Climbing Out, One Step at a Time

 It's Been a Minute It's been a minute. I've opened this page more times than I can count over the past few months. I'd think about writing, stare at a blinking cursor, and then close it again. Life has a funny way of doing that. Sometimes it isn't one big thing. Sometimes it's a hundred little things. And sometimes it is one big thing that changes the rhythm of everything else. A few months ago, I was involved in a serious accident on Interstate 287. Since then, life has looked a little different. I'm not ready to write much more about that just yet. But I am ready to write again. Somewhere along the way, it became easier to focus on work, the kids, the garden, volunteering, and checking off the next thing on the to-do list than it was to sit down and put my thoughts into words. This blog was never meant to be perfect. It was meant to be honest. So here's my promise to myself—and to anyone who happens to stumble across this little corner of the internet...

I work with numbers. They’re clean, predictable, and—most days—make more sense than people do. But sometimes, in the quiet moments between spreadsheets and approvals, I think about the other kind of work that happens in every job. The kind that doesn’t live in a spreadsheet or a task tracker. It’s the listening, the noticing, the remembering. The way we smooth the edges in a conversation or keep track of the small human details that make things run just a little easier for everyone. It’s not listed in the job description, but it’s there—quietly woven into every day. I don’t think anyone sets out to overlook it. It’s just… invisible. The work gets done, the deadlines are met, the numbers balance. But behind it all is the uncounted effort—the kind that can’t be measured but still has value. I’m learning to see that value in myself, even if it doesn’t show up on paper.

There’s a part of me I’ve been holding onto. Carefully, tenderly. A future version of myself that never came to be—a mother again. A new baby. A sibling for the ones I already hold close. I’ve been thinking about saying goodbye to my embryos. For six months, it’s circled my mind like a soft whisper and a heavy echo. I used to feel like I had time. Now, I just feel... more like myself again. The person I was before kids. The one who could breathe without thinking about fertility calendars, genetic risks, or insurance battles. I almost feel free. But freedom has a price. Even now, when I see friends announce pregnancies—joyful, glowing, hopeful—I smile for them. And then I cry for me. Not every time. But enough to know it’s not over. The longing has just changed shape. I’m not trying anymore. But I still grieve. This weekend, I’ve been everywhere but home. Friday, I sat with my sister. That kind of closeness is complicated—she’s left before. And when someone leaves enough times, you lear...

We got married in June 2016. By November, we were already dreaming big—talking baby names, counting days, and believing it would all come together quickly. Why wouldn’t it? We were young, healthy, and ready. In January 2017, I thought I was pregnant. I felt off in a way I couldn’t explain—late, tired, emotional. I was convinced. I went for bloodwork, almost excited. It wasn’t just a hope; it felt like a sign. But I wasn’t pregnant. They called me back for more bloodwork. They said my hormone levels looked... off. And then came the words I’ll never forget. I was driving when Dr. R called. He told me that based on my results, my hormone levels were consistent with someone going through menopause. I had to pull over. I was shaking so hard, crying so uncontrollably, I couldn’t see the road in front of me. I remember gripping the steering wheel, trying to make sense of how I went from imagining baby clothes to being told I might never get the chance. I was 32. I had just started. How could ...

This painting started the way many things in life do—unexpectedly. My daughter began by brushing watercolor pinks across the top of a circle. Then came a dark cloud, bold and a little mysterious. It wasn’t something I would’ve chosen—but it was real. Honest. Her. I didn’t want to correct it. I wanted to meet it. So I added to it At first, I painted a field of flowers. But soon, I saw something more: our story. Our family. The lives we’ve lived, the ones still growing, and the ones we hold in memory. Each flower became someone I love—two families of four, my sister standing independently, and the pair in the back: my mom and dad, or maybe my grandparents, still present in their own way. Then came the birds. They’re not just decorations in the sky—they’re us. Every bird I painted represents a family member of mine. Some flying together, some in pairs, one flying solo—but all of us moving through the same sky. We may drift, dip, or rise at different times, but we’re still part of the same...