Summer has a way of making time feel a little less structured. The days are longer, the routines are looser, and there seems to be just a little more room to follow what feels good in the moment. Then suddenly, the calendar changes. School starts. Schedules fill. The familiar rhythm of a new year begins, and you’re looking at a full plate wondering how you’re going to fit everything into it.

I’m feeling that shift right now.

I’m also reminding myself that a new routine doesn’t have to mean immediately becoming really good at the new routine. There is something to be said for moving a little slower when you’re learning how your days are going to work. I’m committing to continuing to prioritize myself in that process, including the things that help me feel grounded, present, and like myself. Self-care isn’t something I want to squeeze into whatever time happens to be left over. It needs to have a place in the routine too.

Maybe that’s the bigger lesson I’m carrying into this season. Our lives are a constant evaluation of values and time. What matters to us? What feels good? What has become part of our lives simply because it has always been there? And what no longer serves us?

Making room for something new often means something else has to move.

Sometimes that’s easy. Sometimes it’s not.

Sometimes the thing that has to go is something you’ve outgrown. Other times, it’s something you genuinely love but no longer have the space to carry in the same way. And sometimes, the hardest part is realizing that something you’ve been asking for has finally arrived, but making room for it means letting go of something you weren’t ready to give up.

We spend so much time asking for the next thing that we don’t always think about what the next thing might require from us. New opportunities require time. New relationships require space. New routines require flexibility. New versions of ourselves sometimes require us to release pieces of the old one.

I’m trying to remember that I don’t have to figure all of that out at once.

I can pay attention. I can make adjustments. I can notice what is giving me energy and what is taking it away. I can be honest when something no longer fits, even if it once fit perfectly.

And I can be gentle with myself while I figure it out.

That’s where I am right now. Somewhere in the middle of the shift. Holding on to some things, making room for others, and trying to understand what this next season is going to look like.

Have you ever noticed how uncomfortable we are receiving a compliment?

Someone tells us we look nice, and we immediately downplay it. “Oh, this old thing?” “It was on sale.” “I just got my hair done.” “I don’t normally look like this.” We laugh, deflect, and move on, almost as if accepting the compliment would somehow make us arrogant.

Why do we do that?

Is it modesty? Or is it something deeper? Is there a little voice inside us that’s so uncomfortable receiving kindness that it immediately tries to explain it away? If someone else sees something beautiful, capable, thoughtful, or strong in us, why is our first instinct to explain it away or avoid soaking it in?

The relationship we have with ourselves is the longest one we’ll ever know. We are mind, body, and soul; for all of our lives, they travel alongside each other. We spend so much time taking care of our careers, our families, our homes, and the people we love. But how often do we tend to the relationship we’re carrying with us every moment of every day?

Loving yourself isn’t about believing you’re perfect. It’s about making peace with the whole person. The good and the bad. The embarrassing and the joyful. The confident and the insecure. The seasons when you feel like you’ve got it all together and the seasons when you’re simply trying to make it through the day. Every one of those versions is still you, and every one of them deserves compassion.

I wonder if learning to receive a compliment is really about learning to receive ourselves.

Not the polished version we present to the world, but the real one.

Because without caring for ourselves, it’s difficult to care for the people around us in the way they deserve. The love we give others has to come from somewhere. Maybe it begins with learning to believe the kind things we so easily believe about everyone else.

Maybe the next time someone offers you a compliment, the most honest response isn’t to explain it away.

Maybe it’s simply to smile and say, “Thank you,” but also to really soak it in.

A newsletter landed in my inbox the other morning. It wasn’t the first one I’d seen, and it certainly won’t be the last. Another successful business leader sharing their thoughts on stress, work-life balance, leadership, or the habits that separate successful people from everyone else.

I clicked. Then I caught myself wondering why.

Why do we instinctively stop and listen when someone wealthy, powerful, or successful tells us how to live? When did success in one area become proof of expertise in every other? Why are we so quick to assume that because someone has built an extraordinary company, they must also have the answers to fulfillment, relationships, parenting, or the way the rest of us should navigate our lives?

I don’t think we’re looking for someone else’s life. I think we’re looking for answers. Life doesn’t come with a roadmap, and it’s comforting to believe someone else has already figured it out. We hope there’s a formula, a shortcut, or a set of rules that will help us avoid getting it wrong.

