I Don’t Like Mice

Here’s the plot twist no one saw coming:

I am terrified of mice.

Not mildly uncomfortable.
Not “oh how quaint.”
Terrified.

If one were to run across my kitchen floor, I would abandon all dignity, scream words I don’t normally use, and immediately move. Possibly out of state.

And yet… here I am.
Painting mice.
Giving them wheelbarrows.
Letting them carry hearts.

Make it make sense.

But maybe that’s the point.

Because I didn’t paint these mice because I love mice. I painted them because I love love. The quiet kind. The earned kind. The kind that shows up after you’ve lived enough life to know what matters.

And yes—this is where it gets personal.

I found love later in life.

Not the movie version where everything aligns neatly by your thirties and you glide into the sunset with perfect timing and great hair. I found the kind of love that comes after detours. After lessons. After you learn the difference between attention and commitment, between chemistry and kindness.

The kind of love that feels steady. Safe. Deep.
The kind you don’t rush.
The kind you recognize when it finally shows up and think, Oh… this is what they were talking about.

That’s why I believe in all the feels. The Hallmark ones. The tender ones. The quiet, behind-the-scenes ones. The ones carried forward by tiny, uncelebrated efforts—like the mice in Cinderella who did all the work and got none of the credit.

Let’s be honest—Cinderella didn’t get to the ball alone.

A group of mice said, “Not on our watch.”
They sewed.
They hustled.
They dodged a cat with zero appreciation.

And I often wonder what they were thinking.

“We’re doing a LOT for a glass slipper situation.”
“This better be worth it.”
“If this doesn’t work, I’m done.”

And yet—they showed up anyway.

Love is often like that.

It doesn’t arrive with fanfare. It arrives through small, faithful steps. Through people who keep going even when they’re tired. Through hope that doesn’t quit just because it took longer than expected.

So yes—I paint mice even though they terrify me. Because these mice aren’t about rodents. They’re about carrying love forward. They’re about believing that hearts are worth the effort, even when the timeline is messy.

And if you’re still looking for love—please hear this part:

Don’t rush it.
Don’t settle.
Don’t let anyone tell you it’s too late.

The best love doesn’t follow a schedule. It shows up when you’re ready to receive it—and sometimes when you’ve almost stopped looking.

I believe in love stories that start later.
I believe in second chapters.
I believe in the kind of love that feels like exhaling.

And if that love needs to be delivered by a mouse with an umbrella and a wagon full of hearts… so be it.

I’ll paint it.
I’ll believe in it.
I’ll just keep my distance in real life.