“It’s me, Katrina. Do you have any advice that will help me get through confronting my sister?”

A chill ran through my spine before I uttered, “Confronting your sister? You sound rattled and in a bad place. Are you able to come over to talk this afternoon?”

She was at my home right at 2:00 p.m. Rubbing her hands and tapping her right foot on the living room floor, she rattled off her dilemma.

“My older sister, Bethany, and I have not spoken for 30 years. She verbally abused me, bullied me, told lies about me, so when I was old enough to be on my own, I chose to cut her off. My mother just informed me that she is dying of cancer of her uterus that has spread all over her body. I want to confront her about what happened and tell her I forgive her, but I fear what may transpire.”

Momentarily shaken, I focused on my breathing, each breath slower than the previous, centering myself. A palpable silence ensued. An ease and a relaxed energy washed over me. Katrina reached out for the box of Kleenex on the coffee table, drying her wet eyes.

I broke the silence. “Sounds like you want to tell her your truth as it lives in you, but you’re scared that it may hurt her?”

Another moment of pause.

Tears wetted her eyelids. Her jaw relaxed, her shoulders dropped, her breathing slowed, and her right leg stopped tapping the floor. We sat, breathing together, as if silence had joined us in friendship.

Then our eyes locked. She walked toward me and gave me a bear hug; no exchange of words, no patting on the back. Her body knew what being seen and held felt like.

With nothing planned that evening, I gave myself space to just be with what transpired with Katrina earlier in the day. Just like an empty drawer that soon gets filled, my mind wandered into the past, recalling two end-of-life encounters that had touched me deeply.

I remembered Derek, in his late forties, who decided to “make amends” after 10 years of estrangement with his father, Richard, who had months to live because his body was failing from prostate cancer invading his organs.

I relived Richard’s joy and aliveness sitting at the dinner table with the family a day after the reconciliation. Richard interacted with a gusto I was familiar with: cracking jokes, telling war stories from his two stints in Vietnam, and talking about his love for Lucy, his Labrador, a companion and best friend for 10 years.

He appeared to have had a second wind, staying upbeat for about a week before dying peacefully in his sleep two weeks later.

I remembered 32-year-old Shelley, estranged daughter of 68-year-old Ruby, dashing into the hospital room where her mother lay emaciated, skin and bones from lung cancer eating her away.

“Why did you smoke so much? Why did you refuse chemo at the beginning?”

And she went on and on with a barrage of questions, as if vomiting everything until she felt the pit of her stomach had emptied.

After Shelley left, Ruby sighed, turned to me, and in her weak voice slowly uttered, “I’m glad she spoke up. Angry, but honest. Maybe it is her way of saying, ‘I love you.’ I’m at peace.”

Those were her last words to me.

Ruby died the following day.

Returning to Katrina, she visited me two weeks later to tell me that her sister had passed in her sleep. She thanked me for being there for her at her crossroads.

Her eyes lit up as she spoke.

“I stayed true to myself. I owned my feelings. I did not blame her. When we hugged in silence, I felt an energy surge through me, an alchemy of love.”

Then she paused.

“And the greatest gift from all this is my realization that our rift helped me grow up. I know I am worthy.”

I stood in heartfelt presence when those words landed between us.

We hugged.

No words except, “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Later that evening, I found myself thinking about Derek and Richard. About Shelley and Ruby. About Katrina and Bethany.

Three very different stories.

Three relationships that carry old wounds.

Three encounters at the edge of death.

None of them could change what happened before.

But something changed.

A truth was spoken.

A truth was received.

Something that had been held apart was allowed, perhaps for the first time, to be held together.

Grandma’s voice came quietly to me.

“Don’t go to bed angry. It’s never too late to heal a rift. Bearing grudges is like a cancer eating at you. Everyone wins when we find peace.”

I smiled.

Maybe healing isn’t about making things right.

Maybe sometimes healing is simply arriving at the end with nothing left inside that needs to be hidden, defended, or held onto.

The body may be dying.

And still, something in us can soften.

Something can be released.

Something can come home.

Perhaps this is another kind of healing.

Friends, I would enjoy hearing your reflection. If this essay resonates with you, please send it to a friend who may enjoy it too.

With love,

Dr. Nellie

As we were getting out of the door, Maddox, my 6-year-old grandson, grabbed my right upper arm and said, “Ah Mah, why is your arm so squishy?”

“Because I am old,” I responded, and proceeded to chuckle hysterically until tears rolled down my cheeks—tears from hearing the innocent truth from a child who loved me without judgment, simply describing what he felt.

“Ah Mah, why are you crying?” he asked, with a startled look, as if he had done something wrong.

“Because I love you,” I responded, grabbing him and lifting him into the air as if I were hoisting a victory cup I had just earned.

“I like that, Ah Mah. Can you do it again?”

I lifted him.

My arms felt tense, sore, and weak. He felt like a very heavy bag of rice.

“What’s that?” I thought, gently rubbing my arms.

That night, I felt light, as if soaking in a bubble bath of pure joy. Every cell was dancing with joy! Every pore oozed joy!

I could still feel the warmth of Maddox’s hand squeezing my arm. I could still hear his voice: “Can you do it again?”

I lingered with his innocence, his presence, the purity of his observation of things as they are.

No judgment.

Just pure aliveness.

At my Pilates workout the next morning, I enjoyed my routine with ease, flowing from one set of movements to the next. My body felt fine. Nothing was wrong with my muscles.

My mind flashed back to the incident lifting Maddox the night before. A spontaneous “Eureka!” came out of my mouth.

The difference had not been strength.

The difference had been joy.

Mindfully, I re-lived the felt sensations of the two lifts of Maddox. The first one flowed effortlessly, as if my arms were spontaneously lifted by joy and an aliveness moving through me.

With the second, it felt like a performance with effort. I was harnessing all the muscle power in my arms, torso, and legs to lift Maddox up. My mind was commanding my body to perform.

Spontaneity had become performance.

As it was my planned Lazy Afternoon, I lingered with all those different feelings. My body remembered the effortless flow of joy and spontaneity—presence, timelessness, beauty, and love—and then the different sensations when performance prevailed: tenseness, heaviness, effort.

Hmm. I felt the difference.

And I cherished the effortless flow of joy and aliveness.

Then moments of spontaneous aliveness and joy from my earlier days flooded my body.

I remembered the warmth that swelled up like a hot flush, the tears of joy that welled up in my eyes when the operating room nurse placed my first newborn son in my arms.

I remembered pausing with joy, wonder, and aliveness as I noticed a cluster of quarter-sized blooms with bright yellow petals growing between two barren rocks while walking on a hiking trail in the Bavarian Alps.

I remembered the feeling of warmth, joy, and aliveness when Rachel read me a poem she had written for me on my 70th birthday.

When I woke up the next morning, I reached out to the doorknob to open my bedroom door.

I felt it.

I was aware of it, almost as if it had come alive.

But I was the one who came alive.

I felt a warmth, as if Maddox were touching my arm again.

“Squishy,” he’d said.

Still is.

“Can you do it again, Ah Mah?”

I think I just did!

Delicious presence!

