There’s a big difference between deciding to change your life and waking up inside the life you decided on.

Let that sink in! Pretty good, right?

For months, Bozeman had been plans and meetings and drawings. It was budgets and floor plans and trips back and forth. Twenty acres we owned but didn’t live on. A house we talked about constantly that didn’t actually exist.

In August, it stopped being theoretical.

We moved.

And Montana welcomed us with a flat tire.

Thirty Minutes Away

We drove 13 hours to get to Bozeman in the motorhome, with the cats along for the ride and everything we needed to start living on our property.

One of our cats had basically never been outside the house before.

She did not embrace adventure.

By the time we reached Livingston, we were tired, the cats were over it, and we were only about thirty minutes from the property.

Then the motorhome got a flat tire.

Of course it did.

We have custom tires, and somewhere in all the planning required to move your family to twenty acres in Montana, we failed to account for having the right lug nut tool.

So there we were.

Thirteen hours into the drive. Thirty minutes from home. Completely capable of changing a tire and completely incapable of removing this particular tire.

We waited for a tow truck and ate Taco Bell.

It felt strangely appropriate.

Nothing about this move has happened exactly the way we thought it would, so why should arriving be any different?

We finally pulled onto the property around 11 p.m. There were no hookups. No electricity. No water. Nothing particularly welcoming except multiple pieces of large equipment and the knowledge that we had finally made it.

We went to sleep.

Tomorrow could deal with the rest.

The Vacation That Wasn’t

A few days later, we headed to Madison Arm near Yellowstone.

I had a whole picture in my head of what this was going to look like.

Fishing. Paddleboarding. Renting a pontoon boat. Spending time on the lake. Going into Yellowstone. A few days to decompress after the move before coming back and starting real life.

A legit, perfect Montana family vacation.

The lake was full of algae.

The campground was dirty.

The boats looked like they were barely floating.

Sometimes reality doesn’t just fail to live up to the picture in your head. Sometimes it looks you directly in the eye and laughs.

We did go to Yellowstone, and that was fun.

We also took showers.

At that point, the showers may have been the bigger luxury.

We ended up leaving a few days early and heading back to Bozeman.

Apparently We Live Off-Grid Now

The plan was never to rough it quite this much.

By the time we arrived, the electricity, well, and sewer that were supposed to be ready weren’t.

Sadly, we are used to being in these types of situations, so we adapted.

For most of August, water came to our property in a huge tank on our builder’s trailer. We’d take it to his house, fill it up, haul it back, and repeat the whole process when we needed more.

Our builder lets us steal his water because, thankfully, he’s that kind of person.

For power, we bought a huge generator.

It works.

It is also very loud.

There’s something humbling about spending years taking electricity and running water completely for granted and then becoming genuinely thrilled to no longer have to make coffee in a percolator.

About a week ago, our electricity was finally connected.

I have never been so happy to see power.

The well is supposed to go in Monday. We’ve figured out how to pump into the septic system. One by one, the basic conveniences of modern civilization are finding their way up the hill.

We’re getting there.

And somewhere along the way, all of this stopped feeling temporary.

This is just where we live now.

Everyone Is Finding Their Place

While Tim and I have been hauling water and talking about septic systems more than I ever imagined possible, the kids have been building their own versions of life here.

Kyle started his sophomore year at MSU and moved into his apartment.

He’s happy and only contacts us when he needs Mom to take him on a Costco run.

That works for me.

There’s something really nice about watching your kid build a life that doesn’t revolve around you. A little strange, maybe, but nice.

Ellie starts her new high school in a few days.

Of everything involved in this move, I think I’ve carried the most worry about her. Moving a teenager away from everything familiar is not something you can make okay just because you believe you’re making the right decision for your family.

She has to find that out for herself.

She’s joined the volleyball team as a manager. She’s already met some friends. And she’s excited to start school.

I don’t know what this year will look like for her yet.

But she’s finding her way.

Maybe we all are.

The House Is Still Mostly an Idea

Meanwhile, the reason we’re living this glamorous Montana lifestyle in the first place is moving along.

Sort of.

Our house plans have been delayed.

The shop needs to be moved.

This would be slightly less annoying if we hadn’t already excavated for it.

Yes, you read that correctly.

I’ll save that story for another day.

But inside the house—the house that is still mostly lines on paper—things are starting to feel real.

The interiors are looking fabulous.

We’re making decisions that I can finally picture us living inside. Materials, finishes, rooms, all the tiny details that eventually become the backdrop of your life.

Someday we’re going to sit inside this house and probably forget how many times we hauled water up this hill.

I hope I don’t forget all of it.

September

September looks insane.

Our Breckenridge house is under contract, and if everything goes according to plan, we’ll close that chapter soon—which means flying back to pack up the rest of the house.

I’m heading out to Washington to spend a week with my mom. Tim is going to California for a board meeting. We’ll basically pass each other in the night while everything here keeps moving.

Ellie will start school.

Kyle will settle into sophomore year.

Hopefully we’ll have a well, and the foundation will be complete so framing can begin in October. We are rushing to beat the snow!

It’s going to be busy.

But August taught me something I probably already knew.

You can plan a life down to the smallest detail, and then the tire blows thirty minutes before you get there.

The campground isn’t what you pictured.

The utilities aren’t ready.

The building moves.

The timeline changes.

And you keep going anyway.

June was when we committed to this life.

August was when we finally started living it.

Turns out there’s a pretty big difference.

Courtney

When we traveled the country for three years living in our RV, I documented most of it on Facebook and Instagram, but I was terrible about keeping a blog. I’m not sure why it felt like too much to sit down and write. I remember opening my computer and not even being able to think of what to say.

I suppose there were different reasons for that, but what matters now is that I wish I had been more intentional about keeping a diary, if you will, of that time. Instagram posts are fun to look back on, but they don’t really tell the whole story.

So now that we’re living in an RV again while we build our home in Bozeman, Montana, I want to be more intentional about keeping a record of this phase of our lives.

The hard part for me is learning not to worry so much about making it polished and professional- influencer type of thing.

Because that’s not really what I want this to be.

What I want is for my children to look back 40 years from now—hopefully while they’re here on this property with children of their own—and remember how excited and proud their parents were to undertake this project.

Tim and I have spent most of our lives together in homes with either large yards or acreage. But when we had careers and the kiddos were little, tending to the land just wasn’t a priority. Tim had his tractor, and he mowed, and we had a small garden, but that’s about all we could handle.

But life evolves. Stages change. And you can always start something new.

Which is exactly what we’re doing here in Bozeman.

Something about being back in the state where we met feels different.

I can’t quite describe it.

I feel at home.

I feel ready for my next chapter.

I feel centered.

And although I’m very busy, with change happening all around us that feels big and challenging and emotional, I also know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

And that’s what I’m looking forward to chronicling.

I’ve never had chickens, and the idea seems a little daunting, but I’m going for it.

I’m making sourdough.

I’m driving a tractor.

I’m planning my one-acre garden for vegetables, fruit trees, cut flowers, and herbs.

I’m sleeping past 5 a.m.

I’m not running anymore, but I’m joining a hiking club with other women.

Life seems slower here.

Share

Maybe that’s on purpose. Maybe it’s simply because my kids are older and I no longer have to go to work every morning.

Either way, I’m grateful for it.

Especially now.

My mom is getting older, and she’s moving out here to be with us. For the first time in my adult life, I have the time and space to care for her in the way I want to.

And maybe, finally, to take a little better care of myself, too.

There is so much changing around me. Our home is taking shape. Our land is becoming something we’ve dreamed about. My children are growing up. My mom is entering a different season of her life. And I suppose I am, too.

I don’t want to rush through this part.

And I don’t want to look back someday and realize I forgot to write it down.

So this time, I’m going to try to keep a record of it—the exciting parts, the hard parts, the mistakes, the things we learn, and all of the ordinary days in between. But without pressure and to make it all flow with as much ease as I can find.

I want to make sure I don’t miss any of it.

