Our Crazy So-Called Life

🌿 When Everything Feels Like Too Much

May 4, 2026 / Sandi / 0 Comments

This week was heavy.

I’m not going to try to dress this week up into something it wasn’t.

It was hard.

There’s been a lot happening behind the scenes: working through my disability application, trying to stay on top of everything that comes with that, and at the same time, helping my mom through appointments that didn’t go the way we hoped.

It’s the kind of week where everything stacks up at once. I was super overwhelmed.

Where your brain doesn’t really get a break, even when you’re technically “resting.”Where you’re trying to hold it together for everyone else, but you can feel yourself getting worn down in the process.

I don’t have a lesson tied up neatly at the end of this. I don’t have a big realization or a “this is what it all means” moment.

I’m just tired.

And I think that’s okay to say.

There’s a strange pressure sometimes to turn every difficult moment into something uplifting. To find the silver lining right away. To make it make sense before you’ve even had time to feel it.

But some weeks don’t need to be fixed.

Some weeks just need to be acknowledged.

So that’s what this is.

Just me saying: this week was heavy.

I’ve been trying to find small moments where I can breathe again. Nothing big. Nothing life-changing. Just small things.

Opening the windows for a little while.

Sitting outside, even if it’s just in the car.

Putting my phone on do not disturb and listening to music for a bit.

Playing my favorite video games.

Not solutions—just pauses.

And right now, that feels like enough.

If you’ve had a week like this too, where everything feels like a little too much, where you’re feeling very overwhelmed, you’re not alone in that.

Sometimes the best thing we can do is stop trying to push through so hard, and just admit where we’re at.

I’m hoping next week feels a little lighter.

But for now, I’m just giving myself permission to be where I am.

🌿The Part of Me You Haven’t Fully Met Yet

April 27, 2026 / Sandi / 0 Comments

Most people who know me through this blog know me through words. They know my thoughts, my reflections, my questions, and some of the roads life has taken me down. Writing has been one of the clearest ways I’ve learned to make sense of the world.

But words have never been the only language I speak.

Photography Has Always Been Part of Me

For a long time, photography has been another way I process life. Sometimes there are things that cannot be explained nearly as well as they can be noticed: the way morning fog settles over trees, sunlight breaking through storm clouds, an old barn standing quietly against the years, or the stillness of a landscape that says more than noise ever could.

Photography has always drawn me toward those moments.

Years ago, I earned a degree in photography. Like many things in life, though, gifts and passions do not always travel in straight lines. Confidence can be shaken. Life can interrupt. Hard seasons can make parts of us grow quiet for a while. Some things we love get placed on shelves—not because they no longer matter, but because we forget they still belong to us.

That has been true for me in some ways.

And yet, even when it was quieter, photography never really left. I still noticed the sky. I still paid attention to changing seasons. I still felt that pull to preserve something fleeting before it disappeared. I still found myself reaching for whatever camera I had in my hand, even if it was only a phone, trying to hold onto beauty for one more moment.

Lately, I’ve been reminded that creativity does not need permission to return. It does not need perfect timing, perfect health, perfect confidence, or perfect equipment. It only needs room to breathe again.

So this is simply me making room.

I Didn’t Find My Way Back Alone

While Deer Ridge Images carries my name and vision, it would not exist in the same way without my wife.

She has encouraged me to create again when I had nearly buried that part of myself. She reminded me that art still mattered. That I still mattered.

Some of the images featured here were taken by her—including the rain-soaked shed photo and the Milky Way image. Those photographs represent more than scenery. They represent partnership, patience, and the way someone can help you find your way back to yourself.

So while Deer Ridge Images began with me, it continues because of us.

What Kind of Photography I’ll Be Sharing

From time to time, I’ll be sharing photography here as well—images of landscapes, weather, quiet places, rural scenes, wildlife, and the kinds of moments that have always spoken to me. Not because they are flawless. Not because I have something to prove. But because they are real, and because they are part of me.

White-tailed deer in a grassy farm field at sunrise with soft morning light, photographed by Deer Ridge Images. — Morning on the farm, where deer were never strangers and beauty rarely needed announcing.

Macro sunflower photograph with vivid yellow petals and detailed seed center against clear blue sky by Deer Ridge Images. — Taken on the farm, where some of my favorite stories began.

Portrait of a gray wolf pup with soft fur and alert eyes resting outdoors, photographed by Deer Ridge Images. — Maya as a pup—one of the wolves I helped care for, and a moment I’ll never forget. At the International Wolf Center, Ely, MN 2004

Rustic wooden shed in a grassy field with colorful fall hillside in the background on a rainy day, photographed by Deer Ridge Images. — Taken during an anniversary day trip in the rain—one of those moments worth jumping out of the car for.

