The Best Moment of Each Day

I’ve told you about my grandma’s “Happiness File,” a priceless, weathered collection of scraps, clippings, and handwritten notes tucked away like buried treasure. Each note holds something thought-provoking, and on my toughest days, they feel like notes from Heaven.

Recently, I pulled a card from the file, and in her familiar, looping handwriting rested three simple words: “Love is patient.”

My mind immediately drifted back twenty years: While frying scones, my grandma said that if love could have two essential ingredients, it should be patience and loyalty.

At the time, "patience" sounded horrendous…like something you needed at the DMV, not for the person you adored. I knew her relationship with my grandpa wasn’t perfect. I’d seen when the car keys went missing or they’d sigh over unfinished chores. But beneath the superficial, their bond wasn't just a fleeting feeling; it’d become rock-solid because no matter how tough or frustrating life could be, they still chose each other, every single day.

Still, as a twenty-something with the attention span of a squirrel drinking espresso, being "patient" felt impossible. "Grandma," I said, dodging a playful swipe of her dish towel, "if G-d gave me any gifts, patience wasn't one of them. I’m more of a ‘let’s get this done yesterday’ kind of girl."

She let out a rich laugh, then leaned in with the best marital advice I’ve ever received: “Elisa,” she said, her eyes twinkling, “the secret to a long marriage is simple: As long as you’re only a jerk one at a time, you’ll be fine. It’s when couples decide to be jerks at the same time that things go bad.”

Looking back, I realize that marriage and real love are nothing like I expected.

There are the high-stakes moments that test the "loyalty" part of Grandma’s equation. I think about the time Mike, our dog, and I hiked in the dead of winter. The world felt like a cathedral of white until—without warning—a sound like a crack of thunder ripped through the air, and a massive frozen waterfall began breaking from the cliffside directly above us.

The sound terrified me like a freight train falling from the sky. As the world splintered with blue ice chunks and white powder exploding everywhere, Mike didn’t hesitate. After pulling us to an overhang, he threw himself over me and our dog, pinning us there and shielding us with his own body. As massive chunks of frozen waterfall shattered against the ground like glass bombs, Mike didn't move an inch. He became the wall between me and the breaking world—and it’s been like that ever since.

Then there are the "patient" moments—the quieter stretches of life: watching our children graduate, navigating the loud, chaotic beauty of a house full of life, or the simple times, sitting together and playing games as a family.

But the true test of Grandma’s wisdom came after doctors diagnosed me with stage 4 cancer. Patience takes on a different hue when you’re sitting in a cold waiting room for the hundredth time. It looks different while navigating the paralyzing fear that precedes brain radiation or numerous surgeries. On days, the pain isn't just physical; it’s an emotional weight that threatens to overwhelm me. And at one point—before brain radiation—I told Mike I was done, ready to quit fighting death and surrender.

But Mike? He didn’t try to fix the situation with empty platitudes, he simply held me, and his patience acted as a buffer against the world once more. When I got too weak to stand, he didn't just offer a hand; he literally carried me. He became the physical manifestation of that "loyalty" and “patience” my grandma spoke about in her kitchen. Quite simply, he is the reason I'm still alive today.

With Valentine’s Day just behind us, I’ve found myself reflecting on my life with Mike. I’ve realized that he doesn’t just show up for the "big" days—the anniversaries, birthdays, or frozen waterfall moments—he’s the one who makes the good times incredible and the bad days somehow better.

Yesterday, the house fell quiet for a rare moment, and the familiar, metallic creak of our screen door echoed through the front room.

"The best part of my day," I told Mike as he walked in, "is hearing that screen door creak open. Because I know you’re finally home."

He didn't say anything at first and just pulled me into a hug so tight I wished he’d never let go. In the silence of that moment, I realized my grandma was right. Marriage does teach you patience, and I've had a front-row seat, watching Mike’s example every single day.

So, this Valentine’s, I thought about how lucky I am, celebrating a man who reminds me that love isn't just a word on a card. It’s the person who selflessly stays and makes life somehow better on the good and bad days too.

Happy sweet 16, Indy

 It's hard to believe she's 16 today, and it feels like just yesterday we were blowing out her first birthday candle. This year, Indy’s wish was bigger than ever—to participate in a foreign exchange program for her next school year.

We are overwhelmed with gratitude for the incredible generosity of everyone who has donated to her GoFundMe or bought a scarf ( myfireflyfashion.com ). Thanks to your support, she is so close to reaching her goal! The other day, she looked at the numbers and was moved to tears by the kindness and generosity of so many incredible people. You are truly making her dream a reality, and it means the world to her—and to us.

We can't wait to share more details about her trip soon! She has a big event with Rotary this upcoming weekend where we'll get more information. Stay tuned for updates on where she's headed – she is beyond excited!

Thank you from the bottom of our hearts for making this extraordinary opportunity possible.

If you’d like more information, you can find her GoFundMe here: 

https://gofund.me/8c20da640

#Sweet16 #ForeignExchange  #DreamsComeTrue #GratefulHeart #MakingADifference #ecstilson 

Life is Bittersweet

Last Friday marked the solemn anniversary of my first son’s passing, and that made me think of something. In my family, late January/early February always felt special because my mom’s birthday and mine are just five days apart. Growing up, those days in between became extraordinary times to celebrate, ending with my own birthday on Groundhog Day. For a long time, this represented the happiest moments of my life.

But in 2003, everything shattered. On January 30th, I had to take my son off of life support. He died in my arms—an experience so harrowing that it redefined my entire world. His viewing fell on my birthday, followed the next day by his funeral.

