Threshold: On Breath, Grief, Creativity, and the Ones Who Walk Us Home

A Threshold Story of Breath, Loss, and the Ones Who Stay

Oh, I’ve been trying to write this blog for a very long time. I’m a blogger, right? Well… not exactly. I’m chaotic, if anything. Consistently inconsistent. I’m the end of pi. I’m one of those who believes our souls never dissolve, only change form. “I am vapor.”

While I wrote, my friend Jo painted—stained glass, vivid art, color made solid. Words danced off the page, and art became their stage and costume. ’Tis a beautiful world we live in. And in these breaths, the lumps come too—especially with holiday meals. God, the lumps come.

Cortisol, Creativity, and the Body

At Thanksgiving, Mary and I sat talking about stress and the physical ailments it creates in the body. She’s a specialized hospice nurse, former RN, with advanced certifications in dementia and Alzheimer’s care. Our conversation drifted between her speaking engagements, my workshops, and her daily work with both the living and the dying. We talked about cortisol.

We’ve all seen the ads—stress raises cortisol, cortisol creates belly fat. But it goes much further than that. Prolonged stress keeps cortisol elevated, gradually breaking down the neural pathways we’ve taken years to build. Those elevated levels contribute to plaque formation in the brain, damaging established neural highways. The same thing happens in the muscular system. Cortisol suppresses mTOR and other pathways needed for muscle repair, leading to proteolysis—preventing lean muscle from rebuilding.

In essence, chronic stress creates a dual burden: neurodegenerative risk and muscle loss, driven by sustained cortisol elevation. And yet—adding just forty-five minutes of creative writing, art, or movement can significantly reduce stress, help rebalance dopamine, encourage neural repair, and slow that breakdown.

I smiled and said, quietly, “I’m proud of what I do at SwAY HEYven.

And then the lump in my throat arrived. Because the conversation turned—inevitably—to transitions.

Standing at the Threshold

There is much more to death than someone dying.

There are many beliefs about what happens… until you’ve been there. Until you’ve actually witnessed the Transition from life to death. I know what you’re thinking: —this is all new-age mysticism or political theology. I assure you; it is neither. I have witnessed only one human transition. Mary has witnessed many.

I have witnessed the transitions of my pets. And that is a transition too. Standing on the threshold of two worlds can be a strange kind of blessing. Once you have seen it, faith changes into knowing. “Oh, ye of little faith.” —Matthew 8:26. If you haven’t seen a peaceful passing, I don’t know whether to call you lucky or not. I have seen only peaceful passings—except for one story that still shivers through the room when Mary tells it.

Peace and Terror Transitions

Once, she described something very different. In a nearby bed, a man who was not her patient suddenly became terrified—his face contorted, his breathing ragged, his eyes wide with fear. The room felt different. The air changed. She had to leave. When the moment passed, the atmosphere lifted. The man died shortly after. It was not peaceful. She still shivers when she tells the story.

The One Peaceful Human Transition I Witnessed. The one human transition I personally witnessed was a woman with dementia named Annie. I had cared for her for over three years. She would not let go until Dana finally said: “Momma, you’ll be okay. I’ll be okay. You can go.” Annie and her daughter Dana had been inseparable—the kind of bond that doesn’t loosen easily. But when those words were spoken, everything shifted. Annie released. Her soul left easily. Then there was an empty vessel. And though it was eerie to witness, it was also peaceful.

The Rainbow Bridge

I’ve been trying to write about my dogs forever. If you opened my heart, you’d probably find it partially canine. No matter where I walk or go, puppies or dogs alike seek me out, it’s more than cute. I often introduce myself to their owners as an afterthought.

Brindy, One of my biggest cries. One of those big snotty noses, wet Kleenex cries. Bundled in blankets, rushing to the vet, sitting in the waiting room—she took her last breath just as the vet walked in. I gasped and said, in disbelief, “I think she just left. She just left.”

I stood in equilibrium—between worlds.

He checked for vital signs. There were none.

We buried her later that day. I didn’t tell anyone until the family came home. I couldn’t.

And for years, my son and I tormented ourselves with one question: Did we bury her alive?

But after all these conversations… I don’t believe she fully left that day.

Maybe dogs transition differently.

People have always said to me when at the park, “My dog doesn’t go to anyone but you.” Even once a dog carjacked me. True Story, A boxer sat in front of my car at an intersection and refused to move. When I opened the door, she jumped straight into my lap. My own dog didn’t even protest. I eventually found her home, but she clung to me…she didn’t want to leave. Silly girl, she was one silly canine. but —

Recently, I sat quietly on what I believe is that same threshold—and spoke with Brindy again. Not with fear. With knowing.

If she wants to go, she can.

If she wants to stay, she can.

The bridge bounces both ways

Brindy, a brindle chihuahua no one quite wanted.

And the one my son could not live without.

Perhaps that’s why there are so many songs about dogs and the people who love them — “Old Blue” “I Wish My Dog Could Live Longer”, and movies like Lassie, Old Yeller, All Dogs Go to Heaven, the ones that make you ache in that slow, familiar way. But it’s Dolly Parton’s song, Craker Jack, that touches my heart most dear.

Remember, This Holiday Season

Every year at Christmas, I think of that song — and of how many dogs are given as gifts without anyone understanding the lifetime stitched into that little body. Puppies are not surprises. They are promises. And promises to deserve to be kept long after the wrapping paper is gone.

Love isn’t festive. It’s daily. It’s walking in the rain. It’s vet bills and aging hips and saying goodbye far too soon. And if we choose a dog, truly choose one, it should never be because it’s a season — but because it’s a life.