Climbing Out, One Step at a Time

Some days I wake up in a legitimate fog. And I don't mean tired. I don't mean I need another cup of coffee or didn't sleep enough. I mean fog. Like my brain is there, but I can't quite get to it. Today is one of those days. It's rainy and gray outside, which honestly feels pretty appropriate because that's about what it looks like inside my head too. Yesterday was completely different. Yesterday I was full of rage. Anger. Hurt. Frustration. All of it. I had SO much to say, except half the time I couldn't actually say any of it. I knew what I was feeling. I could feel it everywhere. But trying to turn those feelings into actual sentences? Forget it. And then I wake up today and... Nothing. Completely blank. I've blamed this on PTSD before. Maybe that's what it is. Maybe it's being overwhelmed. Maybe my brain just hits a point where it's like, Okay, that's enough out of you for a minute. I really don't know. What I do know is that I...

I think I need to start carrying around a disclaimer: Before we continue this conversation, please know that I probably mean well. I may say something stupid. I may make a joke that doesn't land. I may use the wrong words. Please refer to the previous however-many years of knowing me before determining that I am secretly an asshole. Because lately, I feel like I spend an incredible amount of time explaining myself. This isn't about one person or one conversation. It's happening in friendships, volunteer work, family, life. I'll say something, someone takes it differently than I meant it, and suddenly I'm explaining what I meant, what I didn't mean, why I said it, and most importantly, that I wasn't trying to hurt anyone. Then, because I'm me, I replay the whole thing. Could I have worded it better? Probably. Should I have said it at all? Maybe not. Did I have some secret malicious intention underneath it? Jesus Christ, no. And that's the part I'm...

I read something about Alfred Nobel recently that I haven't been able to stop thinking about. The story goes that a newspaper mistakenly published his obituary while he was still alive. He got to read how the world would remember him. Can you imagine? Most of us don't get that opportunity. But in a strange way, I feel like I have. I've had three experiences in my life where things could have ended very differently. Three moments that have forced me, in one way or another, to understand that being here isn't something I get to take completely for granted. And lately, I've realized I'm thinking less about what I want to accomplish and more about what I want to leave behind. I'm building my legacy. That sounds incredibly dramatic when I write it out. Like I should be commissioning a statue or naming a library after myself. I am doing neither. I'm talking about the little stuff. How my kids will remember me. Whether they knew, without question, that I showed...

Second and First I was my mother’s first child and my father’s second. It sounds like a completely insignificant fact when you say it out loud. A line on a family tree. A technicality. Except I’m starting to realize it probably shaped a whole lot more of me than I ever gave it credit for. For my mom, I was the first. The first pregnancy. The first baby. The first time someone handed her an actual human being and essentially said, “Okay, good luck.” Every milestone was new. Every fever was probably terrifying. Every decision carried the weight that only first-time parents understand because there was absolutely no evidence yet that the kid would, in fact, survive childhood. I was the experiment. Sorry, Mom. But I was also the one who made her a mother. There’s something really special about that relationship. Your first child is the person you learn motherhood on. You grow up together in a strange way. The child is becoming a person while the mother is becoming a mother. And then there ...

People often tell me I'm a strong advocate. What they don't see are the moments when I don't feel strong at all. Lately, I've found myself wondering why everything feels so much harder than it used to. Why answering one more email feels impossible. Why volunteering, something I genuinely care about, suddenly feels heavy instead of energizing. Then it hit me. I've been in the trenches for a long time. Advocating for a child with additional needs isn't something you do a few times a year. It's a way of life. It's learning the laws, preparing for meetings, reading evaluations, asking difficult questions, celebrating small victories, and wondering what was missed. It's constantly looking ahead to the next hurdle before you've even had a chance to catch your breath from the last one. You fight because your child deserves it. You fight because no one knows your child the way you do. And sometimes... you get tired. Not because you've stopped caring....

