It’s been quite the decade.

You started your 30s rising in your career, divorcing your college sweetheart, and losing most of your friends because of it. It was not the decade you had pictured. You will learn that grief can be the death of the idea of how your life turns out too.

But you rose from the ashes anyway.

I want you to know that this dark valley you’ve just entered eventually brightens. Yes, you’ll start your personal life over from scratch. You’ll find a tiny 500-square-foot studio on the Pacific Coast Highway with a view of the ocean. You’ll walk down to that beach many times, mostly at sunset after work, and wonder how you’re ever going to get your spark back.

It will take about a year or so. But I promise you: it comes back. And when it does, it comes back with a much brighter light. Your family will remain with you the whole time without judgement and support you through it.

Just hold on. It gets so much better.

Because of your brokenness, you’ll eventually be able to guide other people through theirs. You’ll learn how to connect with people on an empathic level in a way you simply didn’t have the tools to do before. You’ll start to understand that your valley had a purpose. That somehow, it helped you climb toward your peak.

You’ll find beauty and understanding in your own breakdown.

And eventually—this will sound impossible right now—you’ll be grateful for it.

I promise.

You know that Europe trip you wanted to take but never made time for it? Well, you get to go, almost immediately after your divorce too. You’ll go to Ireland and fall in love with landscape and people. You’ll visit Dubai, and travel to India and cruise on the Arabian Sea. You will take a SOLO trip to Amsterdam… yes YOU. I know it’s wild.

And you even spend 8 days at Burning Man. I’m seriously not making any of this up. Your life broadens like you wouldn’t believe.

Your religious beliefs will slowly fade away. Not necessarily your belief in God or a higher power, but your belief in organized religion. Your understanding of spirituality will expand. You’ll find comfort in intuition, energy, synchronicity, and a kind of knowing you can’t always explain. You’ll meet a palm reader who accurately predicts the next five years. You’ll sit with a psychic who gives you a reading that feels like a divine message of goodness to come. An astrologist will explain your sun, moon, and rising signs and help you understand parts of yourself you’ve barely examined. You’ll revisit that dark valley during a vivid Reiki session—and, for the first time, you’ll surrender to it instead of fighting it.

Throughout this decade, people will enter your life—some for the first time, some returning—and they’ll share their own spiritual journeys with you. You’ll begin to realize this is a much bigger community than you ever knew existed. It will deepen your awareness of the universe. And of yourself.

And those children you thought would never come because of infertility?

They come.

They come when they are ready. And, in the way you’ve come to understand the universe, when you are ready, too. You’ll believe that their souls knew the timing better than you ever could. You’ll come to believe that you needed to experience what you did so you could become the mother you are now. That you needed to find grace for yourself first. Forgiveness. Acceptance.

You needed to let go of what you could no longer control and needed to surrender to what life was actually asking of you. And eventually, you do. You do the hard work on yourself. You become ready for them. And then they arrive.

And suddenly, so much of the story makes sense.

Oh, and that love you were really searching for?

You find it.

You find a partner who has walked through his own dark valley of death and grief and is trying to build himself back up, too. Your worlds intertwine in a way that is complicated, hard, and rocky for a while. You aren’t sure you have the emotional capacity to carry your own grief while making room for his.

But trust me. You do. In fact, it becomes necessary.

You learn that sometimes healing means putting down your own baggage for a moment and helping someone else carry theirs.

Eventually, you figure out the balance. It won’t be easy. I know. But you both eventually dig in and decide that you are worth fighting for. Both of you.

You learn that healing isn’t linear. It doesn’t happen on the same timeline for two people. And sometimes love means giving someone space to heal while still protecting your own heart.

Listen to your therapist when she tells you to set boundaries, respect his process, and to respect your own.

And somewhere along the way, something unlocks in your heart.

You just know.

He is the soul you’ve been waiting for. His soul was meant to find you when it did. And yours was meant to hold his hand while he healed.

Maybe this was the story all along.

And the family he comes with? Incredible human beings who immediately become your own. Quite the cherry on top.

Along with the love of your life, you’ll build friendships you actually get to choose.

You’ll find women who genuinely want you to succeed. Women who support your ambitions, your marriage, your motherhood, and your woo-woo spiritual journey.

You’ll find the friends who text you at 11:11 and say, “I’m thinking good thoughts!”

You’ll lean on each other through the hard seasons and celebrate the beautiful ones.

I know you feel incredibly lonely right now. You lost most of your closest friends, after all. And I’m really sorry for that. While you’ll always love and miss some of those people, you’ll eventually learn something important:

People come into our lives for seasons.

Some stay and some leave. And sometimes moving forward is the healthiest thing you can do. Stay close to the people who feel like sunshine.

The next wave of people will come into your life and amaze you in ways you can’t possibly imagine right now. You’ll become deeply grateful for them.

And your body? Thank you for taking care of it. You’ve always stayed active through sports and working out, and your almost-40-year-old self is very grateful you started building those habits early.

Keep going. You’ll become even more intentional about your health—your sleep, your food, your movement, your strength, your mental well-being. You’ll realize that taking care of yourself isn’t vanity. It’s stewardship. Your body is the home you get to live in for this entire journey. Take care of it.

As for your career…

I know how badly you want to climb that ladder.

Your goal is to become a Director of Marketing. Spoiler alert: You do it.

You do it in about ten years without any prior marketing experience. You really pushed yourself here. Pushed yourself out of imposter syndrome and aren’t afraid to speak up in any room.

You know that ten-year plan you wrote out—with the encouragement of the man who will eventually become your husband? You work your way through it and accomplish ALL of it. This becomes the first tangible thing you manifest.

You survive 15+ bosses. Multiple acquisitions. Too many leadership changes. Layoffs that somehow never get you. A couple coworkers who tell you that you don’t deserve what you earned. Honestly? Fuck them. You keep your cool like a real leader. But a majority of those coworkers are some of the best people you’ll ever meet and you continue deep relationships with so many of them. You are so lucky to have worked with them.

You keep learning. You keep growing. And eventually, you become the exact kind of leader you once hoped you could be.

I’m so proud of you. You really surprised me… in the best possible way.

And then something unexpected happens.

You leave.

You climb the ladder you worked so hard to climb—and then decide you don’t want to stand on it anymore.

You stay home with your kids.

I know. You never thought you’d stop working. You’ve been working since you were 12.

But this becomes a soul reset.

You get to discover who you are without a job title attached to your name.

You volunteer in your kids’ classrooms. You stop worrying about meetings interfering with pickup and drop-off. You coach little league. You join the PTA. You become the mom who gets to be present.

You get to experience both sides of motherhood—the working mother and the stay-at-home mother. You’ll understand the challenges and the joys of both.

And you’ll realize neither one is better.

They’re just different seasons.

And now, as your 40s approach, you’re settling into this newer version of yourself.

You’ve become a little more serious. A little more reserved. A little less interested in proving yourself. And maybe that’s okay.

But here’s what I want you to carry into this next decade:

Laugh more.

Release the toxic energy faster.

Protect your boundaries, but don’t build walls around yourself.

Bend a little.

Play more.

Say yes more.

Lean into your life.

Squeeze everything you possibly can out of it.

You spent your 30s learning how to rebuild.

You learned how to forgive.

You learned how to love again.

You learned how to become a mother.

You learned how to let go.

You learned how to trust yourself.

You learned that sometimes the darkest valleys are actually the beginning of your greatest becoming.

So, dear 30-year-old me…

Take a deep breath.

Keep walking.

You have no idea how beautiful this story is going to become.

Your 40s are going to be magical. I can feel it.

Enjoy them.

With Love,
Almost-40-Year-Old You ❤️

Every once in a while, though, a great film comes along and reminds me why I love movies.

This year, two have done exactly that.

And interestingly, neither would normally land on my list of favorite genres.

One is science fiction. The other is an ancient epic about war, gods, and a 20-year journey home.

And yet, both completely blew me away.

First: Project Hail Mary

This one was a sneak attack for me.

Do I love Ryan Gosling? Obviously. The man can do very little wrong.

