08/03/2026
Around here, we believe beautiful things can grow out of messy places. Today’s lesson just happened to have eight legs. 🕷️
The Spider, the Shower, & the Beautiful Chaos
This morning started the way most mornings around here do…
With coffee.
Actually, let’s be honest. Coffee wasn’t just a suggestion this morning—it was a requirement. By the time I was halfway through my second cup, my brain had already lived three different days. I had mentally paid bills I haven’t actually paid yet, planned dinner three separate ways, remembered I needed to water the garden, wondered if the tomatoes were getting enough sun, thought about cleaning the chicken coop, forgot what I was thinking about entirely, remembered it again, and then somehow ended up wondering what kind of spider likes morning dew.
If you’ve ever lived with ADHD, chronic illness, anxiety, or honestly…just life…you probably know exactly what I’m talking about.
It’s like having twenty-seven browser tabs open, one of them is playing music, one froze three hours ago, another is asking if you’re still there, and you can’t figure out which one is making the noise.
That’s my brain on a good day.
So I decided the best thing I could do was quit thinking and start moving.
I pulled on my boots, grabbed my gloves, and headed outside to clean the chicken coop. The girls greeted me the way they always do—as if I had shown up specifically to ruin their morning. Stevie supervised from a safe distance like middle management, making sure I was doing everything incorrectly while the others debated whether they should help or simply yell at me for removing what they apparently believe belongs to them.
“Excuse me, ma’am…that’s OUR poop.”
Sorry, girls.
Occupational hazard.
By the time I finished, I was sweaty, dusty, covered in feathers, and somehow had dirt in places that honestly defy explanation. I wandered over to the garden before the Texas sun decided to remind me who’s actually in charge around here and started watering everything. There’s something peaceful about watering a garden. Maybe it’s because plants don’t care what your to-do list looks like. They don’t care how much money is in your bank account or whether you’ve answered all your emails. They just quietly keep growing.
I wish people worked more like tomatoes.
It was somewhere between the peppers and the cucumbers that I saw her.
The prettiest little black-and-yellow spider.
Now, I know some people would’ve immediately turned around and walked the other direction. Me? My first thought was, “Well aren’t you just fancy?” She looked like Mother Nature had dressed her specifically for a tiny gothic garden party. I stood there watching her for longer than I probably should have, and out of nowhere I remembered something I’d read years ago.
There’s an old piece of folklore that says spiders are reminders to slow down, to focus on your intentions, and to weave your life with purpose instead of rushing through it.
Whether that’s actually true or not…
It was exactly what I needed to hear.
I don’t think that little spider magically solved anything. The bills didn’t disappear. My health didn’t suddenly improve. My to-do list certainly didn’t get any shorter. But for thirty seconds, my brain got quiet.
Thirty seconds is a gift when your mind rarely stops talking.
After I finished watering the garden, I finally admitted that I smelled like chicken coop, bug spray, sweat, sunscreen, and probably a little disappointment from the chickens, so I headed inside for a shower.
Funny enough, that’s where everything finally made sense.
Standing under hot water has always been one of the few places where my brain decides to cooperate. Somewhere between washing the dirt off my arms and trying to remember whether I’d shut the chicken gate, I realized I didn’t actually need to get more done today.
I needed to write.
Not because I had all the answers.
Because I had entirely too many thoughts.
That reminded me of something someone I love asked me recently.
“Why do you use AI to write your posts so much? You should be able to write for yourself.”
And honestly?
That’s a completely fair question.
So here’s my answer.
I don’t use AI because I don’t have something to say.
I use AI because I have so much to say that my brain struggles to decide what should come first.
Living with chronic illness isn’t just about the physical symptoms people can see. One of the hardest parts for me is the brain fog. It’s trying to organize thoughts that refuse to stand in a straight line. It’s walking into the kitchen and forgetting why. It’s trying to tell a story and accidentally taking three scenic detours before you get to the point. It’s feeling like your own brain has twenty conversations happening at once, all of them equally important.
Trying to read my unedited thoughts would honestly be like listening to a caffeinated squirrel explain how Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny went on vacation together.
It makes perfect sense to me.
The rest of y’all would probably need a flow chart.
So yes, you’ll almost always see “AI Content” at the top of my posts.