 

I truly believed my birthday would always be a horrific reminder, and for years I didn’t feel like celebrating, instead re-experiencing that trauma and bracing for impact every time Groundhog Day rolled around.

 

But life has a strange, magical way of turning the soil when we least expect it. Years later, I got pregnant with my last baby. She made her grand entrance on February 1st—thirty minutes before my birthday.

 

My mom remarked on how incredible the timing was. Within that tiny window between her birthday and mine, the universe had tucked both the date of my son’s death and the date of my daughter’s birth.

I'll never forget sitting in that hospital bed the day after Indy was born. Nurses walked in with a cake and sang “Happy Birthday” while I held my precious newborn baby—and the moment took my breath away.

The very day once a monument to grief had now been reclaimed by new life.

People often say that time heals, but although time doesn't take the loss away, it does change things. When I look back now, the sharp, jagged edges of loss have softened. I don’t just remember the sorrow of my son's death; I remember the warmth of holding him…and the love.

 

So, last week, on the sobering anniversary of when he died, I fully realized that, yes, life is filled with both shadows and light, but if you are in a dark season, it's worth it to hold on because you never know what miracle could be right around the corner if you have the courage to just keep moving forward.

An Anchor in the Storm

 Feeling so sick today, it was difficult even getting to my cancer treatments. In the middle of the drive from Idaho to Utah, I remembered something my grandma used to say about the importance of remaining anchored—finding a firm foundation to avoid being buffeted by the winds of life. For a long time, I understood that only intellectually, but today a memory brought her words into sharp focus.

I remember being on a small boat far out in open water. The captain desperately hoped that we'd see something spectacular, but the wind surged, unforgiving. Every time he tried to stop, the current and gusts ripped us away from the spot. I watched him struggle at the helm, growing exhausted and frustrated. Finally, peering at the white caps, he exhaled and decided it would be easier to head toward a buoy where he could tie off.

The moment he secured the line, everything changed. He finally relaxed, opened a beer, and looked out over the ocean, happy and content. That’s exactly when it happened. In that stillness, we spotted a flash of silver—a school of fish—and then the magnificent breach of a whale.

Looking back, I realize that beauty only revealed itself once we stopped fighting the waves. I thought about that boat before treatments—and after—while snuggling into Mike’s arms as we watched TV. He is my buoy—the anchor that holds me steady through the swells of life.

I don’t think my family always realizes how much they do, just by being there, but my grandmother was right: with a firm foundation, we can endure so much more than we ever could alone. When the world feels like a gale-force wind threatening to pull me out to sea, my family and friends help hold the line.

The Fiddle, the Five-Year Fight, and Jack’s Brother

I heard a song again today that’s soul-crushingly bad. It’s one of those bar anthems with a melody so repetitive it feels like a brain glitch. As someone who’s picked out tunes on the violin and piano since I was a kid, my head already feels like an overcrowded apartment of melodies—and I don’t have the mental real estate for a song this annoying.

But music has a mind of its own. It dragged me back over a decade, right into the middle of a smoky room with a band called Jack’s Brother. Here’s the kicker: The lead guitarist WAS the brother, but I didn’t meet Jack for years!

Anyway, playing gigs in a bar felt like total culture shock because, being raised religious, I practically expected a lightning bolt to hit my Bud Light. I used to fiddle, watch the crowd, and wonder, “Why are these people here?” But I was no different. “Why was ‘I’ there?”

My kids had visited my ex for the weekend, and I reached a "dangerously productive" phase of loneliness, baking enough loaves of bread to feed a small village. I even remember sitting in front of a computer, singing holiday songs in a thick Boston accent—just to pass the time. That seemed like an all-time low!

So, I joined a band. Why not get paid to sing and play the violin? Plus, quite frankly, I needed the cash.

But, looking back, I didn’t realize this would turn into more than just "fiddling" for groceries.  In fact, so much of my past looks different since I’ve been fighting for my life, trying to keep the cancer at bay. It’s been incredibly difficult. And let me tell you, cancer is an unwanted guest that has overstayed. It’s been exhausting, grueling, and…zero stars—would not recommend.

But here's where life gets ironic: Two of the people from that band have become my godsends through this journey. A decade ago, I thought they were just my "bar friends." Now, they’re like guardian angels. I saw them a couple of weeks ago, and my family and I gave them hugs so tight because they haven't just looked out for me; they've been heroes to my family.

It’s hilarious, really. I went into a bar looking for a paycheck and a distraction from my baking addiction, and I walked out with some of the key people who'd eventually help carry me through a five-year war.

My grandma used to say everything works out in the end. Looking at these "strange links" from my past, I realize she was right. Life does have a funny way of planting the seeds for your survival long before you know you're in a fight. So, listening to that terribly nostalgic melody the other day, I decided it turns out, that song isn't so awful after all.

The Harvest of Joy: Choosing to Breathe When the Air is Thin

A friend of mine, currently in the thick of his own battle with cancer, said something recently that gave me pause. We sat in a heavy silence that often follows a round of hard truths, when he confessed his belief that we are each allotted a certain, finite amount of happiness in this life.

With a hollow sort of nostalgia, he described a day from his past—a day so perfectly saturated with light and ease—that he knew he’d never reach that peak again. Now, two years into his grueling diagnosis, my friend remains convinced he’s drained his “happiness account.” 

“The best is behind me,” he said. “I’ve used up my share, and now it’s time to let go.”

