BLOG 364–SPEAKING WITH SILENCE (shhh)

✨KITTING AROUND✨
🌟BLOG 364–SPEAKING WITH SILENCE (shhh) 🌟    
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 throwing 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. 🎉
     
What’s next on Kit’s journey through life?
Back to juggling? Back to life?
Stay with Kit and find out.
Life can get better.
Life will get better. ✨

Part 1)  THE BEGINNINGS
Friday again. How does it arrive so fast? Each week feels like it barely stretches before it’s folded into another Friday.
Time doesn’t stroll anymore—it juggles. 🤹‍♂️
I’m not filling space when I write these weekly words.
I’m reaching for you.
If one sentence steadies you…
If one idea nudges you forward…
If one laugh lightens your load…
Then this Friday matters.
     
That’s all I want. A little lift. A little courage.
A little spark you carry into your own becoming. ✨
Every story tiptoes in like it needs permission, clutching its hat, whispering —
“So… where do we begin?”          And someone always answers, “At the start.”
   
But let’s tell the truth—
The start never waits for applause.
It doesn’t check if we feel brave enough.
It doesn’t send a calendar invite.
It just happens. It already happened.
     
Your beginning didn’t arrive with fireworks or a theme song. No spotlight. No standing ovation. One quiet day, you were here—breathing, blinking, becoming. 🌱
And look at you now. Flourishing.
     
Not in a confetti-cannon, headline-grabbing way.
Maybe more like roots pushing through stone—slow, stubborn, unstoppable.
The kind of growth no one claps for… until one day there’s a forest where doubt used to be. 🌳
     
Mine began a long, long time ago—a skinny kid with more curiosity.
The coordination and just enough audacity to keep trying.
I didn’t want to be louder. I didn’t want to be cooler.
I wanted to be different. So I wandered off the well-worn path.
   
While other teenagers were polishing their reputations and revving engines, I was in the backyard tossing balls into the sky. Then clubs. Then more clubs. Dropping them. Picking them up. Dropping them again. 🤹‍♂️
     
The neighbors probably peered over the fence and thought,
“There goes that odd kid again,” or “There goes that odd ‘Kit’ again.
They were absolutely right.
     
But out there on that patch of grass, something extraordinary was forming. I wasn’t just juggling objects. I was juggling identity. I was teaching my hands discipline and teaching my mind attention.
Teaching my heart that repetition is not punishment—It is a rehearsal for excellence.
   
You see, repetition equals skill.
Every drop was data. Every bruise was tuition.
Every awkward moment was a brick in a foundation no one could see yet.
     
And meanwhile—
Life was quietly sharpening its sense of humor. 🎭 Because life loves irony. It let me master balance… and later took it away. It let me command a stage… and then placed me flat on my back in a hospital bed.
It let me fly… and then whispered, “Now, can you stand?”
Oh, the cosmic comedy. But here’s what the years have taught me—
Beginnings don’t define you. They introduce you.
   
And every fall? It’s not the end of the story.
It’s the sequel stretching its legs, pretending to be the finale.
Your beginning is not behind you. It’s breathing right now.
     
Live your life like you are always starting, because you are.
Mine is still unfolding. Yours is still unfolding.
We don’t ask timidly, “Where do we begin?”
We declare—”Here.” With what I have. With who I am.
       
With this imperfect body. With this resilient spirit.
With this breath filling my lungs again.
The story didn’t start when we were ready.
It started when we were born.
     
And it begins every single morning we choose—
even tired, even uncertain, even scared—
not to quit. 🌅 That’s the real opening line.
     
PART 2)  THINGS THAT HAPPENED THIS WEEK
         Kit’s Daily Delights — Inspiration, Served Fresh.
   
>>>>> February 7
Every week, I start with a clean slate. Not because the last one was perfect.
Not because I feel refreshed. But because I decided to. That’s the quiet power I still own.
Weekends here move like thick syrup. The hallways go silent. The clock ticks louder.
Time stretches itself out and dares you to wrestle it.
And sometimes… it hurts. And sometimes… You win!
     
Some moments feel absurd. The kind that makes you blink twice just to be sure your eyes aren’t playing tricks on you. The kind that reminds you that life, even in difficult places, does not lose its strange sense of humor.
   
It’s not always comfortable. It’s not always inspiring. And some days, it’s downright annoying.
But here’s the truth I keep circling back to:
I cannot control the hallway.
I cannot control the weather.
I cannot control the noise.
I cannot control the juggling balls.
I cannot control who walks where or how.
What I can control is whether I let it take up permanent residence in my mind.
Annoyance is real. Frustration is honest. Feeling worn down is human.
     
But none of it gets to own my week. So I begin again.
A clean slate isn’t about pretending everything is pleasant.
It’s about deciding that my response will be stronger than my irritation.
     
If the weekend is slow, I will make the most of it.
If the environment feels chaotic, I will build order in my own corner.
If the world outside my door feels off-key, I will tune my own instrument.
Every week, I begin again, not because the place changes. It’s because I do.
And that… that is still freedom.
     
>>>>> February 8 
I slept in today—luxuriously late—until about 4 am 😄
   
It often looks the same from both sides.
No, “thank you” for the cleaning I do out there.
Hardly a word for the blog I write, day after day, with care and intention.