But somewhere along the way, we’ve started confusing influence with authority. Someone can have incredible insight into business, innovation, or leadership without becoming an authority on how everyone else should define a meaningful life. Perspective is valuable. Experience is valuable. Neither should replace our own judgment.

What I’ve started questioning isn’t whether someone else’s advice is right or wrong. It’s whether it was ever meant for me in the first place. Every article we read, every podcast we listen to, every social post we save, and every headline we click shapes us in some small way. The real question is whether we’re choosing those voices intentionally, or simply handing someone a microphone because the world already has.

That question stayed with me long after I closed the newsletter.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about The Goose and what it taught me about trusting your instincts and moving with intention.

This week, I was sitting at Barton Springs with a dear friend when two geese came waddling right over to our towels, happily chatting with each other the entire way down the hill.

We both laughed.

I remember thinking, Okay, Universe... I see you.

Then yesterday at 5:56 a.m., I walked into yoga, reached for the tarot deck that’s always waiting on the counter, and drew the exact same card.

The Goose. Again. I laughed even harder.

The traditional meaning of The Goose is to stop striving and relax. To trust the journey instead of trying to force the outcome.

If I’m honest, that’s a lesson I’m still learning.

Lately, it’s felt like I’m running as fast as I can, but my feet are stuck in quicksand. Progress isn’t always visible, and that’s been a humbling reminder.

One of the reasons I started Dandelion Voices was to share the journey as it’s unfolding, not after I’ve figured it all out. I’m exploring, questioning, learning, and growing right alongside you. So thank you for being here.

If you’d like to support this work, you can become a paid subscriber. When we reach 21 paid subscribers, I’ll be launching the first Dandelion Voices shirts and sending a few fun surprises as a thank-you to everyone who’s been here from the beginning.

And for now, apparently, the geese have decided they’re not done with me yet.

P.S. If you can spot all six geese in the photo, you get bonus points. 😉

The other day, a turtle wandered into my backyard. Which makes absolutely no sense because the entire yard is fenced in. I still have no idea where it came from, and just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. I probably watched it for less than five minutes, but for some reason, I’ve been thinking about that turtle ever since. Not because turtles are particularly rare or symbolic. Simply because I noticed it. I think that’s what this summer has been teaching me.

A few friends have jokingly started calling it “The Summer of Dawn,” and every time they say it, I laugh. But the more I’ve thought about it, the more I realize they’re right.

The Summer of Dawn isn’t about me. It’s about permitting myself to build a life that feels like mine.

Lately, I’ve been asking myself a different question. What does a full life actually look like?

Not the version someone else defines. Not the one measured by titles, accomplishments, or how busy my calendar is. My version.

The answer surprised me because it wasn’t bigger goals or more ambitious plans. It was fun and flexible. It was meaningful work with people I genuinely enjoy. It was picking my kid up from school, saying yes to the PTO, making time for friends, making time for my husband and our relationship, taking care of my body, and leaving room for the little moments that make an ordinary day feel extraordinary.

I’ve realized that I’m happiest when the different parts of my life work together rather than compete with one another. When work is purposeful, relationships are nurtured, and there’s still room for a walk after dinner, an afternoon at Barton Springs, a walk through a farmers’ market, or a conversation that wasn’t on the calendar but ended up being exactly what I needed.

Maybe that’s what this season has really been about.

Not doing more.

Not becoming more.

Just noticing more.

When I think back to summers growing up, I don’t remember elaborate vacations or packed schedules. I remember riding bikes until the streetlights came on, swimming from morning until dinner, stopping at Dairy Queen for a milkshake, campfires, and spending entire days outside without wondering what time it was. Those memories stayed with me because I was completely present for them.

Somewhere along the way, many of us stop noticing the little things. We become so focused on what’s next that we miss what’s right in front of us.

This summer, I’m trying something different.

I’m saying yes to morning yoga, farmers’ markets, local coffee shops, Barton Springs, dollar movies, reconnecting with old friends, afternoons by the pool, and evenings around a fire pit. None of these things are extraordinary on their own. But together, they’ve reminded me that a meaningful life is often built from ordinary moments that receive our full attention.