Friends, I would enjoy hearing your reflection. If this essay resonates with you, please send it to a friend who may enjoy it too.

With love,

Dr. Nellie

I drove at a snail’s pace, my body gripped with tension and fear. My jaw tightened. My shoulders locked. My hands whitened around the steering wheel. Every passing truck threw another wall of water across my windshield. Breath after breath I silently prayed for everyone’s safety. I drove in such a trance till suddenly, a light bulb woke me up. “What are you doing, Nel? You are putting yourself at risk for a memorial service for yourself. And maybe for others as well”.

I slowly got off the highway and followed a sign to a McDonald’s along the road. I let off a huge sigh. Waves of tension released from my body, alike a series of burps. I bought a fish burger and fries simply to justify occupying a table. Then I inhabited the growing ease and peace in my body. Delicious presence! I did not make it to the celebration of life but arrived home with this question “How did I forget caring for me and my well-being?”

While brushing my teeth the next morning, two past similar situations arose in my consciousness. During my days in academic medicine, I remember keeping my word to deliver a grant project as promised, staying up into the early hours of morning three days in a row even though I was quite sick with the flu. I kept telling myself, “I will keep my commitment, no matter what.”

The second incident occurred many, many years ago, before the age of one-click- online shopping. I wore myself out trying to find a particular set of decorations that my friend, Gina, wanted for her 40^th birthday celebration. I remembered feeling irritated and exhausted going from store to store. I totally ignored how my body felt and proceeded head on to accomplish the task I had promised to do.

As I sat with the above life situations, tears started to roll down my cheeks. I stayed with my breathing; the in-breath and out-breath rocked my body in loving presence. Everything slowed down. Everything softened. Time almost disappeared. More tears fell. They were tears of being deeply touched with tenderness and care. I recalled the meaning of my middle name “precious branch” in my Chinese dialect. Mom had informed me that when I was born, a sage/astrologer advised her to include “precious” as part of my name. I wrapped my arms around my body; my eyes still wet with tears as if I just reunited with a long-lost sibling. I held myself as though I had found someone I had been searching for my whole life.

Looking back on that drive, I no longer see someone trying to reach a memorial service. I see a woman who had forgotten that her own life mattered too. My body knew before my mind did. It spoke through a clenched jaw, tight shoulders, white knuckles wrapped around a steering wheel. When I finally listened, I wasn’t choosing myself instead of my friend. I was choosing life. I was choosing to come home.

I know I will forget again. Years of conditioning do not disappear overnight. But perhaps remembering is not something we do only once. Perhaps it is a practice of returning again and again to the love that has quietly waited for us all along.

And when I forget, I hope I will remember the name that was given to me before I ever accomplished anything.

Precious.

--------------------------------------------

Friends, I would enjoy hearing your reflection. If this essay resonates with you, please send it to a friend who may enjoy it too.

With love,

Dr. Nellie

I would be delighted if you would join me for a nourishing lunch and heartfelt conversation on Thursday, Sept 17, at 11:30 AM at Govinda’s Vegetarian Cuisine (West 34th St., Houston, TX 77018).

Our conversation theme will be:

Know Yourself for Better Health

When it comes to our health, we are often encouraged to ask, “What should I do?” But how often do we pause to ask, “What do I want?”

A diagnosis, a frightening test result, or fear of what might happen can quickly move us into action. Yet making health decisions that truly serve us requires more than knowing what medicine can offer. It also asks that we know ourselves—our values, our preferences, our fears, and what quality of life means to us.

Join me for a conversation about knowing ourselves as an essential part of making health decisions. I’ll share a few observations, and then we’ll open the conversation to learn from one another’s experiences.

Lunch will be Dutch treat, and the conversation promises to be rich and meaningful.

Kindly RSVP by Friday, September 11, 2026, to center208@sbcglobal.net.

I look forward to sharing this time of connection and community with you.

With warmth and gratitude,

Dr. Nellie

I found him lying in bed with his eyes closed in his single room. An untouched breakfast tray rested on a roll-away table nearby.

“Good morning, Sam,” I said softly, reaching out to hold his left hand.

He opened his eyes wide, clasped my hand tightly, and said, “I’m so happy to see you. You are so kind to visit me. The world needs more kind people like you.”

“So, is kindness your way of life?” I asked.

“Yes. I miss my mother.” He began to cry. Amid tears and pauses, he continued, “She was incredibly kind to me during some very difficult times. I try to live by her example. And my wife—you know my wife, Jessie—she is kindness itself.”

He continued weeping, gripping my hand even more tightly. I remained silent, aware of my own breathing and trusting the moment.

When his tears subsided, I asked, “Are you feeling sad about Jessie?”

“Yes. I’m going to miss her when I die. And I don’t want her to die before I do. I love her so much.”

“You love each other deeply. It hurts to imagine being separated.”

“And Harry, Mary, and Karl—I miss them so much. So many of my dear friends have died.”

More tears rolled down his cheeks.

“It must feel very lonely and sad, Sam.”

As I finished speaking, the door to his room flew open.

“Good morning, darling. I’m here!” Jessie announced brightly.

Surprised, she turned to me. “I’m so happy to see you, Nel,” she said, squeezing the air out of me with her bear hug.

I paused for a breath. In that moment of silence, I realized that Sam had entrusted me with something precious before his beloved arrived. He wrapped it up with her love.

When I reached home, my body was still reverberating with tenderness and awe. Without thinking, I wrapped my arms around myself. In forty years of friendship, I had never experienced such depth of connection with Sam. It felt as though his kindness had found a home in me: his love for Jessie, his gratitude for old friends, even his sorrow. I was not carrying his story; I was carrying the way he had loved. I went to bed deeply grateful, held by an embodied sense of love.

The next morning, I found myself asking, What made this conversation different from so many others?

It wasn’t that I had asked remarkable questions. I had asked very few.

It wasn’t that I had offered wisdom. I hadn’t.

Perhaps what mattered was that there was nowhere else I needed to be. No problems to solve. No story to improve. No encouragement to give. Just one pair of hands holding another while a life unfolded, one memory at a time.

I had walked into Sam’s room thinking I was bringing companionship and care. Instead, I left carrying a gift he had given me: the ordinary holiness of loving, which can only be received when the heart is open. His kindness and love remain very much alive in me, whether or not he is physically present.

Since then, I have wondered how many gifts I have missed—not because they were not offered, but because I arrived too full of my own agenda to receive them. Perhaps the familiar saying that “giving is receiving” is not simply about doing good in the hope that goodness will return to us. Perhaps it is about cultivating the openness and presence to give and receive, in every moment.

Sam reminded me that when someone is nearing the end of life, what often rises to the surface is not regret but love—love for a mother or father, a wife or husband, dear friends, and a life woven together by kindness.

Perhaps that is what deep listening makes possible. It allows another person’s life to gather itself into its essential truth while someone quietly bears witness.

Since that morning, I have wondered how often this kind of meeting is available—not only in hospital rooms, but over morning coffee, on a walk, or across a dinner table. Maybe intimacy does not require extraordinary moments. Maybe it simply asks for extraordinary presence.

Thank you, Sam, for showing me that the greatest gift we can offer one another is not advice or reassurance.

Just our undivided presence.

