The First Pushback: Lessons from My Early Days in Leadership

As I’ve begun re-listening to The First 90 Days, I can’t help but laugh at myself. There’s something humbling about looking back on those early transitions into leadership—the moments that felt chaotic then but taught me the most about who I was (and wasn’t yet) as a leader.

Before I ever wore a stethoscope, I held a management title. Nothing major—just a small team, limited responsibility, and plenty of room for rookie mistakes. Fast forward a few years, and I was deep into my hospice career. I had worked my way up through the ranks and finally landed in a management role that felt both exciting and terrifying.

About a year in, everything changed.
The agency went through a drastic shift—mass turnover, new structure, and suddenly I was handed a slew of new responsibilities and direct reports. I was now not only managing a team but also filling gaps, covering cases, fielding on-calls, and doing whatever was needed to keep the wheels turning.

And right in the middle of all that—entered her.

The Nurse Who Taught Me More Than Any Leadership Book

She was an incredible nurse—skilled, respected, and loved by patients and staff alike. But she was also one of the most challenging people I had ever managed.

She was outspoken, opinionated, and often insubordinate. The kind of nurse who didn’t just push boundaries—she redefined them. To make things even more complex, she was an LPN in a world that required RNs to case manage, so her limitations within policy often clashed with her confidence in practice.

Our early interactions were… spirited, to say the least.
She had a habit of speaking her mind, and I had a habit of standing my ground. It was my first real test as a leader—to balance respect for her expertise with the accountability required for my role. I quickly realized that no one had ever told her “no.” People just went along because it was easier.

Until me.

When her annual review came around, I was tasked with giving honest feedback. It was tense, uncomfortable, and absolutely not well received. She was defensive, argumentative, and every other challenging adjective you could imagine. But I stood firm—and respectful.

And somehow, that moment changed everything.

The Turning Point

Months later, during yet another agency realignment, leadership reshuffled reporting structures. On paper, she was supposed to move to another manager. But then my boss walked into my office and said, “She’s requesting to stay under you.”

I was stunned.
I thought she despised me. But that wasn’t the truth.

She didn’t like me because I had challenged her. But she respected me because I did.
And that respect became the foundation of a working relationship I never expected to succeed.

What That Experience Taught Me About Leadership

Leadership isn’t about being liked.
It’s not about being right.
It’s about being real—and being consistent enough to earn trust even when you’re the last person someone wants to hear from.

You will lead people from all walks of life. Some you’ll instantly connect with. Others will take time. And a few will test every ounce of your patience. But in all those relationships lies an opportunity—to grow, to coach, to understand.

That nurse taught me that pushback isn’t always defiance. Sometimes it’s defense. Sometimes it’s a test to see if your words match your actions. And sometimes, it’s the very moment when respect begins to grow.

Final Thought

If I could go back and tell my younger self one thing, it would be this:
Don’t fear the tension.

Don’t avoid the uncomfortable conversations.
The people who challenge you the most may just be the ones who teach you what leadership truly is.

Because leadership isn’t about control—it’s about courage.
And sometimes, courage sounds a lot like quiet confidence in the middle of a loud conversation.

When Change Comes Full Circle

It’s no secret that I love audiobooks.

If you’ve followed me for a while, you already know my car has become less of a vehicle and more of a mobile classroom — or maybe a therapy session on wheels. I listen to multiple audiobooks a week on my commute. Typically, my mornings are filled with voices that challenge me to grow — personally, professionally, and emotionally. Self-help books, leadership insights, stories about resilience, or strategies for navigating the very situations I find myself knee-deep in at that moment.

Lately, though, my focus has shifted toward one simple yet complicated theme: embracing change.

Now, when I say “embracing change,” I know that’s a broad statement. Change has so many faces — loss, transition, reinvention, letting go, or even rediscovering who you are beneath all the versions of yourself you’ve had to be. And for me right now, I’m standing on the edge of something that feels like both grief and growth — a collision that’s both beautiful and devastating at the same time.

This morning, my audiobook of choice was : Learning to Let Go. And honestly, it felt like the universe placed that one in my queue for a reason.

What struck me most was how each chapter — deep, reflective, sometimes painfully honest — ended with a guided meditation. A pause. A moment to breathe and actually feel what had just been said before rushing on to the next thing. It reminded me how rarely I give myself permission to do the same.

And it brought me back to a memory.

A few months ago, I was sitting in my car after a particularly heavy day at work. The kind of day where emotions ran high, and leadership felt more like carrying the collective weight of everyone else’s pain on top of your own. I remember turning off the ignition, but not getting out of the car. I just sat there, staring at the steering wheel, feeling everything I’d been trying to suppress — grief, exhaustion, and maybe even a little guilt for not being able to “hold it all together.”

Out of habit, I opened my audiobook app, looking for something — anything — that could help me make sense of what I was feeling. The title that popped up was Letting Go Is Not Giving Up. I hit play.

The narrator’s voice said, “Sometimes, release is the most courageous act of strength.”

And for the first time that day, I exhaled.

Maybe that’s why these morning drives and meditations have become so important to me. They’re not just about learning; they’re about remembering. Remembering that even in seasons of uncertainty, there’s space for grace, for grounding, for gratitude.

And then, recently, I had a full-circle moment.

I was once again sitting in my car — but this time, I wasn’t weighed down. I was reflecting, planning, and realizing how far I’ve come. Lately, I’ve been conducting a lot of interviews, meeting nurses from all walks of life. Periodically, I pause between questions, taking in the stories being shared.

The first question I always ask a nurse without hospice experience is, “What brings you to hospice?”

The answers vary — work-life balance, a shift in focus, a search for meaning, a personal connection — but every once in a while, you get that one response that makes you stop and say, “This is a hospice nurse.”

Recently, I had one of those moments. The nurse sitting across from me began sharing her story — and suddenly, it felt like I was looking into a mirror of my younger self.

She told me she’d always wanted to be a hospice nurse but was discouraged right out of school. People told her she needed to “build her skills first,” to try something else before she could “handle” hospice. I smiled because I knew that script by heart.

I was her.

Fresh out of nursing school, everyone told me hospice wasn’t the place for new grads. I shadowed in the emergency room, labor and delivery, psych — trying to find that spark everyone said I should feel somewhere else. But then, one night on a quiet hospice floor changed everything.

The calm. The peace. The presence.
I knew right then and there that nothing could push me away from my passion.

Someone, thankfully, took a chance on me — believed in my heart and my why enough to open a door that’s rarely opened for new nurses. I had applied to be a case manager, but there happened to be an opening on the inpatient hospice unit — the ICU of hospice care. It was the perfect place to learn the true art of hospice nursing in a supportive setting, surrounded by mentors who cared about both skill and soul.

And as I sat there listening to this nurse share her own dream, I realized: I’ve come full circle.

I’m now in a position to be that person for someone else — to take a chance, to create the same kind of safe space that once shaped me.

Because leadership, at its core, isn’t about filling positions. It’s about building the future — especially in fields like hospice, where compassion and courage intertwine. It’s about recognizing the ones who are called to this work, even when they don’t fit the mold.

That’s where growth lives.
That’s where change becomes clarity.
And that’s where I’m reminded — once again — why I do what I do.

The Unfinished Work of Me

Every leader has a story that changed them.
Mine begins here —

in the pause, the grief, and the courage to start again.
🩶 The Practice of Being Real — a prelude to what’s coming

Authenticity gets talked about a lot — especially in leadership and personal growth circles.
But somewhere along the way, it became tangled up with being liked.

We hear “be authentic,” and what we often translate it to is:
be relatable, be accepted, be understood.

But that’s not what authenticity really is.

Authenticity isn’t about how you’re seen.
It’s about how you live.
It’s not the performance of honesty — it’s the practice of alignment.
It’s the quiet, often trembling choice to show up as yourself, even when it’s uncomfortable, inconvenient, or misunderstood.

It’s choosing your heart over someone else’s eyes.

The truth is, living authentically isn’t pretty.
It’s raw, uncertain, emotional — especially when you’re committed to showing up as the real you, not the version that makes people comfortable.

When I began building Leaders on Edge, I didn’t realize how much of me it would ask for.
It’s not just a brand or a framework — it’s a mirror.
Every story I write, every lesson I unpack, reflects a piece of my own evolution.
And sometimes, those reflections sting.