I hope you’ll come along for the ride.

Courtney

There’s a particular kind of stress that comes from committing to a life you haven’t moved into yet.

It’s not the good kind of stress, the kind that feels like excitement wearing a disguise. It’s the kind where you’re wondering if you’re brilliant or completely out of your mind, and the honest answer is probably both.

That was June.

The Body Came Back Online

June started where April left off, with my feet. I had bunion surgery on April 28th, and May was mostly me watching life happen from the couch. June was different. I could walk. I could wear shoes. The swelling was still there, still a daily reminder that recovery moves on its own timeline, but I was moving again, which felt like a small miracle when everything else was also starting to move.

There’s something strange about your body healing just as everything around you starts to accelerate. Like it had been waiting for you to be ready before it pulled the lever.

June 5th

On June 5th, Kyle turned 19. He is, as he has always been, completely his own person, and his version of a birthday celebration was a road trip to Arizona with his friends, departing at midnight for a 13-hour drive.

I did what any reasonable mother does. I worried. I said nothing useful. I let him go.

To be 19 again and think that midnight is a completely logical departure time for a 13-hour drive. I remember that math making perfect sense once.

He made it. Of course he did. They always do, and you’re always surprised anyway.

The Month Bozeman Stopped Being a Plan

The main event of June was our trip to Bozeman, and I don’t think I understood how much we needed it until we were there.

We met with our architect, our builder, and our interior designer. We finalized the budget. We signed the contract. We designed pretty much every room in a house that is, at this point, still just a driveway and some moved dirt, but we sat around a table and made real decisions about real rooms, and something shifted.

Tim got re-energized in a way I hadn’t seen in a while. Ellie was happy. And I realized somewhere between lunch and the drive back that we know Bozeman now. We know where to eat, where to shop, and which streets go where. We’ve started to meet people. We dropped off two cars and a 1978 FJ Land Cruiser in a storage unit there, which felt less like logistics and more like leaving pieces of ourselves behind to hold our place.

We belong there now, even if our mail still comes here.

I Never Do Anything Small

Here’s what I know about myself: I don’t do change in small, manageable pieces. When we move, we move everything at once. We sell everything and travel the country in an RV. We build a house on 20 acres in Montana while living in a fifth wheel. We don’t dip a toe in. We jump, and then we figure out how cold the water is.

This move is no different. We’re relocating the whole family, moving my mom, getting Ellie settled in a new school, giving Kyle space in his college town without hovering, building a house from the ground up, and living in a fifth wheel while it happens. By any reasonable measure, this is a lot of moving pieces.

But here’s the thing. A little chaos is where I do my best work. When everything is calm and settled, I get a little restless. I’m wired for the complicated. I always have been.

That doesn’t mean I’m not scared.

Every day, the what-ifs show up uninvited. What if we blow all our money? What if Ellie hates her new school? What if we look back someday and wish we’d stayed in Breckenridge? I don’t push those thoughts away. I let them in, look at them, and then I think about the 20 acres and what we’re building toward, not just the house, but the life. And then I keep going.

July

I’m excited for July in a way that’s hard to explain. Not the surface kind of excited, the kind that’s really just anxiety wearing a party hat. The real kind. The kind that feels like something is actually about to happen.

There are big things coming. Life-changing things. I can feel it the way you feel a storm rolling in before you can see it.

June was the month we committed. July is the month we find out what we’re made of.

Courtney

Since I was 9 years old, I’ve had a complicated relationship with food. I was never extremely overweight, but I always felt bigger than I should, bloated and uncomfortable in my own body.

Food became emotional support early on, and I over-exercised to compensate. I remember being genuinely hungry as a kid and being told to wait for dinner, or not to eat something because I didn’t want to get more “round.”

The thing is, I wasn’t overeating. Eating just became wrapped in shame. Back then, there wasn’t the information we have now about what foods actually satisfy hunger, or the simple permission to eat enough. Skim milk, low-fat cheese, and fat-free anything were what you were supposed to eat. No wonder I was starving!

I can pack it in. I need a lot of food to feel sustained. My mom is the opposite, little and thin, she could eat a big lunch and coast the rest of the day. A few hours later, I was ready for dinner. I genuinely never understood how people could just... not be hungry.

As I got older, I quickly realized I wasn’t built to diet. I tried the cabbage soup diet in college with my girlfriends, and four hours in, I was done. I walked straight to Bagels on Broadway in Missoula, which is now Morning Birds Bakery, for an everything turkey bagel and a Diet Pepsi. If you’ve never been, consider this your sign. Morning Birds still sells the famous bagels.

After I got married, I tried everything: vegan, dairy-free, low-fat, high-protein, low-carb, South Beach. All of it. Nothing made me feel satisfied. I was tired, bloated, and dealing with chronic back pain. Restricting food made me feel stressed, depressed, and honestly, like a failure. Because three days into any new plan, I was pouring a glass of wine and ordering a burger. Every time.

So I kept running, and eventually found CrossFit. I loved it, made some of my closest friends there, shout out to Industrial CrossFit, and looking back, I was genuinely in the best shape of my life. Built! But then I got hurt, burned out, and went back to running.

The Thing That Actually Worked

Around that same time, I discovered intermittent fasting, and it changed everything. For the first time in my life, I lost the 20 pounds I’d been carrying for decades, and I felt free. I could eat whatever I wanted in my window, and I wasn’t obsessing. It wasn’t hard; it was almost effortless. I couldn’t believe it was working.

And then we started traveling full-time.

When you’re moving through cities and want to actually experience the food, time-restricted eating becomes a lot more complicated. Add COVID, my stepdad dying of cancer, my mother-in-law very ill, and all the grief that comes with that, and I drank beer, ate chips and salsa, and let fasting go completely. I gained every pound back. And because we were always on the move, I wasn’t running or lifting either. Hiking, yes, but my body needs to really work and sweat to feel right.

So there I was again. Feeling heavy, frustrated, and a little ashamed.

Starting Over (Again)

When we eventually moved to Colorado and settled into a house, I returned to fasting and even started an Instagram account called Fasting Veggie Mama. I shifted to a starch-forward eating plan and felt incredible, satisfied, clear-headed, skin glowing. I was eating broccoli for breakfast and genuinely loving it. I didn’t recognize myself.

But then, all at once, the weight started piling on. I gained 20 pounds seemingly overnight while doing everything right. Fasting. Eating well. Gaining weight.

Perimenopause. It was a freight train, and nothing was slowing it down. One day, I could zip up my jeans, and the very next day, they were two sizes too small. No joke- that fast.

I started working with one of the best hormone doctors in the country, and still couldn’t get traction. My hormones looked fine. My gut was healthy. My colonoscopy came back clean. My cortisol was slightly elevated, so I cut caffeine and added some supplements. Still gaining. I adjusted my thyroid medication. I tried fasting again, but it felt punishing instead of freeing, so I switched to tracking macros, which I absolutely hated, and eventually stopped that too. Nothing was working. None of my old strategies applied anymore, and I was genuinely scared.

I don’t want to feel old and unhealthy. I want to feel strong in my body. I want to exercise because it makes me feel good, not because I’m desperately trying to lose 20 pounds. The mental loop I was stuck in was exhausting.

The Walk That Changed Everything

And then the universe stepped in.

I was walking with a close friend, and she looked incredible, lighter, radiant, glowing. I told her so, and she leaned in and said quietly, “I’m kind of cheating.” I stopped and looked at her. “Are you on a GLP-1?”

She’s a nurse and a CEO, brilliant, practical, not someone who makes decisions lightly. I had heard about GLP-1s, but I was nervous. The stories about side effects, gut issues, muscle loss, looking gaunt, not being able to ever stop, had kept me at arm’s length. And the big pharma piece made me skeptical.

But she was completely sold. She described feeling amazing, losing weight without obsessing, and, this is what got me, she described my exact situation as the reason she’d started.