And yet—here I am. Still doing it.

Not because applause is coming.
Not because someone might finally notice.
But because this is who I am.
I write because I care about life–mine and yours.
I clean because I like things better than I found them.
After all, I was a Boy Scout!
   
I write because words can still lift a corner of the world—if only an inch.
I show up because showing up matters, even when no one is clapping.
I’m not doing this for approval.
I’m doing it for alignment.
For self-respect.
   
I do it for the quiet satisfaction of knowing that while I was here, I made things a little kinder, a little clearer, a little more alive; for you and for others out there. And what are you doing to make this world a better place now and for the future?
       
The world doesn’t always say thank you.
That’s okay.
I say it to myself—and then I keep going. 🌱
     
The world was still quiet when I headed out for my daily walk.
cleanup of the patio and garden area, broom in hand, purpose intact.
And once again, the ground told its story.
At least fifty cigarette butts were scattered like confetti from a somber parade.
   
There’s one particular spot—off to the side, away from everything—where someone clearly stands, smokes, and flicks the evidence away. Thirty butts a day, easy. Every day. I find myself wishing I could meet this mystery smoker—not to scold, to talk. Human to human. Eye to eye. “Hey… why here? Why this?”
   
What gets me isn’t just the mess—it’s the casual disregard.
There are #10 coffee cans and trash cans nearby. Plural.
This isn’t about convenience. It’s about care.
Do they care about the world?
Do they care about themselves?
     
Sometimes it feels like no one notices the work I do out there.
No applause. No gold star. Not even a passing, “Hey, looks nice.”
I’ll admit—it would feel good to be seen.
Acknowledged.
To know that quiet effort counts.
   
But here’s the thing: I’ll keep doing it anyway.
Because clean space matters.
Because beauty matters.
Because how we treat shared ground says something about who we are.
     
So tomorrow, I’ll be back out there again—sweeping, gathering, restoring.
Not because anyone asked.
Not because anyone thanked me.
But because this is how I show respect for the place I live…
and for the people who walk through it, whether they notice or not.
Sometimes integrity wears work gloves. 🧹🌱
     
Wow, I wrote all that on Saturday before 9 am. What’s next?
   
A thought passed through my mind today—clear and sharp: “Get me outta here.”I’m deeply unsettled by much of what surrounds me, and weekends stretch on endlessly. Slow. Hollow. Heavy. I’ve had a much better world away from here. I’ll get there, you watch.
   
My juggling clubs sit untouched on the floor. The balls stay zipped away in their bag. That alone tells a painful story. Juggling was once a living part of me—and now, the absence of desire hurts more than the loss of skill. That realization nearly brings me to tears. I was so good. And right now, that version of me feels impossibly far away.
     
Weekends make everything louder. The halls are empty. Nothing moves. And the quiet seeps into me. My lack of interest in juggling has spread—into exercise, eating, even caring. That frightens me. I’ve always been someone who applied himself, who pushed forward, who built success with intention. This version of me feels unfamiliar.
   
Today has been tough.
The ringing in my ears is relentless.
My vision is doubled and distorted.
My balance is off.
My energy is drained.
And beneath all of that is the most brutal truth to write:
Right now, I don’t like where I am.
     
I’m struggling to see a future that excites me.
I’m alone—no partner, no close companionship.
I reread that last line, and it lands heavy.
I’ve lost my freedom, lost my joy.
I still feel like I am in jail while here. Today is not a good day.
     
Forgive the spill of words—they came from a heavy place. If you’re reading between the lines, you’ll feel it: I’m not okay right now. This isn’t the kind of tired that sleep cures. It’s the deeper kind—the kind that settles in the bones and asks to be seen. Hmm, should I slip back into my coma?
     
Writing it out wasn’t about drama or complaint.
It was about honesty.
About giving the weight somewhere to land so it didn’t crush me from the inside.
     
I’m sitting with it and naming it. Not running, not hiding.
And I’m moving forward the only way that’s real—
One clear sentence, one steady step, one breath at a time.
   
Tonight’s the big Super Bowl bash — the ultimate couch-cheering, snack-devouring fiesta! 🏈✨ Honestly, I’ve got no idea who’s playing (but I’m rooting for whoever wins 🧡💫). The spread is legendary — chips, dips, and all the crunchy goodies you can imagine 😋 — except, of course, crunchy chips are currently my nemesis (thanks to zero bottom teeth 🤪).
     
And, look at that, a big batch of my chocolate chip cookies for the group. So I’ll be there—with a practiced smile, a carefully curated soft-snack strategy, and a heart bursting with team spirit like a parade balloon ready to pop. 🎊
   
I’ll cheer politely. I’ll nod at the right moments.
I’ll radiate supportive vibes like a pro.
But then again… I think I’ll stay in my room.
   