Because the truth is, I’m still learning how to hold the complicated parts of my own story.
The seasons that changed me for the better — but also left behind a kind of grief I’m still learning to name.
Growth doesn’t always come with clean edges. Sometimes it comes wrapped in loss, confusion, and gratitude all at once.

That’s a story I’ll tell soon — the one that shaped Leaders on Edge more than any other.

There are still parts of me I’m learning to face — weaknesses I recognize but haven’t fully made peace with.
Failures that shaped me but still ache when I touch them.
Flaws I’ve carried for years — some I’ve learned to share openly, others still too tender to name.

That’s the thing about authenticity: it’s not a destination.
It’s a continual return to who you really are — even when parts of that person still scare you.

When I write, I often pause — not because I’ve run out of words, but because the words have landed somewhere deeper than intellect.
Somewhere I haven’t fully healed.

Those are the moments I stop. Breathe.
And let the silence do its work.

Sometimes that silence lasts minutes. Sometimes days.
It’s the kind of pause that feels like standing in front of a mirror you’re not ready to look into yet.

Because writing — the kind that comes from the soul — isn’t just reflection. It’s excavation.
It asks me to unearth the pieces I’ve tucked away: the grief I thought I’d processed, the insecurities I thought I’d outgrown, the leadership moments that still sting when replayed.

Those pauses aren’t empty — they’re sacred.
They’re where I sit with my flaws, not to fix them, but to understand them.
Where I grieve the versions of myself that existed before I knew better.
Where I sift through guilt, regret, and growth — and remind myself that awareness itself is healing.

It’s slow work.
And it’s holy work.

Sometimes I step away from the keyboard feeling cracked open — unsure whether to keep writing or retreat.
But over time, I’ve realized that this is where Leaders on Edge truly lives:
in the space between what I’ve healed and what I’m still learning to.

Because leadership, like life, isn’t about mastering every emotion.
It’s about standing in the middle of them — the grief, the doubt, the tenderness — and still choosing honesty.

That pause isn’t weakness.
It’s strength — quiet, sacred strength — the kind that lets me return to the page again and again, a little more open, a little more real, a little closer to the woman and leader I’m still becoming.

Because that pause is authenticity — knowing when to stop performing strength and instead feel the truth of your own edges.

Leaders on Edge was born from that place — the edge where vulnerability meets growth, where courage meets discomfort, where leadership isn’t about being the strongest in the room, but the most honest.

I’ve worked hard to own my flaws — not just acknowledge them privately, but live with them openly.
Some I still guard. Others I share freely — in my work, in my relationships, in those conversations that start out light and end up soul-deep.

Because if my imperfections help someone else stop, reflect, and grow — then they’ve served their purpose.

Authenticity isn’t about proving you’re real.
It’s about living in a way that is real — even when that means showing the cracks instead of covering them.

The kind of leadership, writing, and connection I strive for isn’t polished.
It’s human.

And if that means being misunderstood sometimes — so be it.
Because I’d rather live raw, imperfect, and real
than spend one more moment being someone else’s version of who I should be.

Coming soon:
There’s a story behind these words — one I’ve avoided, one that changed everything.
It’s a story of love and loss, of purpose and betrayal, of the quiet unraveling that comes when your values no longer fit the walls you’re standing in.
It’s a story of the edge — the moment I broke, and the moment I began to rebuild.
And when it’s time, I’ll tell it.
Because healing deserves to be witnessed.

Clinically Speaking, I’m Fine

It was 1 a.m. on Saturday night, and my brain refused to shut off.
So there I was — curled up on the couch, watching Sex and the City reruns like it was 2004 again.

Back in high school, that show was everything. The city, the shoes, the friendships — it all looked so bold and effortless. I used to think that’s what being an adult must feel like — having it all figured out, sipping cosmos while the rest of the world spun.

But sitting there years later, I saw it differently. The glamour I once admired now looked like exhaustion in heels. The witty banter sounded a lot like overcompensation. What once seemed like freedom now looked more like everyone pretending they were fine.

The story hadn’t changed. I had.
Funny how that works — you can watch the same thing, live through the same moment, and walk away with a completely different truth depending on where you are in life.

Not long ago, that same theme showed up in a one-on-one with a clinician.
She sat across from me, coffee in hand, smiling just enough to look okay.

“How are you holding up?” I asked.

“I’m fine.”

If you’ve spent enough time in healthcare, you know that I’m fine is rarely fine.
It’s polite. It’s practiced. It’s protective.

Something in her tone made me pause — the kind of pause you learn from years of reading people when words don’t tell the whole story.

So I asked again, a little softer this time:

“Are you really fine?”

That’s when the truth came out — quietly, not dramatically. The exhaustion. The endless admissions. The invisible weight of trying to be everything to everyone.

And in that moment, I saw myself.

Because if I’m being honest — I am that “I’m fine” person, too.

For most of my life, “I’m fine” was my default setting. My armor.
It was the safe response when I didn’t have the space or strength to unpack what I was really feeling. It let me look composed, dependable, and unshakable — all the things I thought a strong leader was supposed to be.

But here’s what I’ve learned:
Strength isn’t always about holding it together.

Sometimes, it’s about having the courage to admit that you can’t.

“I’m fine” might keep you functioning, but it doesn’t get you far when your world feels like it’s coming apart. It doesn’t invite support, and it doesn’t build connection. Sometimes things just… suck. And it’s okay to say that out loud.

Because pretending you’re fine doesn’t make the hard things any easier — it just makes you lonely while you face them.

In healthcare, we speak in tones and subtleties. You start to recognize the language of quiet fatigue, the weight behind a soft “it’s okay.” You learn to listen beyond words — both to your team and to yourself.

Perception plays a powerful role here. We’re conditioned to see calm as strong and emotion as weak, but that’s backwards. True strength lives in honesty — in the ability to drop the mask long enough to let someone in.

So maybe the lesson is the same one Sex and the City was quietly teaching all along: what looks “together” from a distance is often just someone doing their best to hold it together. The glamour fades, but the humanity underneath — that’s what’s real.

And honestly? That’s where the beauty is.

So the next time you hear “I’m fine” — whether it’s from a coworker, a loved one, or your own reflection — pause. Ask again. Look closer.

Because sometimes, the quietest words carry the loudest truth.

And sometimes, “I’m not fine” is where the real healing begins.

Accountability Doesn’t Have to Hurt

Here’s a word that tends to make people uncomfortable: accountability.

For many, it immediately brings up images of tough conversations, discipline, or someone being “called out.” We hear it and brace ourselves for the sting — the correction, the criticism, the discomfort that usually follows. But lately, I’ve been thinking… what if accountability didn’t have to feel like punishment? What if it could feel like support? What if it could actually feel like growth?

Over the years, I’ve learned that holding someone accountable isn’t about holding them down. It’s about holding them up. It’s the quiet reminder that says, “I know you’re capable of more, and I’m not going to let you forget that.”

That’s not criticism. That’s care.

When we shift our perspective from discipline to development, accountability changes shape. It becomes a conversation, not a confrontation. It’s less about pointing fingers and more about asking questions — the kind that open doors instead of closing them.

I’ve always tried to lead with authenticity — to be real, raw, and hopefully relatable. And through that lens, I’ve come to see that accountability doesn’t have to look like blame or punishment. It can look like curiosity, compassion, and connection.

Leadership is full of moments where accountability comes into play — for our own actions, our team’s outcomes, and the standards we represent. But as the workplace evolves, so does what accountability looks like. It’s no longer just about enforcing rules; it’s about creating a space where people feel safe enough to own their growth.

You never really know what someone else is walking through. Sometimes, what looks like disengagement is just exhaustion. Sometimes, what feels like carelessness is really burnout. And yes — there are absolutely moments where a stronger hand is needed: corrective action, performance plans, even terminations. But the best leaders know when to pause before deciding. They ask, “Is this a pattern, or a moment?” “Is this a new employee learning, or a seasoned one struggling?” “Is this behavior, or circumstance?”

We’re leading in a generation that values feedback but also demands respect. Accountability with empathy is what meets both of those needs.

It can sound like, “You’re usually strong in this area — what’s changed?” or “Let’s figure this out together.” It can look like coaching, follow-up, reflection, or even silence while someone processes on their own.

And sometimes, the most powerful accountability is the kind that’s modeled — the kind that comes from a leader who owns their own mistakes, keeps their word, and communicates clearly. That kind of consistency sets the tone more than any policy or meeting ever could.