Green northern lights over farmland and open night sky on the family farm, photographed by Deer Ridge Images. — Northern lights over the farm—proof that wonder can appear right where your roots began.

This blog has always been a place for honesty. Sharing this side of myself feels like another kind of honesty.

Thank you for being here long enough to meet another part of who I am. 🌿

A lit candle beside a pink lotus flower reflected in calm water with the words “Seeing It Clearly,” symbolizing gentle self-awareness, reflection, and healing.

🌿 Field Notes: When Reality Reflected Back

April 20, 2026 / Sandi / 0 Comments

This week, I found myself looking at my life through a lens I usually avoid.

Not because I’m in denial.

Not because I’m pretending everything is fine.

But because when you live with limitations long enough, they become normal to you.

You adapt.

You compensate.

You learn workarounds.

You keep going.

And after a while, what would shock someone else just becomes Tuesday.

After completing two disability applications back to back, reading an assessment from the county, and hearing my therapist say I shouldn’t have much trouble qualifying because of my very significant physical and mental limitations…

I had a moment.

A real one.

Not a “I hate myself” moment.

Not shame.

More like:

Oh shit.

I didn’t realize it was this bad.

There’s something strange about seeing your reality written plainly on paper.

Things you’ve minimized.

Things you’ve pushed through.

Things you’ve explained away.

Suddenly listed clearly and clinically.

And for a moment, you see yourself from the outside.

I think many of us do this.

We become so used to carrying what we carry that we stop calling it heavy.

We become so used to struggling that we stop calling it struggle.

We become so used to surviving that we forget survival has a cost.

So this week, I’m holding one gentle truth:

If your life has become hard in ways you barely notice anymore…

That doesn’t mean it isn’t hard.

It means you adapted.

And adaptation is not the same thing as ease.

Maybe some of us need to look at ourselves more kindly.

More honestly.

More gently.

Not with criticism.

But with compassion for everything we’ve been carrying while still trying to keep moving.

💛 Sometimes the clearest reflection isn’t cruel.It’s compassionate.

A soft blue background with the words “A Quiet Week,” featuring a resting dog, smiling flowers, and a small leaf, representing rest and slowing down.

🌿 Field Notes: Paperwork Week

April 13, 2026 / Sandi / 0 Comments

This week has been filled with paperwork.

The kind that sits on the table and quietly takes up space in your mind, even when you’re not actively working on it.

Social Security sent another packet, and right now, that’s where most of my energy is going.

So if things feel a little quieter here…

that’s why.

Some weeks are for writing.

Some weeks are for getting through forms, appointments, and the invisible work that doesn’t leave much room for anything else.

I’ll be back soon.

Just… one page at a time.

💛 Progress doesn’t always look like productivity.

A sunlit forest path with warm light streaming through trees and the text “I Submitted It,” symbolizing relief, progress, and a quiet step forward after completing a disability application.

🌿 Field Notes: I Submitted It

April 7, 2026 / Sandi / 0 Comments

I finally submitted my disability application.

That sentence feels small on paper.

But it doesn’t feel small in real life.

There’s a lot that goes into something like this.

The paperwork.

The remembering.

The explaining your body over and over again.

Putting words to things you’ve spent years just trying to get through.

It’s not just forms.

It’s your life, translated into boxes and timelines and medical language.

And that’s heavier than it sounds.

So this week hasn’t been about writing.

Or creating.

Or staying on schedule.

It’s been about getting through something that needed my full attention.

And now that it’s submitted…

There’s a strange mix of relief and exhaustion.

Like finishing a long climb and realizing you’re not at the top yet — but at least you reached the next marker.

I don’t know what comes next yet.

But for now, this part is done.

And that matters.

💛 Some steps are quiet. Some steps are heavy.

This one was both.

🌿 Field Notes: A Quiet Week

March 30, 2026 / Sandi / 0 Comments

This week has been quieter here.

Not because there’s nothing to say…but because life has been asking for my attention elsewhere.

I’ve been working through a disability application — the kind of process that takes more energy than it looks like from the outside.

The paperwork.

The details.

The remembering.

It’s a different kind of work.

So this week, I’m choosing not to rush.

Not to force words onto the page just to stay on schedule.

Instead, I’m giving myself a little space to move through what’s in front of me.

The stories will still be here.

The words will still come.

Just… maybe a little more gently.

💛 Some weeks are for writing. Some weeks are for getting through.