Do I love science fiction? Eh… not always.

And the title Project Hail Mary did absolutely nothing for me.

What did intrigue me was Ryan Gosling talking about the project in the promo tour.

He had spent more than six years trying to get the film made, and reportedly read the script and thought, This is going to be the biggest thing I ever do.

That is a pretty bold statement from Mr. Notebook himself.

So I went in knowing little about. I knew it was set in space and Gosling’s character was largely alone. And I knew, somehow, he becomes friends with a rock-like alien. Okay. Weird?

And then I fell completely in love with it. I laughed. I cried, happy and sad tear. I was genuinely moved. The cinematography was incredible, the soundtrack was beautiful, the puppetry was fascinating, and the script was brilliant.

But what stayed with me most was the humanity of it.

Ryland Grace is incredibly intelligent, but his greatest strength isn’t his intellect. It’s his ability to care.

He is faced with an almost impossible mission: save humanity.

And somewhere along the way, he discovers that saving humanity doesn’t necessarily mean doing everything alone.

Even when the “someone” you’re trying to save, or understand, is an alien.

Then came The Odyssey

Christopher Nolan? Absolutely.

An incredible cast? Obviously.

Greek mythology? Loved it in middle school.

Three hours of war, death, and destruction? Uh, that can be alot for me.

But I wanted to experience it on the big screen, and I’m so glad I did.

What a production: The acting. The costumes. The sets. The storytelling.

Nolan is one of the best directors of our time, and this film felt like a masterclass in filmmaking. But it wasn’t the spectacle that kept me awake afterward.

It was Odysseus played be the generational talent, Matt Damon.

I couldn’t turn my brain off that night. And eventually I realized why.

The Odyssey reminded me of Project Hail Mary. Not because the stories are remotely similar. But because both center on men who carry enormous responsibility—and whose greatest strength comes not (only) from brute force, but from emotional intelligence.

Odysseus is a warrior. A leader. A man raised in a culture where strength is measured in battle and victory. But he isn’t untouched by the ugliness of it. He struggles with grief, trauma, guilt, and the consequences of his choices. He isn’t perfect. He doesn’t always make the right decision.

But he keeps moving toward home. Toward his family. Toward the people he loves.

His strength isn’t simply physical. It’s mental and emotional.

It’s the willingness to confront his own demons (literally going to hell to take accountability) and keeps going anyway.

And maybe that’s what struck me most.

We’re living through a cultural moment where masculinity can sometimes feel defined by dominance.

Be the loudest. Be the toughest. Never show weakness. Always be the leader. Don’t apologize. Don’t cry. Don’t let anyone see you hurt. (Eye roll. We are so over this. This is only projecting insecurity.)

And, increasingly, we’ve seen versions of masculinity built around belittling women, blaming others, and treating vulnerability like a character flaw. (Gross. And also, grow the fuck up.)

I’m tired of it.

Give me Ryland Grace. Give me Odysseus. Give me Ted Lasso. Give me men who are strong enough to be vulnerable.

Men who can admit when they’re wrong. Who understand that leadership isn’t about commanding everyone around you.

Men who protect without controlling. Who can sit with grief.

Men who can love deeply. Who can look at another human—or even an alien—and think, How can I understand you?

That’s strength too. Maybe it’s an even harder kind.

Because it requires something that brute force never will: self-awareness.

Both of these characters are carrying the weight of the world. And neither responds by becoming cruel. They lean toward empathy. They choose connection. They keep loving.

And in a world that feels increasingly desperate for examples of healthy masculinity, I found that incredibly refreshing.

So yes, give me more of these men.

More emotionally intelligent heroes. Complicated and imperfect men who are willing to do the inner work. Characters who show boys that strength and tenderness can exist in the same person.

More Ted Lassos. Fewer Rocky Balboas.

We’ve seen the lone-wolf, emotionally unavailable, punch-your-way-through-it hero enough. It’s time for a new kind of hero.

One who knows that the strongest thing you can do isn’t always fight.

Sometimes, it’s care.

This is one of those stories.

About 14 years ago, I was a very green marketer in the B2B software world. Eager. Curious. Ready to absorb anything and everything. It was 2012, and I had just transitioned from the social media team to our SEO (search engine optimization) team—a space I knew almost nothing about.

But I was determined to learn.

Our team traveled to Seattle for a conference, and I remember arriving late because of a flight delay. I walked into a massive dining hall filled with hundreds of people lined up for coffee.

I paused. Took it all in.

And noticed something immediately: about 95% of the room was men. Most in converse shoes and flannel shirts, as if there had been some unspoken dress code.

Two thoughts crossed my mind:

1. This might be an uphill climb for me as a young woman.

2. This world feels very different from what I’m used to.

I found my team (also all men), and for the next few days, I sat through what felt like a firehose of technical knowledge. Smart, kind, humble people—but I still felt like an imposter trying to keep up.

Until she walked on stage. A woman in cool glasses and beautiful long brown hair. Effortless style. Confident, grounded presence. High EQ and IQ.

She didn’t just talk about SEO in technical terms, she spoke about storytelling. About understanding what people are actually searching for. About connecting data to human behavior.

And something clicked. Finally.

She was speaking my language: human behavior. This psychology and sociology major brain perked up.

In that moment, she became my “ah-ha.” The bridge between what I didn’t understand and what I intuitively felt this work could be.

Her name was Mack Fogelson.

And without ever knowing it, she helped guide the trajectory of my career.

—

Fast forward 10 years.

I’m now a Director of Growth Marketing, overseeing multiple functions, including SEO (love that full circle, right?). Over the years, I’d worked with countless agencies and leaders. Many brilliant. Many kind. But one stood out. A CEO from an ad agency named Matt Harper.

We had only ever met over Zoom, he was based in Colorado and I was in California, but there was something different about him. He took the time to understand our complex business deeply. He showed up with care, empathy, and thoughtful insight. Even in meetings he didn’t need to be in. I looked forward to our 1x1 conversations that included getting to know little bits about each other personally.

I respected him immediately. Not just as a leader, but as a human.

—

Two years later, my life shifts again.

I leave the corporate world to stay home with my kids and finally begin writing the book I had always wanted to write. I shared a small post on LinkedIn about it. Nothing big. But the response was warm, encouraging, and kind.

And then something unexpected happened.

Two people asked if they could read my rough drafts.

One of them was Matt Harper.

He followed up with a DM:
“I actually do want to read them. I have some free time, please send them over.”

So I did something vulnerable. I sent him two very rough chapters. And he didn’t just read them—he responded with thoughtful, detailed, and deeply encouraging feedback.

And then he said something that stopped me in my tracks:

“You need to meet my friend Mack Fogelson. You have a similar writing style and I think she could really help you. And also, if you aren’t on Substack, you should be.”

Mack.

Why does that name sound familiar?

I opened LinkedIn. Searched her name. Her profile came up.

Cool glasses. Long brown hair. Impeccable style. Authentic approach to marketing.

And then it hit me. Oh my gosh. She was the woman on that stage 14 years ago.

The one who made it all click. The one who unknowingly guided my path.

—

Matt connected us over email.

She responded right away. Warm. Open. Immediate. We scheduled a call.

And within minutes of speaking, it felt like we had known each other for years.

And then, mid-conversation, she paused. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m going through a divorce after 25 years of marriage. I’m in a really hard place.”

I didn’t hesitate.

“I’ve been through that too,” I told her. “I’m so sorry. But the light will come back, eventually. I promise.”

She went quiet for a moment.

Then softened. “Thank you,” she said. “I needed to hear that.”

And just like that, something shifted.

Years ago, she had unknowingly helped guide me through a pivotal moment in my career. And now, somehow, I was sitting across from her offering her a sense of hope in one of her hardest seasons.

The roles had beautifully reversed.

—

Mack quickly became a kindred spirit.

What started as a professional introduction turned into something deeper. Shared understanding, support, and an unspoken recognition of each other’s journeys.

All made possible by Matt who somehow saw the thread connecting us before either of us did.

