see if there are any delays.”

Many of you who have been here for a while know where those “options” eventually led. Testing resulted in Jake being diagnosed with Autism.

At the time, there were many discussions about children who stopped speaking after rounds of vaccines and never regained language. I never fully bought into that theory, although I will admit that every parent searches endlessly for answers when something changes so dramatically. To this day, I still wonder what happened. But that’s a road that can quickly lead to despair, so we’ll stay firmly planted on solid ground and keep moving forward.

The next two years were filled with specialists, teachers, therapists, and extraordinary people who patiently helped pull words back out of him.

Jake learned to communicate using visual cards. He would assemble words into sentences and show us what he needed. It was fascinating to watch the wheels turning in his head.

He was communicating.

Just differently.

At night, after everyone was asleep, I would sometimes find myself sitting in the laundry room crying and praying. I begged God to let us hear his voice again. I prayed for conversations. I prayed for words.

Just words.

Then the summer of 2005 arrived.

One evening, I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a package of Land O’Lakes American cheese to make Jake’s dinner—grilled cheese and Smiley Fries.

As I stood there, Jake suddenly appeared beside me.

“Cheese,” he said.

I froze.

The package nearly slipped from my hands.

My heart started racing.

“What was that, Jake?” I asked.

He pointed.

“Cheese.”

I stared at him.

Then he added:

“Matt eats cheese.”

Matt was a little boy in his class.

With a few more questions, we learned that Matt brought cheese sandwiches to school for lunch every day.

Jake smiled, turned around, and casually walked down the hallway as if he hadn’t just altered the course of my universe.

Meanwhile, I was leaning against the refrigerator, looking toward the ceiling.

Tears streamed down my face.

I thanked God for those three simple words.

“Matt eats cheese.”

Three words.

That’s all it took.

Three words that opened a door.

Three words that announced his voice had returned.

Three words that launched an entirely new world for our family.

And the conversations we’ve had since then?

Well, those are stories for future blogs.

Stay tuned for one involving a Spelling Bee.

Trust me.

That’s a hoot.

So yes, today may officially be National Cheese Day. Most people will celebrate with a charcuterie board, an extra slice of pizza, or perhaps a grilled cheese sandwich. Me? I’ll celebrate something entirely different. Every time I hear the word cheese, I’m transported back to that kitchen, standing in front of an open refrigerator while a little boy unknowingly answered years of prayers. It wasn’t just cheese. It was hope. It was progress. It was the beginning of conversations I once feared we might never have. And for that reason alone, cheese will always be one of my favorite words. 🧀❤️

Daily Prompt 2781: Do You Believe in Minimalism?

By the time I was married and settling into my first home, the 1980s were in full swing. Everything was BIG. Bigger was better. Flashier was fabulous. Subtlety wasn’t exactly trending.

Even designers known for a more classic look were thinking on a grand scale. Ralph Lauren may have been more understated than some of his competitors, but there was nothing minimal about the price tag.

Houses in my area seemed to grow overnight. Once-modest Capes and Ranches were transformed into sprawling “McMansions” complete with five or six bedrooms, multiple en suites, and enough Jacuzzi tubs to start a small water park. Hot tubs appeared in backyards like dandelions in spring.

It was easy to get swept up in this larger-than-life lifestyle.

And swept up I was.

My love of shopping reached new heights in the late 1980s. Before the internet, there were catalogs stacked on coffee tables and weekends spent roaming the mall. Nail salons began popping up in every strip mall. Long acrylic nails in bright colors were practically required. It was fast, fun, and unapologetically over the top.

I was all in.

Picture it: a head full of curls that added several inches to my height, a Chevy Camaro, Madonna’s “Material Girl” blasting through the speakers, and Happy Hour somewhere along Long Island’s South Shore.

Life was about accumulating. Stuff wasn’t just stuff—it was success.

Then came 1995.

We bought our first house—a modest three-bedroom, one-bath ranch located mid-block on the very street where I grew up. For those of you who have been reading along for a while, this was the house that sat at Third Base during our neighborhood kickball games.

The price was right. The location was perfect.

