Different Beliefs, Shared Humanity

Today, we are living in a time like no other. 

This phrase alone is something that we can all resonate with–-and yet… It quietly means something different for all of us. 

But why?

Because we are all living in our own versions of reality. 

Our beliefs, our consumption—the blueprint for all that we hold inside of us.

There are tragedies happening all around us. But they are not the same tragedies for us all. 

Is it possible that collectively we could construct less tragedy and suffering?

Maybe. 

Is it more important that individually, we can somehow hold the light for others along the way?

Recently, I had a conversation that lingered with me long after it ended. It was deeply personal in a way I didn’t expect, and for a moment, it left me unsettled.

With some distance, I understood that it wasn’t grief or disagreement that had unsettled me.

The truth is, that I hear a lot of tragic things every day in my practice as a nurse practitioner. This conversation was just a very normal conversation, given—what would to most—what would seem extremely tragic. 

To this individual, the belief was so grounded that there couldn’t be any room for sorrow or moping about the situation. It didn’t feel like I was holding space for them. 

It was like being an observer of someone’s inner world. 

But I was invited in at one point of the conversation. 

They said… “I know you’re not a believer, but I would really appreciate it if you could send some prayers my way.”

I probably had about a hundred thoughts in my head at that moment. 

I responded with that I had a strong belief in many things, and I especially have belief in You. And that I would absolutely be sending positive energy and prayers their way for this journey. 

So, after my long pause, here is the reflection…

We didn’t believe the same things, we had a mutual respect for each other's beliefs, and I was able to offer them love at their level of belief. 

Because what harm is it to believe in something which offers us community, joy, peace, understanding, kindness… despite our inner world being different—our realities shaped by different experiences, traumas, biases, and purpose. 

For a moment the phrase, “I know you’re not a believer,” quietly broke me. 

It is still challenging for me to articulate the feeling. 

What stayed with me was the realization of how sacred it is to be invited into someone else’s inner world—to be trusted with the way they make meaning in the face of suffering.

To comfort someone in their spiritual language is not a loss of your own—it is an act of love. 

I am not here to tell anyone to avoid their own truths. 

What I am actually here to say is that it is possible to live your truth and still hold the light for others. 

In a world that asks us to choose sides, I am choosing to choose people.

“I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo.

—The Lord of the Rings, J.R.R. Tolkien

Gandalf’s response reframes suffering not as something we are meant to escape, but as something we are meant to meet with intention. 

We may not choose our times—but we do choose the kind of people we will be within them.

Imagination That Is Restored—Imagination That Is Honored

A reflection

I used to think I was a slow reader.
That belief quietly pulled me away from reading for a long time.

I realize now that I wasn’t slow—I was a meaning reader. When I read, especially in high school, I gravitated toward philosophical, metaphorical, and lyrical prose: The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland, Hamlet, As I Lay Dying, Emily Dickinson, Edgar Allan Poe. I wasn’t reading for plot or speed. I wanted to understand what the author was feeling beneath the surface—how the words came into being at all.

At the time, I mistook that curiosity for inadequacy. I thought I was simply bad at reading.

As an adult, I can see that imagination is what has carried me through life. To some, that may seem childish. But perhaps imagination is not something we outgrow—perhaps it is something that heals us at our core.

I have always loved film, and I deeply appreciate the era when graphics and animatronics were imperfect. There was something honest about it. Somehow, despite it being entirely within my genre, I had never experienced The Neverending Story. We watched it over winter break, and I felt an immediate pull—a sense that there was far more being said beneath the surface than the film could convey.

That pull led me to Michael Ende’s writing.

What I found there was both enlightening and far exceeded my expectations.

What happens when we lose our imagination?

To see the world through the eyes of a child—and to remember that world in adulthood—is not only a gift, but a necessity. Wonder. Possibility. Courage in spite of fear. Love in spite of hurt. These are what I felt while reading The Neverending Story. Not a harsh warning about what becomes of us when we forget, but a humble reminder of who we can be when we remember.

Then there is The Nothing.

Perhaps we are experiencing it now, collectively. The Nothing is described as a darkness with an incredible pull, especially in large, densely populated places. Fantastica can only be saved by a child willing to move forward despite grief, loss of hope, indifference, pain, and doubt.

