I started writing after my husband was finally diagnosed with Parkinson’s.

But the truth is, it had been entering our lives quietly for years.

Little adjustments.
Little rewrites of normal.
The slow reshaping of a life before anyone finally gave it a name.

And once it had a name, everything changed.

I think I started writing because I was afraid of disappearing inside caregiving. Afraid that by the time it was over there would be nothing left of me except exhaustion, regret, and anger.

And I knew that was not how I wanted my story to end.

Somewhere along the way I realized I was also writing for my daughter and granddaughter.

Not so they would remember me someday as some vague “fun crazy grandmother.”

But so they would know me.

The real me.

Curious. Funny. Overwhelmed. Hopeful. Sometimes held together by little more than good lighting and a beautifully arranged tray.

Still Curious became a place where I could leave behind more than photographs or secondhand stories. A place to leave my voice while I was still here to tell the story myself.

And maybe, in some small way, to remind the people I love to remain curious.
To be brave with their lives.
Steadfast when life becomes difficult.

Because I think that’s why we are here.

Not simply to survive life —
but to remain awake inside it.

still curious.