Friends, I would love to hear your reflections. Have you had a conversation that touched you deeply? How did it change your life? If this essay resonates with you, please share it with someone who may enjoy it.

With love,

Dr. Nellie

“It’s you, Nel! I desperately need your help. Ryan and I have had the fiercest fight of our marriage. He is threatening a divorce. How can I make room for him in me?”

I fell silent.

In all my years of listening to people talk about relationships, I had never heard anyone put it that way. In one breath she sounded hopeless; in the next, she seemed willing to change herself for the sake of the relationship. We agreed to speak the following day, as time was working against us.

That evening, I sat with Emily’s question: “How can I make room for him in me?”

Echoes of my grandmother’s voice reverberated in my ears as she spoke to my fifth aunt: “You chose this bed, now lie in it.” “Don’t complain.” “No one is perfect.” As an adolescent who adored Grandma, I tried to live by her teachings, only to realize much later that they did not serve me well. I became skilled at pleasing everyone but myself. Somewhere along the way, I forgot to speak up for my own values and needs.

I also reflected on my own marriage. My former spouse and I sparred often, each wishing for a different version of the other. We failed miserably. Our marriage ended in divorce. I cried. I felt ashamed. The divorce shattered the story I had been telling myself about who I should be—a successful physician, a good wife, someone who could make love last if only she tried hard enough. For a long time, I sat among the broken pieces of that story. Beneath the grief, however, was a surprising discovery: I could stop fighting reality. I could stop demanding that life, other people, or even I be different. The first room I had to create was not for someone else. It was for me.

Over time, I became more aware of my habit energy of judging and belittling myself. Whenever judgment arose, I noticed my shoulders tighten and my chest stiffen. I felt the harshness and unkindness with which I was meeting myself. The moment I met that judgment with kindness, my body softened. My breath deepened. A pause appeared. Space returned. I learned to wrap my arms around myself, just as my mother did when she tried to console me as a child. My judgments had not served me well in my relationships, but worst of all, they created more suffering within me.

This marked the beginning of an ongoing practice of making room for myself in me. For years, I had tried to improve myself through criticism. I believed that if I judged myself harshly enough, I would become better. Instead, I became smaller. Slowly and painfully, I began another practice, not fixing myself but making room for myself. A room of softness, gentleness, and compassion. A room for me in me.

As I allowed vulnerability to embrace more of me, my curiosity grew. I began seeing others with a more inclusive heart, making room for them in me. I thought about the teachings of the sages I had encountered throughout my life: “Love thy neighbor as thyself.” “We are all one.” I understood these teachings intellectually, yet I struggled to put them into practice.

Then I met Ana, a ninety-year-old woman from New Mexico whose face seemed permanently softened by kindness. People gravitated toward her the way sunflowers turn toward sunlight. I was spellbound by her presence. My mind stopped chattering. My body became still. I felt open to receive whatever she had to share. She said, “Nel, it is not easy to include others. Here is what works for me. Pretend your ears are attached to your heart, not your head. Listen deeply to what the other person is feeling and what they are longing for.”

“Resonance,” I thought. The image of my grandfather patiently fine-tuning his two antique grandfather clocks so they would chime together flashed into my consciousness. Slowly, I learned to live with a more open heart, to make room for you in me. I began creating my own internal traffic lights whenever someone spoke:

**STOP** the chatter in my head.

**STAY** present to what is being said.

**LISTEN** through my heart.

A warm flush of joyful connection fills my body when someone responds with, “You get me,” or “You understand.” I practice with humor, patience, and kindness, reminding myself that perfection is not the goal. My judgment and criticism still flare up from time to time, much like a dormant cold sore virus awakening when conditions are right.

The next day, Emily and I spoke again. We did not solve her marriage. But her question stayed with me.

Not: *How do I change him? *

Not: *How do I win? *

Not: *How do I get him to understand me? *

But: *How can I make room for him in me? *

Years later, I believe that question contains a lifetime of practice. These days, I see making room as a lifelong journey.

Making room for my imperfections.

Making room for my fears.

Making room for those I love.

Making room for those with whom I disagree.

Some days my heart feels spacious; some days it feels small. Yet Emily’s question continues to guide me: *How do I make room for you in me? *

Perhaps there is another way of asking: *How fully am I willing to love? *

Or perhaps the deeper gift is what emerges when we make room: Freedom. Spaciousness.

Freedom from needing others to change.

Freedom from fighting ourselves.

Freedom from carrying the burden of perfection.

And spaciousness, the feeling that there is enough room in the heart for joy, grief, disappointment, and love to coexist.

Friends, I would love to hear your reflections. How are you making room for yourself and for others in your own life? If this essay resonates with you, please feel free to share it with someone who may enjoy it.

With love,

Dr. Nellie

Lately, I’ve been noticing how touch—given and received—shapes the way we feel, connect, and care. This reflection grew out of those moments.

Five friends were leaving Gigi’s home in Montrose after a beautiful evening of a potluck dinner—our favorite home-cooked vegetarian dishes. As we stepped out her front wooden door, raindrops began pelting the cobbled walkway, louder with each passing moment.

I opened my small umbrella, raised it with my right hand, and clenched the handle tight.

As I did, I felt a hand reach for my left.

“Let’s be safe walking to our cars,” David said softly.

My mind quieted.
My shoulders dropped.
My grip on the umbrella loosened.
My breath deepened.
A warmth arose in the center of my chest, radiating outward.
A quiet joy moved through me.
A simple, steady happiness.

When I arrived home, I found myself wondering about that feeling.

I remembered how Grandma or Mom would take my hand while crossing the street.
I remembered walking two by two as children in school.

“Hold hands, stay together,” the teacher would say.

I belonged—to her, to that small moving circle of children.

One of my favorite pastimes is not bird-watching, but noticing the regular walkers in Memorial Park—especially those who walk hand in hand.

Over time, curiosity has led me to stop a few of them.

Viven and Victor, likely in their seventies, used to walk side by side. Lately, they’ve been holding hands.

I teased, “You must be loving each other more. I notice you’re holding hands now.”

“Maybe,” Viven said, turning to look at Victor. He met her gaze.

Then she turned back to me.

“The truth is, Victor’s been a little unsteady on his feet. I’m just making sure he doesn’t slip and break a bone.”

She winked, as if to close the conversation.

I stood there for a moment, heart-struck.

On another occasion, I stopped Mona and Richard, whom I often see walking hand in hand in my neighborhood.

“May I be curious?” I asked. “What is this handholding for you?”

Richard smiled.

“It’s togetherness. Caring for each other. We’ve always done that.”

He turned and gently pecked Mona on the cheek.

My eyes blinked twice.

Then, in a slightly firmer tone, he added,

“Our hands are free—not attached to our cell phones. The younger generation seems so taken by them.”

My breathing slowed.

A quiet voice inside asked,

How often are your hands on a screen rather than another human being?When was the last time you reached out first?

Growing up, I learned that we didn’t show emotions publicly by holding hands. I rarely saw my parents do so.

And yet, one moment has stayed with me.

Mum was preparing for a dinner with ten guests. I could feel her tension—the rush, the rising tone of her voice.