Warm, lived-in living room with soft light and a cozy, slightly messy space, reflecting a quiet, personal moment

⭐ When It Didn’t Come Out Clean: A Disability Assessment and Letting Myself Be Seen

March 23, 2026 / Sandi / 0 Comments

I went into the assessment thinking I needed to hold it together.

Answer clearly. Stay composed. Explain things in a way that made sense.

Not too much. Not too emotional. Just enough.

I’ve gotten pretty good at that over the years — finding a way to explain my life so it sounds manageable. Something people can understand without sitting in it too long.

But this time… it didn’t really work like that.

She started asking questions about my day-to-day. About what I can do. What I can’t. What things actually look like at home.

And I tried to answer the way I usually do. Clean. Simple. Contained.

But somewhere in the middle of it, my body had other plans.

The words didn’t come out the way I expected them to. My chest tightened, my throat closed up, and before I could stop it, I was crying.

Not dramatically. Not uncontrollably.

Just… enough that I couldn’t pretend everything was fine.

I remember thinking, this is not how this is supposed to go.

I was supposed to explain things. Not… show them.

There were moments where I couldn’t find the words I wanted. Where my brain just stalled out. And my wife stepped in — filling in the gaps, explaining things I couldn’t quite get out.

Not over me. Just… alongside me.

And honestly, I think that mattered more than anything I could have said perfectly.

At some point, I realized I wasn’t going to be able to present my life in a neat, understandable way.

There wasn’t going to be a version of this that sounded “okay.”

And maybe that was the point.

Because when it was over, she said she was going to recommend PCA services.

Which means help.

Actual, tangible help.

Not because I explained things well.

But because, for once, I didn’t.

I didn’t hold it together.

I didn’t translate everything into something easier to hear.

I just… showed what it looks like.

And somehow, that was enough.

And I think I’m starting to understand that maybe it doesn’t have to come out clean to be real.

Maybe it just… has to be honest.

Have you ever had a moment where you couldn’t hold it together the way you thought you should?

Craft supplies, beads, and jewelry-making tools spread across a wooden table with the title “Christmas… Eventually,” representing handmade gifts that take longer than expected.

🎁 Field Notes: Christmas… Eventually

March 16, 2026 / Sandi / 0 Comments

The other day I had a realization.

A deeply humbling realization.

I still have Christmas presents I started making two years ago.

And not only that…I also have presents from last Christmas that still need to be finished.

Which means, technically speaking, my holiday production schedule is running somewhere between “fashionably late” and “archaeological discovery.”

But in my defense…Handmade gifts take time.

Sometimes that time is measured in weeks.

Sometimes months.

And sometimes… apparently…multiple Christmases.

🎄 The Handmade Gift Timeline

When you decide to make gifts instead of buying them, there’s always this hopeful moment where you think:

“I’ll start early this year.”

And you mean it.

You really do.

But then life happens.

Chronic illness happens.

Caregiving happens.

Executive function goes on vacation.

And suddenly the calendar flips forward like a scene from a time-lapse nature documentary.

🧠 ADHD Holiday Math

Normal holiday math says:

Start gift → finish gift → wrap gift → Christmas morning.

My brain’s version looks more like this:

Start gift → set aside temporarily → forget about it → rediscover it six months later → feel hopeful again → repeat.

At this point my handmade gifts are less “Christmas presents” and more long-term creative investments.

🌿 Why I’m Not Beating Myself Up About It

There was a time when realizing this would have made me feel like I’d failed.

Like I should have been more organized.

More disciplined.More on top of things.

But life has taught me something important:

The timeline of a handmade gift doesn’t actually determine its value.

Care does.

Intention does.

Love does.

Even if that love takes a slightly… scenic route.

🎁 The Honest Truth

The truth is, when you live with chronic pain, ADHD, caregiving responsibilities, and the general chaos of being human…

Some things just move slower.

And that’s okay.

The people I love don’t care whether a gift shows up in December…or February…or occasionally two Christmases later.

What they care about is the thought behind it.

🌲 Field Notes From a Slightly Chaotic Holiday Schedule

Good things take time.

Sometimes that time is measured in days.

Sometimes in months.

And sometimes…apparently…in multiple holiday seasons.

Which is fine.

Because Christmas happens every year.

No rush.

Narrow gravel path between two concrete walls symbolizing barriers in accessible housing design.

🌿 Field Note: The House I Live In Was Never Built for Me

March 9, 2026 / Sandi / 0 Comments

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about accessible housing — and how rare it really is.

There’s a quiet assumption built into most homes that everyone living there can walk, climb stairs, step over thresholds, and navigate narrow spaces without thinking about it. If you can’t, suddenly the most basic parts of daily life become complicated.

