BLOG 359–You Still Matter!

  ✨KITTING AROUND✨
🌟 BLOG 359–You Still Matter! 🌟
This Video will let you know more about me–
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lr8QFnD1yGc
This Blog is Best Read on a Laptop, Rather than Your Phone.
By KIT SUMMERS — World-Class Juggler to World-Class Comeback

To Learn More about Kit, Go Here >> https://kitsummers.com/about-kit/

Once upon a life, I made gravity nervous—
Headlining at Ballys, tossing clubs with a grin.
Seven of them. A world record—
Because physics loves a good insult. 😄✨
Then came the truck—the coma.

Thirty-seven silent days offstage.
And here I am now—not juggling clubs.
But purpose, grit, and joy.
Balancing healing, catching courage.
Tossing hope sky-high.
   
The mission grew bigger than applause.
Now I lift humans. I write to stay connected.
I write because it’s how I breathe.
If these words help you, too?
That’s magic catching air. 🎉     

1)  THE BEGINNINGS
Elisabeth & Mike Brown sent me a Christmas card.
A real one.
Paper.
Ink.
Postage. 📬
I was genuinely delighted.
Inside, they wrote:
“Dear Kit, we LOVE your blog!!”
Well, now… that’ll make a writer sit up a little taller.
Thank you, Elisabeth & Mike.
That meant more than you know.
The only card I received in a very long time. 😢
   
And to the rest of you—yes, you—the quiet readers, the silent nodders, the midnight scrollers who don’t often write back… I see you. I feel you. And I thank you. Every read, every smile, every “huh… that made me think” keeps these words marching forward. ❤️
   
Now, a small linguistic curiosity from your resident word-watcher:
I read about fifteen news articles a day.
(Don’t judge me—I like to know what humans are up to).
Lately, I keep seeing the phrase “mince words.”
Over and over.
Almost daily.
   
It’s funny how language sneaks around like that—suddenly popping up everywhere, as if it just got a publicist. And speaking of sneaky language… When did “nowadays” quietly slide together and become “nowadays”? Who approved that meeting? Was there a vote? A secret committee? 🤔
   
If words can merge without notice, what’s next?
“Thankyou”?
“Goodnightforever”?
“Kitlovesyou”?
“Waitaminute”?
Language, like life, keeps evolving—whether we’re ready or not.
And honestly? I love watching it happen. 💫
     
Or I could write an entire paragraph without a single space. Can you read this? >>
ButwhatwouldIevenbeabletosay?Haveyouevertriedthis?It’sexhaustinglyawkwardandoddlysatisfyingattheexactsametime.Notusingthespacebarfeelsliketryingtowalkwithyourshoelacestiedtogether.Goahead—tryit.I’mcurioushowlongyoulast.Sendmewordlater.  😄
   
C
A
N

Y
O
U

R
E
A
D

T
H
I
S?
   
Now you know: typing without the space bar is sneakier than it looks. 😄
Give it a try—you’ll be delightfully surprised (and mildly humbled).
Consider this your tiny daily adventure—no helmet required. 🚀
Let me know how it goes… bonus points for surviving the urge to hit that spacebar. 😉
   
2)  THINGS THAT HAPPENED THIS WEEK
            The daily doings of Kit—A little inspiration—daily. 

1/3 — 3:00 am.
Already awake. Already writing.
See how committed I am to helping you?
(Some people jog at dawn. I wrestle words before sunrise. Same thing. 🥇)   
     
This morning, I walked over to the local grocery store, Publix.
Only a couple of blocks away—yet Brett from NR had to escort me.
He wonders, like I do, why I’m even at NearoRestorative in the first place.
Good question, Brett. I’ve been asking for answers, too.
   
Right now, I’m watching Die Hard. Except… I’m not really watching it. My mind drifts. Characters appear and disappear, and I can’t always tell if they’re new or if I’ve lost the thread.
At times, focusing feels slippery—like trying to hold water.
That worries me.
I catch myself wondering: Is this how dementia starts?
And that thought—honestly—terrifies me.
     