Instead of responding with words, Dad walked slowly toward her.

He placed one hand on her shoulder, the other on her upper arm.

Everything grew still.

They looked at each other and smiled.

No words.

Just touch.

As a young mother, I learned how often touch—a cuddle, a hug—could settle my children’s cries.

One morning, our nanny called in sick. I stayed home with my two sons, ages two and four.

The younger began crying at the breakfast table while I tried to call my office to reschedule the day. No one answered.

“Where is everybody?” I thought. “Someone should be there by now.”

My jaw tightened. I bit my lip.

Then I screamed,

“Nooooo… this can’t be happening.”

The sound startled them both.

They began crying harder.

I gathered them into my arms and held them close.

Gradually, the wailing softened into silence.

They fell asleep on the carpet.

I let out a long sigh.

I curled into a seated position and wrapped my arms around my upper arms.

My breathing slowed.

My jaw softened.

My shoulders dropped.

Warmth spread through my body.

I stayed there.

Held.

Not by anyone else—but by my own arms.

The same way I had held my sons.

Lately, I’ve been experimenting with something simple—placing both hands on my heart or wrapping my arms around myself when I feel unsettled.

I’m curious what might happen if you tried it.

What becomes possible when we let the body speak this way again?

Perhaps the body has always known how to care—

we are only learning how to listen again.

With a hug,

Dr. Nellie

I would be delighted if you would join me for a nourishing lunch and heartfelt conversation on Wednesday, June 3, at 11:30 AM at Govinda’s Vegetarian Cuisine (West 34th St., Houston, TX 77018).

Our conversation theme will be: Rethinking what “healthy” means.

Lately, I’ve been wondering: when does our effort to be healthy stop feeling like care?

This lunch conversation is an invitation to explore if health is not just something we do, but something we relate to? What values are shaping the choices we make in the name of being “healthy”?

Come as you are. Bring your curiosity, your questions, and your lived experience. We will listen, reflect, and learn from one another.

Lunch will be Dutch treat, and the conversation promises to be rich and meaningful.

Kindly RSVP by Friday, May 29, 2026, to center208@sbcglobal.net.

I look forward to sharing this time of connection and community with you.

With warmth and gratitude,

Dr. Nellie

I hear this often when birthdays come around.

And each time, something in me pauses.

Is it really just another day?

Or is it the one day we quietly reveal how much—or how little—we believe we matter?

Today, I find myself reflecting on birthdays.

Perhaps it’s because I am taking Stella out for Japanese food next week to celebrate hers, and I am also planning a gathering for four Taurean friends in early May. As these plans take shape, I notice something stirring in me: what meaning do birthdays really hold?

In my younger years, birthdays were quiet. In our family, they passed without much fuss. I might receive a gift—often a new dress my mother lovingly sewed on her Singer machine. I didn’t think of it as a “celebration,” but I knew, in a child’s way, that it meant something: she cared. Her time, her effort, her skill—stitched into fabric just for me.

Later, as a mother, birthdays became more outward. I followed what other parents did—celebrations at places like Chuck E. Cheese or McDonald’s, with classmates and cake and laughter. I enjoyed these gatherings, not only for my children, but for the connections they fostered—with other parents, with the small community forming around our children’s lives.

Then came the ritual of cupcakes in classrooms—a simple but powerful gesture. A moment when a child stands at the center and is acknowledged: you matter.

I remember asking my six-year-old grandson, Maddox, what his birthday at school was like.

“I wore a hat. My friends sang ‘Happy Birthday.’ I am six years old.”

Such simplicity. Such joy in becoming.

And then, as often happens, birthdays become entangled with gifts—sometimes so many that appreciation fades. I used to gently encourage my children to share, to remember others. Even then, I think I was searching for the deeper meaning beneath the celebration.

So why do I now take such care in remembering and celebrating my friends’ birthdays?

Because I want them to know they matter.

Because I want to name the qualities in them that have touched my life.

Because in our busy lives, we so rarely pause—to give love, to receive it, to speak it aloud.

A birthday becomes that pause. A small but intentional interruption. A moment to say: you have made a difference in my life.

Sometimes it is a meal at a restaurant. Sometimes a dinner at home. But beneath it all is the same quiet offering: I see you. You matter to me.

Looking back, certain birthdays stand out—40, 50, 60. And then my 70th.

For years, I told my sons that if I reached 70, I wanted a big celebration. And when the day came, it was everything I had hoped for. A beautifully organized dinner. Friends gathered. Music, flowers, thoughtful words. My sons standing beside me.

But what stays with me is not the details—it is the feeling.

To sit there and receive what others shared from their hearts.

To hear, perhaps more fully than ever before, how my life had touched theirs.

It felt like a marker. Not an ending, but a moment of arrival.

An acknowledgment: this life has mattered.

And yet, I often hear people say, “Oh, it’s just another day,” or “It’s just another birthday.”

When I hear that, I wonder if something deeper is being spoken—perhaps a quiet sense that one does not matter or has not paused long enough to see their own life clearly.

Because you do matter.

Your life—whether it looks extraordinary or ordinary—has impact.

Making breakfast for your children. Visiting an aging parent who lights up when you arrive. Offering kindness in small, unseen ways.

These are not small things.

A birthday invites us to stop—even briefly—and recognize this. To “smell the roses,” as we say, but also to recognize the garden we ourselves have helped grow.

Perhaps this is why I have come to cherish birthdays more deeply in my later years. Not just as a day of celebration, but as a practice of gratitude.

I want to read the handwritten cards slowly.

To savor the words.

To call someone back and tell them what their message meant to me.

Because in doing so, something continues—a thread of connection, a widening circle of acknowledgment.

Giving and receiving in this way is a practice. One that fills my heart with gratitude.

As I move through what I call my “wisdom years,” I find myself slowing down, noticing more, appreciating more. These moments of gratitude nourish me as surely as food or medicine. They cost nothing, yet they enrich every part of my being.

So perhaps birthdays are not “just another day.”

They are an invitation.

To remember that we matter.

To give thanks for the life we have lived.

To recognize the ways we have touched others—and allowed ourselves to be touched.

And maybe, just maybe, to let that awareness extend beyond a single day… into a way of living.

Friends, what does your birthday mean to you?

As your next one approaches, what comes alive in you?

I would love to hear from you.

With love,

Dr. Nellie

“Jeff!” Poppy said brightly, reaching out to shake his hand and patting him on the back. “How are you?”

“Fine,” he replied.

She waited.

He paused.

The air thinned.

Nothing more came.

Thirsty for more than “fine,” she pressed on.

“Tell me more.”

“I’m fine. Job is fine. Wife is fine. Son is fine.”

She tried again, but the well was dry. No water to draw. We parted cordially.

Poppy and I walked on in silence. Her body, however, had much to say. She fidgeted with her fingers; her right thumb picked at the cuticles of her left hand. She cracked her knuckles. Her pace quickened.

No sooner had we walked a few steps than she burst out.