—

A few weeks ago, I traveled to Denver with my husband, sister, and brother-in-law for a concert at Red Rocks.

And during that trip, I got to meet both Matt and Mack in person.

No screens. No distance. Just real conversation. Real laughter. Real connection.

The kind that reminds you how good people can be.

—

And here’s the part that still gives me chills:

My husband, who was just a coworker at the time, was at that SEO conference 14 years ago. He was in the room when Mack spoke. That same moment that shifted my career… would much later down the road lead me to him, too.

—

Some stories don’t arrive all at once.

They unfold slowly.

Across years. Across seasons. Across versions of who you’ve been.

Until one day, you step back and realize: None of it was random.

Just beautifully, patiently… becoming.

And somehow, against all odds, leading you exactly where you were meant to be and surrounded by people who really see you.

Do you have a similar story to this? If so, please comment below. I LOVE to hear these stories.

He knew me before I was even born—and then for nearly 40 years after. The kind of person who lives quietly in the background of your childhood memories, but when you close your eyes and return to those formative years, he’s always there. Steady. Familiar. Part of the fabric.

He had the presence of an old-school mob boss—strong, composed—but softened by a warm smile that was always ready.

I grew up knowing where to find him.
A pew in church on Sunday mornings.
The annual Oscar party.
Always there. Always present. Always quietly observing.

So on the day we gathered to celebrate his life, it was a gift to hear stories I had never known.

His coworkers spoke about his humor.
His love of pranks.
His best friend of over 50 years stood up and delivered a eulogy that had the entire room laughing.

It struck me—how much we often learn about people after they’re gone.

That bittersweet truth sat with me.

We don’t gather like we used to.
We don’t sit around long tables or campfires asking, “Tell me more about your life.”
We don’t always take the time to really know each other—while we still can.

Maybe we should.

The service was held at the church where I spent most of my childhood.

A beautiful, sacred place nestled in a redwood grove. Stained glass windows casting soft light across worn wooden pews. The same communion table that has been there for as long as I can remember.

We arrived early to help set up, and of course, so did so many others.

That community has always been something special.

As I stood there, gently picking rose petals into a basket, I caught up with familiar faces I hadn’t seen in years. Conversations picked up as if no time had passed.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my old pastor walking by.

He and his wife had led our church for over 25 years—with grace, humility, compassion, and a kind of unconditional love that shaped so many of us. They left over a decade ago, but in that moment, it felt like time had folded in on itself.

Like stepping into a living time capsule of goodness.

I realized, standing there, how rare that experience was.

I grew up in a church community that wasn’t rooted in fear or judgment—but in hope, joy, wonder, and genuine care for one another. A place that felt safe. That felt… good for your nervous system.

It wasn’t until I left and experienced other spaces that I understood just how special that was.

At one point, I wrapped my arms around one of the co-pastors…someone who had known me since I was a baby. She smiled and said, “I remember babysitting you when you were one. I distinctly remember thinking—you’re an old soul.” I laughed and replied, “The older I get, the more I think you were right.”

There was something about that day that opened me.

I cried more than I expected to. I’m not usually outwardly emotional—but the combination of grief, memory, and gratitude cracked something open.

I laughed, too. At the stories. At the life he lived so quietly, yet so fully.

Afterward, we gathered and ate pie (Rich’s favorite) and lingered a little longer in each other’s presence.

And I left with something deeper than sadness.

A profound sense of gratitude.

For a place that helped shape me.
For the people who still greet me with open arms.
For the reminder that family isn’t always defined by blood.

Sometimes, it’s the people who show up.
Year after year in steady ways.

The ones who help build you, without ever needing recognition.

That’s community.

And it’s one of the greatest gifts we have.

And in this modern era, I think we can add something else to that list:

Sports.

A global language built on passion, discipline, and the devotion to mastering something bigger than yourself. Lately, it feels like we’re seeing glimpses of healing—small, meaningful moments that remind us we’re not as divided as it seems.

From an American perspective, I felt a shift during this year’s Super Bowl.

Yes, it was two of the best teams in the NFL going head-to-head. But what stayed with me wasn’t the game…it was the halftime show. (And yes, I’m a 49er fan and they were not playing… had to admit that)

Bad Bunny took the stage for 13 minutes and did something more than perform. He created a moment of global connection. While some viewers focused on language barriers, much of the world experienced something else entirely—joy, pride, and artistry without borders.

It wasn’t about understanding every word.
It was about feeling it.

Around the same time, Artemis II reignited something we don’t talk about enough: wonder.

For a brief moment, we looked up again.
We remembered what it feels like to be in awe.
To be united not by opinion but by curiosity.

Even the opening of the Obama Presidential Library felt like a return to something we’ve been missing. Leaders from different sides of the aisle stood together. Not in agreement but in respect. Surrounded by art, music, and reflection, it became less about politics and more about shared humanity. He also focused on his love for basketball and installed a NBA size court for the community to some together and use. Sports, again, showing up.

And now—the World Cup.

I’ll admit, I felt anxious about it being hosted in North America, given the tension we’ve all been living in. But what I’ve seen instead has been something entirely different: connection.

People traveling across the world and finding unexpected belonging. Brits experiencing American hospitality for the first time. Scots filling Boston with laughter and beer. Algerians building community in Kansas. Koreans and Mexicans finding mutual respect through the love of the game. Japanese cleaning up the stands, happily, with dignity and honor.

It’s imperfect, of course. Nothing at this scale isn’t. But it’s also undeniable.

There’s a softness in these moments. A reminder that when we come together through shared experience—through art, music, space travel, and now sport—we remember how to see each other again.

One of the most moving moments came quietly.

A note left behind in a locker room by the Iranian team:

“May peace, respect, and friendship prevail among all nations.”

No headlines needed and no commentary required. Just a simple truth. This is what healing can look like. Not loud or forced. But woven into moments where we choose connection over separation.

It feels like something has begun.

And maybe our role now… is simply to keep choosing it.

It was a two-hour conversation filled with heartbreak and, unexpectedly, redemption.

Now, if you’re in the camp of “but Hunter’s laptop” and feel like this story isn’t for you, I’d gently challenge you: keep reading, and then go listen for yourself. Because while this is the son of the 46th President, and politics inevitably surround him, his life story at its core… isn’t political.

It’s human.

I’ll preface this by saying: I’m a fan of Joe Biden. I’ve voted for him and see him as a compassionate public servant who dedicated his life to this country. But I’ll also admit, I didn’t know much about his son.

I knew three things:
He was in the car accident that killed his mother and sister.
He struggled with addiction.
And there was something controversial about a laptop.

That was it.

So when I saw him appear on a podcast I’ve listened to for years, I was genuinely curious. After you read this, come back and listen here:

Hunter’s backstory

What I didn’t know was the depth of trauma he experienced at such a young age.

At just a child, he survived a car accident that killed his mother and sister, while his younger brother was critically injured. And before the age of 18, he experienced another devastating loss: his best friend died in a drunk driving accident.

Two life-altering traumas before adulthood.

He spoke candidly about how that second accident should have pushed him away from alcohol—but instead, like so many people coping with unresolved pain, he moved toward it.

And yet, at the same time, he built an outwardly successful life. Georgetown. Yale Law. A career as an attorney. Marriage and children in his early twenties. Leadership roles, board positions, business ventures.

I knew none of this. Not the accomplishments. Not the depth of the pain. Listening, I kept thinking: I don’t know how anyone carries that much and still functions—let alone succeeds—at that level.

But what stood out most wasn’t just the trauma or the success.

It was the family.

He spoke about his father as “the best dad in the world and an even better grandpa,” joking that it almost annoys him. And beyond his father, it was the collective support (grandparents, aunts, uncles) who helped raise him and his brother.

They didn’t suppress the loss. They kept the memory of his mother and sister alive.
They showed up with unwavering love. All while his father was serving as a young U.S. Senator. That kind of foundation matters.

Later in life, Hunter lost his brother Beau, his best friend, to cancer. And that loss sent him into a deep spiral of addiction. Only this time, it wasn’t private. It became public, loud, and relentless.