We gutted it room by room and slowly made it our own. Infertility treatments were consuming much of our savings, so any dreams of creating a mini mansion would have to wait. Looking back, that turned out to be a blessing.

The years passed and eventually the kids arrived.

Along with the kids came more stuff.

My clothing collection migrated to the basement where everything was neatly organized. Winter wardrobes swapped effortlessly with summer wardrobes. I had bins, systems, categories, and labels. It was practically a retail operation.

Then Jules went away to college.

Every time she came home, she brought more belongings. The basement accepted each new arrival like an overbooked hotel somehow finding room for one more guest.

Then COVID arrived.

Suddenly we were all home. All the time.

The walls started feeling a little closer.

Determined not to give up my daily workouts, I found an incredible gym program on Zoom. The only problem was that I didn’t particularly want my fellow exercisers staring at my carefully stacked clothing bins every morning. So I carved out a sleek little workout space that looked far more impressive on camera than the rest of the basement.

It worked beautifully.

For about eighteen months.

Then one day I read an article about an artist in New York City who had passed away. Everything she owned was emptied from her apartment and piled curbside. The photographs were heartbreaking. An entire life reduced to mountains of possessions stretching down the block.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Who was going to clear out my forever when I was gone?

Certainly not my children.

Years of watching HGTV and countless decluttering videos and podcasts had entertained me, but none of them prepared me for that realization.

Then I discovered The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning by Margareta Magnusson.

Despite the dramatic title, it isn’t about scrubbing floors or polishing furniture. It’s about intentionally reducing what you own so the people you love aren’t left with the overwhelming task of sorting through a lifetime of belongings after you’re gone.

The concept hit me like a ton of decorative throw pillows.

This process has been life-changing.

I’ve looked around my home and realized just how much unnecessary spending has occurred since about 1988. Some of it made sense. Much of it didn’t. Yet every object seemed to come attached to a memory, a season, or a version of myself that I wasn’t quite ready to release.

But little by little, I’m learning.

I’m not talking about moving into one of those Tiny Houses that seem to be all the rage. I still enjoy my creature comforts. I simply want less clutter, less maintenance, less excess, and more room to breathe.

Funny enough, my hair has already come down a few inches from its 1980s peak. Perhaps it’s only fitting that the rest of my life follows suit.

These days, I don’t think minimalism is about owning as little as possible. It’s about being intentional. It’s about making room for what matters and letting go of what doesn’t. The memories aren’t in the bins, the closets, or the boxes stacked in the basement. They’re in the stories, the laughter, the photographs, and the people who shared those moments with us. If I’ve learned anything during this journey, it’s that a life well-lived isn’t measured by how much we accumulate. It’s measured by what we leave behind in the hearts of the people we love.

There was a time when the Tooth Fairy was a frequent flyer in and out of my home. She’d presumably receive some sort of urgent notification from the Dental Gods that one of my cherubs had a loose tooth hanging on for dear life, and preparations for pickup would begin immediately.

My kids were very precise about lost tooth placement on the night of collection. This wasn’t some casual “leave it on the dresser” arrangement. Oh no. There were rules. Procedures. Exact coordinates. The exchange had to be swift and silent so the Tooth Fairy’s identity was never compromised. One creaky floorboard…one mistimed sneeze…one child popping awake at 2:13 a.m. and the whole operation was blown wide open.

It was basically a CIA mission with glitter.

On one such evening, Jules lost tooth number…oh, I don’t know…six? Seven? The child was an early dental overachiever. I was out of the tiny snack-sized bags I usually used to package the tooth along with a lovely little note to Ms. TF. As I was straightening my dresser and putting laundry away, I spotted one of those teeny-tiny jewelry bags from Tiffany & Co.

Perfect.

I tucked the wrapped tooth inside the suede-like turquoise pouch and snapped it shut like I was securing crown jewels. The package was carefully positioned under her pillow at approximately 8:30 p.m., well after Jules had entered a solid REM cycle.

Now, we all know the Tooth Fairy, much like Santa Claus, keeps an outrageous schedule. She’s flying all over the globe collecting teeth and distributing rewards deemed appropriate for the departing enamel. Occasionally, mothers must pinch hit for these transactions.