“I’m so fed up with people who only give one-word responses—fine, good, okay, alright—to the simple question ‘How are you?’ I’m thirsty for more connection. I want to know what’s going on with them, what’s alive in their hearts, what aches, what brings them joy. I want to connect to the life in them. Instead, it feels like trying to draw water from a dry well. And one more thing—I hate it when people aren’t honest. I can take ‘no’ for an answer, but not a ‘yes’ when it’s really a ‘no.’”

“Surface exchanges frustrate you,” I said softly. “You long for heartfelt connection. You value authenticity.”

Later that afternoon, I found myself thinking about that brief exchange.

Why had it bothered Poppy so much?

And why did something in me recognize the same thirst?

If I long for heart-to-heart connection, perhaps I must be willing to risk it first. Poppy leaned in with her “tell me more,” not to interrogate but because something in her was thirsty.

I wondered what might happen if, instead of retreating when the answer is “fine,” I stayed a couple of breaths longer. What if I offered something real first?

“I’ve been feeling reflective these days,” or

“I miss hearing about Willy curled up in your lap during football season.”

Perhaps connection does not begin with extracting more information from another, but with revealing a little more of myself.

And if the well is dry, maybe I can accept that too—without judgment—and seek water elsewhere.

I also wonder how often I ask, “How are you?” while already halfway into my next thought. What would happen if I paused long enough to really want the answer?

A father once shared a story with me about how his fifteen-year-old son awakened him. The father had asked, “What present shall I get you for your birthday?”

The boy paused, took a deep breath, and quietly looked his dad in the eyes.

“Your presence, Dad. No presents.”

The father stood still, suddenly fully present. They embraced in silence.

I realized I had been thirsty for a long time—for heart-to-heart connection in relationships. I am still learning how to quench that thirst.

I grew up hearing messages like the one my grandmother once gave my uncle: “Act tough, even though you may be shaking inside.” Those words echoed in my mind whenever I felt vulnerable.

I remember standing in my bedroom as a young girl, crying my eyes out, swallowing my tears because strong girls were not supposed to tremble or cry.

It took me years to discover that trembling is not weakness—it is honesty.

And honesty brings a quiet kind of courage. It allows us to build stronger, more authentic connections with ourselves and with others.

Life later gave me an opportunity to practice this kind of honesty.

A new friend, Adele, gave me a birthday gift—a beautifully wrapped bottle of Chanel Coco Mademoiselle perfume. I admired the elegant packaging as I opened the gift bag. But when I saw the perfume, my heart sank a little.

I am allergic to perfume.

I looked into her eyes and said gently, “I appreciate the thoughtfulness you put into choosing this gift and wrapping it so beautifully. I hope you won’t be offended when I tell you I cannot accept it because I’m allergic to perfume.”

She paused. “You can recycle it,” she suggested.

My heart began to pound. A thin line of sweat trickled down my neck.

“Thank you,” I replied, “but that’s not really my style. I would rather you take it back. What I would enjoy much more is sharing lunch with you.”

Silence followed. We looked at each other, eye to eye.

Then she said quietly, “No one has ever been this honest with me before. You have given me a gift today.”

In that moment, something in me relaxed.

The truth had not broken the connection.

It had deepened it.

Perhaps Poppy’s frustration that morning was really a longing—a longing many of us carry quietly.

A longing to be seen.

To be heard.

To meet each other somewhere deeper than “fine.”

This week, I wonder what might happen if we pause a little longer when someone says “fine.”

Or perhaps ask a different question:

“What has been touching your heart lately?”

Notice what happens.

Notice what arises in you.

If you experiment, I would love to hear what you discover. And if you have a friend who may enjoy this reflection, please share it with them.

With love,

Dr. Nellie

What makes the difference between merely growing old and growing alive?

Several weeks ago, I brought vegetarian takeout to share lunch with Jack and Greta, my 85- and 78-year-old friends. As we sat enjoying Greta’s homemade chocolate chip cookies, Jack’s cellphone rang from across the kitchen.

He pushed himself up from his creaky wooden chair and answered in a booming voice, “Sergeant Jeff, Station F. What can I do for you?”

A startled voice replied, “I’m so sorry, I have the wrong number.”

Jack hung up and burst into laughter, thoroughly delighted.

“I get such a kick out of scaring those spam callers,” he said, still grinning. Then his face softened. “What else is there to do in my old age? My knees ache. My back hurts all the time. I’m bored.”

In that moment, I saw two truths living side by side. His laughter revealed that the spark of aliveness was still there. But his resignation revealed how small his world had become. His days were organized around managing discomfort and passing time. He was no longer meeting life with curiosity but enduring it.

Aliveness had not left him. It had simply stopped being invited.

On my drive home, I thought of another friend, Monte, who was preparing to celebrate his 80th birthday by writing eighty letters—one to each person who had shaped his life—to thank them.

He was also planning a solo road trip across the country in his van, with no fixed itinerary.

“Just for the adventure,” he told me. “To see the country. To see what I find. To see what I find in myself.”

Monte lives with heart disease and arthritis. His body stiffens; he tires more easily. Yet none of this defines the horizon of his life.

He once said to me, “Even when my body stiffens, I stay curious. It keeps my psyche supple.”

His body is aging. His curiosity is not.

And curiosity keeps him in conversation with life.

I was reminded of this again when I saw Paul and Mary at a friend’s birthday gathering. Paul, ninety-four, sat hunched in his wheelchair. Mary, eighty-six, leaned forward as she walked. Their bodies carried the unmistakable signatures of time.

Yet their presence was vibrant.

“We’re having the best years of our lives,” Mary told me without hesitation.

“What gives you joy?” I asked.

She laughed. “We don’t worry about anything anymore. We can do whatever we damn want.”

Paul leaned forward, eyes bright. “We’re excited to meet new friends. Every day is something new.”

Nothing in their external circumstances had expanded. But their willingness to meet life openly had. They were not waiting for better conditions. They were inhabiting the life that was already here.

Their aliveness did not come from what their bodies could do. It came from their willingness to remain present to experience.

The difference between merely growing old and growing alive lies in how we meet our experience. When we identify primarily with loss and limitation, our world contracts. We begin to live as observers of our decline rather than participants in our unfolding.

Identification can feel comforting. It validates our struggle. It offers community. It gives the mind something to organize around when life feels uncertain. But when limitation becomes our primary identity, it quietly narrates our entire story.

We are more than what no longer works.

We are the awareness that notices.

We are the longing that reaches.

We are the capacity to love and be touched.

Recently, my six-year-old grandson handed me a drawing of Winston, his owl squishmallow, carefully sketched on purple paper.

“Ah Mah,” he said, “I chose purple because it’s your favorite color.”

I felt something soften inside me. I held the paper. I held him. I let the moment fully land.

When I was younger, I might have smiled and moved on, already occupied by the next task. Aging has given me something youth did not: the willingness to stop. To feel. To savor. To let a simple moment register in my body.

Aging, I am discovering, is not only a process of losing. It is also a process of becoming available—to tenderness, to gratitude, to presence.

We do have agency. We may not choose our aging bodies, but we do choose how we meet our experience. Awareness of that choice changes everything.

I often begin my day with simple questions:

What would bring me alive today?

How can I be kind to myself today?

What am I curious about right now?

How might I show kindness to someone else?

Where is life inviting me to participate?