I should mention: I’m into Human Design, and I have sacral authority. When something genuinely lights me up, I feel it immediately; it’s a full-body yes, not a mental maybe. Standing there on that walk, I was lit up.

She gave me the name of her friend, a nurse at Midi who specializes in microdosing. I went home, made an appointment, and there was an opening the very next day.

I started on April 14th at the lowest dose, 20 units, and the rest, as they say, is history.

What Three Months Actually Looks Like

In the last three months, I’ve lost 15.5 pounds. I had mild heartburn in the first few weeks that resolved on its own. No other side effects.

I’ve since increased to 40 units (5mg), which I split across the week. What I found on a single weekly dose was that in the first few days, I wasn’t hungry at all and wasn’t eating. I know it’s important to eat, and hello, I want to eat! So we adjusted, and I now take 20 units (2.5mg) every five days. That rhythm works perfectly for me. I still have an appetite, I’m just not reaching for food out of habit or emotion.

That last part was the real shift.

I’m an emotional eater. Bored, stressed, exhausted, happy, my default has always been food. That reflex is just quieter now. I used to always want something sweet after dinner. These days I pass on dessert without any internal negotiation, not because I’m telling myself no, but because I genuinely don’t want it. On pizza night, I only eat one piece of pizza instead of three. What the heck?!

I’m eating roughly half what I used to, skipping snacks and dessert, and none of it feels like restriction. It feels like freedom. It took me by surprise at first- like when my daughter and I went to Jimmy John's, and I could only eat half my sandwich and didn’t want chips. It was such a strange feeling that I had to sit with it for a bit. It’s way more emotional than you think it will be.

The Part That Surprised Me Most

For the first time in my life, I’m not managing my relationship with food as a full-time mental project. I’m exercising when I feel like it, which in a season of packing up a house and preparing for a major move, isn’t often, and that’s okay. My mind has space for other things, and that alone has been worth it.

I should also mention I had bunion surgery right when I began this journey. So for the first month, I was very sedentary. I was worried about it, since I’m used to moving my body when losing weight. But I still lost 5 pounds that month.

I’ll also note: I’m technically on tirzepatide, which works on two receptors rather than one, so it’s not a standard GLP-1. But the conversation around these medications tends to apply broadly.

Here’s what I believe: the people most vocal about not using GLP-1s are often the ones who have never struggled the way some of us have. We are not all the same. We have different bodies, histories, needs, and relationships with food. What works is deeply personal. And a GLP-1 may not be right for you, and that’s totally okay!

Recently, I’ve seen an explosion in products being sold to those of us on GLP’s, especially on Instagram. YOU DO NOT NEED THEM! Do not think you need a special fiber gummy, skin cream, or anything else. I have not needed any of that. I mean, if you want to try them out, go for it. But most products are garbage and a waste of money.

Terzepatide has worked for me in a way nothing else has. If you’re curious, I’m happy to talk about it. Reach out anytime. Or go directly to Midi and schedule with Jennifer Kagan. I’m not sponsored in any way; I just trust them and think they’re exceptional at what they do. They specialize in women’s hormone health, so if you’re navigating perimenopause, menopause, or need HRT support, they’re worth a conversation.

And remember, I’m not a doctor. So check with your health care provider before starting anything new. But chances are, you are a grown-up and can make good decisions.

Courtney

The Math That Made Sense

When Tim and I started running the numbers on renting a home for 18 months while our house gets built in Montana, we both got quiet at the same time. The kind of quiet that means neither of you wants to say the thing you’re both thinking.

And then, like we’d been struck by lightning simultaneously, we said it: why not buy a fifth wheel and live on the property?

The math actually works. A fifth wheel costs roughly what 18 months of rent would run us, and when we move into the house, we can sell it and come out significantly ahead, or keep it because we know ourselves. But the math isn’t really why we said yes. We said yes in about four seconds, which tells you everything you need to know about who Tim and I actually are.

What Those Three Years Did to Us

In January 2020, about six weeks before the pandemic shut everything down, we sold our house and nearly everything in it and moved into a motorhome to travel the country. The plan was one year. It turned into three, then a move to Colorado we never saw coming, and now, six years later, here we are, about to do a version of it again.

Kyle was 12 when we left, and Ellie was 8.

Here’s the strange thing about time when you live on the road: you don’t track it the way you do at home. At home, you remember ages, grades, sports seasons, and what year they lost their first tooth. On the road, I can’t always tell you exactly how old they were for specific moments, but I can tell you everything we did. Thirty states, thirty-five national parks, hard days where everything went sideways, and good days so beautiful I still can’t believe they were real. We navigated all of it together, figuring out next steps one day at a time, which turned out to be the best education any of us got from that chapter.

You can take the family out of the RV, but you apparently cannot take the RV out of the family.

What’s Different This Time

Kyle is almost 19 now and won’t be with us this time, and that sits in two places at once. There’s the practical ease of one less person in a small space, and then there’s the other thing: the quiet ache of your kid growing up and away, the weird gap in time where he went from 12 to nearly an adult while you were busy adventuring. I look at pictures from that chapter and feel something I don’t quite have a word for — proud and nostalgic and a little blindsided all at once.

Ellie is 15 and, honestly, sort of excited to be back in a rig. She’s a Generator, so adventure is in her bones, too.

This time we’ll be stationary, which changes the whole experience. I can have plants without worrying about tying everything down on travel days, go to a coffee shop to write, take a workout class, or drive to see my mom. And we’ll be on our 20 acres in Bozeman, watching our dream home get built right in front of us, which still doesn’t feel entirely real when I say it out loud.

I’ll also tell you the honest thing about RV living that nobody puts in the Instagram reels: a small space has to be clean or you lose your mind. While people love to say it takes less time to clean an RV, what they mean is each individual cleaning session is shorter. They don’t mention that you do it approximately ten times more often. It evens out. You also have to be intentional about carving out time for yourself, because when everyone is on top of each other, the walls start closing in fast. These aren’t dealbreakers. They’re just the real version of the thing.

The Part I’m Most Excited About

Tim and I are both Manifesting Generators, which means we are genuinely wired for variety, for pivoting, for doing the thing nobody expected and finding out it was exactly right. We are adventure people, so the RV isn’t a workaround. It’s a return to something that’s just part of who we are.

But here’s what I think about most when I imagine this next chapter: it’s almost just the two of us again.

Tim and I talk about traveling together once Ellie goes to college — back in the RV, just the two of us and the cats. Our marriage is strong because there is still a relationship between us, not just a co-parenting arrangement, not just logistics and calendars and who’s picking up what. Raising kids didn’t erase us. We made sure of that, and the RV years were actually a big part of how. You can’t live in a small space with someone for three years without either breaking or building something, and we built something.

We’re about to live in a fifth wheel on 20 Montana acres while the home we’ve been dreaming about gets framed up around us. There’s no word for this except a new era, and I am so ready for it.

Courtney

My grandmother had them. My mom had them. And apparently, I got the deluxe version — because my bunions were bigger than both of theirs combined, which I’m blaming entirely on two back-to-back pregnancies and not at all on genetics.

I’ve lived with bunions my entire adult life without much actual pain, so surgery never felt urgent. But over the last several years, I started developing real hip and knee pain, and my doctor suspected my feet were the source of all of it. The problem was that traditional bunion surgery was never going to work for me — a year of recovery for something that was more annoying than debilitating didn’t make any sense.

The Research Rabbit Hole

So I did what I always do when something starts nagging at me: I started researching. That’s how I found Lapiplasty, a less-invasive surgical option, and kept digging until I landed on a clinic in Littleton, Colorado called The Bunion Cure. No fancy procedure name, just a straightforward promise and a free consultation about an hour from my house.

I signed up.

Walking In and Just Knowing

When I walked into their office, I knew. I can’t always explain that feeling, and I’ve learned to stop trying. The office was clean and newer, everyone was genuinely warm, and it didn’t have that sterile transactional energy that most medical offices carry. I had a great consultation, looked at my x-rays, and decided on the spot to move forward with surgery.