I checked my wallet.

One $20 bill.

That was it.

I called my husband, who was working nights at the time.

“Do you have any cash in the house?”

“Nope.”

Well then. Twenty dollars it is.

The next morning, I heard a squeal erupt from Bedroom Three clear down the hallway. Jules burst into the kitchen clutching the Tiffany bag in one hand and the twenty-dollar bill in the other.

“OMG MADRE! I’m rich! The Tooth Fairy came last night and brought me TWENTY DOLLARS…IN A TIFFANY BAG!”

She was practically hyperventilating with joy.

Meanwhile, I stood there packing mini muffins into lunch bags feeling like I had just won Motherhood MVP.

Score one for Team Tooth/Madre.

The very next evening was our school district’s Budget Vote and School Board election night. In an effort to lure parents out for their civic duty, the district hosted the annual “All-American Bake Sale” along with chorus performances, dance numbers, and enough patriotic enthusiasm to power a small village. It was basically a giant “Hooray for Everything!” extravaganza — but honestly, it worked. Parents showed up.

I had both kids with me. Jules was singing with the chorus and Jake never met a school hallway he didn’t want to revisit. We bought a few brownies from the bake sale table and when it came time to pay, I realized I still had nothing smaller than another twenty-dollar bill in my wallet.

The total was maybe $1.50.

Wanting to support the fundraiser, I waved off the change and told them to keep it.

That’s when Jules’ teacher — who had clearly been waiting for her moment — gently pulled me aside.

She smiled and said, “So…Jules came into class this morning announcing that the Tooth Fairy brought her twenty dollars last night. In a Tiffany bag.”

And suddenly my brain went into overdrive.

Wait.

Where exactly is this conversation headed?

Was she politely suggesting my daughter was a liar? Or was I now being viewed as some sort of over-the-top suburban mother tossing twenties around town like I’d just wrapped filming for The Real Housewives of Bethpage?

Because honestly…both scenarios felt possible.

And that’s the thing about parenting. One minute you’re sneaking around in the dark playing Tooth Fairy with a Tiffany pouch and a prayer… and the next you’re standing in an elementary school cafeteria wondering if you’ve accidentally created a tiny diamond-loving diva with a luxury brand expectation before second grade.

But those are the moments that stay with us, aren’t they? The ridiculous, funny, wildly imperfect little stories that become part of the family folklore. Not the big vacations or expensive gifts — but the twenty-dollar tooth, the Tiffany bag, and the look on your child’s face when they truly believe magic visited them overnight.

People love to tell you their favorite movies and exactly why they matter. They have Top 10 lists…sometimes Top 5 if they’re feeling decisive. They can recite dialogue from films they haven’t seen in twenty years and somehow remember entire scenes more clearly than the names of second cousins on their mother’s side of the family. It’s true. I know because I’m one of them. I hand out movie quotes freely like cocktail napkins at a wedding. Most days there’s a line for every occasion.

But there are two movies that stand apart in my memory for entirely different reasons.

Both were seen at the old Plainview movie theater on Old Country Road — which, for bonus Long Island points, is now a medical office building. Nothing says “the magic of cinema” quite like a podiatrist’s waiting room where the popcorn machine once stood.

The first movie was Disney’s Herbie the Love Bug. Three mothers and about eight sticky children packed into one row on a rainy weekday during summer vacation. I remember the laughter, the chaos, and my mother quizzing us in the car afterward.
“What was your favorite part?”
“Which scene made you laugh the hardest?”

She wanted details. She wanted us to pay attention to the story.

The second movie was That’s Entertainment. If memory serves me correctly, it was a celebration of filmmaking itself — a giant love letter to Hollywood filled with scenes from legendary movies spanning decades. I remember loving the movie, but what stayed with me most wasn’t on the screen.

It was my mother’s face.

The second the lights dimmed and the music began, she transformed. Her entire expression softened and lit up with wonder. She was completely captivated by the screen in front of her. And that’s how it always was at 36 Grant Avenue. Mommy loved movies — and more importantly, she loved where they could take you.