He shared that at one point, there was an article written about him every single day for nearly two years. Then it slowed to every other day. I nearly choked at the amount of media churn his name was getting.

Regardless of where you land politically, that level of scrutiny would break most people. Most of us struggle to handle a single negative comment online.

He doesn’t shy away from what he did during that time. He speaks openly about the damage to himself, to his family, to his life. There’s no deflection. Just accountability.

He talks about addiction to alcohol, crack, cocaine. The cycles of relapse. The repeated attempts at recovery. And yes, he addresses the controversies. The laptop. The legal issues. He shares his perspective without defensiveness, just matter-of-fact ownership of his story.

Today, he is seven years “clean and sober”.

He’s remarried, named his son Beau after his brother, and speaks with deep protectiveness and gratitude for the family who never left him—even when the rest of the world seemed to turn against him.

My takeaway

Dax Shepard, the host, has always been open about his own struggles with addiction and recovery. He approaches conversations with empathy, curiosity, and a willingness to go deep.

This felt like the perfect pairing.

At the end of the interview, Dax asked him: “Do you find any grace for the people who wronged you?”

Hunter responded:
“Of course I do. Without all of that, I wouldn’t be the grateful man I am today. You have to go through the suffering.”

That answer stayed with me.

Because it speaks to something deeper than politics, reputation, or public narrative.

It speaks to acceptance.

To doing the work and owning your past without letting it define your future.
To finding meaning even in the hot mess.

What I saw wasn’t a headline.

It was a man in the middle of a very human redemption arc—still imperfect, still evolving, but grounded in self-awareness and growth.

I walked away learning more about Hunter Biden the person not just the public figure.

And more broadly, I was reminded of how easy it is to reduce people to soundbites… and how much we miss when we do.

I hope he continues on this path to inner peace and harmony.

And I hope more of us are willing to look a little deeper before we decide someone’s entire story.

It’s magic.

That happened to me the other day. And I haven’t stopped listening since.

“Mumford & Sons’” new single, Here.

The chorus goes:

Well, here’s my pride, and here’s my shame
Here’s a trophy that bears my name
Here’s all the mistakes I made
For too long
Here’s the answers I never gave
Here’s the calls I should’ve made
Here’s a substance that I crave
All along

Their voices are beautifully powerful—almost ominous at times—layered with this deep, aching passion. But it’s the words that really got me. They didn’t just land… they settled.

There’s something about hearing a song over and over again that slowly reveals what it’s trying to say to you.

Sometimes a song becomes a breakup.
You’re back in the car, in the rain, saying things you can’t take back.
Or reliving that deep betrayal from years ago that once felt like it might break you.

Other times, it’s the opposite.
It’s the beginning. The spark. The almost.
The “does he or doesn’t he” stories we tell ourselves.
The electricity of something just starting.

Those moments—the lead-up, the anticipation—were always my favorite.

Music has this way of time-traveling you right back into those exact feelings.

It’s wild.

But Here hit me differently.

It met me in a more honest place.

This idea of laying it all down—your pride, your shame, your past—and simply saying, “here.” Here is all of me. It’s one of the hardest and bravest things we can do in a relationship. And when that kind of honesty is met, held, and returned…
you have something rare.

I told my husband yesterday, “This song reminds me of us. We both brought everything—the shame, the brokenness—right to the surface.”

He smiled and said, “Add it to the playlist.”

(We’ve kept a shared Spotify playlist throughout our relationship—songs that remind us of each other. Some silly, some sacred.)

You see, we had both been married before.

He came from a relationship full of extremes—high highs, low lows—wrapped in a deep, consuming love.

I came from something very different. There were low lows I carried mostly on my own (infertility is its own ugly heartbreak), but very little conflict… and not much passion either. He was a good man. Kind. Steady. But I never felt fully connected. Never fully seen. I wanted depth. I wanted something that felt like it meant something.

So this relationship, we did it differently.

We said: here.

Here are all the cards. The messy ones. The painful ones.

Here is my anxiety. Please don’t dismiss it. Help me through it.
Here are the mistakes I’ve made and don’t want to repeat.
Here are my hopes, my ambitions, the things I want to build for myself.

Here is the spiritual path I’m on—walk yours, I’ll walk mine, and we’ll meet in the middle.

Here is who I am today… and who I might become ten years from now.

Here are the things I’m proud of. The things I’m still working through. The parts of me I’m still learning how to love.

Here.

All of it.

And somehow, in offering that to each other, we created the healthiest relationship I’ve ever known.

So yeah, this song hit me.

In all the ways that matter.

Thank you, Mumford, for this gift.
For the reminder.
For the reflection.

And for all the songs that find us exactly when we need them—
and reveal something we didn’t even know we were ready to see.

The only things we had truly “planned” were a beach day with some of our closest friends and a stop by our club’s BBQ pool party. It already sounded lovely. Simple. Stress-free.

What I didn’t expect was the text on Friday:

“Hey… I broke up with my partner of four years. Want to come over for a glass of wine while the kids play with our new tortoise?”

And when you get a text like that… you go. You make it happen.

We ended up sitting in her courtyard, decompressing together—talking through the heaviness of life, but also the unexpected beauty that can come from it. A cool breeze moved through the air, a vibrant pink rose garden surrounding us, while the kids played walkie-talkie tag throughout the house—giving us just enough space to exhale.

And before we knew it, hours had passed.

Saturday, we kept it simple. As a family, we headed to the pool to soak in the perfect 70-degree Southern California weather. We’re incredibly lucky to have a place nearby where we can just… go. No planning. No pressure.

This time, though, something unexpected happened. A family from my son’s kindergarten class spotted us and invited us to sit with them. So we did.

And somewhere between small talk and shared stories, it turned into something more. That familiar, surprising realization: How did we exist without really knowing each other before this? New friendships—formed in the sun, in real time. And again, the hours slipped by.

Sunday was the one day we had actually scheduled. We met up with our closest friends… the kind that become family when your real family isn’t nearby. The kind you make an effort for, because those relationships matter deeply.

We drove 40 minutes to meet them at a new beach in Newport. What was supposed to be a half-day turned into twelve hours. The kids were completely immersed: sand, calm water, and a random blue whale play structure that somehow provided endless entertainment.

And for the adults? It was a full day of sunshine, ocean breeze, laughter, storytelling, and those deeper conversations that only seem to happen when time slows down. The hours flew by. And so did the sun.

Monday—Memorial Day—brought us back to the pool.

This time, with those new friends again. A DJ, BBQ, swimming, more stories. More connection. More of that feeling of this is what it’s all about. And once again… the hours disappeared.

The entire weekend unfolded like this:

Unplanned.
Unstructured.
Effortless.

A mix of happenstance and intention.
Of showing up when it mattered.
Of being outside, together, without distraction.

No technology. No urgency. No need to document every moment.

Just people.
Sunshine.
Conversation.
Community.

And it made me realize something: Maybe this is what we’re craving more than anything right now. Not more plans. Not more productivity. Just more presence.

More time outside.
More time with our people.
More space for connection—both old and new.

Because when we make room for that…

The hours don’t just pass.

They expand.

My last breakout session focused on the SNAP program and its impact on the Kansas City community.

For context:

“The Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP), formerly known as food stamps, is a federal program that provides monthly funds to help low-income individuals and families buy groceries. Benefits are distributed via an EBT card and are accepted at most grocery stores and many farmers markets.” -cpp.org

Before I dive deeper into that session, I want to share a quick story.

In early 2020, right before the pandemic, my husband and I traveled to Mumbai, India for a wedding. It was my first time there, and I was completely unprepared for the sheer scale of humanity. The airport alone felt like the most crowded day at Disneyland…wall-to-wall people, constant motion, overwhelming energy.

But what stayed with me most wasn’t the airport.

It was the drive.

We got into a taxi and drove for miles through sprawling slums: homes stacked tightly together, open to the elements, visible to anyone passing by. And then, almost abruptly, the landscape shifted. High-rise luxury hotels. The Four Seasons. Multi-million dollar homes. There was a very clear line between poverty and wealth…and we drove right through it. It didn’t sit right in my body. Or my soul.