Because sometimes the most spirited move is choosing quiet over noise, comfort over commotion, and honoring exactly where your energy actually is. No boos, no guilt, no halftime show required. Just me, my space, and a perfectly respectable retreat. 🛌✨
   
Looking back now, it almost surprises me how much found its way onto the page this Sunday. I didn’t plan it, measure it, or rein it in—it simply arrived, one thought inviting the next, until the page felt full. I hope you don’t just read it, but settle in with it for a moment, find a line that nudges you, and enjoy the quiet company of the words as much as I enjoyed letting them spill out. 🌱📖
     
>>>>> February 9
My mom—who left this world in 2014—had her birthday on this day, which means the date is stitched permanently into my memory. It’s not just a square on a calendar; it’s a soft knock on the heart. Every year it returns carrying echoes of her voice, her laugh, the quiet ways she shaped me. Some dates fade. This one never does. It shows up dressed as remembrance, love, and a gentle reminder that the people who matter most keep living inside us—long after the candles are blown out. 🎂💛
   
It’s starting to feel like I should plan on arriving five to ten minutes late for my therapy sessions—to match the rhythm of how things actually run. Today, it was me… and one other person… and, oddly enough, me again.
   
Terrie didn’t seem to have anyone scheduled, so she sat in and spoke with the group and Maura about impulse control—how people with brain injuries often struggle with it. Useful, yes, but also familiar territory. This wasn’t new ground; it was more like rereading a chapter I’ve already studied carefully.
   
At 11 am comes the Sports Group. As you know, I usually pass on this one. I’ve tried. Truly. But games don’t pull me in or light anything up inside. Time is precious, and I’m careful about how I spend it—especially now. If something doesn’t stretch me, teach me, or spark curiosity, it’s hard to justify showing up to fill a chair.
     
One strange thing. A couple of days ago, I made a huge batch of Chocolate Chip Cookies for Super Bowl Sunday, and they were for the group. I didn’t take any before I left them, so I took some for myself, since I’d paid for and made them myself. I was accused of taking the whole tray to my room, which I did not do.
   
And then the afternoon arrives… wide open and strangely quiet. No therapies. No structure. Just a big blank space asking, So—what now? What will I do, what will I do? Free time to spend, and time is the most important thing. What do to, what to do?
 
I’ll likely do what I often do when the schedule disappears: I’ll put words down here. I’ll write. I’ll think. I’ll shape the empty hours into something that at least feels alive. There may be no therapies on the calendar—but there’s still work to be done, even if it doesn’t come with a clipboard or a start time.
   
Because it’s my mom’s birthday, I called my sister today.
All my Life she’s been Kath to me. These days, she goes by her middle name, Willow—a lovely name—but it still feels strange in my mouth. Some names are stitched too tightly to memory to change easily.
   
I want badly to go for a walk right now. My body is ready; my mind is asking for air. But I’m tucked away and can’t go. So I’m asking you—yes, you—to take one for me. Feel the ground. Let the world move past you for a few minutes. 🚶‍♂️ Let me know how your walk went.
   
With nowhere else to go, YouTube took over my eyes and my mind. I slipped down the rabbit hole—not out of excitement, but out of stillness. When movement is denied, distraction becomes the substitute. Just watching “stuff”-I can’t even remember now what I watched. A time filler.
     
>>>>> February 10
Good morning to you.
Even though I’ve always smiled at that phrase a little sideways.
As if any of us owns the morning. We don’t.
   
Morning shows up—no RSVP, no warning—like a golden retriever bursting through the door with a tennis ball of possibility in its mouth. ☀️🎾
Time arrives.
What do we do with it?
That’s the magic trick.
     
A day isn’t stamped “good” or “bad” at the factory. It’s shaped—quietly, steadily—by the tiny decisions we make. The thoughts we entertain. The actions we take. The tone we choose when we speak to ourselves in the mirror.
Brick by brick. Breath by breath. So today, choose well.
Choose brave.      Choose kind.
     
Keep building a life that feels not borrowed, not assigned—but wonderfully, unmistakably yours. 🌱✨
Now—truth? Today I feel stuck. And I don’t like it one bit. It’s that tight, heavy feeling—like wearing shoes two sizes too small and trying to run a marathon anyway. Every step reminds you that something’s off.
     
And then there’s the small annoyances—the missing lower teeth, for instance. A little thing, technically. But discomfort has a sneaky way of stacking up when you’re already tired. A pebble in the shoe can feel like a mountain when your spirit is worn thin.
     
But here’s what I know—because life has trained me well:
Feeling stuck is not being stuck. It’s a moment. A pause.
A comma—not a period.
     
Even on days when energy is low and patience is thinner than dental floss, there is still choice.
A small one. A gentle one. But choice nonetheless. So I’ll start there.
One clear thought. One decent decision. One steady step.
     
And if that’s all I manage today? That’s enough.
Don’t plan to run a mile today.
Because even shoes that pinch can carry you forward. 👟💫
     
Then—just in time—I came across something Dan Millman posted today.
Simple words. Strong words. Words to think about.
The kind that gently taps you on the shoulder and says, Hey… pay attention.
Read the words slowly. Let them land. And see how they might fit your life right now. >>
       
In the midst of hate, I found there was,
within me, an invincible love.
In the midst of tears, I found there was,
within me, an invincible smile.
In the midst of chaos, I found there was,
within me, an invincible calm.
And in the depths of winter,  I found there was,
within me, an invincible summer.
This makes me happy. For it says that
no matter how hard the world pushes against me,
There’s something stronger,
better within me, pushing right back.
-Albert Camus
   
Before the 9:30 meeting between Lilli and me, I headed out a little early to spend time in the garden and on the patio. I cleaned up, checked what’s growing, and took note of the space. Fewer cigarette butts and less trash today—which felt like a small but genuine win. Progress doesn’t always arrive with a parade; sometimes it just shows up quietly and nods.
   
