08/03/2026
Around here, we believe beautiful things can grow out of messy places. Todayās lesson just happened to have eight legs. š·ļø
The Spider, the Shower, & the Beautiful Chaos
This morning started the way most mornings around here doā¦
With coffee.
Actually, letās be honest. Coffee wasnāt just a suggestion this morningāit 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 havenāt 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 youāve ever lived with ADHD, chronic illness, anxiety, or honestlyā¦just lifeā¦you probably know exactly what Iām talking about.
Itās like having twenty-seven browser tabs open, one of them is playing music, one froze three hours ago, another is asking if youāre still there, and you canāt figure out which one is making the noise.
Thatās 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 doāas 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.
āExcuse me, maāamā¦thatās OUR poop.ā
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 whoās actually in charge around here and started watering everything. Thereās something peaceful about watering a garden. Maybe itās because plants donāt care what your to-do list looks like. They donāt care how much money is in your bank account or whether youāve 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 wouldāve immediately turned around and walked the other direction. Me? My first thought was, āWell arenāt you just fancy?ā 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 Iād read years ago.
Thereās 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 thatās actually true or notā¦
It was exactly what I needed to hear.
I donāt think that little spider magically solved anything. The bills didnāt disappear. My health didnāt suddenly improve. My to-do list certainly didnāt 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, thatās 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 Iād shut the chicken gate, I realized I didnāt 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.
āWhy do you use AI to write your posts so much? You should be able to write for yourself.ā
And honestly?
Thatās a completely fair question.
So hereās my answer.
I donāt use AI because I donāt 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 isnāt just about the physical symptoms people can see. One of the hardest parts for me is the brain fog. Itās trying to organize thoughts that refuse to stand in a straight line. Itās walking into the kitchen and forgetting why. Itās trying to tell a story and accidentally taking three scenic detours before you get to the point. Itās 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 yāall would probably need a flow chart.
So yes, youāll almost always see āAI Contentā at the top of my posts.
Not because these stories arenāt mine.
Not because these feelings arenāt 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, āAshleyā¦how about we put these in order before we scare the nice people?ā
The heart has always been mine.
Always will be.
As I dried off, I started laughing to myself because I realized what Iād 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 yāallā¦
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 itās 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 isnāt keeping up with your heart, some days are simply harder than others.
The hardest part isnāt always being tired.
Sometimes itās the guilt.
The guilt of watching the people you love carry things you desperately wish you could carry yourself.
That isnāt me asking for sympathy.
Itās simply the truth.
And if even one person reading this knows exactly what that feels like, I hope you know youāre not lazy.
Youāre not failing.
Youāre surviving something other people canāt always see.
A few days ago, another reminder found me.
This one didnāt have eight legs.
It came in an envelope.
My sister surprised me with a handwritten letter.
Not my biological sister.
My chosen one.
Now hereās the funny part.
We couldnāt be more different if we tried.
Sheās country through and through. Sheād probably decorate with mason jars, wildflowers, and the cutest front porch youāve ever seen.
Meanwhile, Iām over here collecting ravens, antique apothecary bottles, odd little treasures, heavy music, tattoos, and enough black clothing to make strangers wonder if Iām permanently attending a Victorian funeral.
Sheās sunshine.
Iām moonlight.
Sheās boots.
Iām combat boots.
Sheās probably listening to country music.
Iām over here wondering if heavy metal makes tomatoes grow better.
And somehowā¦
Weāve always worked.
Sheās my yin to my yang in every possible way.
In her letter she reminded me that no matter how busy life getsākids, animals, work, health, responsibilitiesāweāve 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 isnāt it funny?
One tiny spider in the gardenā¦
And one handwritten letter in the mailboxā¦
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 thatās forgotten how to do that.
Everything is louder than it used to be.
Faster.
Busier.
Weāre 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 donāt 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 youāve 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 itās still warmā¦or, if youāre anything like me, reheat it three times before finally accepting that congratulations, youāve accidentally made iced coffee.
Whatever your version of āsimpleā looks likeā¦
Choose it.
Because if life stripped everything else away tomorrow, I donāt think weād miss the endless to-do lists nearly as much as weād miss these little moments.
The ones that quietly remind us weāre still alive.
Weāre still growing.
Weāre still becoming.
Life is still beautiful.
Not because itās easy.
But because right in the middle of all the messy, compost-covered, feather-filled, chaotic daysā¦it keeps leaving us little reminders that joy is still here if weāre willing to slow down long enough to notice it.
Sometimes those reminders have eight legs.
Sometimes they arrive in an envelope.
And sometimesā¦
Theyāre simply the realization that today, against all oddsā¦
You managed to take a shower.
Iād call that a pretty good day.
š¤