And yet, during our time there, we experienced something else just as powerful: joy.

Cricket was everywhere. Parks filled with games, people gathered, energy alive. It was clear that this wasn’t just entertainment. It was connection. It was community.

On our way back to the airport, driving again through those same neighborhoods, I noticed something I hadn’t before: Satellite dishes. Dozens, maybe hundreds, mounted on homes that otherwise lacked so much. And I caught myself having the thought so many of us are conditioned to have: Why would they spend money on TV instead of something more “essential”?

And then it hit me. Cricket brings them joy.

Who am I to judge how someone chooses joy—especially in a life that may already hold so much hardship?

That moment came rushing back to me during the SNAP session. Because the same instinct to judge exists here, too.

SNAP has been around in some form since the late 1930s and was permanently established in 1964. It exists to help people meet one of the most basic human needs: food. And yet, it has become deeply politicized.

There’s a narrative that programs like SNAP are a drain on society. That people should simply “work harder” or “pull themselves up by their bootstraps.”

But sitting in that room, listening to experts on the ground doing this work every day, I realized how little that narrative reflects reality.

The barriers alone are staggering. To apply for this program, individuals must complete a lengthy, often complex application—something like 20+ pages—assuming they have internet access, literacy skills, and the ability to gather required documentation. Imagine an elderly widow trying to navigate that system alone.

And then there’s the judgment. The quiet (or not-so-quiet) commentary: “They shouldn’t be buying cake with an EBT card.” But one panelist reframed it in a way I won’t forget: What if that cake is for a five-year-old’s birthday? What if it’s the one small moment of joy a parent can give their child during an incredibly hard time? Would you judge it then?

The panelists were some of the most compassionate, intelligent, and driven people I’ve listened to.

A woman running a Jewish community pantry (serving mostly non-Jewish families) shared how they go beyond SNAP to provide essentials like cleaning supplies and feminine products. Things that preserve dignity.

Another speaker created a program connecting local farms with schools and organizations—bringing fresh food to people who need it while supporting farmers. A true win-win. Each of them spoke with URGENCY. Because the reality is this: cuts to programs like SNAP don’t just tighten budgets, they cost lives.

I sat there holding back tears.

Because even for those of us who are fortunate enough to “get by,” the cost of living feels heavier than ever. So what happens to those who are already on the edge?

This is where “we” comes in.

This is what this entire series has been about. Not grand gestures. Not abstract ideas. But the small shift from judgment to empathy. From “Why would they?” to “What might they be going through?”

If my taxes increase to support programs like SNAP, I now understand and empathize with why that matters. Because this isn’t about handouts. It’s about humanity.

That image of satellite dishes in Mumbai stayed with me. And now, so does the image of a parent buying a birthday cake with an EBT card. Both are the same, really. People doing the best they can… to hold onto a little bit of joy.

And maybe that’s not something we’re meant to judge.

Maybe it’s something we need to speak up for rather than against. It’s something we’re meant to protect.

Neither of us grew up camping, per se. The closest thing I had was a once-a-year church lawn “campout” where we slept in a tent and went home the next morning.

But this was different.

Our first trip was in Big Sur with my side of the family and a group of friends (about 15 people, kids included). There were creeks running through camp, hikes that opened up to sweeping ocean views, and that crisp, grounding kind of air you only get when you’re far away from everything else. It was new for all of us. And still…they said yes. And I’m so glad they did.

Because I’ll never forget sitting around the campfire, watching my little brother get to know this new man in my life. At one point, he leaned over and said, “I really like him.”

An approval I didn’t even realize I needed, but one I’ll carry with me forever. And I think a campfire chat had a lot to do with it.

What Camping Does

Camping strips everything back.

No routines, conveniences, or distractions. It puts you fully in the moment, whether you like it or not. You get the beauty and the discomfort. The “I didn’t sleep at all last night” alongside “did you see those stars?”

It creates space for real conversations, shared experiences, and the kind of connection that doesn’t happen when everyone’s scattered in their own busy lives.

You go through the highs and lows, but you do it together.

Seven Years Later

This July marks our 7th annual trip (minus the two COVID years).

And now? Our kids count down the days.

They know what’s coming:
Being dirty 100% of the time
S’mores by the fire
Staying up way past bedtime
Laughing and dancing with cousins and friends for hours

It’s become one of the best weekends of the year, not just for us, but for everyone who comes. And what started as a small group has turned into something much bigger.

Both sides of our family now show up, flying in from Kansas, driving down from Northern California. Friends have become part of the tradition. Some years we even throw in a “wildcard” invite just to keep things interesting.

We’re now a crew of 40+. And somehow… it works.

How We Actually Pull This Off (Without Losing Our Minds)

If you’re thinking, this sounds amazing but also chaotic, you’re not wrong.

But a little structure goes a long way:

1. Start with a shared spreadsheet
Include camp site numbers, a map, and who’s staying where. It saves a lot of confusion.

2. Divide and conquer meals
Each family signs up for one meal: either breakfast or dinner. You handle everything for that meal (food, setup, cleanup)… and then you’re off-duty the rest of the time.

This also means meals tend to be bigger, so lunch becomes more of a snack situation.

3. Create a shared supply list
Coordinate things like grills, coffee setups, cooking gear, etc. So you don’t end up with 10 of everything.

(Although… let’s be honest, someone will still bring the whole kitchen sink.)

4. Build a central “camp kitchen”
This becomes the heart of the campsite: the place people gather, talk, cook, and connect instead of retreating to their own corners.

5. Bring the vibe-makers
For us, that’s a guitar (thanks to my dad and brother), campfire songs, and a portable movie screen for the kids at night.

6. Choose a location with a natural gathering spot
Ocean, lake, river—something that becomes the default daytime hangout.

People can still do their own thing, but having a shared destination keeps everyone connected.

7. Be flexible about how people “camp”
Tents, camper vans, trailers, nearby hotels—no judgment.

Happy, well-rested people = better energy for everyone.

8. Think through your sleeping setup
We do a queen air mattress with a memory foam topper (highly recommend), plus stackable cots for the kids to maximize space.

The Real Reason We Keep Doing It

Yes, it’s fun. Yes, it’s a little chaotic. Yes, it’s a lot of work.

But it’s also something else. It’s a return to togetherness.

To shared time, simplicity, and to being fully present with the people you love.

And in a world that constantly pulls us into our own individual bubbles…

This feels like a small but meaningful way back to “we.”

After the keynote at the C3KC Conference in Kansas City, I walked into my first breakout session.

I chose one titled: “Back to the Basics: The Literacy Imperative – Federal, State, and Local Leaders in Conversation.”

If I’m being honest, I picked it because I wanted to hear directly from leaders at different levels of government. What I didn’t expect… was how personal it would feel. As a mother of a kindergartener, I felt it immediately.

These passionate, thoughtful women spoke about a growing issue in our country: the decline of literacy. More and more children are falling behind in reading and not just slightly. Significantly.

And then they said something that felt both obvious and deeply overlooked:

Many adults struggle with reading, too.

And if parents are struggling… what does that mean for their children?

One guideline they shared stuck with me:
For children under five, reading at least 15 minutes a day—ideally more—can make a meaningful difference.

My son was born in June of 2020—the height of COVID. He was what many call a “COVID baby.” His first year of life looked nothing like what we imagined. No playdates. No birthday parties. No wandering through stores or casual social interactions. His world was small: just us, a masked part-time nanny, and a swim instructor once things began to open.

So… we read. A lot. Books became our rhythm, structure, and entertainment.

We spent hours at home, reading aloud to him—often with Survivor playing quietly in the background of our quarantined life. We used silly voices, rotated through all kinds of books, and followed whatever sparked his interest.

There was no pressure. No agenda. Just… reading.

By 2.5, he was recognizing words.

By 3, he was reading full sentences.