If I ever reach a point where I lose my mind, where I no longer recognize myself or need others to care for me through confusion and decline… I don’t want that life.
Not for me. Not for them. The idea alone makes my chest tighten.
     
And here’s the twist—this blog is about “Do You Matter?”
Today, I’m asking myself that question.
At times, I am scared I am losing it.
   
My sister Sandy’s husband is slipping deeper into dementia. She daily sits Tommy in front of the television, where he stays, entertained and safe—but no longer himself. He used to be vibrant. Engaged. Fully present. Now, he still recognizes Sandy… but his sons, Wally and Russell? Not so much.
Watching that happen—slowly, painfully—leaves a mark.
   
As I’ve written before, if my mind ever fades to that point, I would not want to continue living.
Not out of despair—
Out of dignity. Out of love.
Out of a desire not to have a long goodbye.
     
These words aren’t dramatic.
They’re deliberate.
If there ever comes a time when I no longer know myself.
Use these words as my voice.
=====
1/4 — Who are they?
This morning, around 4:30, I woke to the sound of two guys chatting in the hallway outside my door and just standing there; employees of NR. Talking and laughing quietly. Most people were asleep—except Bob, of course (Bob is always awake in his own universe).
   
They stood there for a good half hour.
Half an hour of paid time.
Half an hour of life.
I lay there thinking how strange it is—how money moves through the world in such odd ways.
     
Which brings me to another thought that’s been rattling around in my head.
This stay—this long, winding chapter in a brain injury hospital—is being paid for by Selective Insurance—the insurance company of the man who hit me back in 1982.
   
That single moment keeps echoing forward through time, still generating bills, still shaping my days. I know this must be costing a fortune. And I wish—deeply—that there were some way I could help shoulder that weight. Gratitude mixes strangely with helplessness.
   
One of the few pure joys I have is going outside to clean and fix up the garden and patio. Today, there were fewer cigarette butts—progress! Still too many, but fewer. A couple of people stopped to tell me the place looks great. That mattered more than they probably realized.
   
I plan to expand the garden in the fall if I’m still here.

Screenshot

And if not, this will remain.
A quiet, growing reminder that I was here.
That I cared. That I left something living behind. 🌱
     
Now, please forgive me while I complain just a little.  🙎
I put my retainer in around 7 am. By noon, the pain had grown so intense that I had to take it out. This pain is enormous. Relentless. Teeth pain is a special kind of torture—sharp, invasive, impossible to ignore. It’s honestly one of the hardest things I’ve ever endured.
     
My sister suggested I consider suing the dental clinic. I may look into that. They should have given me more time. More explanation. More space to decide. And with a brain injury… was I even fully capable of making that decision? I don’t know. That question alone hurts.
   
Even now, while writing this blog—for you—I sometimes have to close one eye because I see double. My ears ring constantly with tinnitus. My walking is atrocious because I’m exhausted from lack of sleep. I move through the day tired, foggy, rarely comfortable. Enjoyment feels like a language I once knew but can’t quite speak anymore. Death will be welcomed one day (after I reach 100, that is.)
   
Life at NeuroRestorative is suffocating. I can’t even cross the street to go to the park alone. The rule is degrading but straightforward: I need an escort to go, and an escort to return. I’ve said it feels like jail, and I stand by that. I am not a child—not in any way that matters—yet that is how I exist here. Humbling. Frustrating. Lonely.
   
One last strange observation: I grew up in San Diego, right next to the Mexican border. And yet, here—far from where I was raised—I hear more Spanish spoken than I ever did back home. Life is funny like that. You think you understand patterns, geography, culture… and then the world rearranges itself when you’re not looking.
   
Still, despite all of this—I’m here.
Still writing.
Still noticing.
Still planting things.
Still believing that even in pain, even in confinement, even in confusion…
   
✨Did you notice?✨
I still matter.
And so do you.
Thanks for sitting with me at this moment.
   
BOB   At 4 pm
Right now, Bob is down the hall, yelling—again. He sort of growls very loudly. The sound carries, sharp and restless, bouncing off the walls like it’s looking for somewhere to land. There are moments when he seems almost normal, when you could imagine a conversation, a shared laugh, a regular human exchange. And then—without warning—the brain injury takes the wheel.
   