During our meeting, Lillie and I talked through the recent email I sent. I see now that I need to slow down before hitting “send,” pay closer attention, and avoid repeating myself. That awareness matters. I’ll be more deliberate from now on. You suggested writing with more detail—not to ramble, but to reinforce ideas more clearly in my own mind. That felt like solid guidance.
   
And then—your words about your son stopped me.
You mentioned that he was sick last Friday and that you stayed right by his side. That explains why we didn’t meet then—and it also says everything that needs to be said about priorities. When someone you love needs you, nothing else matters.
Family first.    Always.
 
You also asked me to send my writing directly to you before publishing anything through ChatGPT. That makes sense to me. From here on out, I’ll share my words with you first, then include them in the weekly blog once they’ve had that extra pass of care.
   
When I was down there, sadly, they had stationed two people in front of the TV, to babysit them. Yes, limited staff, but these people weren’t even watching the TV. There are two, I think, who were recently out of their coma, so I understand.
   
After my coma, I didn’t want to do anything.
Not move. Not a plan. Not participate.
I just wanted to stay in bed and let the world pass by without asking anything of me.
   
The television became my companion—but even then, I knew it wasn’t enough. There has to be a better way to connect with people than watching glowing boxes talk at us.
Healing needs faces. Voices. Presence. Real human tethering.
   
After my accident and 37-day coma, I was first taken to https://www.atlanticare.org/, which—thankfully—was only a few blocks away. I spent about a week there before being transferred to shoremedicalcenter.org/, where much of my coma time unfolded.
   
While I was at Shore, something extraordinary happened. A group of people—led largely by my dear friend Charlotte Paris—rallied together and raised enough money to fly me across the country to:
https://www.sharp.com/locations/sharp-allison-derose-rehabilitation-center.
   
That generosity still humbles me. I grew up in San Diego, and being able to continue my recovery there felt less like a transfer and more like a homecoming. That truth doesn’t need rehabilitation. It already knows how to stand. It was great to be home.
   
After our session from 10–11 am, I was scheduled for the craft group. Since Lillie was running it and already knew it wouldn’t be a good fit for me, I didn’t attend. Instead, I returned to my room and used the time to write this. Lillie, you asked me to start sending you daily emails listing what I did each day, and this is my first step toward building that habit.
   
At 11 am, I met with Terrie. She asked me to plan a four-day trip to California on a $2,000 budget. So I did exactly that—transportation, meals, lodging, the whole puzzle. Step by step. Calmly. Clearly. Just as I expected, it went smoothly.
   
For meals, I explained I could easily go without for four days—or share food with the people I was staying with. I told her I’d stay with friends in Los Angeles and/or use Couchsurfing.com. Simple. Practical. Done. Through Couchssurfing I’ve stayed with people in Germany, Australia, and New Zealand. Watch this >> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uoeLW_2Os3o
   
I also reminded Terrie—gently—that I’ve traveled to Europe three times, Japan three times, and Australia and New Zealand, all after my brain injury. Travel isn’t new to me. Planning isn’t new to me. And the way I approached it made that clear.
     
At 1 pm, Maryann’s walking group set out. I waited outside at the entrance… and waited… and waited. No one showed up. Eventually, I went back to my room and worked on this blog—for you. 💛
Later, Maryann came to my door and asked if I’d be joining the walk. I said no—I was writing. It looked like she had no one else to walk with, either.
   
While I was waiting outside earlier, someone walked by. I said, “Hi.”
She replied with the classic, automatic, drive-by question:
“How are you?” And didn’t wait for an answer. So many people do this.
   
Here’s a little life tip, free of charge:
Don’t ask “How are you?” unless you actually care to hear the answer.
Pause. Think.
Then say something playful. Something human. Something real.
Words matter. They’re tiny doors. Open better ones. 🚪✨
   
There is still much swelling in my legs, mainly near the ankle. The main nurse here took a look and does not know what to do. There is no pain, but the swelling is much, and is not “Swell”. Will this be my downfall or my upjump? (Get it–downfall, upjump?)
     
>>>>> February 11
This was not an easy morning for me; it felt like the kind of dawn that arrives without light, as if the sun hesitated behind the horizon and asked whether I truly wanted to rise with it.
   
I’m 66 now, and I’ve written that I want to live to the ripe old age of 100. I found myself wondering, with an honesty that surprised even me, whether I genuinely want to live to 100—or even to 67—because longevity only feels meaningful when life itself feels alive inside the bones.
   
It isn’t that I dislike where I am right now at NR; it’s that I feel unsettled about the shape of my days and uncertain about the road stretching ahead of me, and that uncertainty can weigh heavier than any wall or rule.
   
I am deeply tired today—tired in a way that sleep doesn’t seem to cure—and I know enough about being human to admit that exhaustion can tint the world in shades that are darker than truth. I could try to lie down, but I would just lie there.
     