It wasn’t the procedure that made me nervous. It was the fact that my decision was based entirely on a feeling, and I was going to have to sit with that.

This is pretty much how I’ve made every significant decision in my life. I can’t always hand you facts or logic or a well-organized spreadsheet. For me, something either feels right or it doesn’t, and I’ve learned that fighting that feeling costs more than following it.

It’s gotten me in trouble in boardrooms. It’s cost me credibility in rooms full of people who needed data before they’d believe anything. But my instincts are accurate about 98% of the time, and at some point I stopped apologizing for that and started trusting it as its own kind of intelligence.

Seven Days Later

My surgery was a great experience. My recovery has been genuinely manageable. And seven days after having both feet operated on, I drove my car, which wouldn’t even be a conversation with traditional surgery.

I’ve had a lot of time in bed this past week, which forces a kind of reflection you can’t really manufacture when you’re busy. I’ve been thinking about how many times I’ve followed a feeling that I couldn’t justify on paper and had it work out. And how the times I’ve overridden that feeling to seem more reasonable, more logical, more like someone who makes decisions the “right” way — those are almost always the decisions I’ve regretted.

The 98% Rule

I’ve gotten pretty clear on my own operating system at this point. If something lights me up, I lean in. If I get a flat or negative feeling about something, I skip it, or I find someone better suited to it than I am and hand it off. If something feels like a “meh,” I’ve learned that meh is actually a no dressed up in polite clothes.

It’s not always easy to live this way, especially when the people around you are making decisions by spreadsheet. But I know how to guide myself now, and that’s not a small thing.

My surgery was a great experience. My recovery has been genuinely manageable. And seven days after having both feet worked on, I was back behind the wheel, which wouldn’t even be a conversation with traditional surgery. No hospital, no anesthesia, just a procedure and home the same day.

Sometimes your gut just knows before the rest of you catches up.

Courtney

I’ve been to Charleston enough times to know exactly what I love about it — the old homes off King Street, the way the city is warm but not yet suffocating in late April, the shopping and the food and the feeling that something beautiful is around every corner.

This trip had all of that. And it was still one of the hardest vacations I’ve taken in years.

I threw my back out two days before we left — a real one, the kind where standing up straight feels like a negotiation. Ellie wasn’t feeling great either. And Kyle wasn’t with us, because Kyle is almost a sophomore in college now, which I still cannot fully believe I just typed.

I thought I’d made peace with that part. I hadn’t.

The City Was Perfect. We Were Not.

Charleston delivered everything it always does. We shopped and ate our way through the city, walked past the houses I never get tired of looking at, and had the kind of easy days that look great in photos. But something kept pulling at the edges of it. Tim didn’t have his buddy. Ellie didn’t have her sidekick. And I kept noticing the shape of him — the empty space where Kyle usually stands making everyone laugh at exactly the right moment.

After a few days in the city, we headed to Isle of the Palms, where we go every year. Tim and I first went to Wild Dunes in 1996, and there’s something about returning to a place you’ve loved for that long that usually feels like exhaling. This year it felt like the opposite.

The Hotel That Wasn’t

We stayed at the resort hotel instead of renting a house like we normally do, and I’ll just say it plainly: I’m a hotel snob, and this one wasn’t up to my standards. Dated room, hard bed, pillows like cardboard. We talked about switching, but with only a few days left, the logistics of moving felt like more effort than just tolerating it. So we stayed, and it was fine, and fine is its own kind of disappointing when you were hoping for something that felt special.

Ellie was bored in the way that only teenagers with a missing sibling can be bored — no one to drive the golf cart with, no one to play in the ocean with, no real buffer between herself and just mom and dad. Which, apparently, is not the same thing.

The Question I Wasn’t Prepared to Ask

At the beach, it wasn’t one moment that got me. It was all of it at once — the weight of so many good memories in one place and the quiet realization that this version of our family vacation might be changing for good.

I found myself wondering something I wasn’t prepared to wonder: will we ever all be here together again like this?

Kyle will graduate and get a real job with real vacation limitations. Schedules will collide. Life will keep moving in all the directions life moves. And standing there on a beach I’ve loved for almost thirty years, I felt something close to grief for a chapter that isn’t quite over but is clearly turning.

Tim felt it too, even if we didn’t say it out loud. His buddy just wasn’t there, and the dynamic was different in a way that didn’t need explaining.

The Part Nobody Tells You About Travel

Here’s what I also realized on this trip, and maybe it took a vacation that didn’t quite work to make it clear: I don’t really love traveling the way I used to.

It all just felt like too much this year. The flying I’ve grown to hate. The packing and the unpacking. The eating out every single meal when what I really want is my own kitchen. The hotel that isn’t quite right, but you’re stuck with it anyway. I want to stay somewhere beautiful without doing the dishes, but I also don’t want to eat in a restaurant three times a day. I want ease, and travel has stopped feeling easy.

Maybe that’s age. Maybe that’s the Montana life we’re building finally calling me home. Maybe it’s just this particular trip in this particular season of our lives.

The 4 Out of 10

We gave this spring break a 4 out of 10. Not because anything went terribly wrong, but because everything was just slightly off — the back, the hotel, the missing person, the version of our family that used to fit together so easily in a rented beach house with a golf cart and nowhere we needed to be.

We still showed up. We still went. We still found moments that were genuinely good.

But some years are like that, and I think we’re allowed to say so.

Only one thing left to do — start planning the next one. 🥂

Courtney

Share

I used to think self-care was getting a pedicure once a month.

Turns out, real self-care was buying a house without asking anyone if it was okay.

What I Got Wrong for Twenty Years

For most of my adult life, I operated under this weird belief system where I needed permission for my own choices. Not just the big ones — though those too — but the small, everyday decisions that shape who you become.

I couldn’t excel at cooking because that was someone else’s thing. I felt guilty about what kind of car I wanted to drive. I held back from trying new hobbies because I’d assigned those interests to other people, not me. Even if dabbling in them would have brought me pure joy.

The massage appointments and spa days I squeezed in? Those weren’t self-care. Those were guilt management. A way to check the box on “doing something for myself” while still living inside everyone else’s expectations.

The Power I Gave Away Without Realizing It

What I didn’t understand then was how much power I was handing over to other people. I lived my entire adult life terrified that someone might disagree with my choices. Terrified that I might disappoint people. I genuinely believed that if I made decisions others didn’t like, love would be taken away from me.

This isn’t just childhood programming — though it starts there. It’s the way we’re taught as women, especially those of us raised in the “I can do it myself” generation of GenX women. We learned to carry everything alone, ask for nothing, and somehow make everyone happy while we disappeared in the process.

The cost of living this way isn’t just emotional. My body kept the score.

I lost an ovary. Chronic back pain became my daily companion. Anxiety and depression took turns driving my days. I felt lost in every single aspect of my life — not because I was failing, but because I was succeeding at a life that wasn’t mine.

When Your Body Forces the Conversation

Tony Robbins says you have to hit your lowest point to create real change, and that’s exactly what happened to me. My body literally could not sustain the weight of everyone else’s expectations anymore.

The shift didn’t come from a massage or meditation app.

It came from finally understanding that other people's disappointment in me wasn’t a crisis I needed to manage. That disagreement wasn’t abandonment. That I could make choices for my own life and still be worthy of love.

The Shift I Didn’t See Coming

About ten years ago, I started making choices that felt right in my body, even when they looked wrong to everyone else. I didn’t call it self-care at the time — I thought it was just liberation. But now I see they were the same thing.

My husband and I tried new things together. We figured out what actually worked for our family instead of what we thought should work. We moved away from environments that didn’t feel right, even when it wasn’t okay with a lot of people in our circle.

These weren’t spa treatments. They were life treatments.

Learning to Lean In

One of the biggest revelations was learning how to actually let my husband support me. For years, I felt responsible for everything — including him. He wanted to help, but I would push it away. Like most GenX women, my internal mantra was “Who needs a man? I can do it myself.”