Take my own house, for example.

The only shower in the house is in the basement. I can’t safely get down there. The doorways are narrow enough that a wheelchair would struggle to fit through them. Even moving through the house with crutches takes planning.

And this wasn’t an oversight.

My mom had mobility issues long before I became disabled. But no modifications were ever made. No ramps. No accessible bathroom. Nothing that would make daily life easier.

The house worked for the person who built the rules of the house — and that was considered good enough.

If he could access everything, then the house was “fine.”

Everyone else was expected to figure it out.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately because accessible housing isn’t just a personal issue — it’s a systemic one.

New housing developments are still being built with multiple floors and stair-heavy designs as the default. Apartment buildings might include one or two accessible units in a building of a hundred. And the few homes that are intentionally designed with accessibility in mind are often marketed as “specialty” or “retirement” housing instead of simply being part of normal community planning.

The result is that disabled people are often forced to adapt themselves to spaces that were never designed with them in mind.

But here’s the quiet truth that doesn’t get talked about enough:

Mobility is not a permanent guarantee.

Most people will experience disability in some form during their lifetime — through injury, illness, or aging. Yet we continue building homes as if accessibility is a rare edge case instead of something that benefits everyone.

Wider doorways. Step-free entrances. Bathrooms that can actually accommodate mobility aids. These things don’t make a house “special.” They make a house usable.

And usable spaces benefit far more people than we tend to realize.

Right now, I live in a home that requires constant workarounds.

But it’s also made me see the bigger picture more clearly.

Accessible housing isn’t just about disability.

It’s about building spaces where people can continue living their lives safely — even when life doesn’t go according to plan.

Accessible housing is something most people don’t think about until they need it.

But once you start noticing it, you see it everywhere — the stairs, the narrow doors, the spaces that assume everyone moves the same way.

If you’ve experienced this too, or if you’ve seen homes designed differently, I’d love to hear your perspective.

Snow-covered rural driveway curving through quiet winter trees

🌿 Field Note: When I Stopped Explaining

March 2, 2026 / Sandi / 0 Comments

We were about three miles from home when the tire went flat.

I had just picked my wife up from work, and we were heading back after what was supposed to be a mild snowstorm. The forecast said two to four inches. Minnesota, apparently, had other plans. By the time we were driving home, we were sitting closer to eight or ten.

I pulled over on the side of a country road while my wife hopped out to check the damage. Two puncture holes. Not exactly something you can wish away.

First call was to our neighbor. He wasn’t home — out plowing snow and booked solid for a couple more hours. Fair enough. My wife checked for the spare but looked in the wrong spot, so at that point we thought we didn’t have one. AAA said a tow truck could get to us in about two hours. They were busy pulling people out of ditches.

And that’s when the practical reality hit me.

If the car got towed… I was going to have to climb up into the truck cab.

And I couldn’t.

So I called my neighbor back and explained the situation. Told him it might be a few hours. And then — the part that stuck in my throat for a second — I said plainly that I wouldn’t be able to get into the tow truck because I’m disabled.

He paused.

Then said quietly “oh.”

And honestly? That made sense. This is someone I grew up with. Someone who has seen me in my pajamas more times than I can count on my fingers. 😂 For nearly twenty years, I’ve always had some kind of explanation ready when my crutches came up — something temporary-sounding, something easier than the full truth.

Old habits run deep.

He offered to have his son come get us. I told him I wanted to check what AAA could do first and that I’d keep him posted.

After that, there wasn’t much to do but wait.

So we did what you do when you’re stranded on a snowy roadside in Minnesota — we settled in and started working through the leftover Valentine’s chocolate like it was part of the emergency plan.

A woman pulled over and asked if we needed help. We thanked her and told her we were okay. Not long after, another man stopped and offered us a ride somewhere warm. We declined again, grateful but managing.

Then about fifteen minutes later, another SUV pulled up.

Turns out his wife was the one who had offered us snacks — and she had apparently sent him back on a mission. 😂

He found the spare tire (in the correct spot, bless him) and had it swapped out in no time. I offered to pay him. He refused. My wife handed him some car wash books we had in the car, and after a polite back-and-forth, he finally accepted.

He even followed us for a couple of miles just to make sure we made it safely down the road.

By the time we got home — truly home — something in my chest had shifted.

Not because the moment itself was easy. It wasn’t. Old voices were loud for a minute there — the ones that say don’t look weak, don’t show it, don’t let people see where it hurts.

But sitting there in the quiet afterward, I realized something I hadn’t expected.

For the first time in almost twenty years…I wasn’t trying to keep track of the story anymore.

And it turns out, that weighs a lot less.