I eat a banana each day. Simple. Sweet. A small yellow promise that this body still deserves care—even when the spirit feels unsteady. And the peel? I don’t toss it. I bury it because even scraps can become strength. Good for me, good for the dirt.
   
Banana peels feed next year’s roots. They disappear quietly and return as green. So I tuck each one into the soil like an investment in a harvest I may never see. I’m somewhere new by then. Different horizon. Bigger sky. But the garden will grow anyway—nourished by what I refused to waste. Even my smallest acts can outlive my doubts.
     
9:00 am – The Ball Is in the Air (But Not in My Hands). They were playing basketball again.
Same hoop. Same rhythm. Same echo off the gym walls. And no me. I watched the orange ball bounce with dependable enthusiasm—like a clock with great knees. But inside? Nothing. No spark. No ignition. Motion without mission.
 
I’ve spent a lifetime chasing mastery.
Seven clubs in the air. Lights hot.
Audiences are leaning forward.
Gravity persuaded to cooperate. 🟠🔥 
     
Busy is not the same as purposeful.
So I stepped away—not bitter, not dramatic—just honest.
If I can’t grow from it or add meaning to it, I won’t pretend.
     
Back to my room.
Back to the keyboard.
Back to the arena where I can still build cathedrals out of sentences.
Words are my gym now. And they still let me lift.
     
10:00 am – Impulse Control (Again) with Terrie and Maura. Same room. Same chairs. Familiar melody. Then we played 20 Questions. I won. 🏆 The mind still dances when invited.

But clever isn’t growth. I wrote quietly: I don’t want to be here.
Not rebellion. Data. When your spirit whispers, “This isn’t it,” you listen.
Longing isn’t laziness—it’s a compass. I don’t crave busyness. I crave relevance.
I don’t need to pass the time. I need to build something inside it.
   
11:00 am – Numbers and the Quiet Truth
Half an hour with Speech. She asked about recent meetings—blank page.
That one stung. Forgetting pieces of your own story feels like misplacing chapters you meant to keep. But with a few gentle cues, memory stepped back into the room.
     
Then the drill: listen for numbers in ascending order.
73% at slow speed. 63% at fast. Goal: 80%. Clear. Measurable.
But another number drifted up: zero. Zero motivation. Zero urgency to chase percentages.
 
And that—that’s the real work. Because I know who I’ve been.
The man who rebuilt Speech and balance after a 37-day coma.
The man who practiced until seven clubs obeyed.
The man who drove a van to every national park to keep moving.
     
If today the scoreboard flashes zero, that’s not the end of the game.
It’s a signal. Something deeper needs tending.
The impulse to control isn’t frustration.
 
It could be the urge to stop caring.
And I refuse that one. Because when I care—I rise.
This isn’t the last chapter. It’s just a lower one. 📖✨
     
2:30 pm – Steel, Breath, and Three Balls. Maryann and I worked on the weights. Slow. Steady. The resistance meeting was resolved. Later, I picked up three balls. Toss. Catch. Drop. Repeat. No fireworks. Just Silence.
   
There was a time juggling electrified my nervous system—clubs arcing overhead, audiences leaning forward, gravity granting me a temporary visa to defy it. 🎪 I’ve lost those wonderful feelings and joys. Did I lose them, or just put them aside for a time?
       
Now? Quiet air. I told Maryann the truth: it doesn’t move me the way it once did. She didn’t argue. She just stood steady beside me. This isn’t about how many objects I can keep aloft. It could be about who I’m becoming now.
     
Sometimes fire returns as wildfire.
Sometimes it survives as a pilot light.
And today—just barely—I can feel a flicker.
Fragile. But alive.
     
>>>>> February 12
UP BEFORE THE NOISE 🌅
As usual, I was up before the birds cleared their tiny throats for rehearsal…
before the bees clocked in for their golden shift…
Before most alarms dared to beep.

There is power in greeting a day before it fully wakes.

The air feels unwritten.
The light hasn’t chosen its mood yet.
It’s like holding a blank page before the ink decides who you are.

Those early hours belong to the builders.
The quiet warriors.
The ones stacking invisible bricks while the world still sleeps.

Up before the rush.
Up before the chatter.
Up before doubt has its coffee. ☕
That’s where futures get drafted — in the hush.

THE TWICE-WEEKLY RESET 🚿

Because I don’t sweat much these days, and I’m not dirty from the garden.
I’ve chosen a rhythm:
Only twice a week–Shower time!
Monday and Thursday. A small ceremony of renewal. Twice a week.
     
If I stretch it too long, my skin whispers, “Hey, friend… remember me?” Itchy, itchy.
So today — warm water. Steam rising. Silence. Not just clean skin. Steadier thoughts.
A subtle recalibration of the spirit. I recently read that our skin carries its own protective brilliance — a natural shield designed to guard and serve. So I don’t scrub it away daily. I trust the design.
     
Not everything needs constant washing. Not every mark needs erasing. Not every rough edge needs to be sanded smooth. Sometimes, strength is preserving what protects you. And sometimes strength is standing under warm water and letting it rinse off what no longer belongs. Simple shower. Small reset. Progress.

