There is a pink door somewhere out there that calls to me when my mind is quiet. It feels like home, even though I’m not sure where home is.
Am I able to unlock the pink door, or am I destined to always be searching?
What an esoteric thought to ponder…
I have shelter, employment, family, and all the necessities of life. Yet my soul feels unmoored, restless, as if it knows there’s somewhere else I’m meant to be.
I feel like a child’s kite, tugged in every direction by the wind, unable to settle.
I aspire to live as authentically as possible. Yet that authenticity is often shaped and limited — by social norms, financial realities, and self-doubt.
Do I let go?
The pink door calls, but the chaos makes it hard to find my way.
What is it that I truly wish for?
Where would I feel at peace, at home in my own spirit?
Have you ever really stopped to ask your heart what it longs for, or are we all just swept up in the motions of daily life?
At this time in my life, with stillness and space for reflection, I find myself questioning everything.
Why am I not finding joy?
What would make me feel content and whole for the years ahead?
Lately, it feels as if my soul is shouting at me — vibrating through my body as anxiety and panic — demanding to be heard.
Maybe I ignored the softer nudges for too long. Maybe now, with much of my life already lived, my soul insists I listen.
It whispers (and sometimes screams):
“You have always known. You have the wisdom now. Find your way back to your authentic self.”
What would it look like to truly live my truth for a day, or a week?
If nothing were out of reach, where would my intuition lead me?
What would feed my soul?
I would unlock the pink door and be home…
Somewhere along the East Coast, somewhere a little warmer than where I am now.
A coastal town where the ocean is only a walk or bike ride away. A small, comfortable town with locally owned coffee shops, a market, a library.
Mature trees, the smell of salt air, sidewalks winding through neighborhoods where the front porches tell stories of quiet lives.
Through the pink door, my home waits.
Not large — who wants to spend life cleaning a big house? — but cozy and welcoming, with a front porch swing and a picket gate.
The small front yard overflows with wildflowers, more meadow than lawn. Morning coffee is sipped on the porch, where I hear the mourning doves call and the hummingbirds dart past.
A stone path winds to the backyard, where wisteria and hydrangeas bloom in soft purples, pinks, and whites. Atticus, my cat, naps in a sunbeam.
Inside, the house is light and airy.
Soft white walls, touches of blush and cream, bookshelves stretching along the walls.
A deep, welcoming couch faces a fireplace — for those cool evenings when fireflies glow outside.
The bathroom has a deep soaking tub surrounded by candles, a sanctuary for my body and spirit.
And what of healing?
Healing would be woven into my days. After years of pushing my body aside, I would honor it — savoring food, breathing deeply, practicing yoga, walking to town. I would heal the body that carried me here, even if I can’t undo every past harm.
In my late thirties, I discovered yoga. It wasn’t trendy back then, no Instagram-perfect poses, just a quiet room and a connection to myself.
Sometimes, tears would slip down my temples during Savasana — a surrender I couldn’t explain.
I would return to that practice now, healing my body through movement, breathing life back into my heart and lungs.
My mind, too, would find peace.
No more panic attacks — that unspeakable terror and loss of control that leaves no real words behind.
Daily meditation would be a non-negotiable ritual, calming mind and body before the day even begins.
If this is my authentic mind and body, what about my spirit?
What would bring joy to my soul?
Here, fear tries to creep in, whispering that it’s not possible that I’m too late.
But I hush those doubts, breathe deeply, and listen for the voice underneath.
And always, always, the same truth rises up: writing.
It’s not new — I have always known.
I wrote my first story, Benny the Baby Black Bear, in elementary school, beaming as I gifted it to my parents.
As a teenager, I filled journals with poetry and heartache.
As a young adult, I dreamed of novels — though life’s demands pulled me away. Later, I returned to writing, crafting children’s stories and daring, just once, to send them out into the world.
Rejections came, one after another.
I pretended it didn’t hurt, but it did. Deeply.
It reinforced the quiet, old fear that I wasn’t enough.
And so, I put the dream away;
dreams were for other people.
But the longing stayed
The years unfolded. Life happened.
And now?
The children are grown.
The house is quiet.
I am alone, but not lonely.
And once again, the nudge returns: write.
Not for publishers. Not for approval.
For my soul.
In my dream life — the one where the Pink Door swings open — I would write each day, surrounded by nature and the comforts of a cozy home. I’d wake naturally, without alarms. Move my body with care. Feed my soul with creativity. Live free from scarcity and self-doubt. Share meals and moments with family and friends. Watch my little street settle into twilight from a porch swing.
To some, it might seem like a small life.
To me, it is everything: creative, nourishing, and true.
Are we capable of creating an authentic life?
Or have we been conditioned to believe that dreams are only for children?
Maybe it’s time to listen for the whisper of the little girl within —
the one who still believes,
the one who holds the key,
the one who is ready to unlock the pink door.

– What color is your door?

Until next time,
                          Dawn