At the time, as first-time parents, we didn’t fully grasp how uncommon that was. But now, volunteering in his kindergarten classroom, I see it more clearly. We get asked all the time: “What did you do?” And the honest answer is simple: We read.

Not in a rigid, instructional way. Not with flashcards or forced repetition. We just made reading part of our everyday life. He gravitated toward science books—weather, space, anything about how the world works—and we leaned into that curiosity.

Is that the reason his literacy is where it is today?

I can’t say that with absolute certainty.

But after sitting in that panel, hearing the data, the concerns, and the urgency… my mind went straight back to those long days at home.

The consistency.
The attention.
The volume of words he absorbed—sometimes intentionally, sometimes simply because we had nowhere else to be.

And it made me think:

Maybe this is one small, tangible way we begin to shift back toward “we.”

Not through massive, sweeping change.

But through consistent acts of presence.

Reading to a child.
Sitting together.
Sharing words, stories, ideas.

It’s simple.
But it matters.

We filled our days with Easter egg hunts, a Royals game, pizza nights outside (because the weather finally allowed it), a science museum for the kids, and that kind of deep, exhale-level togetherness you don’t realize you’ve been craving.

But one unexpected highlight stood out.

My mother-in-law invited me to join her at a Kansas City Junior League event called C3KC: “a collaborative conference that brings together civic, corporate, and nonprofit communities to spark change for a better Kansas City”.

She’s a former President of the organization, so walking in with her felt like entering a room where she knew everyone. Meanwhile, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect—other than her telling me, “You’re really going to like the keynote speaker.”

“Like” was an understatement.

delivered something between a masterclass, a history lesson, and a major wake-up call.

She spoke about the natural rhythm of society—how we move through cycles of division and unity, individualism and collective care. I’ve always felt that to be true, but I had never seen the data so clearly laid out. She opened by describing a time of political division, economic instability, social tension, and cultural unrest. It sounded exactly like today. But she was talking about the mid-1800s. That moment landed hard. History doesn’t just repeat…it echoes.

She walked us through the Progressive Era of the early 20th century, when people came together to create meaningful change after a period of intense individualism. Labor unions, Black associations, women’s clubs—movements built not by individuals alone, but through collective action.

Her words stuck with me:
change came through the “immense collaboration of countless Americans living in a time of loneliness.”

She showed a simple but powerful visual (see below) —a bell curve mapping the past 150 years across four categories: political, social, economic, and cultural. At its peak? The 60s and 70s. A time when “we” outweighed “I.”

Peace, love, and community. The hippies were on to something!

And then…the downswing.

The return to “every person for themselves.”

It was confronting, not because it was new information, but because it confirmed something I think many of us already feel.

We don’t know our neighbors the way we used to. (Although side note for restoring your faith in humanity and neighborly love — read my piece on my 90' year old neighbors we call the “puzzle people” and then hurry right back here!)
We judge quickly—especially across political lines (I’m guilty of this, too).
We don’t linger in conversation or prioritize connection like we once did.
We’ve drifted back into individualism by way of technology.

But here’s the part that stayed with me most: The upswing always comes back.

History shows us that when things feel most fractured, the collective “we” begins to rise again. And maybe it’s just me…but I think we’re starting to see it.

In the protests.
In people standing up for their neighbors.
In the shared awe of moments like watching Artemis II circle the moon.
In the conversations happening across podcasts, posts, and uplifting corners of the internet—people searching for meaning, connection, something bigger than themselves.

Hope is finding its way back through the cracks.

And it doesn’t start with some massive, sweeping movement.

It starts small.

A smile to a stranger.
A conversation with a neighbor.
Holding the door.
Giving your time or your resources.
Being a safe place for someone else.

The “we” begins with each of us choosing it.

And maybe—just maybe—
the upswing isn’t coming.

Maybe it’s already here.

*Stay tuned for Part 2 and Part 3 about the two breakout sessions I attended for more inspirational wakeup calls.*

The launch of Artemis II on April 1, 2026, caught me by surprise.

The news cycle has been so consumed with chaos—so fixated on the next loud, urgent headline—that this extraordinary moment barely made it onto my radar until the day before. By chance, my family and I were home an hour before the launch. So I grabbed my kids, turned on the live broadcast, and we watched together.

I wasn’t alive for the original moon landing, so this was my first experience watching something like this in real time. Counting down with my son, watching the rocket lift and disappear into the sky…it felt electric. Simple. Shared. Joy.

What I didn’t expect… was how much it would stay with me. I found myself following the entire 10-day journey. Learning about the astronauts. Listening to their reflections.
Watching their joy unfold in real time.

There was history in this mission: the first woman and the first Black man to orbit the moon. And yet, what stood out most wasn’t their milestones. It was their humility. Their focus wasn’t on themselves. It was on the experience. The beauty. The privilege of being part of something bigger. It felt like a humble kind of leadership we don’t see enough of these days.

And then there was Carrol. A moment of “moon joy”.

A bright spot on the moon that the crew chose to name after the late wife of astronaut Reid Wiseman. He gave her a piece of the moon. Both literally and figuratively. It stopped me. In a world that often feels loud, harsh, and transactional… this was something soft. Something deeply human. It felt like love, stretched across space.

My family and I ended the 10-day journey at the beach here in Southern California. Artemis II was scheduled to make its splash landing in the Pacific, and there was a chance we might hear the sonic boom. So we went. We sat on our beach blankets in the grass, staring out at the ocean, listening to the live broadcast, waiting. We didn’t hear it. But somehow, it didn’t matter.

I looked around at the kids playing soccer, a couple celebrating their engagement with their family, and the fact that none of us were just floating around thanks to gravity. Thinking about how wonderful it is to be alive on this incredible planet.

For a moment, we were connected—to them, to the mission, to something just beyond what we could see.

Those 10 days felt like something we didn’t even realize we needed: A reset. A reminder of the best of humanity. Not just intelligence and innovation, but humility, teamwork, and wonder. It showed us what leadership can look like. Reminded us how fragile this planet really is. Gave us a pause from the noise, the division, the heaviness.

It gave us something simple…hope.

So thank you, Artemis II. For the joy, the perspective, and reminding us who we can be again.

And thank you to the moon— for lighting our darkest nights,
for patiently protecting us, for being a constant in a world that rarely feels that way.

May we never take it for granted.

Or maybe it goes a little deeper.

You talk about the boss who keeps canceling your 1:1s, and how it makes you feel overlooked. And without even realizing it, you connect it back to your dad missing your baseball games—not out of cruelty, but disinterest. And just like that, you’re no longer talking about work. You’re talking about where it all began.

Childhood has a way of finding its way into adult conversations, whether we mean for it to or not.

And I’ve noticed, as a millennial, we tend to talk about it more openly than generations before us.

Sure, we laugh about the nostalgia: Nintendo games. Burning CDs for friends that they’d put in their binder collection. Life before iPhones.

But we also go tend to go deeper.

We talk about whether our parents expressed emotion. Whether we felt seen. What love looked like in our homes. Because, in many ways, we’re still trying to understand it. We’re still asking: What did that make of me?

One of the first things that stood out to me about my husband (back when we were just coworkers) was how openly he talked about growing up. He shared stories about how much he partied in high school. How it got to a point where his parents sent him to a wilderness camp, then boarding school. He didn’t tell the story with shame. He told it with clarity. Because over time, he had worked through it. What once felt like punishment, he now understands as love—his parents doing the best they could to guide him back.

That experience didn’t define him. But it shaped him. It gave him tools. Perspective and depth.

And now, he talks just as openly about the good: his wonderful relationship with his sister, the humor in those years, the closeness he has with his parents today. It all exists beautifully together.

My story looks different. I never had a rebellious phase. I was (and still am) a rule follower. I didn’t want to disappoint my parents. I grew up in a house that didn’t feel rigid or overly structured. There weren’t strict rules or heavy discipline. There was space—freedom, even. Looking back, I think my parents trusted us to make our own choices… and to live with the consequences if needed.

It worked. 4 kids. No major trouble (some of us did throw parties) . All went to college and had careers. Found loving partners and started families of our own.