The turtle stayed with me. I never saw how it got into my backyard, and I didn’t see where it went next. But one thing was obvious. It was moving with intention.

How often do we do the same?

How often do we move through our days with purpose instead of urgency? How often do we stop long enough to notice the conversation, the walk, the cup of coffee, the friend, the laugh, the quiet moments that seem ordinary until we realize they’re the ones we remember?

When we start paying attention, we realize the little things aren’t little at all. They’re the moments that become our lives.

I’d love to hear what’s bringing you joy this summer. What’s filling your cup? What have you noticed lately that you might have missed a year ago?

Do you ever find yourself in a season of questions?

Questions about what’s next. Questions about where to focus your energy. Questions about the work you want to do, the people you want to spend time with, and how you want to continue building a life that feels aligned with what matters most. These may be difficult questions, but in many ways, they’re exciting ones.

What’s interesting is that the answers never seem to arrive when I’m actively searching for them.

They show up when there’s finally enough space for them to surface. When the noise settles down. When I’m not focused on solving a problem or forcing a decision. They tend to appear in the pause between things, in moments of presence, reflection, or simply paying attention.

I’ve started to think of my practices and routines as anchors. Not because they keep me in place, but because they bring me back to myself.

Yoga reminds me to breathe. Cycling reminds me to stay present and focused. Writing helps me untangle thoughts that have been quietly collecting in the corners of my mind. None of them provides answers, but they create the conditions where answers can appear. They give me somewhere to return when life feels noisy or uncertain.

And I’ve been wondering how often we allow ourselves to actually digest what we’re experiencing. We move so quickly from one thing to the next. A difficult conversation. A new opportunity. A disappointment. A major decision. We process it while simultaneously moving forward, rarely giving ourselves the space to sit with it for a moment.

It reminds me of the old rule about waiting before getting into the pool after eating. Whether it was scientifically accurate isn’t really the point. The point was that there was an understanding that some things need time before you jump into what comes next.

I think our minds work the same way.

What if we took five minutes after something significant happened? Not to solve it. Not to analyze it. Not to make a plan. Just to notice. To pay attention to what we’re feeling before the world starts telling us what we should think.

The older I get, the more I believe that intuition is much quieter than we expect it to be. It rarely arrives as certainty. More often, it shows up as a feeling that won’t go away, a thought that keeps returning, or a gentle nudge that asks us to pay attention. The challenge is that if every moment is filled with noise, we never give it the chance to speak.

Maybe that’s what anchors are really for.

Not productivity. Not self-improvement. Not another thing to check off a list.

They’re the places we return to so we can hear ourselves think. The places where our breathing slows, our shoulders drop, and the volume of the outside world turns down just enough for our own voice to come through.

So I’ll leave you with the same question I’ve been asking myself lately:

What anchors you?

And if this resonates with you, perhaps it’s because you’re in a season of listening, too.

I work with women, founders, and community-minded organizations to uncover the stories at the heart of what they do. Whether you’re finding your voice for the first time or realizing the one you’ve been using no longer fits, I’d love to help you discover what comes next.

Send me a note at DandelionVoicesATX@gmail.com

Going to yoga regularly helps keep my body and mind in check. One of the things I love most about my favorite local studio is that there’s always a tarot deck sitting on the counter when you walk in, waiting for whoever is called to draw one.

Last Sunday, I drew The Goose.

I laughed immediately because of all the animals in the world, I don’t know if there is one that has had more presence in my life than a goose.

I grew up in a house on the Illinois River that has been in my family for generations. My parents still live there today. The house was passed down from my grandparents, and some of my earliest memories are tied to that stretch of river. Growing up there meant sharing space with the rhythms of the river and the wildlife that moved through it.

I was taught to respect the land and the animals that live on it. There was an understanding that what nature provides should be valued, cared for, and never wasted. It wasn’t something we talked about often. It was simply how we lived.

During migration season, you could hear the geese overhead before you saw them. Long V formations stretched across the sky as they moved through the river valley. During hunting season, mornings started early, and the distant sound of shotguns would carry across the water as hunters and geese played their annual game.

The walls of my parents’ home and garage still hold decoys, photographs, stories, and traditions passed from one generation to the next.

So when I pulled The Goose, it didn’t feel random.

It felt familiar.

