Tag: gratitude

Yes

Kristine Binder

For most of my life, “yes” came easily — sometimes too easily. I said yes to responsibility, to caregiving, to stepping in, smoothing things over, and holding everything together. I said yes to being strong even when it was quietly breaking me. I said yes to survival because it felt necessary, even when what I really wanted was to live.
That kind of yes kept me moving, but it also kept me stuck.
This year feels different. Not because everything around me has changed, but because I’m willing to respond differently.
This is the year of yes – and yes, most importantly, to myself.
I’m not talking about impulsive decisions or forced optimism. I’m talking about intentional yeses. Yeses to things I’ve never done before. Yeses to invitations I would have declined because they felt uncomfortable or unfamiliar. Yeses to challenges that pull me out of anxiety and into motion.
For a long time, fear made my choices for me. It disguised itself as caution and convinced me that staying where I was kept me safe. But staying where I was didn’t protect me – it just kept me circling the same thoughts and patterns, hoping for change without taking steps toward it.
Saying yes now means choosing experience over imagination. It means allowing myself to try without needing certainty or guarantees. I may not love everything. I may not enjoy every moment. But I am willing to show up and see what happens instead of deciding in advance that something won’t work.
This year of yes is about movement. It’s about curiosity instead of avoidance. It’s about letting action interrupt anxiety. I don’t need every step to feel comfortable –
I just need it to keep moving me forward.
So I’m saying yes – to new experiences, to challenges, to invitations, and to change. Not because I have everything figured out, but because fear doesn’t get to lead anymore.
This is my yes.
And I’m ready to see where it takes me.

Peace,
#tutulady
#forwardisapace

Becoming

Kristine Binder

Your past does not define your future. Not the good choices you made, not the decisions you aren’t proud of, not the moments that brought you joy, and not the experiences that tore you apart. All of it happened, all of it shaped you, but none of it gets to decide what comes next unless you allow it to.
For a long time, I carried my past like a verdict. I treated certain choices as proof that I should know better by now or that I had somehow failed myself. I replayed moments that went beautifully and moments that broke me open, trying to figure out what they said about who I was and what I deserved. I gave the past far more authority than it ever earned.
What I’m learning, over and over again, is that the past is information, not destiny. It can teach you. It can inform you. It can offer wisdom if you’re willing to listen. But it does not get to write your future on your behalf.
I’ve also come to understand how deeply belief shapes experience. What we expect, we prepare for. What we fear, we rehearse. What we believe we deserve, we either make room for or quietly push away. The energy we carry, consciously or not, has a way of finding its way back to us. What you believe, you receive.
This is a lesson I am still learning. Some days I catch myself slipping into old narratives, bracing for disappointment, waiting for the other shoe to drop, assuming the next chapter will be harder than the last. Other days, I notice that pattern and choose something different. I remind myself that change doesn’t require perfection — it requires progress. Small shifts. Better questions. A little more trust than yesterday.
Calling in the good doesn’t mean ignoring what hurt or pretending difficult things didn’t happen. It means refusing to let pain have the final word. It means allowing joy to arrive without immediately questioning how long it will last or what it will cost. It means making space for possibility instead of living in constant state of anticipatory grief.
I don’t want my future to be a reaction to my past. I want it to be a response to who I am now. The mistakes I’ve made don’t disqualify me from what’s ahead. The joy I’ve experienced doesn’t trap me in nostalgia. And the grief I’ve carried doesn’t mean more loss is inevitable.
So this is what I’m practicing now: choosing progress over perfection, loosening my grip on the past, and intentionally calling in what I want more of. Not perfectly. Not every day. But with awareness, patience, and intention.
Because the future isn’t something I inherit. It’s something I help create. And I’m learning, one step at a time, to call in the good.

Peace,
#tutulady
#forwardisapace

Here

Kristine Binder

I’ve spent most of my life living everywhere except the present.
If I’m honest, being here has always felt unfamiliar — even unsafe. My mind learned early that it was better to stay busy traveling through time: backward into analysis, forward into fear. If I wasn’t replaying what already happened, I was scanning the horizon for what might go wrong next.
I told myself that was responsibility.
That it was preparation.
That it was being smart.
It wasn’t.
It didn’t protect me.
It didn’t prevent pain.
It didn’t make me safer.
All it did was keep me from actually living the life that was happening right in front of me.
Not being present has not served me well. It has cost me peace, softened moments, and entire stretches of time I can’t get back. It has kept me braced instead of open, vigilant instead of curious, exhausted instead of grounded.
Part of presence, for me, is letting go of control.
I’ve wanted to control everything — outcomes, conversations, relationships, timing — because control felt like safety. If I could anticipate every possible problem, maybe I could avoid the worst of it. But when I can’t control something — and so much of life can’t be controlled — my brain jumps straight to catastrophe. I rehearse disasters that haven’t happened and may never happen, as if fear itself is a form of armor.
It isn’t.
Being here means trusting that worry is not preparedness.
It means understanding that anxiety doesn’t equal foresight.
It means choosing intention over survival mode.
Presence asks something different of me. It asks me to notice instead of anticipate. To respond instead of brace. To breathe instead of grip tighter.
I want to wake up and feel the morning instead of immediately reviewing the past or forecasting the future. I want to notice the way light moves across a room, the sound of a laugh, the quiet moments that pass unnoticed when I’m stuck in my head.
I don’t want to live in hindsight or hypotheticals anymore.
I want to be here.
Right now.
In the tiny details that actually make up a life.
Presence is not something I’ve mastered. It feels like a muscle I never learned how to use and am now strengthening one small moment at a time. Some days I catch myself drifting back into old patterns — analyzing, worrying, controlling — and other days I manage to stay.
But I know this much: the present moment is the only place I can actually live. It’s the only place joy exists. It’s the only place connection happens. And it’s the only place I get to choose how I show up.
For the rest of my life — however long it is, however it unfolds — I want to be present for it.
Not perfect.
Not fearless
Just here.
And for the first time, that feels like enough.