I’ve been shaped by all kinds of leaders — some who led with grace, and others who led with grit. The truth is, both kinds left a mark. The kindest ones taught me how to lead with empathy. The harshest ones taught me how not to. Together, they helped me find my own balance.

Over the years, I’ve received feedback that has absolutely shattered my world — the kind that made me question everything I thought I was doing right. Words that echoed long after the conversation ended. And while those moments stung, they also became turning points. I can look back now and see that even the hardest feedback taught me something — about resilience, humility, and the strength it takes to keep showing up.

But just as powerful were the moments when I braced for criticism and instead was met with warmth, grace, and understanding. When someone looked past the mistake and saw the person behind it. Those moments didn’t just make me feel seen — they reminded me what leadership could look like when rooted in compassion.

That’s the kind of leader I want to be. One who doesn’t shy away from truth but delivers it in a way that builds rather than breaks. Because I’ve learned that accountability delivered with empathy doesn’t soften the message — it strengthens the relationship. It invites growth instead of fear.

Accountability doesn’t have to be harsh to be effective. It doesn’t have to sting to be sincere. It can be calm. It can be kind. It can sound like, “I see your potential. Let’s get you back to it.”

Because accountability isn’t really about catching someone doing something wrong — it’s about helping them remember what they do right. It’s about connection. It’s about growth. And it’s about leading in a way that strengthens trust instead of fear.

And sometimes, that kind of growth means stepping out of what’s comfortable — because as I’ve learned firsthand:

The grass isn’t always greener on the other side… sometimes, on the other side, it isn’t even grass. But stepping off the patch you’ve outgrown might just be the best leap you ever take.

Not for Profit, Not for Gain — For Purpose

Lately, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. That’s nothing new for me — I live in my head more often than not, for better or worse. But recently, one topic in particular has taken up a lot of space in my thoughts: the difference between for-profit and nonprofit organizations in healthcare.

For a long time, I firmly believed the distinction was black and white. I saw for-profit healthcare as money-driven, focused solely on numbers and revenue, with little room for mission or heart. On the other hand, I viewed nonprofit organizations as the opposite — fully mission-driven, with a focus on people above all else. Of course, they still needed to “keep the lights on,” but their purpose felt grounded in compassion.

As I’ve reflected more deeply, I’ve come to realize it isn’t that simple. Having a purpose — both personally and organizationally — is the foundation for success and psychological well-being. Purpose isn’t exclusive to one business model or another; it’s something that can exist anywhere, if it’s genuine and lived out consistently.

As I embark on the next chapter of my career, much of my reflection has centered around who I am as a person and as a leader. I’ve put intentional effort into defining my values and my purpose, and identifying the nonnegotiable’s that align with both. I’ve always been a bit unconventional when it comes to leadership. For years, I questioned whether that was a weakness — whether not fitting the mold meant I was somehow doing it wrong. But I’ve since realized that my nontraditional approach is what drives my strength as a transformational leader. It’s what allows me to see the potential in people, to lead through authenticially, and to create environments where growth feels both challenging and supported.

It’s taken me years to fully own the person I am — and the person I am still becoming. But as I continue to grow, learn, and take inventory of myself, I’m increasingly clear about where my skills sit and how I can bring the most value as a leader. These traits and values define how I view people, how I interact with my team and partners, and ultimately, they influence whether I succeed or fail. Because if I’m not in an environment that embraces the type of leadership I bring to the table, then neither I nor the people I lead can truly thrive.

I’ve also learned some hard lessons along the way. Healthcare is a highly regulated, compliance-driven field — that’s never going to change. In fact, as healthcare continues to evolve, the oversight and regulations will only become more strict and narrowly defined. My goal as a leader is to operate within those guidelines while still embracing the people who make the work possible. My job is to help those I lead meet every nuance and expectation, but also remind them that the work we do is, at its core, human work.

If I’ve learned anything, it’s that people and performance are not mutually exclusive. You don’t have to choose between compassion and compliance. Being a compassionate leader doesn’t mean disregarding the rules, and being a compliance-focused leader doesn’t mean losing your empathy. True leadership finds the balance between the two — building systems that support quality, metrics, and accountability, while never forgetting the people behind them.

Alongside the changes in healthcare itself, the workforce has also evolved. The next generation of professionals is motivated differently than those of ten or twenty years ago. They have new expectations, new boundaries, and a renewed sense of purpose. Successful leadership today means recognizing that shift — learning how to adapt, communicate, and connect with a wide range of personalities and values. Leading now requires both flexibility and clarity, empathy and accountability.

When I think about what matters most, I’ve realized that the financial status of an organization — for-profit or nonprofit — means very little compared to whether its values align with mine, and whether those values are actually lived out. At the end of the day, that’s what determines whether a workplace feels like a fit.

Recently, I started listening to Leadership Principles Explained by Andy Jassy, the CEO of Amazon. On paper, Amazon is everything I thought I didn’t relate to: a massive, for-profit corporation that has dominated nearly every market it touches. But as I listened to how Jassy described the company’s mission and how their values are woven into everyday actions, something struck me. It reminded me that purpose and profit can coexist — that mission isn’t always lost just because money is part of the equation.

That realization grounded me. It reminded me that leadership, in any setting, is about integrity — doing the right thing for the right reasons, no matter the structure around you. It’s about finding places and people whose values align with your own and who are committed to doing good work, the right way.

At the end of the day, my belief is simple: purpose over profit, people over process, and integrity over image. When those things align — when an organization truly lives its values — that’s where authentic impact happens. That’s where I want to lead.

When Laughter Turns to Tears: The Subtle Ways Grief Finds Us

There’s a lot to be said for grief.

And I don’t just mean the kind tied to death. There are so many different kinds of grief—loss of a season, a role, a dream, a version of ourselves we thought would last forever. It sneaks up on you in the smallest moments… the ones that make you smile, only to catch you off guard when you remember what was.

As a self-identified “avoider of all emotion,” I have to remind myself—sometimes daily—that it’s OK to feel feelings. One of the hardest lessons from years in hospice is realizing how good I’ve become at not showing emotion. Hospice teaches you how to stand steady for families as they say goodbye, to guide your team through loss, to help others carry their pain while quietly burying your own.

But eventually, you can’t outrun what you feel. It catches up—whether you’re ready or not.

I’ve been in this season of deep self-awareness. I’m learning to give myself space to feel it all. Yesterday, one of the nurses on my new team said something to me that made me burst out laughing—and within seconds, I was fighting back tears. That right there? That’s grief. It’s sneaky, unpredictable, and it doesn’t always make sense. The most innocent moment can pull a memory or a feeling straight out of your chest.

As I step into this next chapter of my life—one where I’m figuring out who I am, what I want, and what I need both personally and professionally—I’ve made one promise to myself:

To acknowledge what I feel.

To speak up when something hurts.

To stop bottling things up.

Because you can’t take the world on your shoulders forever. That’s true for anyone, but especially for those of us who work in hospice, in healthcare, or in any field where you carry the weight of others every single day. It’s easy to forget that while we’re helping others hold their pain, we have our own weights pressing down, too.

It’s OK to ask for help.
It’s OK to say you’re hurt.
It’s OK to admit that you’re sad.

Those things don’t define your weakness—they define your humanity. They deepen your self-awareness, your empathy, your emotional intelligence.

Right now, I’m walking through a new kind of grief—the kind that comes with closing one chapter and stepping into another. It’s strange to feel sadness and excitement living side by side. Some days, the waves of emotion hit hard. Other days, I can see the light of what’s ahead.

I know that, in time, the waves will soften. The emotions will even out. And when they do, I’ll look back and realize I’ve landed exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Until then, I’ll keep riding the waves—feeling what I feel, working through what comes, and maybe helping someone else do the same along the way.

And truthfully, that’s what this space—this little collection of writing—has become for me. Many of the articles I’ve written lately have carried a similar tone: raw, reflective, and honest. But I think it’s important to keep capturing this journey as it’s happening—not just the polished version that comes with hindsight. I want to document the middle, the messy, the uncertain parts right alongside the breakthroughs.

Because this is life.
It’s layered. It’s contradictory. It’s beautiful and exhausting all at once.

