Sunday morning, in this house, is for the dogs and whoever is up. Usually I am up. The coffee is already made. The first cup is too hot to drink. The second cup is the one you drink.
This is the hour I write in. Mostly about what happens in it, and the quieter things underneath.
I am Trina. Married. Two sons. Three rescue dogs named Miley, Leonard, and Zoey. Appalachian and Midwestern, and I have stopped trying to pick. A faith that has been with me long enough to feel like furniture in the good way.
The Dog-Eared Life is a weekly essay. Sundays, 7 AM Central. It is about the pages I keep coming back to. Hope. Faith. Marriage. Motherhood. Appalachia. The Midwest. Rescue dogs. Recovery, in the largest sense of that word.
When I say recovery, I do not mean what most people hear. I mean the long work of becoming yourself again after life interrupted. Grief. Loss. Burnout. A marriage that had to get harder before it got honest. A faith that got complicated. Unimaginable pain. Motherhood that did not look like the pictures. A body that stopped cooperating. A family story you had to set down in order to carry your own. The middle of all of it.
If you are recovering from something, and most of us are, you are in the right place.
Here is what you can expect.
A weekly essay. Usually 800 to 1,500 words. Usually a scene, then something underneath it, then a small landing.
Pieces that do not try to wrap up neatly, because my life does not either.
Occasional reflections on holistic nutrition, Appalachian heritage, and what I have learned the slow way.
Dogs. Often. Not as symbols. As themselves.
A porch light, not a spotlight. I am not here to fix anyone. I am here to keep the light on.
No hot takes. No advice you did not ask for. No writing that sounds like a LinkedIn post wearing a cardigan.
What I promise is smaller than most welcome letters promise.
I will show up on Sundays. I will write in my own voice. I will protect the people I love, including the ones I do not talk to anymore. I will not perform grief, faith, motherhood, marriage, or recovery. I will tell the truth sideways when I cannot tell it straight.
That is the deal.
If the first few pieces are for you, stay. If they are not, unsubscribe without guilt. There is a lot of internet. I respect that you picked some of it to spend here, and I respect you picking other places too.
Thank you for being here. The porch swing is small. There is still room.
