Category: Becoming

Leaving the Farm

Brenda Stratton

We lived on the farm until I was six years old. Dad sold all the animals and equipment, but he kept his milk trucks. The milk routes were one of the main reasons we moved — now he had access to two creameries instead of just one.

We moved to a new town, where I started school. Learning to read was thrilling, and it remains one of the great joys of my life. I remember Dick and Jane, and Spot and Puff, with deep fondness.

Everything was different there — city streets instead of gravel roads. We brought Brownie, of course, but a city ordinance meant he had to be tied up. We lived on a highway at the edge of town, and our small yard was a poor substitute for the acres of farmland he once roamed.

Mom and Dad said it wasn’t fair to keep him tied. He was sad — a farm dog, after all, used to chasing rabbits and running through open pastures. So Dad found him a home on a farm belonging to a good customer on one of his milk routes. I was sad, too. I missed him terribly. But Dad said Brownie was happier there, and that gave me comfort.

Over the next two years, we moved several more times to accommodate Dad’s changing business. Near the end of my third-grade year, Dad sold the milk trucks, found a better job, and purchased Mom’s childhood home in a small rural village only a few miles from the farm.

Soon after, Mom enrolled me in school — the one I came to think of fondly as The Little Red Schoolhouse. It was the same country school that Mom and her eight brothers and sisters had attended before me.

Black-and-white historic photograph of Millersburg School building with students and teachers posed in front.

Millersburg School building, which housed grades 1–8 (later
1–6) before closing in 1962. Historic photo — not my class.
Color rendering of the Millersburg School re-created from the historic photo.


The entire school, grades 1–6, fit into two classrooms. Most grades had six to eight students. Some had fewer. When I was in fifth grade, there were only four children in fourth.

It was small in a way that felt personal.

Wisdom From My Mother

Brenda Stratton

I grew up with a piece of wisdom from my mother that has stayed with me my entire life.

She used to say:

“If you do the best you can with the information you have at the time, that’s all you can do.”

At the time, it sounded simple. Almost obvious. But life has a way of testing truth.

We make decisions without knowing how things will turn out.

We trust professionals.

We do what we believe is right with the facts we’re given.

And sometimes, later on, we learn things we wish we had known sooner.

That’s when guilt tries to move in.

That’s when we replay moments and ask ourselves, “What if I had done something differently?”

But here’s what I’ve learned through caregiving, loss, and ordinary human moments: You cannot punish yourself for not knowing what you could not have known. Doing the best you can with the information you have is not a failure. It is being human.

If you made a choice with care, with love, and with the intention to do right, you are allowed to forgive yourself.

You are allowed to rest.

You are allowed to move forward without carrying regret that doesn’t belong to you.

Sometimes the kindest thing we can do for ourselves is to stop judging yesterday with today’s knowledge — and let grace do the rest.

1950s is wrong. It should be 1960s.

When The Quiet Comes

Brenda Stratton

When my family was young and life was busy and noisy, it did not prepare me for the quiet that came after.

As the years passed, life changed. The kids grew up and built lives of their own. They no longer needed me in the way they once had—and that is as it should be. They no longer depended on me for meals, schedules, or bedtime stories. Their lives expanded outward—as they should.

And suddenly, the house was quieter.

It was unsettling at first. My life had revolved around my children for so many years that I didn’t quite know what to do with the empty spaces that appeared when they left. The quiet felt heavy. It surprised me.

At first, I threw myself into work. As a crochet designer, I took on more projects, more deadlines, more responsibility. It helped—but only partially. I still felt the quiet waiting when the work was done.

Then Carl and I began talking about going back to school. Neither of us had ever gone to college. The idea started as a conversation, then became a plan. By the fall semester of 1986, we were enrolled.

Suddenly, there was no quiet at all. We balanced family, home, jobs, and school. It was the busiest season of our lives — and one of the most fulfilling. We were growing in new directions together.

But life has a way of shifting rhythms. Just when you think you understand its pattern, it changes again.

And in time, the quiet returned.

Only this time, I understood it differently.

The quiet was no longer something to fill or escape. It became space—room to think, to create, to remember, to become. It became the place where new parts of myself emerged. The place where stories surfaced. The place where writing began.

I’ve learned that every season has its sound.

And sometimes, the quiet is not an absence at all—but an invitation.

Stepping Into 2026, Gently

Brenda Stratton

2025 was a year of awakening and transformation for me. As the world around us has changed outwardly, so have I changed inwardly in myriad ways. 

Life after great loss brought me to a threshold, where I had to choose between staying stuck and stepping forward. I chose to step forward. 

I learned a great deal in 2025—particularly about what I want in my life, and where I am going next. What surprised me most was not the clarity itself, but the quiet confidence that came with it. For the first time in a long while, I feel grounded enough to move forward without rushing, without bracing for impact, and without needing to prove anything to anyone.

I am stepping into 2026 more gently than I have stepped into years past. Not cautiously, but intentionally. I am no longer interested in rushing toward what comes next or measuring my life against some imagined timeline. I want room to breathe, to notice, and to enjoy the life that is unfolding in front of me. If there is a theme for this year, it is presence—showing up fully, without armor, and trusting that where I am is enough to begin.

This space will reflect that same intention. It will be a place for honest words, remembered moments, and stories told without urgency. A place where grief and joy are both allowed to sit at the table, and where nothing needs to be fixed before it can be shared. If you’ve found your way here, you are welcome to rest awhile. There is no agenda, no expectation—just room to be human, together.

As we enter 2026, I wish you peace, happiness, and everything you need to sustain you. 

Brenda