But here’s what I learned: We do need support. We can’t do it all, all the time.

Slowly, I started learning how to care for myself in a way that actually uplifts me. Ways that get me excited to wake up in the morning. I learned to lean on my husband instead of carrying everything alone. Having him as real support — not just someone I’m managing — has made all the difference.

What Self-Care Actually Looks Like

Real self-care is working on yourself, your life, your habits, your trauma — all the things we face when we stop performing for everyone else. It’s an ongoing journey of fine-tuning until the day you die.

It’s saying yes to yourself for the first time in your life.

It’s moving across the country when your gut tells you to, even if your family thinks you’re crazy. It’s investing in experiences that change you instead of things that impress others. It’s choosing growth over comfort, truth over approval.

It’s understanding that other people’s comfort with your choices is not your responsibility.

The Most Important Thing I’ve Learned

I am the most important person to myself. Not in a selfish way — in a responsible way. If I don’t care for myself, I can’t truly care for anyone else.

Now, as I navigate this season of caring for my mom while watching my kids become adults, I see how crucial this foundation is. You can’t pour from an empty cup, but you also can’t pour from a cup you never learned how to fill.

The pedicures are nice. But the real self-care is giving yourself permission to live the life that actually fits you — even when nobody else understands it.

Courtney

When I first learned I had Saturn in Cancer, every astrology site said the same thing: “difficulties with emotions” and “challenges with nurturing.” Blah, blah, blah.

What they don’t tell you is that Saturn in Cancer doesn’t just make you bad at feelings - it makes you feel responsible for everyone else’s feelings.

There’s a difference.

I spent the majority of my life thinking I was a control freak. Turns out, I was just carrying the emotional temperature of every room I walked into, convinced that if someone was upset, it was my job to fix it.

How Saturn in Cancer Actually Shows Up

Saturn is the planet of responsibility and structure. Cancer is the sign of home, family, and emotional security. Put them together, and you get someone who feels cosmically responsible for making sure everyone feels safe and comfortable.

This isn’t “I like to be in control” energy. This is “I will literally make myself sick trying to regulate everyone else’s nervous system” energy.

Last week, I came home from San Diego with Kyle (you can read about that trip [here]) feeling awful - nauseated, exhausted, the works. And my first thought wasn’t “I should rest.” It was “I can’t make Tim and Ellie fend for themselves again.”

That’s Saturn in Cancer talking.

The Nine-Year-Old Who Never Stopped Working

Here’s what the astrology books don’t explain: Saturn in Cancer often develops in childhood when you learn that your emotional safety depends on keeping other people happy.

My nine-year-old body figured out that if nobody got upset, things felt a lot safer. So I became the family’s emotional thermostat, unconsciously monitoring and adjusting everyone’s feelings to keep the peace.

Saturn rewards hard work with mastery. I got really, really good at reading rooms and managing everyone’s emotional comfort. So good that I forgot it wasn’t actually my job.

When Your Placement Becomes Your Prison

The thing about Saturn placements is they’re both your greatest strength and your biggest trap.

Saturn in Cancer makes you incredibly good at creating emotional safety for others. You can sense what people need to feel comfortable. You’re the person everyone comes to when they need to feel heard and supported.

But if you’re not careful, you become emotionally responsible for everyone around you. You start believing that other people’s discomfort is somehow your failure.

Tim looked at me, bewildered, when I felt guilty for asking for saltines while sick: “You think I expect you to take care of everyone when you can barely get out of bed?”

Twenty-five years of marriage, and my Saturn in Cancer was still convinced that his comfort was my responsibility.

The Work of Saturn (It’s Always Work)

Saturn doesn’t give you anything easy. It makes you work for your wisdom.

The work of Saturn in Cancer isn’t learning to stop caring about people - it’s learning to care without carrying. To create emotional safety without sacrificing your own. To nurture others without depleting yourself.

I’m still learning this. But recognizing it as an astrological pattern instead of a personal failing changes everything. This isn’t me being dramatic or controlling - this is how my nervous system was wired to respond to the world.

Understanding your Saturn placement doesn’t fix it overnight. But it gives you language for why certain things feel so hard, and permission to work with your energy instead of against it.

The small moments we almost miss sometimes happen when you’re lying in bed eating crackers and finally understanding why you’ve felt responsible for everyone’s happiness your entire life. Sometimes the breakthrough is realizing it was never your job in the first place.

Courtney

If this resonated with you, I’d be grateful if you shared it with someone who might need to read it too.

Share

I grew up needing to be right to be loved. To be perfect. To be the good girl who never caused problems. So when I realized I’d booked our spring break for the wrong week - and almost lost $5,000 - every old voice came back: You’re careless. You’re irresponsible. You should have known better.

I’m staring at the school calendar, and my stomach drops.

Spring break is April 20-24. Our Florida trip? April 13-17!

We’re off by a week. A whole week.

The math hits me immediately: $5,000 down the drain. Nonrefundable reservations through Capital One. Marriott points we can’t get back. Either Ellie misses a week of school, or we eat the cost.

My brain starts its familiar spiral: I’m an idiot. I don’t make these mistakes. This can’t be right. They must have changed the dates.

But no. I loaded the wrong dates into our family calendar at the beginning of the school year. The same mistake I made with Christmas break a few years ago. The same mistake I swore I’d never make again.

When Panic Meets Calm

I call Tim. “We have a problem.”

Within minutes, I’m not just mad at myself. I’m mad at him, too. Why did he book nonrefundable? Why didn’t he double-check the dates? Why are we even using Capital One for travel?

He’s calm. “We’ll figure it out.” Why is he such a great husband?

I’m not calm. I’m paralyzed. The kind of frozen that happens when you realize you’ve made a mistake that costs real money. The kind that makes you question everything about your competence as a human.

For two weeks, I carry this around like a stone in my chest. Tim calls Capital One. He calls Marriott. He explains and re-explains. I alternate between feeling stupid and feeling angry that we can’t just fix this obvious mistake.

The Plot Twist That Saved Us

Then Tim’s doctor suggests he shouldn’t fly right after his medical procedure. A legitimate medical reason to cancel. Marriott agrees to the refund.

Just like that, we’re going to Charleston instead.

But here’s what I learned in those two awful weeks: I’m ruthless with myself when I mess up. And I’m ruthless with other people, too.

The Voice That Says I Have to Be Perfect

And when Tim doesn’t panic the way I do, when he just says, “We’ll figure it out,” part of me resents his calm. Because if this mistake doesn’t prove I’m terrible, then what was all that panic about?

The truth is, I attack myself for being human. And then I attack the people I love for not joining me in the attack.

We’re going to Charleston for the third time now. We love it there. The hotel is nicer than the one where we were going in Florida. I’ll run along the water in the mornings. We’ll eat at places we’ve been talking about trying. It’ll be better than Florida ever would have been.

But that’s not really the point.

What Mistakes Really Cost Us

The point is that I spent two weeks punishing myself for a mistake that turned into a gift. The point is that my husband handled a crisis with grace while I handled it with shame. The point is that maybe the voice that says I have to be perfect to be worthy of love is the real mistake.

The small stories we almost miss aren’t always the happy ones. Sometimes they’re the ones where we mess up spectacularly and learn something we needed to know about being human. This spring break mistake became the story that taught me the difference between being perfect and being worthy of love.

Maybe the best vacations, like the best lives, happen not when everything goes according to plan, but when we’re kind to ourselves and each other when things go sideways. Maybe that’s the story worth telling - not how we avoided the mistakes, but how we handled them when they happened.

Courtney

If you're enjoying these stories about the messy, beautiful middle of actually living, I'd love for you to subscribe. I write about the small moments we almost miss - the ones that quietly change everything or just light up a Tuesday. It's free, and you can unsubscribe anytime.

Subscribe now

I have a confession: I look at Zillow in every new town we visit.