Peace,
#tutulady
#forwardisapace

60

Kristine Binder

Sixty Trips Around the Sun:
Notes From A Life Well Lived.

I showed up in 1966, the Sound of Silence by Simon & Garfunkel was number one the day I was born in the year of the Horse and the moon landing was on the horizon. Childhood was Sesame Street, school lunches, and learning how the world worked, vinyl spinning in the background.
’76 to ’86 was adolescence: Aqua Net bangs, Swisher Sweets, Miller Ki11ers, and the Rumors album became my soundtrack. Walkmans and MTV changing music forever. Prince and Glam/Hair Metal ruled the radio while I learned that growing up means experimenting, messing up, and somehow still making it home by curfew(most of the time!).
From ’86 to ’96, college faded in the rearview and Chicago became home. I followed the Dead and found U2. I taught kindergarten by day, cocktail waitressed by night, met a guy, got married, and welcomed my first baby as the world shifted from landlines to dial-up.
’96 to ’06 was all babies, teaching, minivans, and birthday parties, with Barney and Disney tunes as the soundtrack of family life. Love multiplied even when energy(and coffee) didn’t.
’06 to ’16 was a decade of becoming. The housing bubble burst, iPhones arrived, Gaga pushed the edges, Adele nailed heartbreak, and I quietly dismantled then began to rebuild a life. Freedom took time, strength, and came with new adventures
’16 to ’26 has been all about reinvention. New jobs, new keys, new losses, new joys. I buried both parents, said goodbye to friends, advocated for causes I care about, Everybody suddenly had eras, playlists replaced CDs, and I kept showing up for the music — back to live music, Dead shows, Stevie Nicks, and connecting at concerts with my kids. All while I began to figure out who I am on my own.
If there’s one lesson after 60 years, it’s this: every decade has its own rhythm. The music shifts and the beat changes, but the soundtrack connects it all. It’s the thing that bridges eras and generations, stitching the story together while the world keeps moving forward. Freedom takes courage, joy takes intention, and peace is worth protecting.
Here’s to 60 years behind me—it’s been a long strange trip. “Time makes you bolder… and I’m gettin’ older too.” The music keeps evolving, and so do I. Here’s to all the wild, beautiful, ordinary, extraordinary days ahead. 

Divorcery

Kristine Binder

Today is my divorcery—the anniversary of the day I signed those papers, officially ending a marriage of over 20 years. It’s been eight years, and I’m finally at a place where I can look back, reflect, and truly celebrate the strength, freedom, and lessons I’ve gained from this journey.
Eight years ago, I stood in a courtroom, signing papers that I never imagined would mark the end of my marriage. Looking back now, I see all the things I did right, all the mistakes I made, and the immense personal growth that came from it.
I made mistakes—lots of them. During the marriage, and after. But one thing I’ve always done is take accountability for my actions. It took 748 days for our divorce to be finalized. Yes, you read that correctly … 748 days of struggle, of darkness, and of uncertainty. There were days when I couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. I was drowning in overwhelm, anxiety, and depression. Some days, I could barely keep my head above water, just treading in the deep end. And on others, a wave would crash over me, pushing me under. I had to fight just to find the surface again.
Someone asked me recently about love, and I told them that love takes many forms. When they asked if I still loved my ex-husband, I answered, “It depends.” I love the gifts that came from our marriage—the beautiful children we created together, the family we built, and the lessons we learned. I love the person I was when I got married, and the good things we did. But do I love him? Absolutely not. The man he became, and the woman I grew into, are no longer the same people we were over 20 years ago. I have a deep respect for the past and the gifts it gave me, but in terms of romantic love? That’s not something I feel for him anymore.
Am I grateful for my divorce? Absolutely. A resounding HELL YES (I will say it loud and proud!). But is there still love? Yes, because love was there in the beginning, and it lives on in the family we built. For that, I’ll always be grateful.
Forgiveness has been a crucial part of this journey and is a daily process for me. I’ve forgiven myself for not knowing better. But once I knew better, I tried to do better. And I will continue to grow, change, and evolve into the woman I was meant to be. Looking back at this picture of me standing outside that courthouse eight years ago (taken my my attorney no less – Shoutout! You know who you are!), I see the woman who was a shell of herself. I didn’t even recognize her. But over time, I’ve filled her up. Slowly, but surely, I am rebuilding her. Expanding her.
Today, to celebrate, I took a long walk, no music, no puppy—just me, my thoughts, and the rhythm of my footsteps and breath. Running and walking meditation has been one of the most healing things I’ve done during these eight years. If you’d told me 10 years ago when it all started that this is where I’d be at the end of my divorce—celebrating eight years of reclaiming my name, my life, and my sense of self—I would’ve laughed. I would’ve said, “No way! I’m done.” But I didn’t give up. I kept going. One foot in front of the other. Sometimes in giant steps, sometimes in small ones, but always moving forward.
Now, after all these years, I get to live my life on my terms. Watching my kids grow into amazing humans has been the greatest gift of all—they are my pride and joy. Everything I did was to give them the freedom to live their best lives, making their own choices along the way.
And now, I get to build the life I always dreamed of, without compromise. The woman I am today carries the peace that comes from learning to trust myself again, from taking back control over my life and my future. Every day, I get to choose how I move forward, how I take up space, and how I show up for myself. This is my time. This is my life, and I’m finally living it on my terms.
Peace,
#tutulady
#forwardisapace