I balked because to someone like me, who’s been fighting stage four cancer since 2020, his words felt like lead. They held the heavy kind of pain medicine can’t touch. I looked at him and felt a desperate need to challenge his theory. So, I told him that joy and contentment are not like money in a bank; they aren’t finite resources we spend until the vault is empty.

Joy is more like air. We have to open up and accept it into our lives.

However, there is a vital distinction to be made between happiness and joy. Happiness comes and goes—often based on our reactions to circumstances. But joy? Joy requires perseverance. It is a deliberate choice, a practiced way of living that persists even when the "happiness" of our situation has evaporated.

My life has changed drastically since 2020. I am nearly always exhausted. The version of me that could sit at a desk for hours and write is gone for now. I’ve had to pivot, learning to navigate in a world that feels increasingly out of reach. I use talk-to-text now, and I rely on apps to read to me when I am too weak to even sit upright. These are different kinds of wins than the ones I used to celebrate, but they are wins nonetheless. They are the small, stubborn fires I light to keep the dark at bay.

My friend studied me after hearing this speech, his eyes searching mine. “You’ve been doing this for five years,” he asked. “How do YOU still find joy?”

I stayed quiet for a moment, then thought of my grandmother. She used to say that perseverance wasn’t just a personality trait; it was a virtue—a muscle you build through the sheer repetition of not giving up.

“It is getting harder,” I admitted. I didn’t want to give him a platitude. The longer this lasts, the more pieces of myself I seem to lose. It is aggravating, depressing, and sometimes profoundly lonely. Just last month, a dear friend of mine chose to stop her treatments. Her departure nearly broke me. Yet, even in the wreckage of that loss, there was a sliver of light. It wasn’t in her death, but in the immense privilege of having known her at all. I found a strange, grounding strength in her example—the courage it took for her to know exactly when it was time to stop.

I looked at my friend, leaning into the reality of my own timeline. “The doctors gave me two years to live back in 2020,” I said. “It’s 2026 now. I am living on borrowed time, in the 'extra' chapters of my book. If I don’t find the joy in these bonus days, wouldn’t they just be a waste?”

He nodded slowly, and in that moment, I realized that talking to him had woken me up from my own creeping slump of self-pity. We aren’t owed a single breath, let alone a perfect day. But what tips the scales in our favor is the fact that we are allowed as much joy as we can harvest, regardless of our situation.

How Even Regrets and ‘Mistakes’ Hold Us Together

Last week, I found myself sitting in a cancer treatment chair during a strange, liminal space in the calendar—a transitional moment when Hanukkah flickered its last flame and the eve of Christmas drifted into the air. 

For most, this is a week of glowing lights and festive gatherings. But for those of us in the quiet corners of clinics and hospital wards, at times, the world’s glow can feel like it’s slightly dimmed. The holidays, for all their joy, carry a certain weight. They force us to look backward even as we’re marching toward the ledge of a new year.

So, as I sat there, listening to the quiet, steady drip of the IV, I contemplated two of the heaviest burdens I've faced throughout my journey: guilt and regret.

I took a mental trip back to 2020 then. That was the year of COVID—when the world stopped for everyone—but for me, that's when I got really sick, too. I remember the clinical coldness of the room when the doctor told me I only had two years to live. That was MY expiration date. Sobering. Terrifying. Sitting in that hospital room afterward, the silence threatened to swallow me alive. To never see my kids grow up, get their dream jobs, maybe even find love… To never grow old with Mike and feel the kind of love that's lasted a lifetime… That all seemed unfathomable.

So, in the torturous moments that followed, regret came knocking. I remained alone for much of that almost month-long hospital stay because everything had been locked down due to COVID—especially the cancer center. So, with tons of time to process things alone, I thought about the YEARS I’d spent as a workaholic. I lived my life in a sprint, grinding out eighty-hour weeks and saving every penny for my children’s futures. I wanted to build financial security for them and figured I'd trade “now" for "later."

Then, life took a sharp, cruel turn. The newspaper I worked for sold our location, and just like that, the career I'd practically traded my soul for…evaporated into nothingness. People cried as they lost their jobs, and I truly understood, feeling numb, insignificant, and demolished. Shortly after the newspaper sold—the entire nest egg Mike and I had saved—got dismantled, brick by brick, just to help pay for my first looooong hospital stay and initial cancer treatments to even keep me alive.

In those dark days of 2020, a crushing sense of failure enveloped me, and I realized I’d sacrificed my health and time for…worldly success and ultimately…trivial expectations.

Or so I thought…

Sitting at cancer treatments last week, I realized that over five years have passed since that initial diagnosis, and I've lived THREE years longer than expected! In fact, staring into the face of 2026, I saw how much the light has shifted for me. The perspective I have now isn't the one from that "two-year prognosis" room because I’m no longer tethered to the 80-hour work week and old ways of viewing success and significance. Because in this moment, I understand the one currency that actually matters: TIME.

In 2025, my youngest daughter, Indiana, and I discovered a shared language through loops and knots of yarn. We’ve started crocheting together, and every Sunday, we attend a local knitting and crochet group—a circle of people talking and laughing, hands moving in determined pursuits... Throughout the past several months, my baby girl and I have spent countless time together, crafting scarves, hats, blankets, and even purses. 

This week, as I watched my own crochet hook dip and pull, crafting a new row, a realization washed over me that finally brought me some peace I’ve been craving for years.

I thought of my grandmother: a woman of grit and grace who said that despite many regrets, she wouldn’t change a thing. As a younger woman, I filed this away as a cliché platitude, but now I see it as a profound key to joy.