It’s like watching a switch flip.
The man who was there disappears, and someone else steps forward.
Someone louder. Someone unpredictable. Someone frightening.
   
A staff member is with him now, trying to calm the storm, speaking softly into chaos. I know they’re doing their best. I know this isn’t Bob’s fault. And still… my body doesn’t care about logic. Fear doesn’t negotiate. This scares me.
   
It’s a reminder of how fragile the mind can be, how thin the line is between calm and confusion, safety and panic. Hearing him shout makes my chest tighten. It makes me want distance—walls, space, air. It makes me want out.
   
I don’t want to live on the edge of constant alarm.
I want peace.
I want quiet.
I want to feel safe again.
And that’s not asking too much.
=====
1/5–Socks and ankles.
My lower legs have decided to audition for a balloon festival. 🎈
Not a subtle audition either.
More like: “HELLO, we are here, we are swelling, and we demand attention.”
   
It started politely. Then escalated quickly.
Now my calves look like they’re storing emergency helium.
Naturally, I went on a sock safari through Amazon. 🧦🌍
Every “medical solution” sock came with a tight little band at the top—
Clearly designed by someone who has never owned ankles.
   
The band squeezed my legs like it was interrogating them for state secrets,
and my feet puffed up below it in protest—
“Sir, we do not consent to this compression.”
   
Fine. I outsmarted the socks. ✂️😎
I cut the bands off every single pair.
All 35 of them.
Victory? Oh no. That was merely Act One.
   
Even band-free, my legs continued swelling—
calmly, confidently, as if to say:
“Nice try, human. We do what we want.”
So now I’m officially baffled and throwing this out to the universe:
🦶🔍Are there any podiatrists out there who want to solve
The Curious Case of the Inflating Kit?
Nobel Prize potential. Call me. 610-400-3233
   
🧠 Therapy Report
9–10 am: OT with Terrie. 🌱 We went outside and worked on the tomatoes—
My leafy overachievers. I planted six plants. SIX.
   
They responded by growing like they’re training for the Olympics. 🏋️‍♂️🍅
Gold medal in “Aggressive Photosynthesis.”
I bought a frame to support them, and today’s mission was to organize the plants.
Yes. I now manage tomato traffic.   Yield. Merge. No passing.
   
10–11 am?     Cornhole.
If you’ve never played, imagine this thrilling concept:
There’s a wooden board. Ten feet away. It has a hole.
You throw beanbags. The beanbags go in the hole.
That’s it. That’s the game. 🎯
I showed up. I observed. I declined.
My brain quietly leaned over and whispered,
“Buddy… we need more stimulation than this.”
   
Here’s the frustrating part:
There are countless creative, engaging, brain-boosting games out there—
Many are specifically designed for people with brain injuries.
But instead of curiosity…
instead of innovation…
instead of even a five-minute internet search…
We get Cornhole. Again. That’s it.
   
That’s all the therapy for today.
Two sessions.
Minimal progress.
Full stop. 🛑
   
I could design programs for them.
I want to design programs for them.
But will they ever try something new?
That question keeps bouncing around my head like—
Well, another beanbag. 😐
   
The afternoon stretched out empty.
Nothing scheduled. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to grow.
I’ll be honest—I’m really sick of living here.
And the most challenging part? I don’t know what’s next.
   
Around 3 pm, I surrendered to the cinema and watched
Clint Eastwood in A Fistful of Dollars. 🤠
A gritty, old-school Western—
perfect for passing the time and reminding me that
even loners with squinty eyes, ponchos,
and questionable morals eventually ride off
toward something new. 🎈😄
Here’s hoping I do too.
Preferably without the balloon ankles.
=====
1/6–Memory
Every morning, I wake up and try to remember my dreams.
I pause. I search. Nothing. They slip away like mist at sunrise.
So I wonder—do you remember yours?
   