As adults, imagining what is possible becomes harder. We get busy. We forget how to be still. We lose our discernment in favor of convenience. We stop questioning. Life becomes routine—checklists, schedules, clocks ticking quietly beneath everything. We lose ourselves in expectation and, sometimes, in our own disbelief. We accumulate things instead of meaning, becoming collectors of an internal, unspoken suffering.

It wasn’t difficult to believe that the savior of Fantastica was both a child within and a child without.

One who could walk the journey despite all odds—and another who watched from the outside, cheering him on, until he was finally willing to step inward and give a name to the Childlike Empress.

What happens when imagination is restored, but not honored?

This is probably the most important question we could ask ourselves. I feel it is the most uncomfortable part of the book and that is the point. We see real humanity in how we deal with problems in life. We impose our beliefs on others, when we ourselves lack understanding, or feel uncomfortable. The only thing in our control is our influence. 

Imagination must be used beneficially and not to exploit or control others. 

When imagination is restored but not honored, it begins to serve the self instead of the whole.

Wishes are granted, but at a cost. Each act of creation pulls something else away—not from the world, but from the one doing the wishing. Memory erodes quietly. Identity thins. What was once wonder becomes indulgence, then entitlement. Power replaces curiosity.

This is not a condemnation of imagination. It is a warning about forgetting why we imagined in the first place.

When imagination is no longer grounded in relationship, discernment, and love, it stops being a bridge and becomes an escape. We begin to reshape the world to soothe ourselves rather than to understand it. We change what makes us uncomfortable instead of listening to what it is trying to teach us.

In Ende’s world, Fantastica does not need to be saved again from The Nothing—it needs to be protected from meaninglessness born of excess. From creation without care. From a child given infinite possibility without guidance, remembrance, or restraint.

The danger is not imagination.

The danger is imagination severed from responsibility.

As adults, we often celebrate creativity while dismissing its consequences. We encourage dreaming, but not integration. We praise innovation, but not reflection. We restore imagination as a tool—for productivity, success, distraction—without honoring it as a moral force.

And so we repeat the cycle.

We rebuild worlds quickly, but forget to ask whether they are livable. We generate ideas endlessly, but lose sight of what they cost us. We chase novelty and call it freedom, while quietly surrendering depth, memory, and meaning.

Restored imagination must be held—not exploited.

It must be guided by humility. Anchored in love. Tempered by discernment. Remembered not as power, but as relationship.

Otherwise, even the most beautiful worlds will eventually empty themselves out.

So what now?

Perhaps the work before us is not to create more, but to remember more carefully. To ask ourselves not only what can I imagine, but what am I responsible for once I do. To slow down enough to notice when imagination begins to drift toward convenience instead of care.

Maybe honoring imagination looks like listening longer. Holding possibility gently. Letting wonder ask something of us in return.

And perhaps the most important question is not whether imagination can save us—but whether we are willing to be changed by it.

Seeing Through Another’s Eyes

There is a quiet kind of courage in being willing to see the world through someone else’s eyes.

Not to agree.
Not to adopt their conclusions.
But to pause long enough to understand how their story took shape.

In a world that often rewards certainty and speed, listening—true listening—can feel almost radical. Yet it is through this act that something essential in us begins to soften and expand.

When we allow ourselves to witness another person’s experience without immediately sorting it into right or wrong, familiar or foreign, we make space for growth. Not just intellectual growth, but human growth. Spiritual growth. The kind that stretches our sense of connection beyond what is comfortable or expected.

Stories as Bridges

Stories have always been one of the most powerful ways we learn to listen.

A well-told story does not demand agreement. It asks for presence. It invites us to walk beside someone else for a moment—to feel what they felt, to notice what shaped them, to understand the terrain they’ve navigated.

This is especially true when stories touch on complex or challenging realities. When experiences differ sharply from our own, stories become bridges rather than battlegrounds. They remind us that most lives are not lived in absolutes, but in nuance—in choices made under pressure, in moments of fear, hope, love, and uncertainty.

To read with openness is to practice empathy in motion.