As I sat with the card during class, I found myself thinking less about the tarot meaning and more about the animal itself. Geese are remarkable creatures. Somehow, they know where they’re going. They travel thousands of miles, returning to places they’ve never personally seen but are somehow able to find. Guided by instinct, memory, and generations that came before them, they navigate with a certainty that feels almost impossible to comprehend.

The older I get, the more I think we’re all trying to reconnect with that same instinct.

We spend so much time looking for certainty. We want proof. We want a plan. We want to see the entire path before we’re willing to take the next step. But most of the meaningful decisions in life don’t work that way. Sometimes all you have is a feeling. A pull. A quiet knowing that something is asking you to move, even if you can’t yet explain where it’s leading.

The card also spoke about protecting creative energy and being mindful of paths that drain us without moving us forward. That resonated. Energy is finite, and the older I get, the more intentional I become about where I spend it and who I spend it with.

The goose is also a communal animal. They travel together, flying in formation and supporting one another along the journey. There is something comforting about that. We like to think we’re independent, but most of us are searching for the same things: belonging, support, shared purpose, and people who help carry the load when the wind gets strong.

Maybe that’s why the card felt so timely. It wasn’t really about the goose at all. It was about trust. Trusting your instincts. Trusting your direction. Trusting that you don’t need to see the destination to know you’re headed where you’re meant to go.

And sometimes, if you’re paying attention, life finds a pretty interesting way to remind you.

A few weeks ago, I was a finalist for a role that twenty-year-old me would have considered a dream job.

The kind of role you imagine when you’re sitting in an undergrad advertising class, trying to figure out what your future might look like. The kind of opportunity you work toward for years without even realizing it. When I first saw the opening, everything seemed to line up. My experience aligned. The timing felt right. I could see myself in it. For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine what life would look like if I got the call.

Then the interview process began.

There was an introductory conversation with HR, another conversation with the managing partner, and then came the assignment. Build a case study. Develop a presentation. Present your recommendations, defend your thinking, answer questions, and wait.

So I did.

I dug in. Built the presentation. Prepared for the discussion. Thought through the strategy and connected the dots. But somewhere in the middle of all that work, something unexpected happened. I started asking different questions.

Not whether I could do the job. I knew I could do the job.

I started wondering what the actual experience of doing the job would feel like. Who would I spend my days with? What conversations would we be having? What kind of culture existed behind the polished website and carefully crafted messaging? Would I feel challenged? Supported? Inspired? Would I be able to bring my full self to this work?

And perhaps most importantly, would the people making the hiring decision be interested in getting to know the human being behind the presentation?

The more I thought about it, the stranger the process felt. Two relatively brief conversations. Hours of unpaid strategic work. A presentation. A scorecard. A decision.

I don’t say that with bitterness. It’s simply an observation.

Because somewhere along the way, hiring became less about people and more about proving. Less about conversation and more about performance. Less about potential and more about process.

The irony is that many organizations talk endlessly about connection, engagement, culture, and relationships. Yet the first experience many candidates have with those organizations is one that feels surprisingly transactional.

It made me think about how much of our professional world is now filtered through systems designed for efficiency. Applicant tracking systems. AI screening tools. Automated workflows. Assessment platforms. None of these things are inherently bad. In many ways, they solve real problems. But I do wonder what gets lost when every interaction becomes optimized.

What happens to curiosity? What happens to intuition? What happens to the parts of people that don’t fit neatly into a keyword search or a presentation deck?

The things that make someone a remarkable colleague are often the hardest things to measure. Character. Integrity. Empathy. Presence. The ability to navigate uncertainty. The ability to build trust. The ability to make people feel seen.

Those qualities rarely show up on a scorecard.

As I worked through the process, I realized something that surprised me. I wasn’t questioning whether they wanted me. I was questioning whether I wanted them.

And that felt like growth.

There have been moments throughout my career when I’ve chased opportunities because they looked right from the outside. Sometimes they were right. Sometimes they weren’t. But age has a way of changing the questions you ask.

The title matters less. The people matter more.

The prestige matters less. The experience matters more.

The destination matters less. The day-to-day matters more.

I didn’t get the job. And honestly, I’m grateful.

Not because there was anything wrong with the role. Not because the people involved did anything wrong. But because the process forced me to see something clearly.