I’m learning that true growth means allowing myself to experience every part of it—the highs just as deeply as the lows. To celebrate the joy and also sit with the ache. To feel the excitement of what’s next while honoring the grief of what’s been left behind.

Every season brings something new to feel, to understand, to learn from. And as I continue writing, reflecting, and growing through each one, my hope is that these words not only make sense of my journey, but maybe help someone else feel less alone in theirs.

Grace in the Grocery Aisle

The Call That Changed My Perspective

On Friday, I was grocery shopping — juggling my list, my thoughts, and the usual background hum of a busy mind. Then my phone buzzed: “New Milford Public Schools Calling.”

That number always makes my heart skip a beat. Any parent knows that feeling — the rush of questions that flood in before you even answer. Is something wrong? Did something happen? I immediately braced myself, preparing for whatever news might be waiting on the other end.

But I was standing in a store with terrible service, so I let it go to voicemail, figuring I’d call back once I was done. A few minutes later, I listened. And this time, it wasn’t a crisis or a question — it was good news.

A teacher from Allie’s school was calling to share something positive, to tell me about something she had done well. And right there, in the middle of the grocery store aisle, I cried.

Not because of the message itself, but because of everything it represented. Every time that number pops up, my mind automatically jumps to worry, to problem-solving, to “what now?” But this call was different — it was a reminder that even in the midst of all the chaos, there are moments of light. A reminder of how resilient Allie is — adapting to a new school, a new grade, new friends — and how sometimes, the universe sends us exactly the message we need, exactly when we need it.

A Shift in Seasons — Personally and Professionally

This story might not seem connected to leadership at first glance. But for me, it marks a pivotal moment — one that perfectly parallels where I am in my career right now.

I’m standing on the edge of something new. A new chapter. A new direction. A new journey that’s both exciting and a little bit terrifying — which is why I’ve started reading The First 90 Days, a book recommended to me not long ago, by a mentor I deeply respect. It’s all about how to find your footing and thrive when stepping into a new role or organization.

Now, if you know me, you know I love a good audiobook — especially on long drives when I can get lost in thought and reflection. But this time, I decided to buy the hard copy too. Because this isn’t just a book to listen to — it’s one to work through. To highlight, to annotate, to carry with me as I build the next version of who I am as a leader.

And let me tell you — I’ve barely scratched the surface, but already I can feel its relevance. It’s not just a roadmap for a new job. It’s a framework for transition — for moving through change with intention and grace.

Embracing What’s Next

So no, Allie’s story isn’t directly about leadership. But it’s about the many topics I talk about on the regular, growth, resilience, and finding light when you least expect it — all things that define strong leadership at its core.

Because just like that phone call reminded me to pause and appreciate progress in the middle of chaos, stepping into something new reminds me to trust myself — even when it’s uncomfortable.

There’s no better time than the present to stand tall, take a breath, and say, “I’ve got this.” And it’s okay to need a little help along the way. Navigating transitions — whether personal or professional — is never simple. But the beauty of it all lies in the process: learning, adjusting, and remembering that growth rarely feels easy when you’re in the middle of it.

So here’s to new beginnings. To the unexpected moments that remind us of our strength.
And to believing — deeply and fully — that even when the path is unclear, we’re still exactly where we’re meant to be.

The Quiet Side of Hospice: What We Carry When the Room Falls Silent

The other night, I heard of the passing of a loved one of a friend—a loss far too soon. The news stopped me in my tracks and has stayed with me since. It shook something deep within me, stirring questions I hadn’t expected to face: Can I continue to work in a field where death is not only expected, but ultimately the desired outcome?

That moment sent me spiraling into reflection as so many moments tend to do—a deep, quiet kind of thought that lingers long after the world around you has moved on. I found myself questioning so many things: my purpose, my calling, the emotional toll that comes with walking so closely beside death every day. It made me wonder if somewhere along the way, I had built walls around certain emotions just to keep functioning. And in that pause, I realized how easy it is to forget that even those of us who make peace with death professionally are still human—still capable of being shaken by its reach, still learning how to sit with its weight.

As a hospice nurse, death is woven into my daily life. I speak about it, plan for it, support others through it. Yet somehow, hearing this news—someone young, someone whose time had not yet come—hit differently. It took my breath away. I didn’t know him personally, but I’ve known his brother for a large part of my life. Still, the concept of a life ending too soon, before it’s had its full chance, is something I don’t think I’ve ever truly allowed myself to sit with.

It happens every day. We see it, we live it, we carry it quietly. In hospice, we often joke about our “morbid sense of humor,” a coping mechanism we use to survive the heaviness. But beneath that, I wonder—how do we really process it all? Who helps the helpers when the weight becomes too much?

The Early Days: When I First Learned What Death Really Means

I’m going to take you back to the beginning of my hospice career. I was working in an inpatient unit, full of purpose and conviction that this was where I belonged. I loved the honor of guiding people and their families through some of the hardest days of their lives.

But there are two moments that have never left me.

The first was a woman not much older than myself—a mother of two young kids, just a few years older than my own. She was dying, though she and her husband could not yet accept it. The day came when those children had to say goodbye. The scene is forever etched in my heart. As the professional, I held it together, because someone had to. Afterward, I watched her husband walk out of that hospital without her—hand in hand with their children—trying to face a life that would never look the same again.

There was support for them, of course—bereavement counseling, family, community. But what about the staff who stood beside them in that moment? The nurses who wiped their tears before stepping into the next room? The professionals who carry those stories silently because “it’s part of the job”?

I never truly processed that loss. I read her obituary countless times, revisited the moment over and over, and eventually the sharpness faded. But the scar remained.

The Second Memory: The Words “He Is Dying”

The other moment came a little later—a young man in his early twenties. He hadn’t even had the chance to live a full life. When he came to the unit, his family believed he was there for pain management. Nobody had told them the truth: that he was dying.

That day, I had to make a choice. It was a weekend, and resources were limited. No social worker waiting in the wings, no team ready to jump in. Just me, this family, and the truth that needed to be spoken.

I took them into a small family room and said the words no one else had said: “He is dying.”

It was the hardest conversation I had ever had, and the first time I’d ever spoken those words to people completely unprepared to hear them. There were tears, anger, disbelief—but also connection, compassion, and an unspoken understanding that, in that moment, they needed someone to guide them. That experience became one of the defining “why” moments of my career.

The Unseen Toll

Why do I share these stories? Because we don’t talk about them enough.

Hospice work is sacred. It’s also heavy, heartbreaking, and deeply human. Death may be a part of life, but some deaths leave a mark that never fully fades. And while we surround grieving families with care and resources, we rarely extend that same depth of support to the staff who stand at the bedside—those who bear witness, hold space, and then move on to the next patient as though their own hearts aren’t cracked open a little more each time.

This is something I want to change.

As a hospice leader, I believe one of the most vital responsibilities we have is to see our staff—to hear them, validate their feelings, and give them the space to process the emotional weight of this work. Leadership in hospice isn’t just about metrics, census, or compliance. It’s about honoring the humanity in our teams, acknowledging that behind every visit, every chart note, every call—there are hearts that break and mend, again and again.

You can’t measure death in numbers. There are people behind every loss—patients, families, and yes, the nurses, aides, and staff who walk through it with them.

And sometimes, even those who’ve made peace with death need a moment to remember what it means to be human in the face of it.

This Wasn’t How It Was Supposed to End — and That’s Okay

As I regularly write about, lately, I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting — not the quick kind that happens in passing moments between one obligation and the next, but the deep, quiet kind that forces you to sit with yourself and ask hard questions. The kind that invites both truth and discomfort.

Recently, I made what felt like an impossible decision: to leave what I once considered my heart and soul job. I poured everything I had into it — my time, energy, creativity, and passion. It was more than a role; it was part of my identity. Walking away wasn’t about failure. It was about recognizing that sometimes, even the most meaningful chapters must close for us to grow into who we’re meant to become next.

I wrote not long ago, about someone I had recently met, someone who helped me see that more clearly — an executive career coach who works with people navigating transitions and uncertainty. Our conversation wasn’t just about my career; it was about rediscovering me. About where I belong, who I am outside of titles and roles, and what I truly want the next chapter of my life to feel like. While we spoke about my hopes for the future, there were also questions that in the moment seemed meaningless, ones that left me baffled, but now I see the why. I was reminded that identity is not fixed — it shifts, molds, and transforms as we do. It’s okay if what once defined us no longer fits who we’re becoming. Growth sometimes means allowing ourselves to evolve beyond the very things that once made us feel whole.