So basically, think about a blanket or a scarf. To the casual observer, it’s a single piece of fabric. But to the knitter, crocheted, or weaver, it’s a series of thousands of individual choices. Every single stitch is vital. If even one piece of yarn is cut, or if a "mistake" from ten rows back is snipped and pulled out, the entire structure will begin to lose its integrity and eventually unravel.

Our lives are exactly like that. We look at our "workaholic" seasons, failed ventures, or moments of selfishness and wish we could reach back with a pair of scissors and snip them from memory. We want a "clean" history, but we forget that the yarn of our lives is continuous for a reason.

If I hadn't been that driven, tireless worker, I wouldn't have the discipline I use to keep fighting this illness today. My kids wouldn’t have seen what it took for me to strive as a single mom who wanted EVERYTHING for her children. If I hadn't lost that career, I might never have seen the value of time, reassessed my life and changed everything…down to the smallest details like picking up a crochet hook with Indiana. 

Every memory, every mistake, and every season of hardship is a stitch. If we tried to excise the parts we regret, we wouldn't be the people standing here today. We would be a pile of loose, disconnected strings…

In the world of handcrafted items, there is often a concept that the flaws are what provide the soul—the touch of humanity. Sure, a machine-made scarf is “perfect,” but it often lacks life or character. A handmade one might have a stitch that is slightly too tight or a knot where the yarn ran thin, but in this analogy, those are the markers of a life lived. They give the piece personality. They make it unique. They can even make it valuable.

As the treatment ended and I prepared to leave that hospital chair, a deep sense of gratitude settled over me. Grandma Stilson was right. It’s okay to be honest about our regrets. We can acknowledge that some stitches were painful to create and move beyond, but that doesn't mean we should change them. We don't need to carry past choices as heavy stones; we can wear them as something we've grown from.

As we cross the threshold into 2026, I hope you’ll look at the decisions of your past year—or your past decade—with a little more mercy. Don't pull at loose threads. They are holding you together more than you know.

You are a masterpiece in progress. You are perfect exactly as you are—tight stitches, knots, and all. Just wait until the work is finished, and you'll see how incredible it truly is. 

A Ghost of Herself

Every morning, I spend a few moments with a small, weathered box that holds more value to me than any bank account ever could. It’s what my grandmother called her “Happiness File.” After my grandma passed away, this object became my compass because inside are hundreds of index cards, each one boasting a thought, quote, or simple observation she found worth saving. Some are whimsical, but others are so profound they stop me in my tracks.

Recently, I pulled one out that held three words: “You are enough.”

On the surface, it sounds obvious and even trite. But the more I sat with it, the more I realized it’s a warning against the expectations we place on ourselves and others. In fact we spend so much of our lives projecting perceptions onto the people around us. We decide how our spouses should react to stress. We map out the degrees and promotions our children should pursue to be "secure." We tell ourselves that if they “just tried a little harder” or “pivoted a little faster,” they’d reach that subjective peak we call "success."

But one of the most dangerous people we do this to might not be friends or family because it can be extremely damaging when we do this to…ourselves. We live our lives for a "perfected" version of us that doesn't actually exist, and in doing so, we ignore the beautiful, breathing, struggling human being we actually are.

During a recent phone call with one of my oldest friends, I felt reminded of this painful truth. She is, by every traditional standard, quite accomplished. This is probably due to the fact that my friend is a perfectionist of the highest order—the kind of person whose work ethic is both inspiring and exhausting to witness. For years, I’ve watched her treat life like a mountain, convinced that if she could just climb one more peak, she’d  finally be worthy of the love and kindness she so freely gives to everyone else.

But as life eventually does to all of us, it recently hit her hard. A series of setbacks—professional disappointments and personal misfortunes—collided all at once. Because she had tied her entire identity to achievements, the loss of those goals felt like a loss of her very self.

On the phone, her voice wafted out thin and brittle. She cried, telling me she felt like a failure, a ghost of the person she was "supposed" to be. She felt fully convinced she’d never return to the starting line, let alone win the race.

I wanted to reach through the phone line to pull her back down to reality. I spoke from the perspective of my own experience with cancer—a journey that strips away the vanity of "professional standing" very quickly. When you’re facing mortality, you don’t wish you’d spent more hours in the office or received one more accolade. You realize that the only thing that truly echoes is how much you loved and how you made the people around you feel. I told her, as clearly as I could, that she is exactly who she needs to be right now. That she is perfect in her "trying," regardless of the outcome.

But she couldn't hear me. Her mind had already drifted someplace else.

Then, my friend began talking about the concept of parallel universes. She told me, with a haunting kind of hope, that she strongly believes in the multiverse—that somewhere out there, in an alternate reality, there is a version of her that didn’t fail—a version that is raking in the money, becoming famous, and receiving the "noted" status she craves. She started fantasizing about this other woman, this "Successful Her," as if that person were the real one and the woman on the phone—with me—merely represented a broken mistake.

When I hung up, I felt profoundly somber to realize that my friend—one of the sweetest, most generous souls I’ve ever met—had become so blinded by her own high expectations she couldn't see the miracle of her own existence in this reality. She looked into the cosmos for a version of herself to love, while the person standing right here is starving for self-compassion.

My friend’s fatal flaw isn't a lack of talent or drive. Her flaw is that she is kind to the entire world, yet treats herself like a tenant she’s trying to evict.