These questions shift my attention from what is diminishing to what is still possible. They soften physical suffering with tenderness. They move me out of isolation in my head and back into relationship—with myself, with others, with life.

Curiosity keeps us present.

Presence keeps us alive.

Aging is inevitable. Aliveness is not.

Aliveness asks something of us. It asks for our participation. Our openness. Our willingness to remain in conversation with the life that is still unfolding.

Irrespective of where you are in life, I wonder:

What would you choose differently if you were committed not just to growing older, but to growing alive?

If this reflection resonates, I would love to hear what arises for you. And if you feel moved to share it with someone who might need encouragement, please do.

With love,

Dr. Nellie

I wanted to share a gentle reminder about our upcoming lunch and conversation next Wednesday, February 11, at 11:30 AM at Govinda’s Vegetarian Cuisine.

We’ll be gathering around the theme:
You Are Not Your Diagnosis: Reclaiming Your True Identity

This will be a relaxed, nourishing time to pause, reflect, and connect - an opportunity to explore who we are beyond labels, and how resilience and inner agency can support a more grounded and hopeful way of living.

If this resonates with you, I would truly love for you to join us. Come as you are, and feel free to bring a friend who may benefit from the conversation.

Lunch is Dutch treat.

RSVP by Friday, February 6 to center208@sbcglobal.net

I hope you can join us for this meaningful time together.

Warmly,

Dr. Nellie

I would be delighted if you would join me for a nourishing lunch and heartfelt conversation on Wednesday, February 11, at 11:30 AM at Govinda’s Vegetarian Cuisine (West 34th St., Houston, TX 77018).

Our conversation theme will be:

You Are Not Your Diagnosis: Reclaiming Your True Identity

Receiving a diagnosis—whether life-threatening or chronic—can quietly shape how we see ourselves. Without realizing it, we may begin to identify with the diagnosis, allowing fear, anxiety, or discouragement to take center stage.

This lunch conversation is an invitation to remember who you are beyond any label. Together, we will explore how cultivating resilience can support deeper well-being, strengthen our sense of inner agency, and open the door to a more centered, hopeful, and joyful way of living.

Come as you are. Bring your curiosity, your questions, and your lived experience. We will listen, reflect, and learn from one another.

Lunch will be Dutch treat, and the conversation promises to be rich and meaningful.

Kindly RSVP by Friday, February 6 to center208@sbcglobal.net.

I look forward to sharing this time of connection and community with you.

With warmth and gratitude,

Dr. Nellie

On the last day of school before winter break, I walked my two grandsons—six-year-old Maddox and four-year-old Austin—to school. Their pace was brisk, punctuated by skips and hops, bubbling with excitement about building gingerbread houses and sharing treats with classmates. Midway through the walk, Maddox, holding my hand, gave it a gentle tug and said, “Ah Mah, I love you so much.”

I stopped. I bent down and hugged him, inhaling his words as if they were oxygen, letting the purity and innocence of his love move through my body. I hugged him back, whispering, “I love you so much too,” squeezing his small torso as if I could fold that moment into myself forever. We walked on, and I sent both boys off to their classrooms with hugs, my heart quietly overflowing.

On my walk home—still floating in that tenderness—another moment with Maddox arose in my mind. I had once been examining a bruise on his right thumb after a children’s workshop at Home Depot. As I held his hand and carefully looked at his thumb, he asked with complete sincerity, “Ah Mah, are you old?”

I burst into laughter. When I finally regained composure, I asked what made him think that. He replied simply, “You have wrinkles on your hand.” Again, laughter, tears, and a hug—this time for the joy of his unfiltered honesty. His innocence, his vulnerability, and my willingness to receive it without defensiveness left me deeply nourished.

What struck me later was this: it wasn’t only my grandson’s innocence that made these moments so alive—it was my own presence. Had I been preoccupied, distracted, or lost in thought, I might have brushed off his “I love you” with a polite response, or felt stung by his comment about my wrinkles. Instead, I was receptive. I was available to life as it presented itself.

This brings me to a phrase by Zen master Thich Nhat Hanh: “Present moment, wonderful moment.” When I first encountered these words many years ago, I struggled with them. What, I wondered, is so wonderful about the present moment when you’re suffering—when you’ve lost your job, your health, or someone you love?

Over time, through practice and reflection, my understanding deepened. Thich Nhat Hanh was not suggesting that every moment is pleasant. He was pointing to something far more radical: that life only happens now, and when we are fully present, we can meet both joy and sorrow without turning away. The “wonder” of the present moment lies in its aliveness—its truth—not in its comfort.

I think of presence as a visceral experience, like truly eating a meal. We see the food, smell it, feel its texture, taste its flavor, hear the subtle sounds as we chew. We pause and receive it fully, instead of consuming it mindlessly. Presence invites us to do the same with life.

This kind of aliveness can appear anywhere: watching water seep through a crack in a mountain; listening to a chant echo in the stillness of early morning at a monastery; witnessing two elderly people sitting side by side, hands touching, no words needed. It can also appear in moments of heartbreak—a mother wailing over the death of her child. Can we stay open to life as it truly is, allowing it to touch us, shape us, and deepen our connection to what matters?

So often, we are pulled away from the present by worries about money, fears about health, regrets about the past, or anxieties about the future. I am not dismissing the importance of financial security or well-being. But our insatiable striving—for more money, recognition, or control—and our fear of aging and decline can quietly rob us of the very life we are trying to protect.

As a member of the aging cohort, I am learning to cherish moments of aliveness—whether they arrive as joy or grief. Grief, after all, tells me that I have loved. Joy and grief are not opposites; they are two sides of the same coin. To be fully alive—to inhabit life as it unfolds—is the greatest gift I can offer myself now.

Friends, thank you for being in community with me. I would love to hear how this reflection speaks to you. If it resonates, please pass it along to someone who might enjoy the message.

With love,

Dr. Nellie

Betty invited me to visit her in her new home. She and her husband, Sam, had moved into an independent living community. Her voice over the phone was bright and spirited as she said, “Come visit us. I have a new home, and I’m focused on four things: finding joy, keeping moving, being safe, and making new friends.”

I was stunned in the most delightful way.

For at least 25 years, I had known her as a chronic worrier, her forehead often creased in a permanent frown. She planned everything meticulously, yet the smallest deviation could send her spiraling into anxiety, panic, and sleepless nights. She knew her patterns, even suffered from them, but felt unable to step out of their grip.

In our many conversations over the years, I offered a listening ear and an empathetic heart. But this visit felt entirely different. When she opened the door, she was calm, grounded, and radiant.

“Betty!” I exclaimed. “You look relaxed and happy. I can feel your upbeat energy.”

She smiled. “Well, I made a choice. I realized I could keep living the way I always had or change and enjoy whatever years I have left.”

At 85, still alert and sharp, she showed me art pieces she had created from wood, metal and paper, beautiful objects that filled her home with warmth.

“I had no idea you were an artist!” I said.

“I never called myself one,” she replied. “I’m not selling my work. I always thought you’re only an artist when you display and sell your creations.”

I laughed inwardly at her logic. By that measure, someone who finishes medical school but never practices, are they not still a doctor?