Growth Beyond Comfort

Being open to another perspective does not mean losing ourselves. It means refining ourselves.

When we encounter viewpoints that unsettle us, we are given an opportunity to ask deeper questions:

• Why does this feel uncomfortable?

• What assumptions am I holding?

• What might I learn here—even if I ultimately disagree?

This process strengthens discernment rather than weakening it. It teaches us to hold complexity without collapsing into defensiveness or dismissal. Over time, it fosters a humility that recognizes how limited any single perspective—our own included—can be.

There is wisdom in remembering that understanding is not endorsement, and curiosity is not compromise.

Humanity and Spirituality, Intertwined

At its core, this openness is both a human and a spiritual practice.

To honor another person’s lived experience is to acknowledge their inherent dignity. It is to recognize that every story unfolds within a web of relationships, systems, histories, and unseen influences.

Many spiritual traditions speak of compassion, humility, and the quiet discipline of listening. Seeing through another’s eyes is one way these ideals take form in daily life—not as lofty concepts, but as lived actions.

It teaches us that growth does not always come from answers. Often, it comes from questions held gently and patiently.

Why This Matters to Us

At Yellow Brick Road Publishing Co., we believe stories carry responsibility.

As our work expands to include nonfiction projects that engage with challenging real-world topics, we hold this responsibility with care. Our intention is not to provoke or persuade, but to create space—space for listening, reflection, and thoughtful dialogue.

We believe that encountering stories different from our own, when done with respect and intention, helps us grow not only as readers, but as people. It strengthens our capacity for empathy, deepens our understanding of humanity, and invites us into a more spacious, connected way of being in the world.

Not all stories are meant to comfort.
Some are meant to help us listen more carefully.

And sometimes, listening is where the most meaningful growth begins.

A Holiday Reflection on Home: Is it where the heart is?

Home Is a Feeling, Not a Destination ✨🌿✨

When people talk about “home,” they often mean a place.

A house.
A town.
A return address.

But as the holidays approach and the year begins to soften at its edges, I find myself thinking about home differently—not as somewhere we arrive, but something we recognize.

Home is a feeling.

It’s the quiet exhale when you step into a space where nothing is required of you.
It’s the warmth of being understood without needing to explain yourself.
It’s the moment a story lands in your hands and feels like it has always known you.

Yellow Brick Road Publishing Co. didn’t begin with a business plan or a destination in mind. It began with a feeling—the sense that stories could be both a place to wander and a place to rest.

That stories could guide you outward into imagination, while also gently leading you back to yourself.

We named this imprint after a road, not a building, because the road is where change happens. It’s where questions are asked. Where courage is practiced. Where curiosity gets a little lost… in the best way of course.

And yet, every meaningful road has one thing in common:
it eventually brings you home.

Not always to where you started—but to who you are.

This time of year invites reflection. It asks us to slow down just enough to notice what we’ve been carrying, and what we might finally set down. It reminds us that “home” can look like a familiar voice, a shared meal, a handwritten note, or a story read aloud when the world feels loud.

At Yellow Brick Road Publishing Co., we believe publishing is more than producing books.

It’s about creating spaces where readers and writers alike feel held.
Where imagination is welcomed.
Where meaning is allowed to unfold at its own pace.

Whether you find home in a children’s story, a novel meant for grown readers, a quiet nonfiction reflection, or a letter sealed with intention—our hope is the same:

That something we make helps you feel a little more grounded.
A little more seen.
A little more at home.

As the year turns and the holidays draw near, may you find home not just in where you are—but in the stories you carry, the people who listen, and the paths that continue to unfold before you.

Wherever this season finds you, we’re glad you’re here.

—

Chelsea E. Mazurek
Founder, Yellow Brick Road Publishing Co.

✨ Welcome to Yellow Brick Road Publishing Co.

A Letter From Chelsea — For the Curious, the Creative, and the Slightly Lost (in the Best Way)

If you’ve found your way here, I genuinely believe it was meant to be.
My name is Chelsea, and I am the founder of Yellow Brick Road Publishing Co. I want to share how I arrived at this point—because it’s strange, magical, encouraging, and deeply intertwined with the little girl inside me who still believes that the impossible isn’t that far out of reach.