I know we’re all guilty of this to some degree. We live in a culture that treats "striving" as a moral virtue and "pivoting" as a failure. We’re taught that if we aren't moving upward, we’re falling behind. But my grandmother’s index card offers a different path, explaining the each one of us IS enough. Right now! No expectations. No potential. No assumptions. YOU. Are. Enough. 

Success is not a destination; it is a lens. If we view our lives through the lens of external achievement, we will always be poor, because there is always someone with a more prestigious title, a bigger house, or more… Stuff. But if we view our lives through the lens of kindness—if we measure our days by the grace we extend to others and the love we allow ourselves—we find that we have already arrived.

Life is hard. It is full of misfortunes we never asked for and setbacks we didn't earn. But we are all just doing the best we can with the tools we have at the time. Sometimes, "doing your best" doesn't look like a promotion; sometimes, it just looks like getting out of bed and choosing to be gentle with yourself and those around you.

If you find yourself today looking at the "parallel universe" of what might have been, I hope you can stop and smell the flowers instead. You don’t need to be the version of you that has it all together. You don’t need the accolades to be worthy of the space you hold in this world.

You are exactly who you need to be. You are here, you are trying, and in this universe, you are more than enough.

A Holiday Miracle in Three Bags of Yarn

Indy and I are so excited to announce that we recently converted to Judaism. This has been an incredible journey, and I’ve been working toward it for almost 5 years. To be able to convert right now, at such an exciting time of year, is really special. In the Jewish tradition, the holiday season is defined by light, and we share that universal feeling of goodwill that settles over the world in December. It’s really a time when we can look for illumination in the darkness, when we hold our families a little tighter, and allow ourselves to believe that miracles—however small—are just around the corner.

For my family, and especially for my youngest daughter, Indy, that miracle arrived last week. It didn’t come in a blast of light or apparate into our kitchen; instead, it came through our front door in three massively oversized bags.

To understand why this matters so much, you have to understand Indy. She isn’t just a dreamer; she is a doer. For a long time, she’s held onto a huge goal: she wants to go on a foreign exchange program next year. She wants to see the world, to learn, and to grow. After taking enough classes that she can graduate an entire year early and striving to get exceptional grades, Indy has already been accepted into one program and is anxiously waiting to hear back from a couple of others. But acceptance letters are only half the battle. The other half is funding.

Knowing this, Indy has been attacking this goal from every angle. She works as a cashier at a fast-food restaurant, earning minimum wage, and spends her off-hours turning her room into a small factory, creating crocheted scarves and purses to sell.
I watch her work with such pride, though it is mixed with a specific kind of heartache. I want nothing more than to be side-by-side with her for every single stitch, churning out inventory. But the reality of my current cancer diagnosis is that I am not well enough to do as much as I wish I could. My heart is willing, but my body is tired. I help where I can—sewing on a button here, finishing a row of stitches there—but Indy has shouldered the bulk of the labor herself.

Even with her tireless work ethic, we hit a wall. Yarn is expensive. When you calculate the cost of materials against the sales price of a scarf, the profit margins can be slim. We crunched the numbers and realized that minimum wage shifts and crochet sales alone simply have a ceiling; they wouldn't be enough to cover the substantial costs of a year abroad.
So, we swallowed our pride and asked for help, starting a GoFundMe for her trip. The response has been nothing short of astounding. People have been so generous, donating money to help a young girl fly. That community support gave us hope, but we still worried she wouldn’t make enough and knew she had to keep her crochet business running. We’d need to maintain inventory, but every penny we spent on yarn was a penny that couldn't go toward the trip.

Then, our worries and prayers got answered through a familiar face.

I hadn’t even finished listing Indy’s latest batch of items online when I received a message from Natalie, and incredible woman I haven’t spoken to in almost a year. 

Her words were cryptic, saying simply that she "had me on her heart" and felt compelled to connect. So, I quickly called her, and Natalie ended up explaining that she had some extra yarn and wondered if Indy would like it. 

Indy got excited! We expected a grocery sack, perhaps a few leftover skeins from an old project that Indy would squeal over and be elated about.

But Natalie Bergevin didn’t hand over a small sack. She gifted Indy three MASSIVE black bags, overflowing with beautiful, high-quality yarn.

When Indy saw this haul of yarn, her  reaction was immediate and visceral. She fell to her knees on the floor and began opening them, pulling out skeins in every color imaginable. She started sorting them right there on the rug, her hands moving quickly, her mind already racing with the patterns she could create.

Tears filled her eyes as she looked up at me. "Mama," she whispered, "this is a miracle."

I am honestly not sure if Natalie had planned to give away this yarn all along, or if she was just moved to do something sweet for a young girl working toward a dream. But that act of kindness changed everything this December. Because of her generosity, Indy now has inventory that cost her nothing but time. Every dollar she makes from these scarves is now pure profit toward her dream.

Between the GoFundMe donors, the minimum wage shifts, and now this incredible gift from a beautiful friend, Indy is finally making real headway.

This moment hit me harder than I expected. 

I think if my diagnosis has taught our family anything, it is that the concept of "someday" is a luxury we can't afford to bank on. We have to do what we can right now to attain our dreams.
I want my children to be kind, fulfilled, and happy, and I’m so blessed to still be here, watching all of that unfold. I’m fighting hard for a future where I can pick up the phone next year, FaceTime Indy, and have her show me the incredible adventures she’s having on the other side of the world. I want to see her fly. And I want all of my kids to go after their dreams however they can with the moments and abilities that they have.