Not because these stories aren’t mine.
Not because these feelings aren’t real.
Every single memory, every laugh, every tear, every lesson, every weird observation about spiders, chickens, gardens, and life comes from me.
AI simply does what my brain struggles to do. It walks into the tornado of sticky notes flying around inside my head, politely picks them up one by one, smiles at me with the patience of a kindergarten teacher, and says, “Ashley…how about we put these in order before we scare the nice people?”
The heart has always been mine.
Always will be.
As I dried off, I started laughing to myself because I realized what I’d actually accomplished so far today.
I made coffee.
I kissed my husband goodbye before work.
I cleaned the chicken coop.
I watered the garden.
And y’all…
I took a shower afterward.
If you live with chronic illness, you know exactly why that last one deserves applause.
Some days the shower deserves its own trophy.
Anything else I accomplish today is bonus content.
The truth is, my energy has packed its bags and moved somewhere considerably cooler than Texas. I assume it’s vacationing in Colorado while the rest of me slowly melts down here. Between POTS, the Texas heat, and the emotional weight of constantly feeling like your body isn’t keeping up with your heart, some days are simply harder than others.
The hardest part isn’t always being tired.
Sometimes it’s the guilt.
The guilt of watching the people you love carry things you desperately wish you could carry yourself.
That isn’t me asking for sympathy.
It’s simply the truth.
And if even one person reading this knows exactly what that feels like, I hope you know you’re not lazy.
You’re not failing.
You’re surviving something other people can’t always see.
A few days ago, another reminder found me.
This one didn’t have eight legs.
It came in an envelope.
My sister surprised me with a handwritten letter.
Not my biological sister.
My chosen one.
Now here’s the funny part.
We couldn’t be more different if we tried.
She’s country through and through. She’d probably decorate with mason jars, wildflowers, and the cutest front porch you’ve ever seen.
Meanwhile, I’m over here collecting ravens, antique apothecary bottles, odd little treasures, heavy music, tattoos, and enough black clothing to make strangers wonder if I’m permanently attending a Victorian funeral.
She’s sunshine.
I’m moonlight.
She’s boots.
I’m combat boots.
She’s probably listening to country music.
I’m over here wondering if heavy metal makes tomatoes grow better.
And somehow…
We’ve always worked.
She’s my yin to my yang in every possible way.
In her letter she reminded me that no matter how busy life gets—kids, animals, work, health, responsibilities—we’ve always had this incredible ability to remind each other who we really are.
That sentence has lived in my heart ever since I read it.
And isn’t it funny?
One tiny spider in the garden…
And one handwritten letter in the mailbox…
Both showed up within days of each other to teach me exactly the same lesson.
Slow down.
Remember who you are.
I think we live in a world that’s forgotten how to do that.
Everything is louder than it used to be.
Faster.
Busier.
We’re constantly told to hustle harder, buy more, become more, produce more, keep up with everyone else.
Somewhere along the way we stopped believing that a simple life could still be a meaningful one.
But I don’t think happiness has ever lived in the loud places.
I think it lives in morning coffee.
In gardens that need watering.
In chickens that complain while you clean their coop.
In handwritten letters.
In people who love you enough to remind you who you are when you’ve forgotten.
In tiny spiders that accidentally stop you in your tracks.
So today, I hope you slow down.
Watch the spider.
Read the old letter.
Pet your dog.
Collect the eggs.
Water the garden.
Call someone you love.
Drink your coffee while it’s still warm…or, if you’re anything like me, reheat it three times before finally accepting that congratulations, you’ve accidentally made iced coffee.
Whatever your version of “simple” looks like…
Choose it.
Because if life stripped everything else away tomorrow, I don’t think we’d miss the endless to-do lists nearly as much as we’d miss these little moments.
The ones that quietly remind us we’re still alive.
We’re still growing.
We’re still becoming.
Life is still beautiful.
Not because it’s easy.
But because right in the middle of all the messy, compost-covered, feather-filled, chaotic days…it keeps leaving us little reminders that joy is still here if we’re willing to slow down long enough to notice it.
Sometimes those reminders have eight legs.
Sometimes they arrive in an envelope.
And sometimes…
They’re simply the realization that today, against all odds…
You managed to take a shower.
I’d call that a pretty good day.
🖤