Not because we’re moving — just because something in me needs to know what’s possible. What would it feel like to live here? What would my Tuesday mornings look like in that kitchen? How would this view change the way I wake up?

Maybe it’s because I spent my twenties being told exactly where I could live. Between Andresen and SR500 — not one mile beyond that boundary. The family business was important, and to my dad, it was even more important that we live in the core area of our business.

I get that logic. I do. But it still felt like living inside someone else’s idea of my life.

So now? I Zillow stalk every town that makes me curious.

Montana had been calling to me for years.

We’d been to Bozeman before, spent college years a few hours away in Missoula, traveled the state every summer. But something about our visit a few years ago had me scrolling through listings like a woman possessed.

Bozeman is the kind of cute that doesn’t try too hard. Montana is the kind of beautiful that makes you forget you ever thought anywhere else was home. When I cross that state line, something in my chest just... settles. Maybe it’s the trees, maybe it’s the shadows cast among the hills, maybe it’s the people and their simpler way of living.

But last October, when we finally decided to stop dreaming and start doing, I stepped out onto a property and looked at Tim, looked at our realtor, and said, “We’ll take it.”

No idea what it cost. No spreadsheet analysis. No pros and cons list.

Just: I knew.

Here’s what hit me in that moment.

I spend so much time looking everywhere for answers. Google, books, friends, ChatGPT — I research restaurants before dinner and read seventeen reviews before buying a $12 candle.

But when it really mattered — when it was time to choose where we’d build our next chapter — none of that information helped. The answer was already inside me. It had been waiting there all along, probably since those college days when Montana first felt like home.

That gut feeling, that internal knowing? That’s what I’d forgotten to trust.

It’s why I started writing again. Not because I had some grand business plan or because someone told me I should. Because it felt good. Because something inside me said yes before my brain could start its usual list of reasons why not.

I think we’ve forgotten how to listen to ourselves.

We’re so busy asking everyone else what they think, reading all the expert advice, waiting for permission or the perfect plan that we’ve stopped hearing our own voice.

But what if the answer you’re looking for isn’t in another book, another course, another friend’s opinion?

What if it’s in that quiet moment when you step onto your metaphorical property and just... know?

We all have those moments. The job that felt right before you saw the salary. The friendship that clicked before you had anything in common. The creative project that excited you before you figured out how to monetize it.

Maybe happiness isn’t about having all the information. Maybe it’s about trusting the information you already have.

Courtney

Want more stories about trusting your gut when everyone else has opinions? Subscribe to Notes from a Life in Motion and join me for the messy, honest middle of actually living. Because the best stories aren’t in the dramatic plot twists — they’re in the quiet moments when you finally listen to what you already know.

Subscribe now

Three days before we were supposed to leave for Hawaii, I was watching the weather reports with growing dread. Flooding. Washouts. Everything we’d planned - helicopter rides, snorkeling, zip-lining - getting cancelled one by one.

I didn’t want to fly seven hours to sit in a hotel room and watch it rain.

This was supposed to be Kyle’s spring break adventure. My freshman in college son, who spends most of his time doing things I can’t do with him - mountain biking down cliffs, skiing through trees, driving fast cars. Finally, something we could do together: swim, hike to waterfalls, maybe zipline without his little sister complaining about heights.

But here I was, three days out, watching our entire trip wash away on the Weather Channel.

The Art of the Last-Minute Pivot

So we pivoted. Last minute. Which, if you know me, is not my strong suit.

I’m the mom who has everything organized “to a tee” because our family doesn’t handle scrambling well. Or maybe that’s just me.

Maybe I’ve created a family that doesn’t handle scrambling well because I’ve always handled everything, so they don’t have to.

Deep sigh on acknowledging that particular shortcoming.

But this time, we just... went with it. Cancelled Hawaii, booked San Diego, threw some clothes in a bag.

The Hotel del Coronado, where we’d stayed as a family a few years back. Familiar enough to feel safe, different enough because it was just the two of us.

And for the first time in maybe ever, I didn’t have every minute planned. No itinerary. No backup plan for the backup plan.

We just wandered. Ate when we were hungry. Sat by the pool when we felt like it. Talked about college, about cars, about nothing important.

The Best Yes I’ve Said in a While

The best part happened on our last day when Kyle asked if we could drive up to LA. He wanted to see the Petersen Automobile Museum and cruise Rodeo Drive, looking for expensive cars.

Normally, I would have said no. Two hours in traffic each way for a museum and some car spotting? That’s not “efficient.” That’s not “making the most of our time.”

But I watched his face when he asked, and something in me just said yes.

The museum was incredible - not because I love cars, but because I got to watch Kyle light up. He talked nonstop for two hours, pointing out details I never would have noticed, explaining engine specs I’ll never remember.

And Rodeo Drive? We walked that street I don’t know how many times, watching Lamborghinis and Ferraris cruise by, Kyle practically vibrating with excitement every time something new appeared.

What I Learned About Control (And Letting Go)

I learned something on that trip that has nothing to do with travel and everything to do with being present.

Going with the flow isn’t just about being flexible when plans change. It’s about trusting that the unplanned moments might actually be better than anything I could have organized.

It’s about paying attention to what lights your kid up instead of what the guidebook says you should see.

It’s about realizing that sometimes my need to have everything “handled” actually prevents the good stuff from happening.

That week became exactly what we both needed - not because I planned it perfectly, but because I finally stopped trying to.

Courtney

If you're enjoying these stories about the messy, beautiful middle of actually living, I'd love for you to subscribe. I write about the small moments we almost miss - the ones that quietly change everything or just light up a Tuesday. It's free, and you can unsubscribe anytime.

Subscribe now

There’s a moment when you realize your careful planning has completely fallen apart.

And you have two choices: panic, or figure it out.

This was one of those moments.

When Perfect Plans Meet Reality

We were traveling during Covid, back when the entire country discovered RV travel at the exact same time. For the first time in our travels, we couldn’t just show up somewhere and find a spot. Everything had to be planned weeks in advance.

I’m a planner by nature. I research. I make backup plans for my backup plans. I had spreadsheets for this trip.

But there we were, somewhere near Hot Springs, Arkansas, trying to get to Oklahoma City for Memorial Day weekend. Every campground was full. Completely full.

Except one.

The photos online looked... questionable.

But we really wanted to visit the Oklahoma City National Memorial Museum and I had no idea if we’d ever be back. So I booked it, telling myself it would be fine. How bad could it really be?

The Reality Check

It was worse than the photos.

Much worse.

This wasn’t really a campground. It was where people lived permanently in RVs that had seen better decades. The check-in office was someone’s living room. Two girls in pajamas answered the door like we’d just woken them up.

And there were buffalo. Thin, sad-looking buffalo that made the whole place feel even more surreal.

We all looked at each other with that expression that says: Well, this is going to be terrible.

I wanted to leave immediately. Find somewhere else. Fix this obvious mistake.

But everything else was booked. And sometimes you can’t control your way out of a situation.

What I Learned About Letting Go

Here’s the thing about being a woman who’s spent most of her life making sure everything goes smoothly: when things go sideways, my first instinct is to find someone to blame. Including myself.

But we were stuck. And our kids were watching how we’d handle it.

So instead of spending the weekend being miserable about what this wasn’t, we decided to focus on what we came for.

We visited the Oklahoma City Memorial Museum, which was incredibly powerful. We stumbled onto National Cowboy Days and ended up having a blast - the kids shot arrows, we ate amazing BBQ, we went to movies. All during Covid, when normal life had been on pause for months.

By the end, we’d almost forgotten how awful the campground was.

Almost.

When the Sewer System Exploded

The night before we were supposed to leave, a massive storm hit. Rain pounded our roof for hours. Thunder, lightning, tornado warnings.

The next morning, Tim went outside to pack up.

A few minutes later he burst back in: “Nobody go outside! The sewer backed up.”

The entire campground sewer system had flooded. And it was everywhere.

We didn’t even finish our usual routine. We just got out of there as fast as possible.