If you would like to see what Indy is creating with her "miracle yarn," you can find her work at www.myfireflyfashion.com.
This whole experience reminds me of something my grandma always used to say: "We need to appreciate everything right now. Otherwise, time will pass us by."

This holiday season, thanks to the kindness of friends like Natalie and a community that cares, we aren’t letting a single moment be taken for granted. We are fighting for an incredible future, one stitch at a time.

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 I’ve been sitting here reflecting this past Thanksgiving weekend, and mostly, I’m just overwhelmed with gratitude.

To be honest, I didn't think I would get this far. When doctors told me I only had two years to live—in 2020–I drafted a Will and got my affairs in order. I tried coming to peace with everything, but my youngest was only 10, and the thought of not seeing my kids grow up…get their dream jobs, maybe get marrried… Those thoughts felt unbearable. And as I tried facing the absolute worst, I realized mistakes I’d made. I was a workaholic, so focused on my career when I should’ve been building relationships. I would’ve done things differently if I could’ve seen into the future, and plus, there were so many things I STILL wanted to do. 

Maybe fully understanding our own mortality makes life so much clearer…

So, now it’s almost 2026 😮🤯 And I’m STILL alive. I’m grateful to be here, living, enjoying—still fighting while appreciating—and most of all, with a heart full of gratitude! 

When I got so sick this last summer with sepsis, I decided I really wanted to get one last book done (a novel I started working on in 2021!). There were MANY hard days where sitting at a desk wasn't an option. So, I actually wrote a huge portion of this story by using talk-to-text on my phone, sometimes just lying in bed trying to get the words out.

It was a lot. But several people (who I met online!😮) kept me motivated. 💓

The encouragement I’ve received from this online community is the fuel that helped me cross the finish line.

Anyway, there’s not much I can “give,” but I want to somehow say “thank you.”

So… for Cyber Monday

✨ Today, my brand new book, “The Unfinished Business of Opal Bloom,” is available for FREE download on Amazon! ✨

I also have several other books that are either free or just $0.99 throughout this week. Dec. 1–6.

To get them:

1. Simply visit: https://www.amazon.com/author/ecstilson

2. Or go to Amazon and search “EC Stilson books”

3. Download the books and enjoy!

You can find the Opal Bloom book here: https://amzn.to/4437AAN

Thank you for believing in me and for reading. I hope the lessons in this latest story will resonate with you, just as they helped me process the complex emotions I’ve faced with cancer—the doubts, the guilt, and the journey toward forgiveness.

Have an AMAZING day, and happy December 🥰

Gratitude Changes Everything

 I’ve been fighting stage 4 cancer for over five years now. In the beginning, I felt resolved and mentally willing to persevere. Recently, however, things have shifted. Although I’ve received good news—my oncologist even said I actually have a chance of beating this—there are still days when I get down.

It’s hard accepting that my capabilities have changed. I will never walk the same way again, nor will I have the stamina I had before cancer. Adrenal insufficiency caused by treatments has sapped my energy, and the radiation damage causes pain that not even my pain pump can fully dull. But one of the worst things is seeing the pity in people’s eyes when they talk with me in person.

Despite this, I try to act brave for my children. But when it’s quiet and no one is around, I wonder: Why is this happening? Why am I sick? Why am I still here when so many incredible friends have died from this?

Yesterday morning, I couldn’t help sinking into sadness. Indy and I have been working extremely hard lately, and at first, I chalked my mood up to pure fatigue—I simply can’t do what I used to. But as we worked—me on the computer and her crocheting beside me—I battled thoughts about my self-worth and destiny. I hate that I can no longer work to bring in money for my family. I hate that so much has changed. I felt like maybe I deserved this bad karma for some reason, but I knew my husband and kids didn’t deserve this.

Then, as if reading my thoughts, Indy turned to me.

“When I brought you to cancer treatments on Friday, the nurse really got me thinking,” she said. “I started realizing all the things I’ve learned from your journey. It’s taught me to always give people the benefit of the doubt, to be kind to everyone, and to never give up.”

I looked at her and thought about how hard she has worked to create inventory for her new crochet business. She’s only 15, but she’s been working on this for months, and yesterday was the culmination of everything. We took final pictures of the scarves, drafted descriptions, and listed them on her blog ( www.myfireflyfashion.com ) and eBay.

When we finally shared the launch on social media, Indy sighed with relief. “Mama, I just want you to know how much I appreciate you. You’ve done so much to help me recently—even after treatments.” Tears filled her eyes. “I just want you to know how grateful I am for you and your example, especially while you’ve been fighting cancer.”

I cried and hugged her. Suddenly, the worries faded. I no longer felt sorry for myself or my family. Instead, I felt overwhelming gratitude for the lessons, for the people my kids have become, and—yes—even for the hardship, because every second means more time with my family.

So, this Thanksgiving, I woke up overwhelmed with gratitude for my life and this journey. I went to Indy’s website and saw that she already has bids on two items!, and many people have even donated to help with her goal of saving for a foreign exchange program ( https://gofund.me/e367bde89 ). I can hardly wait to see her face when she wakes up and realizes all of this because it seems like sone sort of miracle!

So, despite the pain, the hardship, and how difficult life can be, I’m so grateful to still be alive, witnessing these milestones and seeing the joy on my kids’ faces when they accomplish something meaningful. I’m simply grateful for even a second with my family, knowing that life is precious and not even a moment should be taken for granted….