4 out of 4 ain’t bad. ;)

My childhood memories are simple, but they stay with me. Sitting next to my dad at Stanford basketball games—men’s and women’s—on random weekday nights while he kept stats for the Associated Press. Coming home from school with my little brother to find our mom there—sometimes with snacks ready, sometimes just a box of cereal and cartoons waiting for us. Someone was always home. At the time, it felt normal. Now, I see it for what it was: A gift of presence and safety.

Here’s the part that gets me now, as a parent:

• We don’t get to control what our kids will one day say about their childhood.

• We don’t get to decide what they remember or how they interpret it.

• Two kids can grow up in the same house… and carry completely different stories.

That’s a wild thing to sit with.

But what we can do is show up. As a mom to a 5 and 3 year old, my job isn’t to create a perfect childhood. It’s to create a present one. To make sure they feel loved. Fed and safe.

To offer guidance when they need it and a little tough love when they don’t want it. To create moments, big and small. And to trust that the ordinary ones… the boring, everyday ones… are adding up to something meaningful.

Because one day, they’ll be sitting at a happy hour table with colleagues, telling stories about where they came from. And I hope, more than anything, that when they do, they remember feeling loved. And also how cool it was that the swimming pool at their club had a waterpark that they got to use whenever they wanted.

Her divorce is finalized. The papers are signed. And for the first time in a long time… she can breathe. Was she celebrating the divorce? No. That part was hard. Messy. At times, soul-crushing. What she was celebrating was something else entirely:

Her growth.
Her strength.
The woman she’s becoming on the other side of it all.

I sat across from her at dinner and told her (at least five times): “I’m so proud of you.” And I meant it every single time. Because she stood firm in one of the hardest decisions a person can make.

She chose a healthier path forward. Stood in conviction. Stood in her power. She chose the version of herself she knew she deserved to become.

As I sat there, I couldn’t help but reflect on my own experience. I’m a divorcee too. But I never had a moment like this. My “celebration” was more isolated. More internal. It looked like, a solo trip to Europe, finding a small rental on Pacific Coast Highway in Laguna Beach, and sitting alone at the ocean, watching the sun go down.

And that’s what I needed. Because healing doesn’t look the same for everyone. But watching her—watching this—shifted something in me. Because around that table sat five women. Four of us had walked through divorce. Four women who had lived different lives… and yet carried the same threads of heartbreak, resilience, and rebuilding.

There was grief at that table. But there was also power.

At one point, I asked her what she wanted the next five years to look like.

She smiled and said:

“Focusing on my health and my family… oh, and a sugar daddy wouldn’t hurt.”

And if you know Sarah, that answer was perfectly her: honest, grounded, and just self-aware enough to make us all laugh. That’s what I admire most about her. Her rawness.
Her willingness to say: “This was really hard… but I’m still choosing myself.”

And she didn’t do it alone. She let people in. She shared the messy parts.
The painful parts. The parts most of us try to hide.

And because of that, we showed up.

When I was going through my own divorce, I did the opposite. I held so much of it in; wrapped in shame, in guilt, in the need to keep it together.

But not Sarah. She opened the door and said, “Come in.” And we did. That’s why that table existed. Five women. Dressed in red. Strong. Honest. Fully themselves. Not celebrating the ending of a marriage, but honoring the courage it took to walk away from something that no longer fit… and step into something unknown.

I’m so proud of her.

And I’m deeply honored to have had a seat at that table, surrounded by women who are doing the hard, beautiful work of becoming the highest versions of themselves.

Today, instead of just writing random things that came to my head, I started with a prompt, “Letter from Love”. This is a prompt that was started by one of my favorite author’s Elizabeth Gilbert. I heard her speak about this yesterday on a podcast, and the beauty that transpired from it… ultimately inspired me… and hopefully YOU to try it for yourself.

Here is my unedited and unpolished “Letter from Love”:

Today will be full of love. It will be big and also quiet. It surrounds you everywhere you go.

It may not look like what you think it is, all the time.

But love went into making things around you. It grew the trees and made the birds. It’s not just between people. It’s in every partial.

We are created from love. We are love. Even those of us who think hate is the answer. Deep down, somewhere, is a speck of love. That’s why it can be hard to see sometimes, hard to hear, and hard to recognize.

But what if you walked through your life being aware of love actually be all around? The sun rising is love — love for this planet and everything on it — keeping us alive. It shows up every morning and does it’s job in love. The moon will have a same story — brightening a dark sky with love.

We come from love, are constantly wrapped in it — yet fail to see it as often as it shows up.

Love is in color — giving us joy in various shades.

Love really does consume us when we look at the world with this lens. It is big and vast and can also be quiet and small. It feels like connecting to source and to truly experiencing human life.

This is what we are here for: to notice love, to give love, to receive love and ultimately to be love. We are love. And love is everything.

*and yes, I write with a ton of em-dashes and ellipses— even by hand! And also, my handwriting is in all caps and big in nature. So it did take up 3 page of my little notepad. Fun facts to know about me.

Not in a detached, bystander way…but in a grounded, intentional one.
This is happening. Now who will I choose to be within it?

Because that’s the real question, isn’t it?

There’s a spiritual idea that our souls chose this exact moment to come to Earth. (And for me, this fundamental idea shifted my identity from religious to spiritual.. but anyway!). That somehow, way before we arrived, we understood the assignment. If you’re religious, maybe you’d say God chose this time for you. Different language, same meaning.

We are here, now, for a reason. Even if it feels chaotic. Even if it feels overwhelming. Even if we don’t fully understand it yet.

As a mother of two young kids, I’ve struggled with this more than anything.

There are days when the headlines feel unbearable…when the world seems too heavy and too far gone. I’ve caught myself wondering:

Was this the right time to bring children into the world?

That question comes from fear. From my ego (the part of me that wants to protect them from everything). But when I zoom out—even just a little—I remember something deeper:

They came anyway. They came on purpose.

For their own reasons and their own growth. For their own contribution to whatever this moment in history is becoming.

I saw an Instagram reel this morning that resonated with me and compelled me to write this piece: A man was being interviewed about this exact timeline. About fear and the future, and whether our children will be okay.

And he said, almost peacefully:

“This is quite the time to be alive.”

He went on to explain that while the world feels intense right now, humanity has lived through far darker, harsher times. That what we’re experiencing (while imperfect) is still, in many ways, closer to peace than what came before.

And then he said something that shifted me:

Earth isn’t meant to be heaven. But it isn’t meant to be hell either.

It’s meant to be both.

Because that’s how we grow.

That perspective didn’t erase the heaviness. But it softened it. It gave me just enough space to breathe again.

Because the truth is: this life is both.

It’s the weight of the world…
and the light filtering through your kitchen window.

It’s fear for your children…
and watching them laugh until they can’t breathe.

It’s chaos…
and also the miracle of noticing dust floating in sunlight.

Have you ever stopped to really look at that?

A tiny particle drifting, catching the light for just a second before disappearing?

So small. So insignificant. And yet… kind of magical. I experienced this yesterday while cleaning the bathroom. I had the wonder of a child as I watched them dance in the light.

Those moments (the ones we almost miss) are the ones that anchor us.

They remind us that even here, even now, there is beauty woven into the fabric of everything.

So maybe the work isn’t choosing between despair and detachment.

Maybe the work is learning how to hold both.

To stay aware… without becoming consumed.
To feel deeply… without losing ourselves.
To remain open… even when it would be easier to shut down.

If our souls did choose this moment, then this is the assignment:

Not to fix everything.
Not to have all the answers.

But to ask better questions:

How will the best version of me show up today?
How much kindness can I offer intentionally?
What does it look like for me to be of use in this world?
How do I live in alignment with something deeper than fear?

Because the real shift doesn’t start “out there.” It starts within us. In how we respond and how we love. In how we choose to move through a world that is both beautiful and broken.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s how things begin to change.

Not all at once and not perfectly.

But one person at a time, choosing to show up with a little more awareness…
a little more intention…a little more light.

What is your soul’s purpose? If you don’t know yet, now is the time to find out.