Sometimes the dream changes before we realize it has.

And sometimes not getting what you thought you wanted is exactly what allows you to recognize what you actually need.

That’s a different kind of success entirely.

Over the years, I’ve found myself in rooms with founders, leaders, creatives, and operators building something from the ground up. Businesses are rooted not just in ideas, but in people, relationships, and community. When you’re in that kind of environment, the work is never just the work. It’s layered. It’s personal. It’s tied to identity, values, and what someone is trying to create in the world.

It’s also not always easy. There’s a level of care and responsibility that comes with building something that reflects who you are. Decisions feel heavier. Growth can feel more complicated. There’s often a tension between what makes sense on paper and what feels right in your gut. I’ve watched people navigate that in real time, and I’ve been part of it.

What I’ve learned is that a lot of leadership happens in the quiet moments. In conversations that don’t make it onto agendas. In decisions no one else sees. In the ability to keep showing up, even when things feel uncertain or unclear. I’ve also learned how much relationships matter, not in a transactional way, but in a real, human way. The kind built over time through trust, consistency, and showing up. That’s what holds things together when everything else feels like it’s shifting.

Some moments stretched me, decisions that didn’t feel good but had to be made, and times when growth didn’t feel like growth at all. It just felt like pressure, or uncertainty, or figuring things out as I went.

There have been a few points in my career where I’ve stood at a real crossroads. The kind where there isn’t a clear right answer, just a choice you have to make. I’ve leaned into my gut and made decisions that didn’t always make sense from the outside. I’ve left roles I worked hard to get. I’ve been laid off. And I’ve also been on the other side of it, sitting in conversations where I had to say the hard thing. That part stays with you. It’s not easy to carry.

What I’ve come to understand is that chapters don’t always close in clean or obvious ways. Sometimes you’re ready. Sometimes you’re not. Sometimes you think you’re choosing, and other times it feels like something is choosing for you. Either way, there’s usually something underneath it asking you to pay attention.

There are moments where you know something isn’t aligned anymore, even if you can’t fully explain why. And those are the hardest ones, because they don’t always look logical. They don’t always make sense to the people around you. It can be taking a job and moving your whole life, only to realize months later that it’s not where you’re meant to be. It can be staying longer than you should because you’re trying to make it work. It can be leaving before you feel ready.

And in the moment, you don’t always understand what’s happening. You’re just in it. It’s only when you look back that you can see what it was asking of you, what it was shaping, what it was trying to move you toward.

Sometimes you leave because you want to. Sometimes you leave because you have to. Because your values no longer align, or because you’ve outgrown something, or because staying would mean ignoring something you know to be true.

And what I’ve learned, over time, is that when it’s time to move, you will. Whether you fight it or not.

That’s part of the process, too. Learning to recognize that feeling sooner. Learning to trust it, learning to listen.

And maybe that’s the thread through all of it.

These experiences didn’t just build my career. They shaped how I think, how I work, and how I move through the world now. They’re the reason I approach everything with intention. The reason I listen first. The reason I care about helping people build things that actually feel aligned with who they are, not just what they think they should be doing.

Because I’ve seen what happens when those things are out of sync. And I’ve seen what’s possible when they’re not.

You don’t always get certainty. But you do learn to recognize what feels right, and decide whether you’re willing to follow it.

A trusted voice. A mentor. A therapist. A friend who knows you well enough to call you out, and cares enough to do it with honesty. Or all of the above, if you ask me!

Someone who understands your values, your goals, and how you actually want to show up in your life, not just how things look from the outside.

Because the truth is, we all carry things.

Our own experiences. Our own patterns. Our own stress, pressure, and daily hurdles. And most of the time, we have no idea what the people around us are holding, or whether they have the support to actually move through it.

Sometimes the thing you need most is simple.

A conversation.
A release.
A moment where you can say what is really going on and not have to hold it together.

A friend told me recently that she went to something called a scream club. You stand at the edge of a lake with a group, and you just scream. Fully. Loudly. No filter.

And honestly, it sounded kind of perfect.

We don’t give ourselves enough space to feel things all the way through. We stay composed. We stay productive. We stay moving.

But we are not meant to live in one emotional state.

We need play.
We need laughter.
We need sadness.
We need anger.

All of it.

Because that is what reminds us that we are alive.

