Anything about Everything

  I love that this season isn’t loud. There were years where everything felt temporary. For five years, I moved almost every year. New leases. New layouts. New “this will do for now.” And then 2021 happened. A storm. A tree through the house. Weeks of not knowing where I’d land next. The place we moved into after that was a gift. It was a fresh start. The first place that felt like rebuilding instead of surviving. But even that felt like a beginning. Where we are now? It feels different. And no — it’s not where we plan to stay forever. But it feels like home. Not because it’s perfect. Not because it’s permanent. But because I’m not living braced anymore. I’m not waiting for the next move. Not half-packed in my head. Not treating everything like it’s temporary. I love that my marriage feels steady inside these walls. That my friendships feel rooted. That an ordinary Tuesday here feels enough. After years of moving, rebuilding, adjusting — b...

Sometimes I think about the little girl in the bubblegum pink bedroom… The one with magazine cutouts lining the walls. The one choreographing entire concerts behind a closed door. The one who believed everything would make sense by twenty-five (HAHAHA 25.. yeah right). She had big feelings. Big dreams. And no idea what it would take to grow into them. She thought becoming was automatic. She didn’t know it would require loss. Humility. Letting go of versions of herself that once felt permanent. She didn’t know some seasons would strip her down to survival. That storms would come through her house and through her heart. That some friendships wouldn’t follow her into the next chapter. She didn’t know strength would look less like proving and more like rebuilding. Growing into the woman I am now didn’t happen all at once. It happened quietly. In therapy rooms. In hard conversations. In choosing peace over ego. In choosing consistency over chaos. In choosing aga...

  My childhood bedroom wasn’t anything extravagant. But it was mine. The walls changed colors once — to  one very committed season of bubblegum pink. Not soft blush. Not subtle pastel. Bubblegum. Pink. The furniture got rearranged depending on whatever phase I was in. And at one point — in what can only be described as a deeply committed life choice — I cut out every single photo of my favorite boy bands from magazines and created a full border around the top of my walls. Yes. A border.  All the way around. Commitment has never been my issue. What I didn’t consider was the future of said border. Specifically, the year my dad graciously offered to repaint my room while I was away at school — and had to peel down every carefully taped, teenage-delusion-fueled square inch of that masterpiece. I’m pretty sure I got a phone call. I’m also pretty sure I was informed, with colorful language, that the border had to go. Honestly? Fair. That room held e...