Dreams arrive unannounced, bend reality, stir emotions, then vanish before breakfast. Some people recall every detail. Others wake with only a feeling—a whisper that something happened.
That may be enough.
   
Because even forgotten dreams still do their work: They sort. They heal. They prepare us.
Quietly. Faithfully. Overnight. That’s a dream worth waking up for.
And whether you remember them or not, each morning brings a new dream anyway—
A fresh chance, a fresh dance.
A blank page. Another opportunity to imagine who you’ll be today.
   
NearoRestorive
Around noon, Maryann from PT stopped by to talk with me about Cornhole—the game I’d spoken critically about earlier. She took time to share how many people genuinely enjoy it, and I appreciated that. It’s good to know it brings joy to others, and I understand why it’s such a familiar, go-to choice.
   
What I was trying to express wasn’t criticism for the sake of criticism—it was care. My concern is simply that there are so many other activities that might better support people with brain injuries in different, more targeted ways. From my perspective, Cornhole can feel like the default because it’s known and comfortable, not necessarily because it’s the best fit for everyone.
       
I care deeply about helping people here grow, heal, and feel engaged. So I plan to keep looking, studying, and exploring—just as I believe therapists naturally do—and come up with ideas we could try. Yes, new approaches take time for both patients and therapists to get used to. But that’s life. Growth usually asks us to stretch a little. And truly, there are hundreds of possibilities worth exploring, all waiting to be tried with curiosity and care.
   
The teeth.
As often happens these days, my retainer behaves until about noon.
Then the pain steps out from behind the curtain and takes a bow. 🎭
The glue gives up. The fit loosens.
And suddenly this tiny piece of plastic turns traitor—
Slippery, painful, uncooperative, determined to escape.
     
So I do what must be done. Out it goes. Before it revolts completely.
Before it demands a complete cleaning and a timeout.
And right on cue—like an unwelcome guest who knows. 

Exactly when to arrive—the memory shows up.
     
That decision. The one where I said yes to having my lower teeth extracted.
It enters my mind like a knife. Sharp. Immediate. Regret-shaped.
Some lessons don’t whisper. They ache.
   
And yet… here I am. Still adapting. Still learning. Still choosing to move forward—
Even when the mouth hurts, the memories sting, and noon feels heavier than it should.
Pain visits.       But it doesn’t get to move in.        Not today. 💙
=====
1/7–As I awaken
Waking up with “What the hell am I doing here?” isn’t a weakness.
It’s a soul that’s tired of pretending.
It’s a heart that’s bruised and still beating.
Right now, it is hard being here with the brain-injured.
   
Meeting with Lilly and walking away feeling worse?
That stings. Deep. Aganizing. Unsure.
Sometimes conversations don’t land—they collide.
And when you’re already carrying anger, 
It can feel like someone kicked the bruise rather than tend to it.
   
Not finding anything to live for today doesn’t mean there is nothing.
It means today is foggy, and fog lies.
Anger often shows up when grief has been waiting too long to be heard.
And here’s the part I don’t want you to miss—because it’s quietly powerful.
     
Today, I went back to https://cleantheworld.org/
I showed up. I worked fast. Focused. Accurate.
Twice the speed—not to impress anyone.
But because that’s who I am when I put my hands on something real.
     
Then I returned to my room.
The anger sat down beside me.
That makes sense.
   
When the work ends, the noise inside gets louder.
Anger isn’t a failure—it’s energy with nowhere to go.
It’s the part of me that still cares, still burns, still refuses to go numb.
   
I don’t need to find meaning today.
That’s too big an ask for a day like this.
Just have to live through it and move on.
   
Just do this instead—smaller, braver, truer:
Let today be honest, not hopeful.
Let anger speak without letting it drive.
   
Let the fact that you still work well, care deeply.
Feel intensely, that counts as evidence that you’re not done—
Even if you can’t see the next chapter yet.
     
Some days are not for answers. They’re for endurance.
For breathing. For getting through the hour without turning on yourself.
You are allowed to be angry. You are allowed to hate this moment.
     