This reflection has been deeply personal, woven with the challenges of motherhood and my daughter Madeleine’s need for me in ways I hadn’t allowed myself to fully embrace before. Life has a way of whispering reminders when we stop long enough to listen. For me, that whisper has become a call to be more present, softer in my expectations of myself, and open to the unknown.

Growth, I’ve learned, doesn’t come from comfort — it comes from the places that make us squirm, ache, and question everything we thought we knew. One of the greatest areas of growth I’ve experienced recently has been allowing myself to feel that discomfort instead of running from it. For a while, I hid from it — burying myself in home projects, in busyness, in anything that could distract my body and mind from the ache of change. But at the end of the day, I took the time. I felt the feelings. I grieved the could’ve, would’ve, should’ve — and somehow, in the middle of that mess, I found my peace.

I often write about parallels — who I was, who I am, and who I’m becoming. This moment is no different. If you had asked me three months ago where I thought I’d be, I would’ve said exactly where I was back then. I couldn’t have imagined this shift — this unraveling of what I thought I wanted. Yet here I am, standing in a new season that looks nothing like I planned and everything like what I need.

Five years ago, I would have looked back on a year like this with shame — picking apart what didn’t go as planned, criticizing myself for not holding it all together. I would have seen failure and devastation. But this time, I see something different. I see growth. I see courage. I see a woman learning that change doesn’t always come with closure, and endings don’t always mean loss. Sometimes, they mean becoming. The more we grow in emotional intelligence, the more the world begins to look different. We start to understand the “why” behind the pain, the lessons behind the endings, and the beauty in what once felt like chaos. Emotional growth brings clarity where we once saw only clouds — it helps us see that even in life’s hardest moments, the fog eventually lifts, revealing purpose we couldn’t see before..

So here’s to changing seasons — to reflection, growth, and the bravery it takes to say, “This no longer fits me, and that’s okay.” Because life doesn’t always unfold the way we anticipated, or even the way we once thought we wanted. And maybe that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be.

Hope in the Half-Finished Places..

These past few weeks, I’ve been quieter than usual—both here on my blog and on social media—as my family and I walk through some very challenging times. Many of you know parts of Maddie’s journey, but the depth of her story isn’t mine to tell. What I can share is what it feels like to be her mom in this moment: to stand beside her as she faces her own crisis, while also walking through my own trenches.

Her crisis is hers—unique, heavy, and deeply personal. My trenches are different, shaped by my own exhaustion, doubts, and personal challenges that have nothing to do with her but still affect how I show up as her mom. And while the two aren’t the same, living through them at the same time is a challenge I was not prepared for, supporting her through her darkest days while also navigating my own struggles which often feels like carrying two storms at once.

Recently, a dear friend asked me how I was handling everything. My first response was simple: “I don’t know.” Because the truth is, I don’t. I am tired. I am frustrated. I feel the pressure of decisions where none of the options feel good. And I’m learning firsthand what it means to parent a child in crisis while also trying to keep my own head above water.

As a self-proclaimed serial avoider of emotion, I tend to stay busy when life gets hard. I throw myself into house projects—some finished, many left halfway—as a way to keep moving. Even Kyle knows my MO. For example, I had been saying all week that I wanted to purge the younger girls’ room. One afternoon, I went grocery shopping, came home, and instead of putting groceries away, I dove headfirst into cleaning out…our bedroom. Kyle’s immediate reaction? “It’s okay if their room isn’t touched until tomorrow.”

Why does he say this? Because he knows me. He knows that part of my coping is to distract both my body and my mind by taking on a million things at once. And if I’m being honest, I also get bored easily. You can imagine where this is going—our house ends up with more than a few unfinished projects scattered about. It’s a pattern that reflects exactly how I feel right now: in the middle of everything, with nothing quite tied up neatly.

And maybe that’s the real truth of being a mom in the trenches. There is no handbook. No perfect plan. No quick fix. Just the daily grind of showing up, trying again, and putting one foot in front of the other.

And that’s okay.

It’s okay not to know. It’s okay to admit that the road is hard. But even here, even now, I remind myself that every storm eventually passes. Every problem eventually has a solution—even if it takes time, even if it doesn’t look like what I imagined.

I don’t know what tomorrow’s trail will bring, but I do know this: Maddie and I are walking it together. And as much as I wish I could be the mom with all the answers, right now my job is simply to stay by her side. We will come through this—because love, perseverance, and hope leave no other option.

Sometimes hope is not about seeing the rainbow immediately after the storm. Sometimes it’s about trusting that the rainbow will come, even while you’re still standing in the rain. And in the trenches, that trust is what keeps me moving forward.

Just as I’ve written before about leadership, strength, and resilience, I am reminded that those themes aren’t only reserved for the professional world or for guiding a team—they are lived out here, in the hardest corners of life. Leadership sometimes looks like staying present when you want to run. Strength sometimes looks like admitting you don’t have the answers. Resilience sometimes looks like standing in the middle of two storms and refusing to give up. These are the same lessons I’ve leaned on before, but now they’re being lived out in real time, teaching me again that even in the trenches, growth and hope are possible.

Human First: The Power of Empathy in a World Lost in Numbers

About a year ago, I was probably in the best mental space I had ever experienced. Everything felt positive in nearly every way. Of course, nothing is perfect, but back then, I woke up each day with a sense of purpose, passion, and drive. Somewhere over the past few months, though, I allowed that energy to fade into the background. I let myself slip into survival mode. Survival mode has its place, but when it becomes your default setting for too long, it starts to define who you are.

Recently, I had the privilege of traveling to Washington, D.C., to meet with our state’s congresspeople and discuss issues impacting home healthcare—particularly proposed changes that could devastate our industry.

Those few days spent with like-minded individuals reignited something inside me. I’ve been struggling recently to reconnect with that part of myself. We live and work in a world so heavily regulated that the human element often gets lost. And it’s not just in healthcare; this happens everywhere now. Decisions are driven by metrics. Futures are shaped by numbers. And in healthcare, unfortunately, those metrics can even dictate the quality of care patients receive.

One theme that kept coming up during those meetings was something I deeply believe shapes who I am as a healthcare professional, a leader, a parent, and just a human: we don’t disagree that change is needed. We don’t deny that the system is broken. We don’t even oppose all of the decisions being made. But the approach to those changes has to align with the need. That’s the human element—the kind of approach that’s quickly disappearing from our world.

It’s like how kids in school follow a rigid, one-size-fits-all schedule. Expectations are the same for everyone, regardless of their individual needs. There are numbers to hit. And that’s the world we seem to be creating everywhere we look.

The loss of this human element isn’t just what shatters lives—it’s what breaks the greatest companies, tears apart families, and leaves children behind. Without empathy, without truly seeing and valuing the people around us, nothing can thrive. Relationships crumble, trust erodes, and the very foundations of what we build become fragile. It doesn’t matter how successful we appear on the surface; without that core humanity, no one truly succeeds. I may be just one person, but one piece of me that I refuse to give up is the part that cares about people for who they are—not for what they do, not for what they achieve, but for the simple fact that they are human. That is what I hold onto, because it’s the glue that holds everything together.

While I was in D.C., there was also the heartbreaking tragedy of Charlie Kirk’s death—a stark reminder of the world we live in, one increasingly defined by extremes. I’m not speaking politically here, but from a human perspective. We’ve become so polarized that the simple act of disagreeing with someone’s beliefs has, in some cases, led to the ultimate tragedy—death. A human life lost over differences in ideology. It doesn’t matter what he said, what he stood for—at the end of the day, he was a husband, a father, a person. And that’s something we cannot forget, no matter where we stand on any issue. This kind of thinking, where disagreement turns to violence, is a direct reflection of how far we’ve strayed from that human-first mindset.

At the end of the day, the one thing I ask of myself and others is simple: approach every situation with the understanding that, above all, this is a human first. That principle guides who I am, how I treat people, and how I approach every situation. It’s people first, always—above the numbers, above the labels, above the arguments. Just people, human beings.

This is how I approach my team as a leader—recognizing each individual as a human with their own struggles, strengths, and aspirations. It’s how I approach my children as a mother—seeing them for who they are, not just for what I need them to be. It’s how I approach the person in the grocery store or the driver in the traffic line, even when their actions might be frustrating or agitating. They’re all people. And sometimes, that’s the simplest but most powerful reminder we need: to see the humanity in everyone we encounter, even when it’s hard.