  Lately, I've found myself asking a simple question. Why? Why do I volunteer? Why do I spend evenings working on projects that don't come with a paycheck or a title that really means anything? Why do I keep saying "yes" when life already feels full? For a while, I wasn't sure of the answer. I started wondering if I was just keeping myself busy. If I was filling every free moment because that's what I'd always done. Maybe I needed to step back. Then today happened. I found myself surrounded by people who care deeply about their families and their community. As I listened to conversations and watched people connect, something clicked. My volunteer work isn't about the committees, the planning, the emails, or the events. It's about the people. It's about seeing someone leave a little more hopeful than when they arrived. It's about helping someone find a resource they didn't know existed. It's about creating a space where people feel s...

Today's adventure was supposed to be simple. Famous last words. It was J's eight-year well visit. (Only a couple of months late...which still counts as "this year," so I'm calling it a win.) T just needed a quick hemoglobin check—a tiny finger prick. In and out. Easy. Parents everywhere are laughing already. Things actually started off great. The kids were behaving. We even ran into a friend's husband and their kids in the waiting room. He looked at me politely, clearly trying to figure out who I was, while J whispered, "Mom...who's that?" Thirty seconds later, J runs over and gives him the biggest hug imaginable. Apparently he knew exactly who he was. So we head back, and because I've learned a thing or two over the years, I warned J ahead of time about the finger prick. We talked through it. He asked thoughtful questions. He seemed calm. I thought, Wow...look at this maturity. I should've known better. The moment that little lancet came...

  Functionally Mute Functioning isn't the same thing as feeling okay. There is so much of my time that I spend functionally mute. I have the words. They are all there, mentally lined up and ready to go. I know what I need to say. I know what I need to do. But I can't make myself move. I can't get the words out. I just sit there. It feels like total-body paralysis. There are projects I need to handle. Phone calls I need to make. Paperwork, appointments, insurance, replacing my car... every task feels bigger than it should. I look at the list, and instead of starting somewhere, I become completely overwhelmed. Frozen. Since the accident, I've realized that trauma doesn't always look the way people expect it to. Sometimes it looks like going to work every day. Taking care of your kids. Making dinner. Smiling through conversations. Answering emails. Crossing things off your to-do list. From the outside, it probably looks like you're doing just fine. In many ways, I ...

 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...

I recently spent a day volunteering at a school event. It was fun, fulfilling, and honestly, a little emotionally exhausting. The kids were the easy part—loud, chaotic, joyful. The grown-ups? A little trickier. Everyone was nice. Smiling. Chatty. Inclusive, even. But still, I caught myself wondering, "Do they actually like me?" It’s a strange feeling—being surrounded by friendly people and still feeling unsure of where you fit. And the truth is, I’ve been here before. I’ve navigated cliques. I was in a sorority. I know how to read a room, hold my own, and fake confidence when I need to. But even now, even as an adult—I still get insecure. I still worry if someone doesn’t talk to me. I still overanalyze small moments. I still feel like an outsider sometimes, even when I know I’ve been invited in. And I guess that’s the part no one really talks about: That even the most seemingly put-together people are often just quietly wondering if they belong. So if you’ve ever stood in a c...

I recently spent six hours volunteering at a school event. There was music, games, popsicles, and the kind of laughter that only happens when kids are truly in the moment. It was loud. It was chaotic. It was beautiful. There’s something really special about watching young children play without hesitation—cheering for each other, running without a care, giving out high-fives like confetti. And then, as the day goes on, you see the shift. The older the kids, the more self-aware they become. Still fun, still sweet—but layered. You can feel the changes coming, the growing-up part. It's subtle but powerful. Mm mm The grown-ups? Well, let’s just say I got a peek behind the curtain too. There are always little dynamics at play— It’s not good or bad. It just is. And even when everyone is nice, it’s easy to feel like the new kid walking into a scene that started before you arrived. But here’s what stuck with me: Even when I felt a little out of place, I knew I was part of something that mat...