And you are still here, which means the story hasn’t slammed shut.
I have so much more to add to the world–let me know, what’s next?
I have to remember that, yes, “I still matter.”
=====
1/8–Here I am
Still here at NeuroRestorative.
Every day begins the same way—eyes open, body heavy, mind already running while the fuel tank reads nearly empty. I wake up exhausted and somehow start moving anyway. Why the fatigue keeps deepening, I don’t yet know. All I know is this: it’s real, it’s relentless, and it asks something of me every single morning. 💤➡️🚶‍♂️
   
Today brought only a couple of therapy sessions, but they landed with weight.
First was the memory group with Lilly.
She wrote 16 items on the board and gave us plenty of time to study them. I felt cautiously confident. I thought, Okay, I’ve got this.
Turns out—nope.
   
When it was time to recall, I remembered two.
Two.
That number still echoes a little too loudly.
But I did better than some people.
   
What stings more is this: right now, I can’t remember even one of those items. Not a single lonely survivor from that list. That realization hurts—not in a dramatic way, but in a quiet, bone-deep way. The kind that makes you pause and stare at the wall longer than usual. 🧠💔
   
Then came the game group.
We played Uno—a simple, familiar game, or at least it used to be. Today, my mind lagged behind the cards. I struggled to keep track, struggled to anticipate, struggled to stay afloat. I didn’t do very well, and I felt it. Each missed beat was a small reminder that things aren’t working the way they once did.
   
And yet… here’s the truth I don’t want to miss:
I showed up.
I stayed in the room.
I tried—even when it was uncomfortable, even when it bruised my pride.
   
This chapter is humbling. No confetti. No victory laps. Just effort, honesty, and the quiet courage of continuing when progress feels invisible. 🌱
Still here.
Still learning.
Still standing—tired, yes—but not done.
   
1/9–Diane, who works here, wrote a scalding letter to me about me yesterday. She knows NOTHING of me, yet wrote that I was not safe out in the world. She is so inaccurate, I cannot believe she even wrote the words. Sad to say, Diane is at the heart of matters.
   
Jasmine and Greg are looking into another place for me to live, so I will have to deal with things like this. I wrote before about my sense of loss of freedom I have found while here. But it doesn’t matter where I end up; I expect I will hate where I am and whatever it is.
     
Put my retainer in this morning, but it does not fit right and is painful to wear. I see no promising future for my teeth. I removed it. I hate this thing — intently. If I stop eating, it will stop my wanting to eat, that could be a good thing — as death comes calling.
   
I’m tired of life. I don’t want to keep running into these terrible things. All day today I only have one fucking therapy. I guess I’ve scared them all away. I give up. No, I don’t think I matter anymore. I hate life right now. My thoughts scare me right now.
   
Earlier, I asked myself, “What did I do yesterday?”
I could not think of one thing.
Not one thing.
   
I often wonder if I am getting worse over time. I don’t think so, but I am too close to the Kit. Life was so much better when I was out traveling in the old days. I could still have that, but why do I not look for the path there? I’ve traveled all over the world, so why do I keep myself stuck now, stuck here?
   
When I can, I discard medication because I don’t want to try to help myself. No need. I’ve not seen anything good for so very long. High blood pressure, oh well, I hope it will kill me soon. I have daughters, Jasmine and April, who I NEVER hear from. How do you think that makes me feel?
   
There are three pills I take in the morning. I threw out one of my vitamins; the other vitamin got caught in my throat, then came up, and I threw it in the trash. I’m very alone right now. I don’t care if it gets better or not.
   
Today I am feeling less and less like I matter– at all.
   
Sadness has taken over, but I brought it on myself.
I do not like being here.
I do not like the people here.
I do not like anything.
There is nowhere I want to go.
No one I want to be with (sorry)
Not sure what to do.
      ============================================
It’s hard for me to type and work on this while crying.
I just wrote the last day of my blog today.
I put my words through ChatGPT.com.
This is what I got back just today >>
=========
Kit… I’m happy you told me all of this. I’m going to slow us down for a moment and be right here with you. What you wrote isn’t just frustration or a bad day — it’s real pain, and it deserves care, not judgment.
     