This approach builds relationships, fosters growth, enables compassion, and encourages collaboration. When we remember that we are all human, we can connect in a deeper, more meaningful way. We create spaces where people feel seen and heard, and where we can work together to move forward, even in difficult times. The human-first mindset isn’t just about kindness—it’s about creating environments that allow everyone to thrive.

Fierce, but Not Without Edges

I’ve taken a break from writing these past few weeks. Not because I’ve run out of words, but because I needed space to listen to myself without trying to put it all on paper. Life has been loud — full of demands, full of motion — and I realized I needed to step back, quiet the noise, and do some real soul work.

In that space, I found myself digging deeper than I expected. I wasn’t just reflecting lightly; I was turning things over, pulling them apart, questioning myself in ways I hadn’t before. And what I uncovered surprised me.

I’ve always known I’m strong. I’m fierce. My strength has carried me through storms, built resilience where others might have broken, and given me the fire to keep going when the easier choice would have been to stop. But here’s the paradox I’ve been sitting with: strength, in the wrong measure, can just as easily become weakness.

My determination? It’s one of my greatest assets. It’s what pushes me to lead, to fight, to build. Yet when it goes unchecked, it turns into sheer stubbornness — and I can find myself clinging to battles long after they’ve stopped deserving me.

My loyalty? It roots me, grounds me, and keeps me aligned with my values. But taken too far, loyalty ties me to places, people, or patterns that I should have released.

My resilience? It’s what people admire most about me — the way I don’t quit. But even resilience can backfire. Sometimes it means I endure things that aren’t mine to carry, confusing survival with strength.

And my eye for detail — it’s made me effective, sharp, able to see the pieces others might miss. But pushed too far, it becomes overthinking, perfectionism, and self-critique that stalls more than it serves.

This realization hasn’t left me feeling defeated. If anything, it’s sharpened me. It reminded me that strength isn’t about being unbreakable or untouchable. True strength is knowing your own edges — understanding when your fire is fueling you and when it’s burning you out.

I am strong. I am fierce. But I am also learning. Learning when to pull back, when to pivot, when to soften, when to let go. That doesn’t make me less. It makes me more — more aware, more balanced, more intentional.

Because the goal isn’t to burn hotter. The goal is to burn smarter.

The Truth I Tried to Outrun

I’ve spent so much time talking lately.
Telling my story, the same story, different ways, to so many different people.

Each conversation has been a strange mix of refreshing, freeing, educational—even cathartic.
It’s felt like letting fresh air into a room that’s been closed up for too long.

But today was different.
Today, I didn’t tell another version of the story.
I made a call that wasn’t about venting, or connecting, or even hoping to be understood.
I reached out to one person. The one person I knew would give me a point-blank, no-fluff, no-pretty-bow answer to the question that’s been keeping me awake at night.
No sugarcoating. No “maybe’s.” Just brutal honesty.

Here’s the thing—
I already knew the answer.
I’ve known it for a while.
That’s the real reason it took me so long to ask. I had been clinging to this quiet, ridiculous hope that maybe, if I waited long enough, things would change. That the story would somehow rewrite itself while I was standing still. That the outcome I dreaded would magically shift into something I could live with.

It didn’t.

When the words finally came, they landed exactly as I expected—a gut punch straight to the chest. I froze. My stomach knotted. For a moment, I felt sick.
And then, just as quickly, the moment passed.

Relief.
Pure, unshakable relief.

Relief that the answer was out in the open now, instead of rattling around in my head as an endless loop of “what if’s” and “maybe’s.”
Relief that the weight of waiting was gone.
Relief that I didn’t have to keep playing mental chess with a game that was already over.

The tears I thought would come never did. The wave of grief I braced myself for didn’t crash over me—at least, not yet. And I know it might. I know that acceptance and grief are not neat, linear journeys. They curve, they backtrack, they surprise you. I’ve walked that road before.

Right now, the struggle is still too raw to pick apart and label as “life lessons” or “growth.” But I also know this: one day, I’ll be able to tell this story in full. One day, I’ll talk about the loss, the challenge, and the way this season reshaped me. One day, I’ll be able to trace the line from these low points to some of my greatest moments of strength.

But today?

Today was the day I stopped waiting for a different answer.

The Question That Didn’t Fit (and the Answer That Did)

In hospice, I’ve seen grief in the way people expect — the kind that comes with a date, a service, and people hugging you in the church parking lot. But there’s another kind too, one with no timeline, no casseroles, no obituary.

It’s the grief that shows up for things you can’t point to — dreams that quietly collapsed, relationships that faded without a fight, the “someday” you built in your head that never actually arrived.

It’s quieter than death, but somehow heavier. At least with a funeral, there’s a moment where everyone agrees: this is over. With the other kind, you just keep walking around it, pretending it’s not sitting in the corner taking up space.

Lately, I’ve been tripping over my own version. Not one big heartbreak, but a collection of small ones, each pulling a little more air from the room. I keep showing up — doing my job, taking care of the kids, keeping life moving — but inside, it feels like I’m living in a house where someone slowly moved the furniture out while I wasn’t looking. Everything echoes now.

It’s tangled up with a question someone recently asked me: Who am I? Sounds harmless, but it’s the kind of question that rips up floorboards. In sorting through the mess, I’ve had to face something I’d rather not admit — I’m a runner. When things get uncomfortable, I start looking for the exit.

I’ve called it “self-preservation,” but it’s really grief-avoidance. If I leave before I have to watch something fall apart, maybe it won’t hurt as much. But it does — just slower, creeping in during quiet moments when I think I’ve outrun it. Even my so-called strengths feed into this: thoroughness turns into overexplaining to avoid the hard truth, accountability turns into carrying problems that aren’t mine, and storytelling can soften reality until I start believing the easier version.

And then, in the middle of this heavy reflection, the same person who asked Who am I? tossed me a completely different question: If you could be any item in someone’s glove compartment, what would you be? I blinked. I honestly had no idea how that had anything to do with the meeting or what we were talking about. Maybe it was meant to loosen me up; maybe it was a tangent. Either way, I felt a little lost in the pivot — and still, the first answer that stumbled out was the half-working mini flashlight. It blinks more than it beams, but it comes through. It’s found Maddie’s hair tie, a Lego buried in crumbs, and once, a sliver of courage on a rough night. The battery wavers, yet the light is there when I need it.

The trouble with grief that doesn’t have a funeral is you don’t get a clear moment where you say, Okay, it’s time to let this go. You have to give yourself that moment. And I’m not there yet. I’m still holding onto pieces I thought would fit in my life forever, even if I know they don’t belong anymore.

In hospice, I’ve seen the peace that comes when people finally speak the words they’ve been holding, make the call they’ve avoided, or simply allow someone to see the truth. Maybe that’s my work right now — not the kind I can check off a to-do list, but the kind where I sit with what’s gone, name it, and decide if it still gets to live in my head rent-free.

Because you can’t carry unspoken grief forever without it shaping you. And I’m realizing I want to be the one doing the shaping — before the weight of all the things I’ve avoided ends up shaping me.

Boats, Tubing, and Surprising Friendships: A Weekend of Realizing Life is Full of Unexpected Turns

This past weekend, I had the privilege of stepping away from the whirlwind of everyday life and spending some much-needed time in New Hampshire with Kyle’s longtime friend and his wife. Funny enough, this friend and I never really had a great relationship in the past, but since he’s such a close friend of Kyle’s, we’ve managed to reconnect. And let me tell you, seeing how he interacted with my kids was nothing short of amazing. He was so kind, so patient, and so willing to go above and beyond for the kids—it was truly refreshing.

As I’ve been navigating a particularly challenging time in my life, this weekend felt like a gift. I was able to almost completely disconnect and focus on what truly matters. Sometimes we get so caught up in the busyness of work and life that we forget to focus on our own well-being and the things that really bring us joy. This weekend gave me the space to do just that.

The conversations we had—about the importance of carving out time for yourself, making memories with family, and taking the time to get away—were a much-needed balm for my soul. It’s easy to fall into the trap of thinking work defines us, but what I’ve been reminded of is that work is replaceable. Your job will move on without you the moment you leave, but your family—your loved ones—are irreplaceable. Time with them is something you can never get back.