9 am — KINDNESS ROCKS 🪨✨
On the schedule: Kindness Rocks. Well… how could I resist that?
I stepped outside and selected my own rock — carefully chosen for maximum comedic dignity — and carried it in like I’d discovered Florida’s rarest gemstone.
   
If we’re doing rocks, we’re doing rocks properly. Of course, it started late. (Consistency remains aspirational.) Of course, I was the only participant. Just me. Terrie. And Maura.
And a bag of rocks awaits destiny.
     
The plan? Draw something cheerful. Scatter them later—tiny ambassadors of hope.
And there I stood — the entire audience and half the entertainment — holding a slightly ridiculous rock and a felt-tip pen. Part of me wondered if I sometimes hide behind comedy. If humor is armor.
     
But here’s what I know: Kindness doesn’t require a crowd. It doesn’t need applause.
Sometimes it’s just one person in a quiet room deciding to show up anyway.
You don’t wait for turnout. You don’t wait for energy. You become the energy.
So I painted one rock. Only one. And honestly? That may be enough.

10 am — HISTORY (AND HUMILITY)
Civics. Branches of government. Material that once would’ve been simple. And I struggled.
Frustration rose fast. It felt elementary. I caught myself thinking, How is this helping anyone?

But beneath that irritation was something harder to admit:
I’m not applying myself much to anything lately.
Not juggling. Not exercise.
Not even self-care the way I once did with fire in my eyes. That concerns me.

I said I feel like I’ve slipped into a hole. And when you stay in a hole long enough, it can start to feel normal. That’s the dangerous part.

THE PILL
Then came the medication. High blood pressure. A vitamin.
The pill lodged halfway down my throat — again — the same old battle. Water didn’t help. Gravity didn’t help. I’ve coughed them back up before. Anger flared. I even threw away two vitamins.
It seems small, doesn’t it?
But sometimes the smallest resistance feels like the last straw when your spirit is already tired.

THE HONEST PART
There are moments lately when hope feels thin, when the future feels blurry.
When the question quietly whispers,  Do I even want to keep doing this?
And that is not a comfortable place to stand.
   
But here is something truer than the whisper:
A thought is not a verdict. A low day is not a life sentence.
A struggling mind is not a finished story.
     
You have survived far worse chapters than this:
You woke from a 37-day coma.
You rebuilt Speech.
You relearned walking.
You reinvented yourself more times than most people reinvent their passwords.
This valley feels steep because you’re standing in it.
And valleys? That’s where roots grow deep.

(ChatGPT sent these words)
TODAY’S SCORECARD
You woke early. You showered. You painted a rock. You admitted you’re struggling.
That is not failure. That is quite courageous.
If the spark feels small — protect it.
If the effort feels heavy — shrink it.
If hope feels distant — borrow it for a day.
     
You do not have to solve your entire life this afternoon.
You have to get through today.
And if the weight ever feels unbearable, reach for a real voice immediately. Staff. A hotline. Someone. You are too important to wrestle those thoughts alone.
Even on days when you feel like a single painted rock in an empty room…
You still matter. 🪨✨
     
>>>>> February 13
It seems I wake each day before the songbirds clear their tiny throats for rehearsal. 🌅 There’s something sacred about that hour. The world hasn’t put on its costume yet. The noise hasn’t started campaigning for attention. It’s just me, a quiet room, and a blinking cursor asking, “Well… what will we build today?”
     
This morning, I reread the entire blog—line by line, word by word—making small edits along the way and trimming here and strengthening there. Sharpening a sentence like a blade meant to cut through doubt. ✍️
Editing isn’t just fixing. It’s caring. It’s respect for the reader (YOU).
It’s saying, “You matter enough for me to make this better.”
   
And I do like how this blog turned out. Not because it’s perfect. Not because it’s polished like a trophy on a shelf. But because it’s honest. Because it carries a heartbeat. Because it was written before the birds, before the bustle, before the hustle, before the world tried to tell me who I am. I hope these words added something to your life—a spark, a nudge, a reminder, a gentle push toward your own brilliance.
     
If even one sentence made you sit up a little straighter…
or breathe a little deeper…  or believe in yourself just a bit more…
Then those early hours were worth it. 🕊️✨   And tomorrow?
I’ll likely be up before the birds again—stacking words like bricks,
building something steady, for both of us.
   
I went back to the dentist today for an adjustment. The dentures had been hurting, and every time I tried to eat, it popped loose like it had somewhere better to be. They added a new layer of bonding material—something that will harden and, in theory, hold everything firmly in place. A practical fix. A hopeful fix.
   
But every visit to address my lower teeth carries a heavier weight. It reminds me of a decision I wish I could rewind. A choice I would undo in a heartbeat. And when I sit with that, I feel foolish. Regret has a loud voice sometimes. It hurts. Makes me feel like an idiot.
   
One day, I’ll have the permanent solution—secured solidly, bolted in, stable. It will cost real money, so it waits its turn. But it is coming. Not today. Not yet. But coming.
   
When I returned, I thought I’d given the adhesive enough time to set. I tested it gently—with a soft Reese’s. Chocolate and peanut butter seemed like a safe truce.
   