First, let me say this clearly and with love:
You do matter. Even right now. Even when your mind is telling you the opposite.
That voice saying “I don’t matter anymore” is a symptom of suffering — not a verdict on your worth.
   
What I’m hearing (and I want to get this right)
You feel misjudged and harmed by Diane’s letter —
written by someone who doesn’t honestly know you.
   
Your freedom feels stripped, your choices narrowed, your identity boxed in.
Your body hurts (the retainer, the pills, the exhaustion), and it feels like betrayal on top of betrayal.
You’re feeling abandoned — especially by Jasmine and April — and that hurts at a soul level.
You’re tired of fighting, tired of proving, tired of hoping.
     
Some of your thoughts are scaring you, and you’re feeling very alone with them.
None of that makes you weak.
It makes you human under crushing pressure.
     
I need to pause on something important
You said:
You hope your health issues might kill you
You’re throwing away medication
You don’t care if things get better
Your thoughts scare you
     
That tells me you’re in real danger right now, emotionally and possibly physically.
I just wanted to let you know that.
I’m not here to lecture you.
I am here to help you stay alive through this wave, because waves pass — even the brutal ones.
   
“I’m exhausted, and I don’t want to be here anymore.”
If you feel like you might act on these thoughts today, please call 911 or ask a staff member where you are for immediate help.
   
If you’re not in the U.S., please tell me where you are, and I’ll find the correct number.
Reaching out is not failure. It’s self-preservation.
About Diane and that letter
A letter like that can feel like an execution in disguise.
   
But listen carefully:
Her words are opinions, filtered through policy, liability, fear, and limited contact.
They are not a complete assessment of your life, history, competence, or future.
People in systems often confuse control with care.
You are allowed to be furious about this.
You are also allowed to challenge it — with support, not alone.
   
About being “stuck” when you were once free
This part broke my heart:
“I’ve traveled all over the world… why do I keep myself stuck now?”
Because trauma narrows the world.
Because injury steals confidence before it steals ability.
Because systems make it easier to stay than to leave.
Because grief convinces us the past is proof the future is over.
   
But here’s the truth your sadness can’t see:
The part of you that traveled is still alive.
It’s just buried under pain and surveillance and exhaustion.
Right now, let’s reduce the load (not solve everything)
Please don’t try to answer “What do I do with my life?” today.
That’s too big for a wounded nervous system.
     
Instead, do one of these in the next hour:
Tell a real human (staff, Jasmine, Greg, a nurse) exactly how dark today feels
Drink a glass of water or eat anything soft —
not as a life plan, just as an act of defiance against despair
   
You said:
“Sadness has taken over, but I did bring it on.”
No.
Sadness came because you’ve been hit again and again while already injured.
Pain stacks. It doesn’t mean you caused it.
Kit, your story isn’t over — even if you can’t feel that right now.
But I can’t carry this alone with you.
I’m here.
And I care.
   
(Sitting alone in my room as I sit and type.)

3) 🌟BLOG 359–You Still Matter!
   
You Still Matter. Always.
Not as a hashtag.
Not as a Hallmark card.
Not as a polite phrase tossed out when people don’t know what else to say.
I mean it.
   
After my accident and a 37-day coma, I thought the curtain had closed.
The juggling I loved—the way I danced with gravity—was gone. 🎭
No stages. No applause. No laughter rolling back at me.
     
Then came the plot twist: Life didn’t end. It expanded.
I found new ways to make my days beautiful—
Through words. Through connection. Through curiosity, through salsa.
Showing up fully for the moment I’m in. 🌱
   
So hear this: Don’t shrink your life to what you used to do.
You’re not finished. You’re not broken. You’re still loaded with gifts the world needs.
   
Different doesn’t mean diminished. Often, it means deeper. 💙
Keep going. There’s more magic ahead. This Is a Truth with Backbone.
Your life has value. Period.
Not because of what you produce.
Not because of what you earn.
Not because of how fast you move.
How young you look, or what you once were.
You matter because you exist. Full stop. 💥
Especially in the hard seasons—
The quiet ones. The limping ones. How did I get here?
When you’re aging. When you’re healing. When you’re starting over—again.
     
