Am I Heartless?

The question I sat with last week, and what I found underneath it

July 6, 2026

A note from The Garden

Stop and smell the roses.

Every time I take Cora out, my granddog with her sweet little face, we pass the roses. And every time, she stops.

She sniffs the ground first. Then the lower branches, slowly, like she’s reading something written there. She is never in a hurry. The roses are news to her every single day. Several times a day, in fact.

The first few walks, I tugged the leash a little. We'd been outside long enough, and it's time to go inside, but somewhere along the way I started waiting. And then I started leaning in too.

Now it’s our ritual. We stop together, Cora at the roots and me at the blooms. She smells whatever it is dogs smell. I smell roses.

I used to think stopping to smell the roses was just a saying. Cora treats it as the whole point of going outside.

A story about capacity.

We had a terrible rainstorm last week, and there was flooding in our condo building. Five families were displaced. Neighbours were devastated. People rallied, checked in, grieved together.

I watched it all from my 2nd-floor balcony and felt... distanced. And for a moment I wondered, am I heartless?

I sat with that question. And here is what I found underneath it. No, I am not heartless. I give generously, to my family and closest friends, to my online community, to the women who gather at my table each month. My heart is not closed. It is simply already full.

I have burned out before. I know what it costs to say yes to everything and everyone. I have been there. I am not going back.

So the advice I gave myself was this. Don’t feel guilty. These neighbours are kind people, and they are taking care of one another beautifully. They don’t need me to complete their circle.

But here is where the story turned.

While walking our dogs, I shared how I was feeling with two of the women closest to me. I told the truth, the uncomfortable version, the one that included the word heartless. And something opened. One by one, they said, me too.

As our dogs sat patiently on the grass waiting, we talked about the past seasons of our lives that still shape us, and how cautiously we are beginning to notice the ways old patterns tug at our boundaries now. We talked about giving ourselves grace as we learn, situation by situation, what is ours to carry and what is not.

That conversation was a gift. And it only happened because I told the truth about myself first.

So maybe that is the real advice. Trust that others are held. Keep your hands free for what is truly yours. And when the guilt whispers anyway, tell the truth to someone you trust. You may find you were never alone in it at all.

That is not heartless. That is knowing the size of your own nest.

So if you're feeling over capacity, take it from Cora. Stopping isn't falling behind. It's the whole point of going outside.

Warmly,
Kathy

P.S. A little housekeeping before I go.

Paid memberships at The Hummingbird Nest will open in early September. Between now and then, watch for a walk through the retreat center I’ve created here. I’ll take you room by room, so you can see what waits inside.

And for those of you familiar with my Substack site, you’ll find three years of posts archived there. Journaling prompts, meditations, rituals, creative invitations. In early September, around the time I hold an open house, that archive will move behind the paywall for members.

So wander freely this summer. The doors are wide open, and I’d love for you to look around.

A little about me

Hi, I’m Kathy. Your retreat hostess. A guide, a gatherer, a maker of sacred space, and a woman who found her way home to herself after years of putting everyone else first.

For years, I wore many hats at once. Single parent, community manager in a role I was promoted into before I believed I deserved it, event organizer. And later, a family caregiver. Learning all over again how to give without losing myself in the giving. Caring for everyone, in every direction, all at the same time. What I had to learn, slowly and imperfectly, was that I mattered too. What I found on the other side of that, through stillness, creativity, and the women who gathered around my table, became everything I now offer.

There’s a place at the table with your name on it.