When I returned home, I reflected on the transformation I had witnessed. What cracked her open? Was it the physical move? The letting go of decades of possessions? Or perhaps the spaciousness that comes when life asks us to begin again?

My sense is this: deep within each of us is the power of freedom, the freedom to choose. We are always at choice, yet we often forget this truth. Instead of relating to the moment directly, we react out of old conditioning.

Betty told me, with great clarity, “I’m choosing joy instead of anxiety. I have a choice, and joy feels much better than fear.” She wasn’t denying reality. She simply acknowledged what was happening, accepted it, and let it go with compassion. That made space for something new.

I was especially struck by her transformation around food. She said, laughing softly, “Do you remember how fanatic I was about eating perfectly? If the food wasn’t organic or prepared ‘right,’ I’d go hungry rather than eat it. Now I just appreciate what I’m served. I enjoy it with gratitude. I thought what difference does one organic meal make at my age? Maybe joy is the best nourishment I can give my body.”

Wisdom, plain and simple.

How beautiful it would be if we could measure joy. But unfortunately, joy cannot be packaged or sold. It is universal, free, and accessible to all of us—if we choose to live from it. At 85, Betty discovered a second wind.

If you’re struggling to let go of something, the turning of the year may be a gentle invitation. It might be possessions, a relationship that no longer supports you, or even the belief that aging is only a downhill path. Acknowledge what it has given you, thank it, and let it move on with love. Step into the New Year with a lighter, warmer heart.

And perhaps this is the quiet miracle tucked inside Betty’s story: that transformation doesn’t require a dramatic leap, only a willingness to soften, to listen, to try something new in this very moment. Life keeps offering us small invitations to loosen the grip of old habits, to trust a little more, to move toward what feels alive.

Maybe the door that opened for Betty is never closed to any of us. At any age, in any season, we can pause, breathe, and ask gently, What else might be possible now? When we meet the present with curiosity rather than certainty, the path ahead tends to widen. Even joy -- unexpected, tender, quietly insistent -- can find its way in.

I’d love to hear about your own journey of letting go or beginning anew. And if this story touched you, please share it with someone who may also need its warmth.

Happy Thanksgiving,

Dr. Nellie

It was 2:30 a.m. I lay on a stretcher in the Outpatient Emergency Room. The cold air, the clicking of monitors, and the harsh fluorescent lights kept me from settling. My body felt tight; my mind raced. I was restless and alone, known only as “Room 7, diagnostic code: possible TIA.”

Anxious and needing to use the restroom, I unhooked myself and went looking for help. No one had checked on me for over an hour. “As soon as we know you have a bed, ma’am, you’ll be transferred to the Observation Ward,” a loud voice called from down the hall. “Can I go to the bathroom?” I asked. “Sure, it’s down the corridor, just after the wheelchair.” No one offered to assist me. I managed to return to my room, shivering. “Could you lower the head of the stretcher, dim the lights, and bring me a blanket, please?” I asked softly. The clock kept ticking.

A few hours later, the morning shift arrived. A nurse walked in and introduced herself. “My name is “Becky”. I’m your nurse for this shift. I’m here to take care of you. Are you comfortable? Would you like some water, juice, or food? This is the call button, please don’t go to the bathroom alone.”

She looked me in the eye. Her voice was gentle, her movements unhurried, her presence steady. In that moment, something inside me softened. My body released its tension. A wave of calm and safety washed over me. I mattered. I felt cared for, as if wrapped in my mother’s embrace.

It felt like I had been given a fast-acting anti-anxiety medication. But what I had received was kindness.

Science tells us that kindness triggers oxytocin, helping us feel safe and connected. Serotonin and dopamine soothe the mind, and lower cortisol levels ease stress and anxiety. My body had become a sea of natural healing chemicals. No wonder I felt so good. If kindness could be made into a pill, everyone would want it.

As I lay there reflecting, I thought about my own “kindness training.” My grandmother’s constant refrain still echoes in my ears: “Be kind to everyone; help anyone who needs help.” Both she and my mother lived by that teaching. But the message was always outward. I never heard, “Be kind to yourself too.”

I grew up believing that to care for myself was selfish. I drove myself hard and was quick to criticize when I fell short. Self-care and self-compassion weren’t in my vocabulary. Over time, through the practices of Living Compassion and the Buddhist practice of Metta—loving-kindness meditation—I learned a new language of the heart: “Do unto yourself as you would do unto others.”

Gradually, kindness stopped being something I did and became something I was. It became embodied, an expression of open-hearted presence. A smile, a touch, a moment of deep listening, all are acts of kindness that ripple far beyond their moment.

One afternoon at a grocery store, I stood in line behind an elderly woman searching through her worn wallet. “I’m sorry,” she told the check-out clerk, “I don’t have enough for my groceries.” The clerk replied, “Then I’ll remove some of your items.” I quietly handed the clerk a ten-dollar bill to cover the difference. The woman thanked me with tears in her eyes. But what struck me most was the woman behind me in line who said, “Your action touched me. I’ll remember to do the same someday.” That is the ripple effect of kindness, the way it multiplies through unseen hearts.

The kindness I received that night in the emergency room has stayed with me. I feel as though it rewired me at the cellular level. Kindness and gratitude have become daily companions. My heart feels more open. I judge less, though when judgment arises, I notice it and offer myself a compassionate hug. I see now that kindness is not a soft sentiment. It is a force that heals hearts, quiets the mind, and strengthens the spirit.

My friends, I invite you to recall a time when you received kindness. Let yourself feel again what it did to your body and heart.

Then, for one week, offer a simple act of kindness toward yourself or someone close to you each day. Notice how it feels in your own body, and if others nearby are touched by it. That’s the medicine at work, the living current of kindness moving through us all.

If this reflection resonates with you, please share it. Let’s keep the ripple alive. I would enjoy hearing from you.

With love,

Dr. Nellie

High Tech, Low Touch Health Care — finding the human connection in a digital world.

If this resonates with you, please take a moment to RSVP by October 24 (center208@sbcglobal.net).

It’s a relaxed, friendly gathering. Bring a friend if you’d like.

Looking forward to a meaningful conversation and a good meal together.

Dr. Nellie

I would be delighted if you could join me for a nourishing lunch and heartfelt conversation on Wednesday, November 5, 2025, at 11:30 AM at Govinda’s Vegetarian Cuisine (West 34th St., Houston, TX 77018).

Our conversation theme: Navigating our High Tech, Low Touch Health Care.

As health care becomes more high tech, many of us sometimes feel reduced to numbers or diagnoses, missing the human touch and true caring connection. This gathering is an opportunity to share our experiences—whether challenges or bright spots—and explore together how we can make our care more personal and humane.

This will be an open-hearted circle for storytelling, support, and reflection. Please feel free to bring a friend — everyone is warmly welcome.

Lunch will be Dutch treat, and the conversation promises to be rich and meaningful.

Kindly RSVP by Friday, October 24 to: center208@sbcglobal.net

I look forward to sharing this time of connection and community with you.

With warmth and gratitude,

Dr. Nellie

My friend “Rebecca” taught me this recently. After Father’s Day she called, her voice alive with joy: “My prayers are answered. I have found the most loving, amazing help for my husband. ‘Marshall’ is God-sent. I never gave up praying. I knew help would come at the right time.”