 Why I Think the Yellow Card System Could Change School Dances I haven’t tried this yet, but hear me out—I think it might be brilliant. School dances are supposed to be fun. A chance for kids to let loose, laugh with their friends, and create core memories. But they can also turn into a bit of a behavioral free-for-all if boundaries aren’t clear. As someone who helps plan events, I started thinking: How can we keep things fun and fair… without turning into the dance police? Enter my idea: The Yellow Card System. Just like in soccer, a student who crosses a line—whether it’s inappropriate dancing, disrespectful behavior, or pushing limits—gets a yellow card. It’s a warning. A heads-up that this isn’t okay. If they get a second? They're out. No arguing. No long speeches. Just clear, consistent consequences. Here’s why I think this could work: ✅ It sets expectations: Everyone knows the rules ahead of time and what happens if they break them. ✅ It gives a second chance: A yellow card i...

 On June 8, 2020, I checked into the hospital for what was supposed to be a routine procedure. It was a simple D&C, a way to close the chapter on a miscarriage that had already left me feeling hollow. But as I lay in that cold, sterile room, things went terribly wrong. I lost a massive amount of blood—two liters, they later told me—and for a brief, terrifying moment, my heart stopped. They had to bring me back. I don’t remember all the details. I remember the cold of the table, the panic in my chest as I couldn’t breathe, and the voices around me turning frantic. I remember waking up in the ICU, still pale and shaken, realizing just how close I’d come to not going home to my son. Two days later, I was discharged with an iron prescription and a deep ache in my bones—a reminder of how fragile life really is. Even now, years later, I still feel the weight of that day. It’s something I carry with me, quietly woven into my story. I’m sharing this not to dwell on the medical details,...

Today was Bring Your Kids to Work Day, and like many well-meaning parents, I had a plan. Sort of. I told my kids they were going to see a movie. I even believed it myself, until I realized I had never actually signed up for the event. Instead, we ended up at my company’s event—the one I should have planned for—but by then, the wheels were already wobbling. My son had started to spiral the moment I broke the news. He was running around, overstimulated, and I tried to keep my cool. I told myself (and everyone around me) that he was fine, that I was fine. But inside, I was embarrassed. Mortified, even. I turned to a coworker and quietly admitted it: “I’m so sorry—he’s just really off today.” And you know what they said? “Don’t let it bother you. It’s totally normal.” That tiny sentence gave me permission to breathe. Still, the day had other surprises. I got called out at work for not sending an invoice last week. It was my fault—I’d missed it in the chaos of everything. But it wasn’t cata...

Here’s the truth about being an adult: the awkwardness never really goes away. It just shifts into new forms—like sending out invites and not knowing if anyone will respond. Like almost canceling your own event because you're afraid no one will come. Like worrying you’ve put yourself out there too much. But I didn’t cancel. And this is what came out of it. A group of amazing women—moms, just like me—gathered in my backyard around the fire pit. We shared stories, snacks, laughs, and the kind of honest connection that fills your cup. I almost let insecurity talk me out of this. But I didn’t. And I’m so proud. Because I’ve been making moves lately—hard ones, brave ones. And not everyone supported them. But the ones who did? They showed up. And they reminded me what really matters. So here’s to this memory, to this version of me: still figuring it out, still rebuilding, but showing up anyway—and deeply thankful for those who do the same.

This year, I cooked a spiral ham. Technically, it was already cooked. But I heated it up—on time, without panic, and without anyone standing in the kitchen hangry and disappointed. And that? That’s a big win. No last-minute chaos. No frantic scrambling while guests stood awkwardly waiting. No tears in the bathroom because it all fell apart again. This time, things were ready. The ham was hot. The table was set. People actually enjoyed the food—and even better, there were leftovers. Good leftovers. Like, eat-it-cold-out-of-the-fridge-the-next-day kind of good. Sure, I could’ve done the eggs earlier. And I probably should’ve sliced some things in advance. But I had help, and we made it work. We made it feel easy. And for the first time in a while, I let myself feel proud. Because that’s what I’ll remember—not the perfect timing, or whether the potatoes were just right—but the feeling of sitting down, looking around the table, and knowing I had a hand in making this memory. And this time?...