The Lesson I Didn’t Expect

At the time, it was honestly pretty awful.

But now? It’s one of our favorite travel stories.

And it taught me something I needed to learn: there’s a difference between planning well and needing to control everything.

I can research the perfect hotel, make dinner reservations, organize every detail of a trip. But I can’t control the weather, or other people’s mistakes, or sewage systems.

What I can control is how I respond when things go wrong.

We get so worked up about the small inconveniences - the restaurant being out of what we wanted, someone being late, plans changing at the last minute.

But when you’ve literally had to flee a campground because the sewer exploded... you gain perspective.

There’s almost always something good in every situation, even when it looks nothing like what you planned.

You just have to decide to look for it instead of spending all your energy being angry about what went wrong.

Courtney

A few other essays you might like to read:

Notes From a Life In Motion

The Quiet Gift of Turning 50

The other day I was standing in line at the grocery store with a cart full of food.

We had just gotten back from a trip, and the refrigerator at home was nearly empty. I had filled the cart with all the basics—produce, bread, things for dinner that night—and by the time I reached the checkout line, I was already feeling a little rushed.

The store was busy. People were waiting behind me.

I started unloading groceries onto the belt.

No hello.

No eye contact.

Just the steady beep of items being scanned.

Finally, the checker asked one question.

“Did you bring your bags today?”

I hadn’t. I had emptied them out of my car before leaving on vacation and forgotten to put them back.

I shook my head and started bagging the groceries myself as quickly as I could, feeling the familiar pressure of people waiting behind me.

And as I stood there stuffing groceries into paper bags, I found myself thinking about a very different grocery store.

The Safeway on Main Street in Vancouver, where I grew up.

When my mom and I went grocery shopping there, the experience felt completely different. Someone always greeted us when we walked in. At the checkout, there was a checker and a bagger, and there was almost always a little bit of conversation.

“How’s your day going?”

“Did you find everything you needed?”

“Do you need help taking those bags to your car?”

It wasn’t just about getting groceries. It felt like a small moment of connection with the people in your community.

Customer service meant something.

I grew up in a family business where that idea was taken very seriously. The customer wasn’t an interruption to the work. The customer was the reason the work existed in the first place.

We bent over backwards to make people feel welcome.

Standing there in the grocery store the other day, it struck me how different things often feel now.

Not just at the grocery store.

At restaurants. On the ski mountain. In little day-to-day interactions all over town.

Sometimes it feels like everyone is rushing through their day, trying to get through one more task, one more customer, one more shift.

And the small moments of connection get lost along the way.

Now, to be fair, I live in a tourist town. People come and go constantly. It’s expensive to live here and hard to hire workers. I understand that the dynamics are different than in the small town where I grew up.

But even with all that, I still believe something important gets created in those small interactions.

Community.

A simple hello.

A quick conversation.

Taking a moment to recognize that the person standing in front of you is a human being, not just the next transaction.

Over the years, I’ve spent a lot of time traveling around the country with my family. And if you know me well, you know one of my favorite things to do in a new place is visit the local grocery store.

I love seeing what people buy. The foods that are local to the area. The small differences between one place and another.

But more than that, I love watching the little interactions between people.

Because those moments tell you a lot about a place.

And lately I’ve been thinking that maybe we all have a little more power in those moments than we realize.

Maybe it starts with us.

A smile.

A quick hello.

A simple question.

Something small that might brighten someone else’s day.

Even if the person in front of you seems rushed.

Even if they’re having a bad day.

Even if you are.

Because sometimes the smallest moments of connection are the ones that remind us we’re all just trying to get through the day together.

And that seems like a pretty good place to start.

Courtney

Share

When we moved into our massive A-Class RV, the dining table came with a small built-in booth that was technically supposed to seat four people.

In reality, it comfortably seated three.

There was room for one person on one side, one person across from them, and one person on the other side of the table. The fourth seat existed only in theory.

Which meant we needed another chair.

So we did what most people do when they suddenly realize their home doesn’t actually seat their entire family.

We went to Walmart and bought a cheap white folding chair.

It wasn’t anything special. Just one of those simple plastic chairs you grab from the aisle and don’t think about again.

But over time, that chair became something of a legend in our RV.

The problem was that it sat a few inches lower than the table.

Which meant if you ended up sitting in the white chair at dinner, you spent the entire meal feeling like a small child at the grown-ups’ table.

At dinner we never really assigned seats. Everyone just gathered around the table and slid into whatever spot was open.

And every now and then someone would realize they were the one stuck in the white chair.

There would usually be a dramatic sigh.

The rest of us would try not to laugh.

Because by then the rule was well established.

If you ended up in the white chair, it was simple.

Sucks to suck.

Living in an RV with four people means everything gets used in ways you never quite intended. And somehow that white chair seemed to end up everywhere.

Kyle started using it as his gaming chair.

Privacy is a rare commodity when your entire house fits on wheels, so he would carry the white chair into the bathroom, set up a little table, and turn the bathroom into his personal gaming headquarters.

It looked ridiculous.

But when you live in a few hundred square feet, you learn to get creative.

The chair also had a starring role whenever it was time to move.

Packing up an RV is its own kind of ritual. Cabinets get latched. Loose items get tucked away. Slides come in. Everyone does a quick check to make sure nothing is about to shift, fall, or rattle while you’re driving down the road.

And the white chair would get folded up and tossed onto the bed while we finished getting everything ready.

Except that half the time, it would slide off.

So whenever we arrived somewhere new and started setting the RV back up, one of the first things we had to do was check that the chair hadn’t fallen down into the slide before we pulled it back out.

Because the last thing you want to do is crush your Walmart folding chair inside the mechanism that opens your living room.

It wasn’t a glamorous piece of furniture.

It didn’t match anything.

It wasn’t even particularly comfortable.

But somehow that chair became part of the rhythm of our life during those years.

The dinner seat nobody wanted.

Kyle’s bathroom gaming chair.

The thing we had to keep an eye on every time we packed up and set up again.

It’s funny how living in a small space changes the way you see ordinary things.

When four people share a few hundred square feet, every sound, every laugh, every complaint about the white chair becomes part of the evening.

And somehow that cheap folding chair from Walmart now holds an entire chapter of our lives.

The cramped dinners.
The inside jokes.
Kyle’s bathroom gaming setup.
The constant rhythm of packing up and hitting the road again.

It was just a chair.

But every time I see it, I’m instantly back in that RV, laughing at whoever got stuck sitting in it.

And now I’m curious — do you have an ordinary object that somehow holds an entire season of your life?

I’m on the other side of this email, so just hit reply and let me know!!

Courtney

Share

This year I turned fifty.

The morning of my birthday started quietly, the way most of my mornings do. I woke up before anyone else in the house, poured a cup of coffee, and sat down in the soft stillness before the day begins.

For a few minutes, the house was completely silent.

And then, almost out of nowhere, I felt a flicker of panic.

Fifty.

It’s funny how a number can suddenly make you look at your life a little differently.

I’ve never really been afraid of getting older, but that morning I found myself thinking about time in a way I hadn’t before. There are still so many dreams I have. Places I want to explore. Experiences I want to have.

For a moment, the list felt overwhelming.

I caught myself thinking something that surprised me a little:

What if I’m running out of time?

Of course, that thought isn’t entirely rational. If I’m lucky, I may only be halfway through my life. People do incredible things well into their sixties, seventies, and beyond.

But turning fifty has a way of making you pause.

It makes you look at your life with a little more clarity.

And lately, I’ve been trying to figure out how to hold that awareness in a way that feels calm rather than frantic.

Because the truth is, when I imagine my perfect day, it isn’t anything extravagant.

It’s something much quieter.

For me, the perfect day would be spent in a small cabin tucked deep in the woods. A fire burning in the fireplace. Soup slowly simmering on the stove. Fresh bread rising in the oven. A beautiful bottle of wine waiting for the evening.

Outside, there would be a gentle drizzle of rain or snow, and I’d be resting after a long day of hiking through the mountains.