We spent the weekend on a boat, fishing, sitting around a campfire, swimming in the lake—doing everything that made up the heart of my childhood. The simplicity of it all was the best part. It wasn’t extravagant or complicated, yet it was the perfect escape. And the kids? They said it was the best vacation they’d ever had. Sometimes, it’s the simplest things that create the most lasting memories.

It’s funny how life works. One of Kyle’s friends, someone I have known longer than Kyle, yet until this season of life had no real connection with. While we didn’t necessarily dislike each other, the bulk of our relationship was tied to my time as a swimmer, and I always saw him as a bit arrogant all those years ago, was good at what he did, and he knew it. Never did I imagine this is where life would lead me—watching him, the same guy I once had my reservations about, create these incredible memories with my kids. Suddenly he’s the guy teaching my kids to drive a boat, keeping them safe by the campfire, and taking them tubing for the first time, while his wife surrounds them with all the kindness, patience and attention they wanted. I guess life has a way of surprising you and turning those old tensions into moments of joy. Who knew?

I’m still processing everything, but one thing became abundantly clear: I’ve been so wrapped up in the many decisions I’m making in my life, where I go next, and where my family goes next. Who are we? Who am I? And who do I want to be? It’s not just about work anymore—it’s about what really matters, about finding balance and staying true to myself. I’m not sure where my journey will take me, or what the next chapter looks like, but I know that this weekend gave me the clarity I needed to recognize that I can’t keep putting everything ahead of my family and my well-being.

At the end of the day, what matters most is time with the people who love you. Everything else is secondary. Time with my family is irreplaceable, and I’m so fortunate for the life we’ve built together. No matter where I go or what happens next, making time for them will always be my greatest priority.

Brussels Sprouts, Drama, and a Lesson in Assumptions

Recently, I’ve had the pleasure of connecting with an individual who, upon meeting, threw some incredibly deep, reflective questions my way—questions that are now stuck in my brain for the next few days. And no, before you ask, it’s not a therapist. 😜 Somehow, this conversation kicked off a personal deep dive into evaluating my core values, who I really am as a person, and if someone were to describe me, what would they say? As I’ve pondered these questions (and yes, for the third time, I’ve listened to The Mountain Is You—because sometimes a girl just needs a good pep talk to remind her of what she’s capable of), I’ve started to notice lessons in the most unexpected daily situations. The kind of lessons I might have missed if I hadn’t taken an extra 30 seconds to pause, reflect, and learn from them.

You might be wondering why I am sharing this, but as you will see below this piece of advice came in very handy just yesterday! —a miss on my part, a moment of reflection, and a valuable lesson in how I could have approached things differently.

Just yesterday, I had quite the episode with Olivia, my middle child, who’s basically the poster child for 'I might need to go to the hospital' at the slightest hint of an issue. It’s become the norm for us, and over time, we’ve come to expect the dramatic health crises that never seem to fully materialize. So when it comes to her, you learn to roll with it.

I had just gotten home from work, in that sweet spot of the evening when you're trying to figure out dinner and get your bearings, when Olivia comes charging into the kitchen. She’s screaming, crying, scratching all over, and barely able to catch her breath to explain what’s happening. All she keeps asking for is allergy medicine. Naturally, I’m thinking, “Here we go again,” but I try to be the calm, rational parent.

Eventually, through her tear-filled explanation, I gather that she touched a plant outside that she’s sure is causing an allergic reaction. I roll my eyes, mentally preparing for yet another “dramatic” episode, but my concern as a parent kicks in. So, I go outside to investigate. There it is, the offending plant—picture taken, Google Lens fired up, and the first hit says, “Brussels sprout.”

Now, here’s where I made my big mistake. Given Olivia’s history of exaggerated reactions, I didn’t bother digging deeper. I mean, Brussels sprouts? Really? That’s a vegetable, not some villainous toxin. So, I confidently told Olivia she was being extremely dramatic, had her wash her hands, change her clothes, calm down, and took the necessary “precaution” of giving her some allergy medicine to soothe her—just in case. I figured it was all a little over the top, but hey, let’s give her something to feel better about.

But here’s the kicker: It wasn’t a Brussels sprout. It was a plant notorious for causing severe itching and burning reactions if its oils touch the skin. Google Lens, in all its glory, had led me astray, and I took the easy way out. I assumed that because Olivia always tends to exaggerate, this must just be another one of those instances. If I’d only taken a moment to look closer at the plant, I would’ve realized that I was mistaken.

Now, of course, she’s totally fine. No permanent damage, and the treatment would have still been exactly the same. But this whole thing is a perfect example of why you should never assume, especially when you don't have all the facts. It’s easy to make quick judgments based on past behavior (especially with kids), but sometimes, those judgments can backfire.

Here’s the funny part—if I had taken that extra step to check the details, my reaction would have been different. Instead, I took the easy “Brussels sprout” answer and went with it, thinking, “How ridiculous can this be?” Spoiler: very ridiculous. It turns out, not all plants are Brussels sprouts, and not all crises are exaggerated.

In reflecting on this, I realize how often I can be guilty of jumping to conclusions, whether it's in parenting or in life in general. It’s so easy to base our reactions on past experiences or expectations, but doing so can limit our perspective and lead us down the wrong path. In this case, I assumed Olivia's dramatic behavior meant the situation was trivial, when in fact, there was more to the story. How often do we do that—make assumptions based on patterns, or even biases, and forget to pause for a moment to look closer?

This experience also reminded me of how powerful it can be to slow down, take a breath, and really assess the situation at hand. It’s a lesson in patience, and it’s something I’m trying to carry with me—not just in my parenting, but in my leadership and other areas of my life. Rushing to judgment can lead to misunderstandings, missed opportunities, and unnecessary stress.

I also realized how much more effective I can be when I approach challenges with curiosity rather than certainty. If I’d taken an extra moment to dig a little deeper, I would have seen that the plant wasn’t what I initially assumed, and my response would have been different. I can’t help but think how this translates to leadership, too—when we don’t rush to judgment, we give ourselves and others space to fully understand a situation before reacting.

It was a small parenting fail on my part, but it was a good reminder: sometimes it’s better to slow down and dig a little deeper before reacting. And next time, when I think “Brussels sprout,” I’ll double-check my plant identification first—and take a moment to really assess the full picture.

Self-Aware Enough to Know I’m the Problem (Sometimes)

There was a time — not all that long ago — when I let things get to me far too easily. I let people walk over me. I stayed quiet when I should have spoken up. I internalized more than I ever should have carried. And truthfully, it wasn’t just in one area of life — it was everywhere. Work. Family. Relationships. I didn’t know where my boundaries were because I hadn’t yet decided I deserved to have any.

But over the years — and especially in this most recent season of soul searching — I’ve come to realize that part of emotional intelligence isn’t just understanding others… it’s learning yourself. It’s knowing where your limits lie and recognizing what’s worth holding space for — and what no longer deserves a seat at your table.

These moments of self-reflection aren’t always triggered by major life changes. Sometimes they come quietly, wrapped in a comment that lingers longer than it should, or a subtle shift in how you feel walking into a room that once felt safe. They’re often born from small things — but they create big clarity.

Let me take you back ten years.
I was a new mom, still trying to figure out how to keep a tiny human alive while navigating marriage, work, and the sheer identity shift that comes after "I do" turns into “What now?” Professionally, I was in a bit of a limbo — I had just finished my business degree, but I had no real idea what I wanted to do. So I took a job as a nanny.

It was part of my "I don’t really know what I want to be when I grow up" phase — which, looking back, makes me laugh and cringe all at once. There are moments I think back on with total mortification, but also with some grace. Because that was a version of me who was doing the best she could. She didn’t have a voice yet. She didn’t know her own limits. But she was learning.

So here’s the funny-not-funny part. It was about 8:00 PM one night, and I was still at work. Two hours past my scheduled time to leave — which, by the way, was normal in this particular job. My phone buzzed. It was a text from the mom:
“Grabbing dinner in the city with hubby — we’ll be late!”

Now, I was exhausted. I had been there since early morning. My daughter was a newborn at home. I knew she’d be up all night. I was already running on fumes. And the sheer audacity of that message — so casual, so flippant — made my blood boil.

And what did I do?