For almost a year she had struggled to find support as her husband’s Alzheimer’s deepened, with moderate memory loss, hallucinations and disorientation. Many helpers came and went, none a good fit. Outwardly she appeared composed, moving from one option to the next. But in quiet moments she admitted through tears: “I want to be honest with myself. I need to stop pretending I am always okay. Crying releases my anger and sadness, and afterward I find energy to continue. I believe God will always answer my prayers. My life has always been that way.”

Her vulnerable honesty struck me deeply. It immediately reminded me of my one moment of collapse, the day I was mistakenly served a deportation letter in my first year of residency in Canada. In desperation, I fell to my knees and prayed. To my surprise, a feeling of calm followed and within a week, the situation resolved favorably. My earliest prayers as a child in Catholic school were for grades, rewards, or even a forbidden Cadbury chocolate bar. Later, when my mother introduced me to Buddhist temples and teachings, prayer began to expand in meaning.

As I grew older, I came to see prayer less as asking for what I wanted and more as trusting life. For me, prayer became surrender and openness: setting an intention and releasing the outcome, allowing life to unfold. When I pushed and forced, I often “went off the highway.” When I trusted the flow, things came with greater ease, as though aligned with a deeper current.

In that way, I see common ground between devotional and non-devotional traditions. What many faiths call surrender or opening to grace, I experience as trust in the unfolding of life. Whether we name it prayer, devotion, or attunement, the spirit is the same: receptivity, humility, openness.

When I asked Rebecca what sustained her, she answered in a single word: “Trust.” She allowed her tears, gave herself permission to fall apart, and trusted that answers would come. Her words echoed Buddhist teacher Pema Chödrön’s reminder that nothing is permanent and that compassion for our suffering transforms it. Rebecca’s prayers were not only petitions; they were acts of self-care, honesty, and compassion — qualities that opened her to receive help when it arrived.

As I reflect, I return to my mother’s wisdom. When I was young and followed her to the Buddhist temple, she whispered: “Nel, pray first with gratitude for what you already have. Pray for those who suffer, pray for your enemies, and then for what you want.” At the time, I didn’t grasp the depth of her teaching. Only years later did I see it as planting seeds of compassion.

Now I understand that prayer, in any form, connects us — to God, to life, to one another. Gratitude turns our hearts outward, helping us see each other as companions on the path in our shared, interdependent world.

Friends, I invite you to reflect: how does prayer live in your life? Has its meaning shifted for you over time? If you have enjoyed this blog, please share it with a friend who may find meaning in it too.

With love,

Dr. Nellie

A Wake-Up Call from Bobbi

One early spring morning, a phone call from Bobbi, my 52-year-old friend in Kerrville, brought that message uncomfortably home. I jumped out of bed to answer, my eyes half open, my mind still tangled in a dream.

“Hello,” I croaked—or did I say “Hell O”? It felt like hell… I’d just been chased by a tiger in my sleep.

“Are you okay?” Bobbi asked. “You sound as bad as I feel. This aging thing is getting me down. I thought I was coming down with a virus—runny nose, sore throat, slight cough. I loaded up on Vitamin C. Now my stomach’s rumbling, I feel queasy, and I’ve had the runs. I don’t like this aging thing. It takes too long to recover from anything—too long to do the simplest tasks. Getting old is not for sissies.”

Ouch. Her words hit hard. My belly knotted. Shoulders, chest, jaw—tight. My body braced against the all-too-familiar narrative: blaming everything on aging. That quiet sense of brokenness. Decline. I’ve noticed how often people—young and old—casually say, “I must be getting old” when they falter or forget. I was just as guilty—until I began noticing my own reactivity.

Reframing the Narrative

So I started asking: What is this comment really about? What am I feeling? Is there a real decline in capacity—a sign I should pay attention to? Or am I brushing something off too quickly?

We habitually compare ourselves to the past and may become preoccupied with the limitations of aging. But instead of dismissing discomfort with “I must be getting old,” or pushing aside our feelings, we can ask deeper questions. Let’s not allow age to become an excuse for ignoring persistent symptoms.

When It’s Not “Just Aging”

I’m reminded of Norma, a 70-year-old homemaker who endured periodic stomach pain for three years. “I have a sensitive stomach,” she said. “I just fast or go vegan. I figured it was part of growing old.” Sadly, it turned out to be colon cancer—already metastasized. Near the end of her life, she urged her friends not to dismiss symptoms so quickly: “If it persists, get it checked.” Not everything uncomfortable is “just aging.” And even when it is, we still deserve care—at every age. There’s a difference between honoring the natural changes of aging and resigning ourselves to decline without curiosity or care.

Lessons from My Elders

As a child, I revered my elders—grandparents, grandaunts, granduncles. They seemed to age gracefully, with dignity and presence. Wrinkles, grey hair, sagging skin—they wore them with pride. Their lived experience spoke louder than words. I recall one evening sitting with Ah Mah, my mother’s mother, while she enjoyed her only cigar of the day. “You always seem calm and happy,” I said, “while Grandpa is often anxious.” She blew out a puff, lifted her gaze, and replied: “You want to know my secret? Never worry. It’ll kill you.” Indeed, Grandpa died early. Grandma lived happily, passing in her sleep at 94. Her mantra has stayed with me my whole life.

From Devices to Dialogue

Today, in a world shaped by technology, we rarely turn to our elders for wisdom. We reach for Google or AI for faster answers, and in doing so, we miss something irreplaceable: the richness of intergenerational connection.

Growing Into the Present

Now, as someone in the chronological senior stage of life, I find myself celebrating more than resisting it. I’ve found comfort in Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh’s Five Remembrances, which invite us to accept the impermanent nature of life:

I am of the nature to grow old
I cannot escape growing old
I am of the nature to have ill health
I cannot escape having ill health
I am of the nature to die
I cannot escape death
All that is dear to me and everyone I love are of the nature to change
There is no way to escape being separated from them
I inherit the results of my actions
My actions are my continuation

When my mind drifts into comparison, I try to meet it with compassion. These days, I practice gratitude—for the life available to me right now. Though my world has shrunk in some ways since retirement, it has deepened in others. I’ve made new friends, discovered new interests (like writing this blog), and deepened old relationships. Most fulfilling of all: I’ve learned to truly inhabit the present. Everyday joys feel magnified: A tender gesture. My grandson’s hug. A bud blooming on the windowsill. I feel free to be myself—to choose how I respond to life. Change, after all, is the only constant. I try to walk with it lightly. This isn’t an onerous journey to a destination—it’s a curious unfolding.

Bobbi's Shift

When I checked in with Bobbi again—just two days later—she said she appreciated the perspective I’d shared.

I hope you do too.

A Gentle Challenge

In the coming week, notice how often you say—or think—“I must be getting old.” Let that phrase be a mindfulness bell. Pause. What are you really feeling? What might your body be trying to tell you? What story about aging—or about yourself—are you ready to rewrite?

I’d love to hear what special wisdom you discover.

And if this message resonates, please feel free to pass it along to someone you love.

With love,

Dr. Nellie