To me, that’s just about as good as life gets.

Simple moments. Slower days. Time to breathe.

So instead of letting that brief panic about time take over, I decided to focus on something small and grounding: my mornings.

I’ve always been an early riser. I usually wake up before everyone else in the house and enjoy a cup of coffee in the quiet. Sometimes I make a to-do list or simply sit and watch the morning light come in through the windows.

But recently I started wondering if I could turn those quiet moments into something a little more intentional.

Something calming.

Something that would help me stay connected to the life I want to create.

So I started adding two small things to my mornings: my oracle cards and my journal.

Every morning, I pull a card with a simple question of intention. Then I write down the message and spend a few minutes reflecting on what it might mean for the day ahead.

At the beginning of the year, I also wrote out my intentions for 2026—how I want to feel, the kind of life I want to build, and the experiences that matter most to me right now. Each month, I revisit those intentions and reflect on where I am.

Somehow, my card pulls often seem to line up in curious ways with the seasons, the moon cycles, and the goals I’ve set for myself.

Maybe that’s coincidence.

Or maybe it’s simply what happens when you slow down enough to pay attention.

Either way, this small ritual has quietly become one of my favorite parts of the day.

It gives me a moment to pause before the world starts moving.

A moment to reconnect with what matters.

And strangely, it has made me feel much calmer about getting older.

The dreams are still there. The places I want to go and the experiences I want to have are still waiting.

But instead of feeling overwhelmed by all of it, I’m learning to approach life a little differently.

One quiet morning at a time.

And honestly, that feels like a pretty good place to begin.

— Courtney

The idea to live in an RV didn’t start as a plan.

It started as one of those half-serious conversations you have on a Tuesday night after a long day.

I don’t even remember exactly how the idea first appeared. I was probably scrolling Facebook when I stumbled across a family traveling full-time. That led me down the rabbit hole of RV travel blogs and eventually to the Fulltime Families Facebook group.

And once the idea entered my mind, I couldn’t quite shake it.

It sounded ridiculous.

So ridiculous, in fact, that I wasn’t even sure how to bring it up to Tim. Not just ridiculous—but impossible. People like us didn’t just pull their kids out of school, buy an RV, and travel the country.

Right?

But somehow the idea made its way into conversation.

I remember one night sitting out on our back patio with a bottle of wine between us, laptops open, scrolling through RV listings and floor plans like we were planning an imaginary life.

“What if we actually did this?” we wondered.

The questions came quickly.

Would we really pull the kids out of school?

Could I homeschool? Did I even want to?

What about leaving our families?

How long would we be gone?

Could four people actually live together in 200 square feet?

And maybe the most important question of all—would there still be space for mom and dad time?

There were plenty of unknowns.

But something about the idea felt strangely easy.

Instead of talking ourselves out of it, we kept leaning in.

Soon, the dream began to turn into a plan.

We bought the biggest RV we had ever seen—a 42-foot fifth wheel—and a fancy new truck to pull it. We told our families and patiently answered the same question over and over again:

“But how will your kids socialize?”

We figured out what to do with our cat. Planned our route. Bought all the gear. Met other traveling families online. Took the RV out for a test run.

And somehow, for our first real adventure, we decided to head straight into winter.

Six straight weeks of skiing felt like pure luxury.

Those early months were filled with planning, excitement, and more than a few moments of uncertainty.

Making a big change with little kids isn’t always a popular decision. Some people didn’t understand it at all.

But many of our friends encouraged us, supported us, and have followed along ever since.

Looking back now, I’m so proud that we made that leap.

That decision changed our lives in ways I couldn’t have imagined.

We grew closer as a family. We explored places we had never been. We learned how to handle challenges together. We met incredible people who became lifelong friends.

And most importantly, we created memories that still shape the stories of our lives today.

What I didn’t realize then is that sometimes the best things in life begin as ideas that sound just a little bit absurd.

Stepping outside of what everyone else expects can feel uncomfortable at first.

But every now and then, that’s exactly where a better life is waiting.

— Courtney

One cold and cozy October morning I was in the kitchen making pancakes. As I poured yet another cup of coffee and looked out at the Aspen trees, my husband Tim walked in.

It was in that moment that our life was about to change again.

The night before, we had friends over for dinner. They were thinking about buying an RV, so we were giving them a tour of ours and talking about how much we loved camping and traveling. That conversation eventually turned to what life might look like once we became empty nesters.

Would we travel more after our daughter Ellie left for college?

We told them about our plans to move to Bozeman, Montana, someday, and live there while traveling part-time. I remember feeling excited, imagining those years ahead, and yet also a little sad knowing our kids would be grown and out of the house.

Tim seemed excited, too.

While I was taking a sip of my coffee the next morning, he said something that caught me completely off guard.

“I think we should move to Montana…now.”

What? Excuse me, what did you just say?

But what about Ellie? What about this house we just remodeled? What about Kyle already going to school in Bozeman? Would he even want us living in the same town while he was in college?

All the what-ifs were running through my mind.

And yet the excitement quickly took over.

Even Ellie was on board. She had been longing for a bigger school and was ready for a change too.

Was this really happening?

Apparently, it was.

Within hours, Tim was on the phone with a realtor. We were buying plane tickets and scheduling house showings. We were talking to our realtor here about putting our house on the market. We were even making plans to move my mom to Montana so she could be closer to us and in a safer community.

Everything started moving quickly.

And as the months have gone by—buying twenty acres, putting our house on the market, and preparing to move in August—I’ve found myself reflecting more and more on our years living in the RV.

Telling those stories lights me up in a way almost nothing else does.

All the pivots we’ve made in our marriage.
All the times we’ve picked up and started something new.
The ways we’ve shown our kids that it’s okay to take risks and try a different path.

That change isn’t something to fear.

It’s something to embrace.

Because choosing a life that feels alive—even when it’s uncertain—might be one of the greatest gifts you can give yourself.

After writing about many different things over the years, I think I’ve finally found what this space is meant to be.

A place to share the stories from a life that keeps moving.

Stories about travel, family, reinvention, and the small moments that shape us along the way.

Sometimes, a completely different life starts with a comment across the kitchen counter while the coffee is still hot.

And I’m proud of all the living we’ve done—and all the living still ahead.

I can’t wait to start sharing those stories here.

Courtney

Every December or January, my aunt sends me fresh lemons from her trees in Arizona. If you’ve never had fresh citrus directly off the tree, you are missing out. They don’t even look the same as the lemons, limes, oranges, and grapefruits in the stores. And they are so juicy and delicious!

She sends me so many lemons, and at my elevation, they shrivel up quickly. You can put them in the freezer and save for zest or juice, but I never like that method. I want to use them up fresh to get as much goodness as I can.

So this year I was determined to find some tasty recipes that would fit with my starch solution diet. And wow, did I ever. I decided to make plant-based, low-fat lemon curd. O.M.G. It’s so good. I’ve been putting it on my oatmeal in the morning, on berries for dessert at night, and might just eat it straight out of the jar. You gotta make it, even if you aren’t plant-based.

Lemon Curd Recipe:

• 1/2 cup fresh lemon juice

• Zest of 2 lemons

• 1/2 cup sugar- I use a monk/erythritol blend

• 3/4 cup lite coconut milk

• 3 TBS cornstarch or tapioca starch

• Pinch Salt- I use iodized salt

What To Do:

• Whisk the lemon juice, lemon zest, sugar, coconut milk, and cornstarch in a saucepan

• Cook over medium, whisking constantly

• It will quicken quickly- in about 3 to 7 minutes

• Remove from heat and whisk for an additional minute or so.

• Curd will thicken as it cools.

Store in the refrigerator for about a week

**For a thicker and creamier curd, use full-fat coconut milk. I like to use Lite because I eat so much of it!

I LOVE this lemon curd. Enjoy it over oatmeal and berries. Or add as a filling in scones, muffins, or tarts. YUM!

-Courtney

Subscribe now