Climbing Out, One Step at a Time

  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...