Over the years we talked endlessly about television shows, films, writing, and performances. My favorites. Her favorites. My father’s picks. She appreciated sharp dialogue and stories that actually said something. She used words like “glorious” and “rich” when talking about writing. If a script fell flat, she’d dismiss it in seconds. If it sparkled, she celebrated it like art.

And somewhere in all those conversations, I realized I wanted to write for the screen — big or small. I wrote constantly. Stories. Scenes. Fragments of dialogue. When college applications rolled around, I had a plan all mapped out. I wanted to attend Northwestern University for Journalism, earn a practical living, and secretly write films on the side. I thought I had cracked the code to adulthood.

Heavy sigh.

I was accepted to Northwestern, but somewhere along the line I was told maybe that path wasn’t realistic for me. Business Management and English Literature were “safer.” More “solid.” More sensible.

So life moved on.

The writing career quietly drifted off after college while the corporate world came rushing in. I worked hard. I had success. I laughed. I traveled. I built a life. But somewhere underneath all of it sat a tiny unlit theater marquee flickering inside me waiting for someone to turn it back on.

Today, sitting in Row F, Seat 17 watching The Devil Wears Prada 2, I felt unexpectedly emotional. Not just because Stanley Tucci delivered a line with the kind of perfection only Stanley Tucci can deliver — but because the movie reminded me what my dream always was.

To entertain people.

To create something that lets someone escape their life for two hours while happily inhaling buttery popcorn and washing it down with a suspiciously oversized Diet Coke.

I glanced over to my right at Julia in Seat 16, happily watching the movie while balancing popcorn and what appeared to be a 675-ounce Diet Coke like a professional. And quietly, on the ride home, I reminded her to listen to her dreams. To never ignore the thing inside her that lights up when she talks about what she loves.

I told her to keep the fire alive inside her brain.

Because dreams may get delayed. They may get buried under careers, responsibilities, fear, practicality, or time. But sometimes all it takes is one dark movie theater, one perfect line of dialogue, or one memory of your mother smiling at a screen to remind you who you were before the world told you who you should be.

And maybe…just maybe…that fire never really goes out at all.

“Comfort or The Cross? When Following Christ Costs Everything…”

There are certain books that arrive at exactly the right moment. Not because we planned it that way, but because somehow the message finds us when we need it most. That was this book for me.

My friend — and truly our friend — Willie Torres Jr. has just released his new book, and I couldn’t be happier for him. Please visit him and see what I mean @willie13torr

My copy arrived today and I made the mistake — or perhaps the very best decision — of opening Chapter One before heading to the gym. Suddenly my workout schedule was hanging by a thread because I was immediately pulled into Willie’s words and the honesty behind them. Needless to say, cardio almost lost that battle.

As someone who still holds tightly to her faith while struggling with the idea of returning to church, this book hit me in a very personal way. Willie writes with a style that feels less like preaching and more like sitting across from a trusted friend having a heartfelt conversation over coffee. There’s no judgment. No pressure. Just a gentle reminder that we are loved, seen, and never abandoned — even during the messiest seasons of life.

One passage especially stayed with me as I drove to the gym:

“It is easy to declare faith when life is comfortable. It is easy to follow Christ when pain is distant, needs are met, and the world feels predictable. But life is rarely so simple. What happens when comfort is stripped away? When ease, security, or relief is offered at the cost of your faith, your convictions, or your soul?”

Through his writing and the messages he shares in his series, Willie has slowly been reminding me that faith is not reserved for people who have everything figured out. It exists for those of us carrying questions, disappointments, fears, and everyday struggles too. Somewhere along the line, I convinced myself that part of my life had closed off for good. Yet here I am again…thinking about faith, reflecting on it, and maybe even opening the door to it a little wider than before.

And that is the beauty of Willie’s work. He shares difficult truths in such a loving, simple, and deeply conversational way that you don’t feel overwhelmed by the message — you feel invited into it.

I’m incredibly proud to call Willie a friend and fellow writer. More importantly, I truly believe this book is going to reach people who need hope, reassurance, and healing right now. Sometimes the right words don’t just inspire us. Sometimes they quietly begin putting pieces of us back together again.