I’ve always loved writing. I’ve always loved creating. But like anyone human, I’ve had doubt, setbacks, and seasons where my imagination went quiet… and then, suddenly, came roaring back.

🌿 A Nudge From the Universe

Last year, I experienced several revelations and had to make some uncomfortable decisions about my career.
I am a Family Nurse Practitioner, and for the last decade I have cared for people of all ages and backgrounds. When I was unexpectedly forced to make a job change—what I now recognize as a very firm nudge from the Universe—I had a gut feeling about where I was meant to go.

It wasn’t comfortable.
It wasn’t obvious.
But it was absolutely necessary.

I took a job at a small family-owned urgent care. It seemed temporary, but very quickly I learned that I was meant to be there—because I was meant to meet certain people who would change everything.

⭐ The Astrology Doorway

I met a patient who immediately connected with me on topics like astrology. At that time, I wasn’t deeply familiar with it, but I’ve always been curious about anything universal, spiritual, or even a little controversial. She showed me my natal chart, and it lit something inside me.

Not long after, in April, I participated in a psychic and holistic vendor fair. I was there sharing Korean skincare, but if I’m honest, part of me was really there for the people. My booth partner was an intuitive psychic who also practiced reiki and hypnosis. She and her husband had such intentional, grounded energy.

I was nervous to ask for a reading… I’d never had one, but curiosity won.
During the session, her first words came after a quiet prayer. I placed my hands on the table and felt them begin to vibrate intensely. She told me it wasn’t her energy — it was mine.

She kept hearing one message again and again:

“Follow the Yellow Brick Road.”

At the time, it felt whimsical. Now I know it was prophetic.

🌕 Judith Enters the Story

The patient I had met, who is now my good friend, encouraged me to get a reading with Judith — “She’s the best,” she said. And she was right. Judith brought clarity, perspective, and grounding to things I had been wrestling with.

At the same time, I had already started writing again… quietly, privately. The ideas were pouring in, and the passion that I thought I’d buried years ago began to rise.

I was invited on a podcast and the host asked me:
”If you weren’t a nurse practitioner, what else would you be doing?”
I answered honestly:
“I’m not sure… but I think I would be writing.”

During a later reading, I told Judith how torn I felt. She mentioned that she had written a memoir in her 70s—she is now 86—and she wanted to publish it. She sent me her PDF. When I reached the part of her story where she referenced Dorothy, Toto, and the Yellow Brick Road… I froze.

I reread it several times.
It didn’t feel like coincidence.
It felt like confirmation.

I offered to help her edit and format her book, and that effort opened every single door that followed.

🦅 Hawks, Signs, and a Sudden Knowing

I began paying attention to nature around me. I intentionally quieted my mind. And suddenly, I started seeing hawks—every day, everywhere. Sitting on the deck. Driving. If I just looked up, they were there.

One afternoon, on my way home, I was overcome with this deep, undeniable feeling:

“You are going to open a publishing company.
It’s going to be called Yellow Brick Road Publishing Company.”

I questioned it for a day or two, then called Judith.
She encouraged me wholeheartedly and said she wanted to be part of the journey.

And just like that… the path appeared.

💛 Why I Believe I’m Here

I don’t have a fancy literature degree.
I don’t have a traditional publishing background.

What I do have is:

• A lifelong love of stories

• Curiosity that will never die

• Humanity shaped by caring for other human beings

• A spiritual compass that’s louder than ever

• And a belief that creativity is part of our soul’s purpose

Somewhere inside, I think I always knew I was meant to bring stories into the world—my own, and others’.

🌙 A Message From Judith Harris — The Woman Who Talked to the Moon

“At the end of the Yellow Brick Road, we may not meet the Wizard,
but we find we have become more aware of our inner self,
our soul, and hopefully our spirituality.

In the end, we may realize there truly is no place like home,
in any of the ways it’s meant.
If we don’t achieve it in this lifetime,
we can in the next — because everything we have learned,
we will already know.”

I believe I am home.
And I hope you feel that way too —
in any of the ways you are meant to.

With love and gratitude,
Chelsea
Founder, Yellow Brick Road Publishing Co.