Feeling strong enough to fight another day AND eat some turkey,

Elisa

P.S. Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours. I’m wishing you so much health and happiness. Best to you ALWAYS! ♥️

Feeling Thankful

Even after 23 years, my heart still aches from the memories. It was Zeke’s birthday. Over two decades have passed since I first held him, a tiny bundle with velvety dark hair that I loved to trace and gently kiss. He’d only been two and a half months old when he tragically passed away, yet the memory of holding that perfect baby in my arms is as clear as yesterday.

For months after, I hated walking past his room; the empty crib felt like a gaping wound. Yet, sometimes I’d drift in, sobbing and feeling like a shell of myself as I cried on the beige carpet. It's strange how this much time has passed, yet the feeling of emptiness persists. I suppose maybe mothers never fully recover from losing a baby.

“How did you keep going after he died?” a friend asked, her voice hushed.

My answer came simply: “I have to keep going for my kids who are still here. That’s how I’ve fought cancer too, wanting to live for more time with them and my husband.”

This year, on Zeke’s birthday, after wiping a tear from my eye, I turned to my daily ritual: watering the plants my oldest daughter, Ruby, gave me. It’s a quiet moment, a connection to the bond we share. One particular plant, propagated by her and once only an inch tall, now towers tall in my kitchen window. But although I’ve meticulously taken care of it for over six months, it’s never even shown a hint of a bloom…not until Zeke’s birthday!

I gaped as I watered it, amazed at the beautiful flowers that had begun to bud.

The sight pulled at a distant memory, something I’d written in my diary while Zeke was still here. I had a dream our house burned down, and after escaping the fire, I looked back to see purple and blue pansies growing strong in the scorched desert ground! I later learned that pansies—despite the connotation their name evokes—are incredibly resilient, thriving even in winter and adversity. They are strong, just like my surviving children…just how my oldest son taught me to be.

Zeke Jackson Morris
Nov. 18, 2002–Jan. 30, 2003

That resilience has been tested again recently, reminding me that life can shift on a dime, and that our only true defense against despair is gratitude. November 18th is special because it’s Zeke’s birthday, but it also reminds me of another person who is dear to my heart…

Almost eight years ago, life gifted me an unexpected bloom in the form of two amazing people: Scott and Colleen Hancock. They entered my world and quickly became our family here in Idaho. As we got to know one another, we discovered a series of "Godwinks" that felt too providential to simply be coincidence. Shockingly, Scott’s birthday was the exact same day as Zeke’s! Then we found out that Colleen and one of my daughters share a birthday as well. Amazed, I took this as a divine sign that something Greater had planned to weave our paths together. And it really did end up that way.

Left to Right: Scott, Colleen, and Indy (my youngest)

Scott and I got to do several book signings together.
That was so neat.

However, this past year was quite devastating. Scott got sick, and the speed at which his illness took him felt beyond devastating. He passed away far too soon, leaving a void that echoed the familiar ache I’ve carried for other family members who have passed away like my grandparents, uncles and aunts, cousins, best friend, and—of course!—Zeke.

Standing at the sink, staring at the blooms on my treasured plant, a specific memory of Scott came to mind. I remembered the day I told him about Zeke. I shared the pain of that loss, the type of grief that never fully heals. I remember Scott listening intently, his face softening with compassion. He smiled, the skin to the sides of his eyes crinkling softly in that warm, familiar way of his.

The little buds on the plant from Ruby.

“You will see him again,” he had said, and it wasn't a question; Scott said it with such certainty!

Now, on a day that belongs to both of them, the silence of the kitchen felt heavy, yet strangely full. As I touched the tiny petals of the new blooms, I realized that my grief had actually transformed just like this plant—my sadness had coalesced with peace. I silently wished Scott a happy birthday as well, wondering if both he and Zeke have met. Maybe they even look down on me from Heaven.

So, this Thanksgiving season, I’ve faced a hard, beautiful truth again: We must appreciate what we have RIGHT now because life changes every single second. I could stay mired in regret, sadness, and loss—grieving the time lost—but instead, I’m choosing to be overwhelmed by gratitude for the time given and the blessings shared.

Thinking about everything, I’m suddenly filled with such thankfulness for the fact that I ever got to hold Zeke in the first place. I’m grateful I got to know Scott, hear his wisdom, and enjoy his stories—even if that time was cut short. And I am profoundly grateful that I still get to talk with Colleen each week. She’s one of the most inspiring, strong, KIND people I’ve ever met. I love her so much; she is family!

When I got to hold Zeke
at Primary Children’s Hospital, 2002-2003.

Well, I guess the point is…life’s metaphorical blooms—and the physical ones that arrived precisely on Zeke and Scott’s birthday—remind me of something my grandmother once said: Beauty can be found even in heartache. 

All of this makes me so grateful because it’s a testament that when all else fails, love truly endures.

Happy Thanksgiving! I hope you’ll have the best day ever.

Zeke’s story, available on Amazon here: https://amzn.to/48hNcxe: 

The Perks of Curiosity

I worked as the publisher of a newspaper, but the real thrill wasn't in the balance sheets—I loved writing stories. So, to follow my passion, I often helped the editorial staff find interesting things in town to feature. The regional manager often laughed about this and started calling me “Scoop” because I could find a story in the most unexpected things. The editorial staff, those often cynical souls, looked at my suggestions with wariness. “The coffee group does not sound interesting,” one reporter said.

“But I know there’s a story there. I can feel it.” And sure, I’d been wrong before, but if the newsroom didn't make earnest inquiries into the lives of our readers, they’d solely be covering city council meetings and engagements with the mayor.