You cannot understand joy without having felt the other side of it. You cannot fully appreciate ease without knowing what it feels like to be stretched.

And somewhere in all of that, perspective starts to shift.

The idea of space, of the vastness of everything beyond us, has always been grounding for me. Lately, watching the Artemis mission and everything that comes with it, I keep coming back to that feeling.

The thought of looking back at Earth from that distance, seeing it as something small and whole at the same time, puts things into perspective in a way nothing else really does. To be that far removed from your life, your responsibilities, the noise of everything, and to just see it all for what it is. One place. One world. It shifts something.

It reminds me that there are bigger forces at play, that we are all moving within something much larger than ourselves, and yet we are here, in these very human lives, carrying what we carry, doing the best we can.

There are small miracles in that.

But they are easy to miss if we are not paying attention.

When you slow down and start to really see what is around you, the people, the moments, the support, the connection, things begin to feel more human. More real.

And it becomes clearer that the roles we hold, the titles, the careers, they are only one part of the picture.

They are not the whole thing.

They should not be the center of everything.

They are something we move through, something we build and contribute to, but not something that defines the entirety of who we are.

What matters more is how we live inside of it.

Who we have around us.
How we process what we’re carrying.
Whether we allow ourselves to feel, to release, to be supported.

And whether we are willing to actually listen when someone we trust tells us the truth.

That might be the most important part.

I’ve been thinking a lot about gratitude lately. Not the surface level kind, but the kind that makes you stop and really look at the people, experiences, and moments that have carried you to where you are.

When you stop and look around, if you are only focusing on the things that are loud and not serving you, the things that really matter can go unheard or unattended to. When you slow down and take stock of what you are grateful for, it shifts your perspective. Things become clearer. You start to see what actually matters, and that is where your energy should go.

I’m deeply grateful for the support system surrounding me. My family, my friends, my past employers and colleagues, clients, my network, and beyond. All of that is what brought me here. And to be honest, I don’t fully know where “here” is yet.

I recently stepped away from my role as Vice President at a communications firm, where I spent the past few years doing work that challenged me, stretched me, and shaped me in ways I’m still unpacking. It was meaningful, demanding, and at times all consuming.

Sometimes we use all of our energy trying to stay in a place that no longer fits, holding on to something we’ve outgrown or that no longer serves us. That gets hard. It’s uncomfortable. That’s where the breath comes in.

We breathe through it. We stay in it. And eventually, we let go. Like the seeds of a dandelion, we do not always know exactly where we are going to land, but we move anyway.

The harder part, at least for me, is recognizing when it is time to move.

If you are used to listening to everything around you, expectations, noise, responsibilities, other people’s needs, it can be hard to hear what is actually happening inside of you. And when you cannot hear that voice, everything starts to feel off. You tell yourself it is the job, or the workload, or the people. You feel overcommitted, frustrated, stretched thin, maybe even resentful. But underneath all of that, there is something quieter trying to get your attention, and sometimes you are the one cutting yourself off from it.

This is not the first time I have made a move like this. I have had the dream role, the one I thought was the goal. Then life shifted. I became a mother. The world changed overnight. Everything I thought I knew about work, balance, and capacity was tested in real time. There were moments of real pressure and decisions that had to be made quickly and not always easily. Moments where you do what needs to be done, even when it costs you something.

Because it does cost something.

We give pieces of ourselves every day to our work, to our families, to the people and commitments we care about. That is part of being human, but it also makes you ask what is worth it. What are you willing to give your time, your energy, your attention to, knowing you do not get it back?

Time only moves in one direction. We only ever have most of it right now.

A friend said something to me recently that stayed with me: the people we encounter in our lives are not random, and that we are here to learn from each other. Some experiences bring joy, some bring challenge, most bring both. What matters is what we take with us.

There will be moments in life where you are asked to make a decision that shifts your path. There is not always a clear answer, but there is your answer. And finding that requires listening, and an appreciation for the quiet moments that make that possible.

That voice does not always speak loudly, and it does not always make things feel comfortable. In fact, it usually does the opposite. The unknown is uncomfortable. Growth is uncomfortable. Change is uncomfortable.

But breath helps. Trust helps. And something steadier sits underneath it all, keeping you grounded even when you cannot yet see where you are going.

