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.

Halfway Between Lost and Found

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is admit you're standing at a crossroads.

There’s a funny thing about growth—it doesn’t always arrive with a lesson in hand and a perfectly packaged takeaway. Sometimes, it just shows up as discomfort. As uncertainty. As restlessness in the pit of your stomach that whispers, “Something has to give.”

I’ve written before about some of the most challenging seasons of my life, and how—without fail—those were the very moments that shaped me the most. They were uncomfortable. Unforgiving. At times, even unfair. But in hindsight, they were the fire that forged something stronger in me. Each time, I emerged with more clarity, more resilience, and a deeper understanding of who I am.

But today’s blog isn’t a “lesson learned” piece. It’s not a reflection on a past chapter with a tidy bow wrapped around the moral of the story.

Today, I’m in it.

And I don’t have all the answers.

What I do have is the awareness that something is shifting. That change is on the horizon—whether I like it or not. And the truth is, sometimes the hardest decision isn’t making a change... it’s knowing when it’s time to make one.

The in-between is uncomfortable. It’s filled with “what ifs” and “what nows.” It makes you question things that once felt steady. It challenges your confidence, your direction, and sometimes, even your identity. And yet, somewhere in all that discomfort is the whisper of something greater. A better version of you waiting on the other side. A stronger, more aligned life that you haven’t met yet.

I don’t know what’s next. In any aspect of my life. In my heart. All I know is that I will persevere—because I always do. I will look back at this messy middle and see growth I didn’t even realize was happening. I’ll see the courage it took to stand still when everything inside of me wanted to run. I’ll see the strength it took to admit I was lost before I could ever hope to be found.

Impossible situations are only temporary—because if they weren’t, no one would survive them. So today, I’m leaning into the unknown. I’m giving myself the grace to be unsure. I’m allowing space for whatever is coming next to make its way to me.

And if you’re reading this and find yourself in that same space—just know: you’re not alone. Growth isn’t always loud. Sometimes it looks like showing up, even when you don’t know what for.

So no, I don’t have a tidy ending today. Just honesty. And maybe that’s enough.

Because maybe the real strength is not in the lesson learned, but in the willingness to keep showing up while the lesson is still being written.

And while for the next two days you’ll likely find me curled up in bed with a good book—and maybe a few tears—the discomfort of it all is temporary. The growing pains are real, but they don’t last forever. This season, too, will pass.

Finding Light in the Chaos: Lessons from Maddie’s Journey

Today I feel the need to pivot a little bit to a personal story in my life. While not completely unconnected to leadership, the message is loud and clear. You have the power to control your thoughts and direct your mindset. As I navigate some very challenging waters, I had a pause and a moment to stop for some perspective. And in that moment, I realized something powerful: sometimes, the smallest victories in the midst of chaos are the ones that keep you going. And if anyone knows about chaos, it’s me—and my daughter, Maddie.

Just over a year ago, Maddie was newly diagnosed with epilepsy. It felt like our world had been turned upside down. We spent months trying to find the right medication, constantly adjusting doses to manage her seizures while also trying to avoid a long list of side effects. Maddie struggled to make it through the end of fourth grade, spending more time out of school than in, which meant that the year was a blur of doctor visits, medication trials, and trying to maintain a semblance of normalcy.

But here’s the thing—sometimes life’s greatest lessons come from the most chaotic moments. Amid the stress, the uncertainty, and the fear, I realized something: it’s not always about finding the perfect solution or fixing everything right away. Sometimes, the breakthrough comes from simply surviving the chaos, taking things one day at a time, and finding the beauty in small victories.

The Chaos of Uncertainty

During this time, we learned a few hard truths. First, Maddie could not tolerate bloodwork. That meant trips to the doctor, trying to get her ready for blood tests, knowing that her face might end up meeting the floor if we weren’t careful. Then there was the constant dance of finding the right medication, which was like trying to hit a moving target. Nothing about the process was easy, but we kept going, knowing that each day brought us a little closer to a solution—even if it didn’t feel that way at the time.

But one of the hardest parts of that time was Maddie’s daily struggle with extreme anxiety. She had just enough understanding of what epilepsy was to be terrified of it. Despite all the reassurances from doctors, friends, and family, no one could convince her that she wouldn’t spontaneously die from a seizure. To her, every minute was a ticking time bomb. It sounds funny now, but back then, it was incredibly dark. Every day was plagued with fears—fears of what might happen next, of what she couldn’t control, and of how much she had to endure. For a little girl who was still trying to navigate her childhood, this was a heavy burden.

And yet, looking back, I realize that in the midst of that fear, Maddie and I both learned something profound: even in the darkest moments, there is light. Maddie’s bravery in facing her fears every day—while not knowing what the next moment would bring—was a lesson in resilience I’ll never forget. And in some strange way, it mirrored the chaos I’m facing today in different areas of my life.