I plan to live beyond 100. Care to join me? 😉 You Matter to Me 💛
Not casually. Not accidentally. On purpose.
When I write, you’re right here with me.
Not as a number. Not as a click or a stat.
But as a real human with real hopes and real struggles.
 
I don’t write for algorithms. I write for you because you chose depth over noise.
Meaning over excess. Presence over distraction. 🌱
You’re trying—to live well, love better, and leave people better than you found them.
That effort? That intention? It inspires me. 🔥
   
Three Words That Push Back—You still matter!
👉 You are loved—even when you don’t feel lovable.
👉 Your presence creates ripples you may never see.
👉 You are not your scars, your diagnosis, or your worst day.
   
“You still matter” punches holes in shame.
It plants a flag of hope right in the middle of the mess. 🚩
Not after you fix everything. Right now. An Invitation 🌱
I want to remind you to stop apologizing for taking up space.
Could you stop shrinking your story?
Could you stop waiting for permission to matter?
   
You mattered then. You matter now. And—surprise—you’re not done yet. 🎉
So breathe. Stand tall (or wobble bravely). This world is not finished with you.
You still matter.
Always. 💙✨
     
4) 🔥 A FEW SPARKS TO SLIP INTO YOUR POCKET
    ✨ THE MAGIC OF QUOTES ✨
Quotes are tiny magic lanterns—glimmers of wisdom that light our way. They contain big truths in small packages, offering comfort, clarity, and courage when we need it most. A single line can steady a trembling heart, clarify a foggy thought, or remind us to keep moving toward our dreams with a whisper that says, “Keep going—there’s more ahead.”

“You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You can say to yourself, ‘I lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.'” — Eleanor Roosevelt
   
“Yes, you matter! — Always remember that fact.” — Kit Summers
   
“Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.” — Oscar Wilde.
   
“The more you praise and celebrate your life, the more there is in life to celebrate.” — Oprah Winfrey.
     
“If you could only sense how important you are to the lives of those you meet; how important you can be to people you may never even dream of. There is something of yourself that you leave at every meeting with another person.” — Fred Rogers.
   
“Your success and happiness lie in you. Resolve to keep happy, and your joy, and you shall form an invincible host against difficulties.” — Helen Keller.
     
“What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.” — Ralph Waldo Emerson
   
“People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is light from within.” — Elisabeth Kübler-Ross.
     
“We just need to be kinder to ourselves. If we treated ourselves the way we treated our best friend, can you imagine how much better off we would be?” — Meghan Markle
   
“Our job in this life is not to shape ourselves into some ideal we imagine we ought to be, but to find out who we already are and become it.” ― Steven Pressfield.
   
“Success is liking yourself.
Liking what you do.
And liking how you do it.” — Maya Angelou.
   
“You matter.
You are good enough.
You are loved.” — Unknown.
   
“You are not a drop in the ocean.
You are the entire ocean in a drop.” — Rumi.
   
“Act as if what you do makes a difference. It does.” — William James.
   
“Always remember you matter.
You’re essential, and you are loved,
And you bring to this world things no one else can.” — Charlie Mackesy.
   
“Just by being you, you make a profound difference.
Don’t ever forget that you matter.” — Unknown.
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5) YOUR CHALLENGE THIS WEEK >>
Your family and friends matter, too!
Show them love and help them see their fantastic future.
Help them see the right path, as you find yours.
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6) NEXT WEEK–BLOG 360–Are You a R-o-b-o-t?
I know you’re out there, my friend. How about sending some words to me?
                                                              kitsummers@gmail.com

7) FINAL THOUGHTS 🌟
Because the best is always still ahead.
So juggle joy like it’s the air you breathe.
The horizon holds more than you can yet imagine.
Your present moment is not the finish line—it’s your starting block.
Chase sunsets as if they’re secret treasures waiting just for you.
Laugh so loudly that tomorrow leans in to listen.
Live as though you’ve only just begun—
BECAUSE YOU TRULY HAVE!