And step by step, you find yourself somewhere new, looking back with more clarity, more understanding, and a better sense of what you want to carry forward.

I do not have it all figured out, but I do know this. I am grateful to be here, grateful for the people who have been part of my path, grateful for the lessons, even the hard ones, and grateful for what is ahead, even if I cannot yet fully see it.

I’ve never really fit into just one lane, and somewhere along the way, I stopped trying.

My career hasn’t followed a straight line. It’s been built through storytelling, connection, and the creation of experiences that bring people together in meaningful ways. I’ve learned that the choices we make, especially the ones that feel a little crazy to everyone else, are often the ones that matter most. Listening to your inner voice is the first step toward building something real.

I’ve built my career at the intersection of media, marketing, and community, connecting businesses, audiences, and ideas to drive engagement and growth. My background spans publishing, advertising sales, communications strategy, and experiential marketing, with campaigns across print, digital, social, newsletters, partnerships, and live events, all designed to create cohesive, measurable impact.

I spent nearly a decade as an advertising director building client relationships, developing campaigns, and driving revenue through audience-first media planning. I’ve led content, partnerships, and branded events celebrating local culture while deepening community engagement. I’ve directed brand strategy, media, and event campaigns, creating immersive experiences that connected businesses, audiences, and community partners.

And more recently, as an executive leader, I’ve focused on B2B strategy and business development, leading communications initiatives and integrated marketing programs that strengthened client relationships. I’ve managed large-scale multi-stakeholder projects across public and private sectors, expanding into community engagement and strategic communications.

I’m fascinated by how media, messaging, and experience intersect and how storytelling can create meaningful connections and build relationships that last.

Now, in my forties, I’m a wife, a mother, and a professional, but even that feels too simple for the life I’ve lived and the work I’ve been drawn to. I’ve built relationships, led projects, and turned ideas into reality. Much of what I’ve done sits at the intersection of business and humanity: understanding people, building trust, and creating experiences that actually resonate.

Alongside all of that, I think a lot about the bigger picture. How we live. How we show up. What it really means to trust yourself and your choices, even when they feel risky or uncertain. I’m lucky to have had a wonderful support system along the way, which has made all the difference.

That’s what led me here. This isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about listening, trusting, and being in it.

Dandelion Voices is an extension of how I see the world and how I move through it. It’s a space to reflect, to share, and to explore what it looks like to build a fully expressed life in real time, not perfectly, but honestly.

For those of us who give a lot of ourselves, it can feel like there’s always something asking for more. And even though our lives all look different, there’s something deeply shared underneath it. We all love. We all carry. We all feel things deeply. We all have moments where it feels like too much.

Family isn’t just what you’re born into. It’s who you choose, who you love, who you show up for. The more we show up for each other, the stronger the community we create together. And in that, we’re all more connected than we realize.

Which is why I keep coming back to something simple. Not easy, but simple.

Just breathe.

It’s what gets you through a long run when you’re ready to quit.
It keeps you holding a yoga pose, pushing you to stay in it for just ten more seconds. But it also carries you through a tense conversation, a moment that makes your chest tighten, when you’re elated and taking it all in, or when you’re in awe of something so stunning it literally takes your breath away.

It’s all temporary. Nothing magically changes in those moments. But taking a breath changes how you show up.

You pause. You notice yourself. You keep going instead of shutting down.

And that’s the part that’s been sticking with me. So much of what we’re navigating isn’t about fixing or escaping the moment. It’s about learning how to move through it without losing ourselves.

This is part of why I’m here.

Dandelion Voices is something I’ve been sitting with for a while. It’s not meant to be perfect or overly curated. It’s just a place to think, reflect, and share what I’m learning as I go.

I’m writing from my life as a wife, a mother, and a professional, trying to hold it all in a way that actually feels sustainable. Thinking a lot about wellness, balance, and what it really looks like to build a fully expressed life, not just talk about it.

Dandelion Voices comes from the idea that what we share doesn’t just stay with us.
It moves. It lands. It grows in ways we don’t always see.

That’s what I want this to be. Not loud or forced, just honest. Hopefully, some of what I am saying resonates or stays with you a little longer than you expected.

Thanks for stopping by. Before you move away from this space… take a breath.

xoxo,

Dawn