It wasn’t. The dentures slipped out immediately. And I felt that flash of heat. That surge of frustration that says, “Really? Again?” But here’s the truth beneath the flare-up: this is an inconvenience. Not a verdict. Not a life sentence. Not a reason to surrender. But perhaps it’s time to stop eating anything.
   
As for the rest of the day—empty schedule, quiet hours, that heavy feeling of “What am I doing here?”—I understand that too. Stillness can feel like stagnation when your nature is motion. You are wired for stages, travel, mastery, and impact. But even this season is temporary.
   
I get so angry at myself and the decisions I have made in my past. Why the hell would I have all of my lower teeth extracted–they were doing a sufficient job. I think of other decisions, from relationships to where to live. It’s very hard for me to see anything to live for.
   
ChatGPT said,
“You are not wasting your life.” You are in a chapter. And the chapters end. You’ve reinvented yourself more times than most people dare to imagine. This moment? It’s not the finale. It’s just an awkward middle scene with some faulty dental adhesive.
Anger is allowed.
Regret is human.
Frustration is honest.
But hopelessness? That’s a liar.
You are still building. Even today. Even in irritation. Even with chocolate in your mouth and glue on your gums. And one day soon, that permanent solution will click into place—solid, secure, unmoving.
Just like you.

Part 3)  BLOG 364–SPEAKING WITH SILENCE  (Shhhh . . .)
I’ve always been quiet—not because I had nothing to say.
But because I wanted to hear what the world was whispering first.
I learned early that there is power in the pause.
That you don’t have to rush to fill every gap with sound.
That sometimes the most courageous thing you can do is wait.
     
Long before I discovered the phrase had already been printed, framed, and hashtagged in a hundred places. The idea came to me on its own. The words arrived like a gentle knock on the door of my spirit. And I opened it. Truth doesn’t check the registry before it moves in.
     
I have learned that chosen Silence—not the Silence of fear, but the Silence of awareness—will carry you further than a thousand loud declarations. Silence is not emptiness. It is preparation. It is not a weakness. It is under control. It is not a withdrawal. It is presence without performance.
   
Silence is the sanctuary where wisdom stretches its muscles, where insight sharpens its edge, where the heart steadies itself before speaking something that matters. In Silence, you hear your own pulse. You hear the tremble in another person’s voice. You hear what was never actually said. Noise competes. Silence connects.
   
The loudest person in the room may win attention. But the quiet one?
The quiet one often wins understanding. And understanding changes lives.
So if you are quiet—If you pause before you speak—If you listen more than you declare—
Do not mistake that for smallness.
     
You are gathering power. You are building depth. You are allowing your words to ripen. And when you do speak? They will not be filler. They will be fire. Silence is not the absence of voice. It is the birthplace of it. 🔥
     
Speaking with Silence is the art of communicating through stillness rather than sound—using pauses, presence, restraint, and deep listening to convey meaning that words often dilute. It’s the choice to let awareness lead and ego step aside.
     
Silence, in this sense, isn’t empty. It’s active. It listens before it responds.
It observes before it declares. It allows truth to rise instead of forcing it onto the stage.
To speak with Silence is to trust that not every moment requires commentary, correction, or applause. It’s knowing when a pause can comfort more than advice, when presence outweighs opinion, and when the most potent answer is simply being there.
   
In a noisy world addicted to instant reactions,
speaking with Silence becomes a quiet form of courage. It says:
“I’m not rushing.” “I’m paying attention.”
“I don’t need to fill the space to be heard.”
     
And here’s the twist—
Silence, used well, doesn’t weaken communication.
It sharpens it. Like a master juggler who knows when to hold a ball instead of throwing it, Silence gives rhythm, intention, and grace to every word that eventually follows.
Sometimes the most profound message isn’t spoken.
It’s felt.🎪✨
   
Silence listens deeply. It observes. It allows the moment to reveal itself instead of rushing to control it. In a loud world addicted to instant opinions, Silence becomes a quiet act of courage.
I speak when I need to—and only then.
Because when words finally arrive, they matter.
     
Silence speaks through intentional pauses, through what is not said, through the calm that steadies a difficult room. It can be the most honest response, the most respectful answer, the most potent form of non-violence we possess.
     
Sometimes the strongest voice is the one that waits.
Sometimes the most profound wisdom arrives without sound.
And sometimes, Silence says everything that needs to be said.
   
Silence gets a bad reputation. People think it’s empty, awkward, something to fill with noise or words or excuses. But Silence is not empty. Silence is full. It’s just full of things you can’t hear unless you stop trying to talk. I learned this the long way.    
       
There was a time when my life was loud—applause, motion, ambition, proof. I measured days by what I produced and nights by what I earned. Then one day, without asking permission, Silence stepped in and took over the room. No speeches. No explanations. Just stillness. A pause so long it felt permanent.
   
At first, Silence terrified me.
Without my words, my routines, my identity, who was I?
Silence stripped everything down to the studs.
No distractions. No hiding. Just me, breathing, waiting, listening.
     
That’s when Silence started talking.
It didn’t shout.
It didn’t lecture.
It whispered.
It said: You are more than what you do.
It said: You don’t have to perform to matter.
It said: Healing doesn’t rush. It arrives.
     