This all happened before I got sick with stage-4 cancer, but ironically, those years in journalism taught me something that’s often kept me afloat during this journey. It’s something my grandmother actually swore by when she urged me to follow a cliché and always stop and smell the roses. She was an interesting woman who also swore by ancient cures and old sayings.

I thought about the newspaper again, figuring that a journalist's hardest task is to help others live through what the reporter themselves sees, hears, and experiences. But it’s really important what we choose to amplify. I thought there was too much negativity when I worked for the paper, so I started focusing on human-interest stories.

Oddly enough, while seeking the best in others, I unexpectedly found the best in the world around me. I think the biggest shift came with a story about a rose bush. It was the least sensational story idea I’d ever pitched, narrowly beating out a feature on a swimming pool that got shut down. Yet, it became a front-page sensation.

For months, I’d driven past the same house, where a woman always stood meticulously pruning roses. She had the posture of a retired dancer and the determined focus of a lead violinist. One particular afternoon, driven by an impulse that was 50% curiosity and 50% nosiness, I stopped and introduced myself.

"I always see you taking care of these roses," I said, studying the unusual plant and how each rose boasted a mix of orange, pink, and white petals. 

The woman softly explained that her husband had grafted two different rose bushes together shortly before he passed away.

"I take care of it," she whispered, her eyes misty, "because it makes me feel like a part of him is still alive." Years later, she couldn't help but see the irony. “He combined two bushes that became one," she said. "It was just like our marriage." The way she said it, I knew I’d stumbled onto the kind of story that reminds you how breathtakingly beautiful life can be. I wrote everything down and even took a picture of the woman, making sure to capture the magnificent rose bush. After her story published on the front page of the paper, she showed up at the office with a tray of homemade treats for the whole staff. They were the best cookies I’ve ever tasted, and everyone beamed, watching as this once-lonely woman passed out treats and talked about how she’d made dozens of friends in town after the article ran. People stopped her at the grocery store, shared stories from their own gardens, and even asked for her secret gardening techniques.

This interaction made me wonder what inspiring stories are all around us, blooming quietly every single day. My grandma believed that we should take time to smell the roses because you never know what adventure might be waiting. You could meet a new friend, hear an inspiring story, taste the best cookie ever, or all three of the above. And trust me, meeting the Rose woman of Blackfoot was completely worth it. She changed my view forever. She changed my life with a smile and a story about enduring love. She reminded me to always find the good, even in hardship. 

The Joy of Existing

The day started in a fog of self-pity, a state amplified by my husband being out of town. Every small, daily task felt monumental, so going to the courthouse (to visit the passport office) seemed completely unfathomable. But I needed to go, and as I walked into the building, the pain from my spine reared to life.

Beep! Beep! I stepped through the metal detector repeatedly to no avail. Frustrated, a woman came out from behind the bullet-proof glass. “Do you have a belt on?”

I shook my head. “I’m so sorry about this. I have a pain pump in my stomach and a metal cage in my spine from where doctors removed a cancerous tumor.”

She tried to hide her shock, and then, in the most wonderfully direct Idaho fashion, said, “Honey, if the pain pump is supposed to help you with pain,” she looked at my hunched back, “then I don’t think it’s working!”

I broke out laughing, a genuine, startled belly laugh that momentarily cut through the tension. That absurd, honest comment somehow brightened my day.

The passport office rests at the end of a looong corridor that wasn’t made for those with disabilities, and by the time I reached the halfway mark, I hunched over in so much pain that hot tears formed in my eyes. Two young men eyed me with such open pity then that my face flushed with embarrassment. 

Pity… I thought about the word and decided it’s one of the worst things in the world.

I shuffled past the men, feeling fragile and broken.

Things didn't turn around until I got to the passport counter. The woman there, Jen, beamed—so sweet and helpful. Her kindness took away all negative thoughts because she made me feel…normal. She didn’t ask if I was all right or wonder aloud what was wrong or if I hurt my back… She didn’t treat me with sympathy because of how I stand. Instead, she helped me as if I didn’t have any obvious health issues at all!

Finally, after Jen finished helping me, I shuffled over and collapsed into a visitors' chair. And that was it, the moment when my whole week changed. As I sank down, the world tilted. That simple, unremarkable chair—of all things—seemed like the most wonderful invention in the whole world. It wasn't fancy or aesthetically pleasing. It was made of simple plastic and metal. Yet, in that moment, it was such a lifesaver. It sounds ridiculous, but the relief to be sitting down became so overwhelming that an enormous wave of gratitude washed over me. I sat there, savoring the brief absence of pain. Thank goodness there are things that exist like chairs!

My thoughts turned to my dear friend, Sheri, who passed away last year. She’d reached a point where the pain from cancer had become too severe. Whether she stood, sat, or even rested in bed, she could never find a reprieve. I grieved for her losses when she did, but toward the end, it was so horrendous seeing her in such terrible pain. 

My thoughts turned to my current predicament. Sure it can hurt for me to stand too long or walk more than a short distance, but I can still find respite—and I should be incredibly grateful for that. Life can be hard, but sometimes, often in the most mundane places, it gives you a small, unexpected gift. I can still walk, laugh, find incredible people like Jen, and, most importantly, I can still spend time with my family. 

We are so often surrounded by wonderful things, but sometimes we need to look for them. They could be as close as a waiting room chair or as conspicuous as a kind receptionist.

Today, I remembered once again that a win is a win. I can enjoy life and live to the fullest, vowing to find the good in everything that I can, and that is pretty amazing.