The Power of Small Victories

And then, this week, we went for a follow-up appointment. After over a year of trying to stabilize her condition, the doctors did every in-office test they could to induce a seizure—and nothing happened. No seizure. No drama. No crisis.

While this doesn’t drastically change our daily lives or the routine we’ve grown accustomed to, it was a small victory. It was a reminder that sometimes, breakthroughs come in the form of little wins—those quiet, unexpected moments of clarity that you have to look a little harder to see.

The same thing can be applied to life. When we’re in the thick of chaos, we often forget to take a step back and appreciate the small victories. Whether it’s getting through a tough week at work, finally finishing that project you’ve been putting off, or simply getting through a day without a meltdown (I’m speaking from experience here), those moments matter. They add up.

Embracing the Mess: The Beauty of Small Victories

This week, I was reminded of something important: that even in the middle of chaos, there is always a silver lining. In our case, it was that Maddie had made progress—no matter how small it seemed in the grand scheme of things. And it wasn’t just about the seizure test or the medical outcomes. It was a reminder that progress isn’t always linear. Sometimes, you need to pause and recognize that the moments of relief, even if brief, are a big deal.

This lesson is so parallel to what I’m navigating right now in different areas of my life. In the chaos I’m facing, I’m learning to pause and take stock of the small wins, even when it feels like nothing big is changing. Life, like Maddie’s journey, is often about surviving the rough seas with as much grace as possible, knowing that it’s the little victories along the way that make the difference.

Finding Balance Amid the Chaos

It’s easy to get caught up in the whirlwind of life’s demands, especially when things feel out of control. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past year, it’s this: balance doesn’t come from perfection. It comes from accepting the chaos, embracing the mess, and finding peace in the little victories along the way.

Maddie’s journey isn’t over, and we still have a long road ahead of us. But each small step we take—each victory, no matter how small—is a reminder that even in the midst of chaos, there is room for growth, for gratitude, and for celebration.

And for me, that’s been the real breakthrough.

A Call for Perspective

So, the next time you find yourself feeling overwhelmed by the constant chaos, take a step back and ask yourself: What small victory can I celebrate today? Whether it’s surviving a challenging situation, making it through another hectic week, or simply having a moment of peace in the storm, those little moments are worth acknowledging.

Because, as Maddie and I have learned, the chaos may never fully go away, but there is always a silver lining if we take the time to look for it.

Fractured Foot, Full Heart: How Burnout Led to My Most Powerful Leadership Lesson

I often reflect on how my very brief time in adolescent psych shaped many of the leadership skills I still rely on today. However, there were many moments before that, which helped pave the trajectory I am on today. Not long ago, after the haze of post-COVID had started to clear, I found myself in a precarious situation. Staffing levels were critical, and it wasn’t just my company—healthcare everywhere was struggling. I was the clinical manager, case manager, on-call nurse, and on-call manager all rolled into one. I worked tirelessly, thinking this was how you prove your value in the field I had come to care for deeply. To me, working long hours and balancing multiple roles meant that I was doing what needed to be done, that I was showing my commitment.

At the time, I was given bits of information here and there, reassurances that once the circumstances allowed, I would get the promotion I had been promised. So, I kept pushing myself harder. Days and nights blended together. I was in the office, I was in the field, doing everything I could. I kept telling myself, "I’ll rest once it’s all worth it." But one morning, it all came to a head. I woke up and couldn’t even stand on my foot. The pain was unbearable. I had been dealing with it for days, but I ignored it, continuing to push forward with a fractured foot. After all, if I didn’t do it, who else would?

That foot injury was the first sign of a much deeper issue. I kept going, burning the candle at both ends, telling myself that someday, it would all pay off. But that day never came. About six months later, I found myself physically drained, emotionally unwell, and struggling to hold it all together. The stress had taken its toll, and I finally reached my breaking point. I walked away from hospice—a career I thought would be my forever. I left leadership, questioning everything. I didn’t want to manage anymore. Why would I want to continue? I had taken on all the responsibility, carried the weight of the world on my shoulders. But at the end of the day, I was just an employee. I was replaceable.

I’ve always struggled to let go, to delegate, to ask for help. It’s a hard habit to break, especially when you’ve spent so much time proving that you can handle it all. For a long time, I believed that strength meant doing it yourself, that leadership was about carrying the load alone. But over time, I’ve come to realize something crucial: I can’t be the strong leader my team needs if I don’t share the load. I’ve learned that asking for help and trusting others with responsibility isn’t a weakness—it’s a strategy for success. When I allow myself to lean on my team, we all become stronger together. While I still have a long way to go, I can now see that I am mirroring what I needed in those crucial moments years ago—someone to share the burden, someone to guide me in showing that strength isn’t about doing it alone, but about growing together.