I stayed.
Until 2:00 in the morning.
Then I went home, didn’t say a word, came back the next day, and pretended it didn’t bother me. And because I never said it was a problem… it kept happening. Again. And again. And again.

Every time, I got angrier. Every time, I felt more used. But I never said anything. So while yes, the boundary was crossed — I was the one who kept opening the gate.

Looking back now, I see the same lesson in that chapter of my life that I saw just the other day when Maddie had her meltdown: growth means choosing presence over panic.

In both moments, the easy response would’ve been to react — to either scream or shut down. In that nannying chapter, I shut down. I disappeared into myself. I didn’t speak up because I didn’t think I could.

But now? I show up.
Not with rage, but with presence.
Not with silence, but with clarity.

Part of growing has been me learning how to express my feelings — whether that be with Kyle, telling him that what he said made me upset even if I can't quite rationalize why it made me upset, or figuring out where to push and where to just let things go — with my children, professionally, and even with Kyle. If we look back on our relationship now, it's completely different than it was 10 years ago — heck, it's completely different than it was a year ago — because we are constantly growing, constantly evolving, constantly learning. So at the end of the day, even if you aren't where you want to be, you can get there.

Lately, I’ve been sitting in that space. That foggy, yet oddly illuminating stretch of internal dialogue where I ask myself hard questions:

• What am I willing to tolerate?

• What values do I refuse to compromise?

• Where am I giving too much of myself without return?

And through that, I’ve come to a few unshakable truths:
I now know my hard limits — the places I will no longer let people push me past.
I’ve also learned to honor my soft limits — the moments where I feel myself starting to drift from who I want to be, even if I can’t always explain why.
And I’ve stopped making space for what no longer serves me, while also letting go of the urge to control things that were never mine to carry in the first place.

Ten years ago, my limits would have looked different. And in another ten, they probably will again. That’s the beauty of growth — the willingness to revisit who you are, without shame for who you were.

So, if you’re in a season like mine — a quiet reckoning, a pause, a reset — know this: it doesn’t have to come with fanfare or a major life event. The act of checking in with yourself is, in itself, a declaration of self-worth. It’s you saying, “My peace matters.” It’s you reclaiming your time, your space, your energy.

And at the end of the day, that’s all I really want:
To find satisfaction in the life I choose to live — not the one I feel obligated to tolerate.
To make room for joy. For purpose.
And to never again shrink myself to fit into something I’ve already outgrown.

Screaming, Crumbs, and Clarity

How Emotional Fog, Parenting, and Leadership Collide

They say people hate change, but I’ve come to believe that’s not quite true. We willingly make huge decisions all the time — moving, changing careers, starting families, leaving relationships, saying yes to new beginnings. It’s not the change we fear — it’s the fog that comes with it.

That murky in-between.
That place where you don’t have enough information, where your footing feels uncertain, and your brain starts spinning stories before reality has even caught up.

Lately, I’ve been in the fog.
Navigating change, asking questions I can’t yet answer, holding my breath and hoping that I’m still doing this whole leadership/life/parenting thing with some level of grace.

And then yesterday, life handed me a very real, very loud reminder of just how far I’ve come.

The chaos story (but really, the growth story):
This past weekend, we were getting ready for a pool party. Kyle was wrapping up a last-minute job, I was cleaning the house, wrangling the kids, prepping snacks — the usual flurry as we get everyone ready to go out. Maddie had just come home from a sleepover, and she, like me, does not do well without sleep.

The minute she walked in, I saw it coming — the tension, the edge, the unraveling.

She made it to her room. And then came the scream.
Not just any scream — an ear-piercing, soul-clenching shriek that I could recognize in an instant. I didn’t even need to open the door to know what it was about.

Let’s rewind. The night before, plans shifted at the last minute, as they tend to do with preteens. What started as a simple sleepover turned into a divide-and-conquer scenario — one set of girls here, one set there. Because Allie was already sound asleep, we directed Olivia and her guest into Maddie’s room. And while I should have checked to make sure things were put back the way Maddie left them… I didn’t. I rushed. I overlooked it.

And now here we were.
Maddie, overtired and overstimulated, standing in her room — her safe space — and finding it in chaos.

Normally, I’d snap.
The sound alone would be enough to push me into a meltdown of my own. I’d tell her to stop screaming, to calm down, to “take it down a notch.” But not this time.

This time, I took a deep breath before I even opened the door.
And when I saw her — red-faced, tears streaming, unable to get the words out — I didn’t say anything.

I just hugged her.

I held her as she sobbed, as her body shook, as her nervous system tried to make sense of a room that no longer felt like hers.

Then she cleaned up. I helped her vacuum.

And no, I didn’t go make her sister fix it — though maybe I should have. But at that moment, Maddie didn’t need the chaos of a sibling confrontation. She didn’t need to be told it wasn’t her fault or be forced to explain herself.

She needed quiet.
She needed the crumbs gone — the ones that made her skin crawl under her bare feet.

And I knew that because that’s what I would have needed.
That’s what I needed this week. Not solutions. Not lectures. Just someone to see me and let me feel what I needed to feel.

That moment wasn’t just about parenting — it was a reflection of growth. Of how change, even the painful kind, has helped me become a more grounded version of myself.

Years ago, I held my first real leadership title — manager. I shared the role with a peer, but it was anything but equal. When I wasn’t there, she spent her time trying to prove I didn’t belong.

And truthfully? I didn’t handle it well. I was reactive, defensive, constantly questioning myself. I let her chaos pull me under. I didn’t lead — I survived.

Eventually, she was transferred. The tension lifted immediately, but the impact stayed. It took time to rebuild my confidence — to lead from a place of clarity instead of fear.

Looking back now, I see the same lesson in that chapter that I saw in Maddie’s meltdown — growth means choosing presence over panic.

In both moments, the easy response would’ve been to react. To snap. To let the chaos dictate my behavior. Years ago, I let it. I didn’t have the tools — or maybe just not the clarity — to respond with intention. I was too caught up in proving myself, in surviving someone else’s storm, to notice I was losing my own voice.

We don't hate change. We hate how unmoored we feel during it.
We hate not knowing how it ends, or who we’ll be when we come out the other side. But sometimes, if we’re lucky, a chaotic Saturday morning will show us exactly how far we’ve come.

If you're in the fog right now, hang on. The clarity will come.

Your reactions will soften. Your heart will strengthen. Your confidence will return — and maybe one day you’ll look around, in the middle of the chaos, and realize: this used to break me… but it doesn’t anymore.

That’s growth.
And that’s something worth holding on to.

Solitaire, Slots, and Suppressed Emotions

There’s so much to be said for allowing yourself to find peace.

As I’ve shared before, I’m a habitual avoider. It’s something I’ve worked on, grown through, and gotten better at as I’ve evolved into the person I’m becoming—but I still catch myself slipping when discomfort creeps in.

Some people take walks or meditate when they’re overwhelmed. Me? I start farms. I make soap. I go full homestead energy in an attempt to outrun my emotions.

This time, though, I opted for a different strategy: I dove headfirst into a nine-book Audible series—a whopping 162 hours of someone else’s voice telling me a story. For the past two weeks, I’ve had those books playing almost nonstop—from the moment I stop working until I fall asleep (which, let’s be honest, lately has been more like 2 or 3 a.m.).

But that wasn’t all. I added online solitaire and penny slots to the mix. Why? Because if my ears are busy and my hands are occupied, maybe—just maybe—I won’t have to sit with the feelings I’ve been trying so hard to avoid. If I’m too wrapped up in what I’m hearing or doing, I don’t have to slow down long enough to feel the discomfort.

Spoiler alert: it doesn’t work forever.

Here I am, two weeks later. I haven’t finished the audiobook series (although it is good—very niche, but worth it), and I definitely didn’t win big in penny slots. But what I did do over the last 48 hours was something I’ve been putting off for much longer than two weeks:
I let myself breathe.

I made space for peace.
Peace with where I am.
Peace with what’s to come.
Peace with this beautifully imperfect life I’m living.

Last night, I put away the audiobook. Closed the solitaire tab. Logged off the penny slots. I turned on my favorite guided meditation instead, and I let the stillness sink in.

No, I don’t have the answers. But I do have a fresh outlook and a little more calm than I had before. And that’s enough for now.

Heading into an unplugged weekend with my family, feeling grateful, grounded, and—for the first time in a while—okay with simply being still.