The Spaces We Never Name
There are spaces inside me I’ve never learned how to name.
They don’t scream or shine. They simply exist — tucked between coffee stains and sighs no one hears.
Some days they ache.
Some days they hum.
But always, they remind me:
Joy and grief can sit beside each other quietly, without needing to explain a thing.
There are spaces inside me I’ve never learned how to name.
They don’t beg for attention.
They just exist — tucked in the soft folds of everyday life, stitched between coffee stains and grocery lists, hidden behind sighs no one ever hears.
Sometimes they hum when my daughter laughs too loudly down the hallway,
a sound so pure it slices through me,
reminding me that joy and grief can sit shoulder to shoulder and never say a word.
Sometimes they ache when the house falls too quiet —
when I remember that nothing stays full forever,
not houses,
not hearts,
not even hands.
They aren’t sadness.
Not really.
And they’re not happiness either.
They’re something else —
something raw and unfinished, like a song you can almost remember but not quite sing.
No one warns you about the quiet devastations.
The way your child will outgrow your lap — and your arms — and the way you’ll cheer for them with a smile stretched over breaking bones.
The way grief will find you tucked inside the pages of an old book you almost gave away.
The way you’ll catch your reflection in a window — not expecting it — and realize you’ve survived things you never thought you could.
I used to think strength meant fighting harder.
Clawing, roaring, refusing to break.
But I was wrong.
Strength is quieter than that.
It’s sitting inside the ache without numbing it.
It’s loving people while knowing they could leave.
It’s mourning the girl you once were without abandoning the woman you’re becoming.
It’s knowing you can carry both the endings and the beginnings —
at the exact same time —
and still choose to stay open.
We don’t have words for everything.
Maybe we’re not supposed to.
Maybe some things are meant to be felt,
woven into the way we tuck our kids into bed a little tighter,
the way we laugh with our whole chests even when the world is heavy,
the way we wake up and try again even when nothing feels lighter yet.
Maybe the truest stories are the ones we live —
the ones stitched into our scars,
tangled in our laughter,
etched into the spaces we never learned how to name.
And maybe, just maybe,
survival isn’t the hard part.
Maybe it’s allowing yourself to still believe in beauty —
even after everything.
Especially after everything.
And if no one’s ever told you this:
You’re doing beautifully.
Even in the unnamed spaces.
Even in the quiet.
Especially there.
Love,
Jonesy
How Not to Die in Public: A Totally Unqualified Survival Guide
What do you do when your body taps out mid-treadmill and you end up pale, pukey, and plopped in the cardiac rehab time-out chair? If you’re me — you laugh, you cry (a little), and then you write a survival guide.
“How Not to Die in Public” is part snark, part truth, and 100% real life. Because when your joints sound like haunted maracas and your blood pressure dips like a toddler’s mood swing, you deserve a standing ovation just for showing up.
Because nothing says “main character energy” like getting benched at cardiac rehab.
There are moments in life when you feel powerful, radiant, unstoppable.
And then there are moments when your body says “Sit down, sweetheart” — and you end up slumped in what can only be described as the Big Ole Time-Out Recliner, pale as printer paper, desperately trying to pretend you’re fine while contemplating your entire existence.
Hi. It’s me. I’m the drama.
Let’s set the scene: I showed up to cardiac rehab like the responsible adult I am. Water bottle in hand. Positive attitude loaded. Stretchy pants on point.
Ten minutes in? I’m yeeted from the treadmill and gently deposited into the recliner of shame, holding back vomit while silently negotiating with the universe not to let me die in public.
Joint pain? Unholy. Blood pressure? Missing in action. My will to power through it? Hanging on by a thread and a poorly secured ponytail.
So in case you, too, find yourself unexpectedly starring in a low-budget medical episode, here’s my completely unqualified, moderately sarcastic guide to surviving it with your pride mostly intact.
Step 1: Always Pretend You Meant to Do That
Get wheeled to the corner? Slump into the recliner of defeat?
Just nod and say, “Ah yes, my throne awaits.”
Step 2: Glamour is a State of Mind
You may be pale, clammy, and one involuntary gag away from chaos — but with dry shampoo and lip gloss, you’re still out here serving “medical mystery with a touch of glam.”
Step 3: Nail the Exit Line
When the nurse asks how you’re doing, resist the urge to cry.
Instead, flash a weak smile and say, “Just vibing in my recliner. Living the dream.”
Step 4: Process Through Humor, Not Shame
Yes, I cried in the car. But first, I turned it into content.
Because if you don’t laugh about it, you’ll just sit there spiraling — and spiraling is cardio, which we’ve clearly had enough of.
Step 5: Journal the Chaos
Today’s prompt:
“What’s the most ridiculous moment that made you realize you’re stronger than you think?”
Bonus points if it involves medical-grade recliners and stubborn joints.
Step 6: Laugh Anyway
Even when your knees sound like bubble wrap.
Even when you feel like a human Jenga tower.
Even when the nurse hands you a puke bag like it’s a party favor.
Because humor might not fix it, but it sure as hell makes it feel less like a punishment.
So here’s to the ones who keep showing up — dizzy, sore, sidelined, and still making people laugh.
You’re not weak. You’re not dramatic.
You’re just navigating a body that didn’t read the manual.
And babe, that takes guts — and a recliner with lumbar support.
From the cardiac rehab time-out chair with love,
Jonesy