This quote keeps finding its way to me recently, and it’s been sitting with me.

The idea of having a village, a tribe, a community, whatever you want to call it, isn’t just a comforting concept. It’s crucial for our minds and spirits. We aren’t meant to carry life alone.

The last week and a half in my house felt like one of those moments where everything goes wrong all at once. Pink eye for my daughter. Fevers and coughs for my son. Our fish dying (the kids still don’t know yet). Two separate doctor visits and pharmacy runs. Daylight savings landing like a cruel cosmic joke. All of this while my husband was traveling for work. Woah is me, right?

Every day felt like a week. We’ve made it through the other side now, so the pity party has officially adjourned. But in the middle of the chaos, I did something small that made a big difference.

I texted my group chat.

Nothing dramatic. Just the same rundown of events I shared above. Not looking for sympathy…just looking to be seen for a moment, to know I wasn’t completely losing my mind. It’s surprisingly easy to keep that part of life hidden. To smile, manage it all, and push through alone. I’ve done that plenty of times. But here’s what I’m realizing: pushing through alone doesn’t make you part of the village. Letting people in does.

Your village wants to show up for you. And when their “everything all at once” moments arrive — because they will — you’ll show up for them.

That’s the deal.

Shortly after my message, one friend who lives nearby texted me privately.

“Need some coffee or lunch?”

My immediate thought was predictable: She’s so kind, but I don’t want to inconvenience her.

Just the offer alone made me feel loved.

But then I had a realization.

I had barely eaten a real meal in days. Every time I tried to sit down with something, one of the kids needed something. At one point I ate a yogurt bowl in four separate sittings.

So I answered honestly: “I would kill for a salad from Mendo.”

Her reply came back quickly: “Great. Send me your order. And oh — does Harper like Moana?”

Thirty minutes later, she and her wonderful wife were at my door with the salad I had been craving and two cozy blankets for the kids as “get well gifts.”

I laughed and told her I could have just Door Dashed something myself.

And she said something I’ll remember for a long time:

“But that doesn’t come with a hug.”

That was exactly the point.

Yes, the food was needed. But it was the hug. It was the ten minutes of conversation. It was someone stepping into the chaos for a moment and reminding me that I wasn’t alone in it.

The village will always show up for the easy moments: Happy hours. Beach walks.
Birthday parties.

But the real test of community is in the “my life is really hard right now” moments.

And in modern life, we’ve built systems designed to remove the need for each other.

Easy food deliveries.
Ride shares; so the once friend or family member job of dropping off/picking up for the airport is almost gone.
Same-day shipping instead of running into people in person at the store.

Maximum convenience.

We don’t need to ask anyone for help anymore. But maybe that’s part of the problem. Because the flip side is this: humans want to be of service to one another. That instinct is built into us. It’s connection.

Researchers studying the Blue Zones — the regions of the world where people live the longest, healthiest lives — often talk about diet and movement. But just as important is something else:

Community.

People who check in on each other.
People who share meals.
People who show up.

Sometimes showing up looks as simple as a salad and a hug.

In a world that feels increasingly divided by politics, outrage, and distance, maybe the most radical thing we can do is something very small: Be a villager.

Show up for your people, not just when life is easy…but especially when it’s messy, exhausting, and overwhelming. Those are the moments we remember. And those moments inspire us to do the same when someone else needs it.

Because the truth is simple:

It does take a village.

So be a villager too.

The other night my kids wanted a slumber party in the bonus room.

It wasn’t planned. It rarely is.
Just a sudden burst of energy after dinner. Blankets dragged down the hall. Pillows stacked three high. A negotiation over who is sleeping where.

Childhood in its natural habitat.

My daughter asked me to sing to her — like we do every night in her own room.

There is something about that request that still undoes me. She doesn’t ask for a show. She doesn’t ask for perfection. She just wants the ritual. The familiarity. The same song that has tucked her in hundreds of times before.

So I sang Rock-a-bye Baby.

Soft. Slower than usual.

By the second verse, my son had turned his back toward me. I assumed he was falling asleep. He’s at that age (5) where he wants to be both big and little at the same time. Too old to need the song. Too young to not.

Then I noticed his shoulders moving.

He was quietly crying.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just quiet tears slipping out while he faced the other direction.

I leaned over asked him what the tears were for.

He said,

“I don’t know why I’m crying. But the song reminds me of the old times… when you used to sing to me when I was little. I’d like to go back and live that over again. Maybe age two or three?”

Two or three.

He is still a child. And yet he is already nostalgic for being more of one.

I suggested to him that may be that feeling is called nostalgia. When a memory feels so good that it hurts a little. When your body remembers something safe and warm and you realize you can’t step back into it… only visit it.

And then I had this strange awareness:

He is old enough to feel time passing.

We talk so much about how fast childhood goes, mostly from the parent’s perspective. We warn new moms in grocery store lines. We sigh over baby photos. We tell ourselves to soak it up.

But we don’t often talk about the moment when a child realizes it, too.

The moment they understand that something has already slipped behind them.

I think we assume nostalgia belongs to adults. That it’s reserved for high school dances, burned CDs and passed notes, old houses, and former versions of ourselves.

But maybe nostalgia is just proof that we are awake.

Proof that we loved something fully enough to miss it.

There was something incredibly tender about watching my son grieve a version of himself that doesn’t exist anymore, while still very much being a child.

It made me think about how often we do this in midlife.

We miss the young mother we once were.
We miss the early years of dating and marriage.
We miss our 20-year-old bodies.
We miss the energy. The ignorance. The beginning.

And sometimes we want to go back and “live it over again.”

But here’s the truth I felt in that room tonight:

You can’t live it over. But you can live this one awake.

Childhood goes fast. Not just theirs. Ours too.

And maybe the goal isn’t to slow it down, because we can’t, but to notice it while we’re inside it.

To sing the song again.
To let the tears come.
To name the emotion.

To hold the ache without trying to fix it.

I tucked him in after that. Wiped his face. Kissed his forehead, the same forehead I used to kiss when he actually was two or three.

Only now he knows what he’s losing.

And somehow, that makes it even more sacred.

I sat in boardrooms dominated by men and learned quickly how to spot peacocking (the projections of low confidence dressed up as authority). But I also witnessed exceptional leadership: men who were vulnerable yet firm, steady yet commanding. The kind who didn’t need to dominate the room to own it.

Those were the men I valued.

In my 12-year career, I had 11 bosses — nine were men. I was fortunate. Most gave me a fair shot. They let me learn, grow, and ask hard questions. I’m deeply grateful for those men, and for my female bosses.

My female leaders were powerful in different ways.

One was poised, articulate, politically sharp — never argumentative, always effective. She ran a team better than almost anyone I’ve seen.

The other had a harder exterior, cussed often, and commanded a different kind of respect. Years later, I understand her better. Women often have to show up differently. As she once told me: “You’ve gotta use your elbows sometimes.” She was right.

They both expanded my understanding of how I could show up.

But leadership wasn’t always modeled well around me.

I was told to “stand down” because my questions were “too direct.”
I was mansplained by peers with more tenure.
I was told to stop using smiley faces in emails (by a man who used them in nearly every email).
I was told I didn’t deserve a promotion (by a man who interviewed for the same role I ultimately got).
I was told I didn’t deserve an enclosed office (by someone frustrated he didn’t have one). I got it anyway and then he didn’t speak to me for six months.

These moments weren’t catastrophic. But they were instructive.

From corporate to government to classrooms, one thing is clear: we must raise young men, and young women, to respect the people they share rooms with.

As a mother, my mission is simple.

I want to raise a son who is sincere and vulnerable, who can command respect without demanding it.

We’ve started the conversation already, in kindergarten:
“Are you being a good leader?”
“Will you be a kind leader today?”

And when my daughter starts school, we’ll ask her the same.

Parenting, to me, is about learning from the rooms that shaped us (especially the uncomfortable ones) and helping our children step into theirs with more awareness, more integrity, and more humanity.

It’s not about raising dominant leaders.

It’s about raising decent ones.