Cupcakes & Tea with Elizabeth

Tag: storytelling

  • Saying Goodbye to Outlander: Why This Story Meant So Much to Me

    Saying Goodbye to Outlander: Why This Story Meant So Much to Me

    I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

    And maybe you weren’t either.

    When Outlander came to an end—(or at least felt like it did)—I found myself sitting there, overwhelmed with emotion, tears I didn’t expect quietly falling. It wasn’t just the ending of a show. It felt like closing something sacred. Something that had gently made its way into my heart without me even realizing it.

    Because the truth is, Outlander surprised me.

    I didn’t go looking for it. In fact, I resisted it. I had people tell me over and over again to watch it, and each time, I brushed it off. It didn’t seem like “my kind” of story.

    But then one day, I pressed play.

    And something in me shifted.

    From that moment on, I was drawn in—not just by the story, but by the feeling of it all. You know the kind of feeling that lingers after the episode ends… the kind that sits with you, quietly asking you to pay attention?

    It Was Never Just a Love Story

    Yes, Outlander is a love story—but if you’ve watched it, you know it’s so much more than that.

    It’s love woven through time, through sacrifice, through impossible choices.

    It’s magic.
    It’s history.
    It’s the ache of belonging somewhere you’ve never been.

    It’s forget-me-nots blooming as a reminder that some things are meant to find you.

    A Piece of Me I Didn’t Know Was There

    Something I don’t talk about often is my Scottish ancestry—Dunbar and Rose.

    It’s always been a fact, something I knew, but not something I felt deeply connected to. If anything, my heart has always leaned more toward Ireland.

    But Outlander… it stirred something different.

    Watching it, I felt this quiet awakening—a sense of recognition I couldn’t quite explain. Not just in the landscapes or the stories, but in the spirit of it all.

    The strength.
    The loyalty.
    The resilience in the face of loss and change.

    It made me pause and wonder—how much of that lives in me too?

    Even knowing the show isn’t perfectly historically accurate, it carries a truth that goes deeper than facts. It carries feeling. And sometimes, feeling is what connects us most.

    The Beauty That Stays With You

    There’s a softness to Outlander that lingers.

    The way the light hits the hills.
    The movement of fabric in the wind.
    The music that feels almost like a memory you can’t quite place.

    It doesn’t just tell a story—it invites you into one.

    There were moments I didn’t feel like I was watching it… I felt like I was sitting inside of it. And in the quietest way, it felt like home.

    At one point, I found myself stepping into that world in my own way—wearing a look inspired by Ellen MacKenzie from Blood of My Blood. And in that quiet moment, standing there in the light, it didn’t feel like dress-up. It felt like a connection. Like something in me understood the story on a deeper level.

    Why Saying Goodbye Hurt So Much

    I think the reason it hurt—the reason I cried—is because Outlander gave me something I didn’t know I needed.

    It reminded me that where we come from matters.
    That strength can be inherited in ways we don’t always see.
    That love—real, enduring love—can exist through anything.

    And when something touches your soul like that… it’s never easy to let it go.

    But Maybe It Isn’t the End

    Here’s what I keep coming back to:

    Maybe this isn’t really goodbye.

    With Blood of My Blood ahead of us, and an ending that still feels open, there’s a quiet hope that the story is still unfolding.

    And maybe that’s the real gift of Outlander.

    It doesn’t stay confined to the screen.
    It doesn’t end when the credits roll.

    It becomes part of you.

    And if you’ve felt that too—if this story has stirred something in your heart, reminded you of who you are, or where you come from—then maybe you understand why this goodbye doesn’t feel simple.

    Or final.

    And for that… I’m so grateful we got to experience it.

    If this story stayed with you, I’d love for you to stay connected.

  • Reflections from Sweden: My Grandma’s (Mormor) Words and the Vasa Ship

    Reflections from Sweden: My Grandma’s (Mormor) Words and the Vasa Ship

    While in Sweden, I came across one of my grandma’s old diary entries from her own trip decades ago. On a page titled “Comparisons,” she wrote:

    “Comparison:
    In those days, people feared things
    like lion’s faces. We fear things in
    the shape of mushroom clouds — nuclear bombs.”
    ~ June 1986

    She was writing about the Vasa Ship, the 17th-century Swedish warship that famously sank on its maiden voyage and was later recovered and preserved. The “lion’s face” she mentions refers to the carved lion figurehead at the front of the ship — a symbol of courage and power that’s been part of Swedish culture since medieval times.

    Reading her words while visiting the Vasa Museum myself in the summer of 2017 was surreal. It felt like we were sharing a moment across time — her thoughts from 1986 intertwining with my own experiences.

    I remember watching teams of researchers working carefully on the ship, preserving it for future generations. The recreated colors of the Vasa were so vivid and striking — a reminder that history can breathe again when we take the time to care for it.

    Her reflection about fear — how it changes shape across generations — stuck with me. The world she knew was different, yet her words still ring true.

    Maybe that’s the beauty of shared experiences: even when years and oceans separate us, our thoughts and emotions still find a way to connect.

    vasa2

    VASA
    A picture of the lion I took at the Vasa Museum!

  • The Stories That Built Me

    The Stories That Built Me

    “I have great respect for the past. If you don’t know where you’ve come from, you don’t know where you’re going.”
    — Maya Angelou

    Every family has stories that shape who they are, and around Christmas a few years ago, I got to hear some of mine. My parents sat me down and shared pieces of our family history that left me in awe — stories of strength, courage, and quiet resilience that built the foundation I stand on today.

    One of those stories was about my great-grandmother’s sister, who worked down South as a schoolteacher. She was light-skinned and could pass as white — something that came with complicated privileges during that time. Across from the school was a hat shop that allowed white customers to try on hats before buying them. Black customers, however, had to purchase any hat they touched. My great-grandmother’s sister would walk into that shop and try on as many hats as she pleased, knowing she could get away with it. It was a small, almost defiant act — one that spoke volumes about navigating an unjust world with quiet boldness.

    Then there was my grandmother’s father — my great-great-grandfather. He was also light-skinned, with light eyes, and worked as a painter at a hotel. One day, he walked in with the Black maids, and his boss pulled him aside.
    “Why did you walk in with the colored women?” the boss asked.
    My great-great-grandfather simply replied, “Well, they play cards with my wife.”
    The manager, shocked, said, “Your wife? You mean to tell me you’re colored!?”
    “Yes, sir,” he said calmly.
    The boss looked around and whispered, “Look, I like you. You’re good at your job. But don’t tell anyone you’re colored, or we’ll have to fire you.”

    Hearing these stories, I felt an ache — pride mixed with sadness. These were people who carried themselves with grace and strength in the face of injustice. People who worked hard, protected their families, and found ways to keep their dignity intact in a world that didn’t always see it.

    Some might say, “The past is the past — why bring it up?” But I think remembering is an act of love. It’s how we honor the struggle, the perseverance, and the humanity that got us here. Forgetting would mean erasing the very roots that keep us grounded.

    If I could talk to them today, I’d tell them how proud I am — proud of the resilience that runs through our blood, proud of the lessons they left behind, proud to carry their spirit forward.

    Resilience. That’s what created me.

    “You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone’s soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose… That is your role, your gift.”
    — Erin Morgenstern