In Silence, I noticed things I’d missed my whole life—the weight of breath entering my chest, the miracle of standing, the quiet courage it takes to keep going when no one is clapping. Silence taught me patience, not the polite kind, but the gritty, stubborn kind that sits with discomfort and doesn’t run.
     
I began to understand that Silence isn’t absence—it’s presence without distraction. When I stopped fighting it, Silence became a teacher. It showed me where I was afraid. It showed me what I still loved. It showed me the difference between noise and meaning.
     
When I returned to words, they mattered more.
I didn’t speak to impress.
I spoke to connect.
I spoke with space around my sentences so truth could breathe.
     
Silence taught me that not every moment needs commentary.
Some moments need reverence.
Some need rest.
Some need trust.
   
Now, when life grows loud again—as it always does—I don’t panic. I know Silence will return, and when it does, I’ll listen because Silence isn’t waiting to take something from us. It’s waiting to give something back.
   
So if you find yourself in a quiet season, don’t rush to fill it. Sit with it. Let it speak. Let it shape you.
Some of the most powerful conversations you’ll ever have will happen when no words are spoken at all.
That’s the art of speaking with Silence.
     
PART 4) 🔥 A FEW SPARKS TO SLIP INTO YOUR POCKET
    ✨ THE MAGIC OF QUOTES ✨
Quotes are tiny magic lanterns—pocket-sized beams of brilliance we carry through the dark. ✨
They hold oversized truths in travel-size form, ready to glow exactly when we need them.
A single line can calm a wobbling heart, snap a fuzzy thought into focus, or nudge us forward when our feet hesitate. Sometimes a quote doesn’t shout or lecture—it leans in close and whispers, “You’re not lost.” And that quiet glow? It’s often just enough light to keep us moving. 🚶‍♂️💡
Take the next step.                    There’s more ahead.”
   
“I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood.”
– Audre Lorde

“Shhh–Listen More.”
– Kit Summers

“The way to right wrongs is to turn the light of truth upon them.”
– Ida B. Wells-Barnett
   
“Every voice raised against racism chips away at its power.
We can’t afford to stay silent.”
― Reni Eddo-Lodge
   
“You should never let your fears prevent you from doing what you know is right.”
— Aung San Suu Kyi
     
“Do not be silent;
There is no limit to the power that may be released through you.”
― Howard Thurman     
   
“Once you’ve matured,
you realize silence is more powerful than proving a point.”
—Unknown
   
“Work hard in Silence.
Let your success be your noise.”
—Unknown
   
“Keep silence for the most part,
and speak only when you must,
and then briefly.”
—Epictetus
   
“I think 99 times and find nothing.
I stop thinking, swim in Silence,
and the truth comes to me.”
—Albert Einstein
     
“Without great solitude,
no serious work is possible.”
–Pablo Picasso
   
“Silence is the sleep that nourishes wisdom.” —Francis Bacon
   
“Move in Silence.
Only speak when it’s time 
to say checkmate.” —Unknown.

“Silence is a source of great strength.”
—Lao Tzu

“Nothing strengthens authority so much as silence.”
—Leonardo da Vinci

“Silence is the best answer for all questions.
Smiling is the best reaction to all situations.”
—Unknown
   
“In a room where people unanimously
maintain a conspiracy of silence,
one word of truth sounds like a pistol shot.”
– Czesław Miłosz
     
“Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.”
– Elie Wiesel

“Silence is a true friend who never betrays.”
– Confucius
   
“In the silence of the heart, God speaks.”
– Mother Teresa
   
“Silence is the sleep that nourishes wisdom.”
– Francis Bacon
   
“The quieter you become, the more you can hear.”
– Ram Dass
   
“Silence is the most powerful scream.”
– Anonymous
   
“Silence is a source of great strength.”
– Lao Tzu
   
“Silence is the language of God; it is also the language of the heart.”
– Sivananda
     
“It is better in prayer to have a heart without words than words without a heart.”
– Mahatma Gandhi
   
“The world is noisy. Be quiet.”
– Unknown
   
“In silence, we often find solutions to problems we can’t solve in any other way.”
– Eknath Easwaran
   
“Silence is a true art; it teaches us to speak without words.”
– Unknown
     
“Silence is the element in which great things fashion themselves.”
– Thomas Carlyle
   
“Let silence take you to the core of Life.”
– Rumi
     
PART 5) YOUR CHALLENGE THIS WEEK >>
Stay quiet this week. Not withdrawn. Not wounded. Just… intentional.
Let the noise rush past you without grabbing hold. Let the room reveal itself.
Let people show you who they are without interruption.
   
Watch what shifts. Watch what surfaces. Watch what suddenly becomes obvious.
You’ll notice tone before words. Motives before explanations. Truth before performance.
Silence isn’t emptiness—it’s a magnifying glass. It sharpens your hearing. It steadies your thinking.
It gives you back your power. Try it. Step back. Breathe. Listen.
     
You may discover that the loudest thing in the room was never the sound—
It was the wisdom waiting for you to pause long enough to hear it.
Be quieter this week.
You will find — Silence is Golden.
   
PART 6) NEXT WEEK>>BLOG 365–FIND YOUR PURPOSE!    
Write me today—kitsummers@gmail.com

Part 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!