This morning, I sat on the front step with coffee in hand while Sam and Tucker wandered around the yard.

Tucker is staying with me for a few days, and I found myself smiling as I watched his attention move quickly from one thing to another — first the hummingbirds darting around the feeder, chasing each other away, then the sound of something rustling in the woods, then back again.

Meanwhile, I became completely mesmerized by the bees in the clover.

There were so many of them moving through the grass that the whole yard almost seemed to vibrate with activity. Tiny lives moving with purpose. Tiny systems at work. Tiny creatures paying attention.

And as I sat there quietly, I found myself thinking about my car.

Last week, I hit the front bumper while pulling into a parking space at my therapist’s office.

Not a catastrophic accident. Just a careless moment. A scrape. Cracked grille. Bent plastic. Damage low enough that most people probably wouldn’t notice unless they were looking for it.

But I noticed it immediately.

And honestly? It colored the rest of my day.

I remember sitting in therapy afterward feeling spun out and emotional, but unable to articulate why. Underneath it all was this immediate wave of self-condemnation:

“How could you make such a stupid mistake?”
“This is going to cost money you don’t have.”
“Really, Leah?”

Since then, I’ve been hyper-aware of the damage.

Every time I park, I look at the bumper.
Every time I drive, I listen carefully.
I keep checking to see if it’s gotten worse.
I’ve been driving more cautiously because I don’t want to cause more damage.

And sitting there this morning, watching the bees move through the clover, I suddenly saw the parallel.

How often do we move through life this same way after impact?

Something happens — sometimes because we weren’t paying attention, sometimes because we were exhausted, overwhelmed, distracted, or carrying too much already — and then: WHAM.

A collision.
A breakdown.
A betrayal.
A loss.
A moment that suddenly makes us aware of our own fragility.

Today is actually one year since I was taken from my property to the hospital in restraints after a psychotic break.

And if I’m honest, I think I’ve spent much of the last year “checking the damage.”

Watching myself carefully.
Monitoring my thoughts.
Driving more cautiously through life.
Trying not to hit anything else.

Not because I’m weak.
Not because I’m broken beyond repair.
But because impact changes the way we move.

Another thought came to me as I sat there.

With the car, the obvious solution is to take it to a body shop. Or call a handy friend who might be able to piece the grille back together well enough that it stops hanging there reminding me every time I walk toward the car.

But when money feels tight, sometimes you avoid repair altogether because you’re afraid of what it will cost.

The irony is that unrepaired damage costs something too.

Maybe not immediately in dollars.
But in attention.
In energy.
In vigilance.

You carry it every day.

And then I thought about something I said to the kids I care for yesterday while we were driving.

Lennon was trying to get me to turn around and look at something in the back seat, and I told her I needed to keep my eyes ahead because I was driving and needed to keep us safe.

She asked what “safe” meant.

So I explained that when we walk or drive, we have to pay attention to where we’re going. We can’t move forward safely while staring behind us.

And as the words came out of my mouth, I thought:

“Hmmm. Leah… that’s good advice.”

Because isn’t that what so many of us do?

We keep looking backward while trying to move forward.
Backward at old wounds.
Backward at old shame.
Backward at old collisions.

And then we wonder why we feel disoriented.

I don’t think healing means pretending damage never happened.

Sometimes the bumper is still scraped.
Sometimes the grille is still cracked.
Sometimes you drive more carefully because you learned something through impact.

But maybe healing looks like this:

Acknowledging the damage.
Repairing what you can.
Receiving help when you need it.
And then slowly learning how to keep your eyes forward again.

This morning, the hummingbirds kept darting around the feeder while the bees continued their steady work through the clover.

Life moving forward.
Creation paying attention.
Everything alive and humming around me.

And for a moment, sitting there with my coffee on the front step, I thought:

Maybe I’m healing too.