I share this story because it was a turning point for me—a lesson I had to learn the hard way. But it was also one of the most profound lessons in my career. Even though I still struggle with it from time to time, I’ve grown in emotional intelligence. I now recognize when I’m pushing myself too hard, when I need to step back and reassess. I’ve learned to listen to myself and prioritize my well-being before I hit another breaking point.

Looking back, if someone had told me ten years ago that the most uncomfortable moments in my life would turn out to be the most instrumental parts of my growth—as a nurse, a leader, and as a human—I would never have believed them. I used to think that I had to have everything in place to reach a level of self-awareness and comfort in who I was. But now I understand that it’s through those moments of discomfort—those moments of pain and struggle—that the most significant growth happens. It’s not about waiting for everything to be perfect; it’s about learning to embrace the mess, the challenges, and the vulnerability that comes with being human. And in that vulnerability, there is strength.

When Life Hands You Chaos, Don’t Build a Farm—Face Your Feelings

Have you ever felt a certain way, knowing you're being unreasonable, yet still unable to shake that feeling? It doesn’t make sense; it’s confusing, and most of all, uncomfortable. Recognizing that discomfort, and acknowledging that you might be acting irrationally, is the essence of emotional intelligence knocking at your door.

It's perfectly okay to experience all kinds of emotions. If something feels unfair, allow yourself to feel that frustration. If you feel anger or hurt, it’s okay to let those feelings rise. But here's the key: what you do with those feelings is what defines your ability to lead. Are you responding thoughtfully, or are you simply reacting in the moment?

I recently shared how I dove into the wild idea of transforming my home into a fully functional farm. But this crazy phase didn’t stop there. Along with my farm dream, I thought, "Why not become an influencer?" I mean, I saw so many people on Instagram, TikTok, Facebook, creating homesteads and turning them into thriving social media empires. Surely I could do the same, right? So, I bought a selfie stick, a tripod, lights, and jumped into the world of content creation—without a clue what I was doing. My kids were all in too, eager to film every second.

Now, you might be wondering, "What does this have to do with emotional intelligence?" Well, quite a lot, actually!

Much like the growth I’ve experienced in my 30s, I acknowledged that I had work to do, and it hasn’t been easy. Over the past five years, I’ve committed myself to developing my emotional intelligence, understanding that it’s a skill that can be cultivated rather than something I was simply born with. Just like navigating the twists and turns of adulthood, this journey has required continuous effort, but the progress has been rewarding. The key components of emotional intelligence—self-awareness, self-regulation, motivation, empathy, and social skills—have become central to my personal growth, guiding me to understand myself better and handle the challenges life throws my way with more resilience and insight. While it’s been a work in progress, I can honestly say I’m in a better place today than I was when I started.

I’m an avoider by nature. I’ve always been one, and to some extent, I probably always will be. When things get uncomfortable, my instinct is to run, which is exactly what I did when I threw myself into the farm and content creation projects. Fortunately for me, none of it panned out. I quickly realized I knew nothing about content creation, and I have no real interest in farming. But running with that wild idea was exactly what I needed to bring myself back to reality.

It was a huge lesson for me—one of the most uncomfortable and frustrating moments of my adult life. I was unsure, angry, confused, and overwhelmed by so many things that had been building up. There was a feeling of anger—anger that things weren't going the way I thought they should, that I wasn’t where I wanted to be in life. There was frustration—frustration at the perceived lack of control I had over my circumstances, and a deep sense of uncertainty that clouded my every thought. I was flooded with emotions, yet instead of taking a step back to sit with those feelings and allow myself to process them, my first instinct was to run from them. I tried to mask the discomfort by making radical changes, thinking that an entire overhaul of my life—whether it was creating a farm or diving into social media—would somehow drown out the noise of those feelings.

But in reality, I was only compounding my discomfort. The more I tried to escape and "fix" everything, the more those emotions multiplied and lingered. The feelings of anger and frustration that I was carrying only became louder, and instead of finding clarity, I became more lost in the chaos of my own actions. The changes didn’t make me feel better. They simply distracted me, filling the space with new anxieties and self-doubt, rather than offering the clarity I so desperately needed.

Looking back, it’s clear that this was a pivotal and transformative moment for me. While it was an incredibly hard time, filled with discomfort and disappointment, it ultimately forced me to face the things I was avoiding. It pushed me to confront those uncomfortable emotions head-on, to acknowledge that I couldn’t outrun them, and to start the work of understanding and processing what they were telling me. In that sense, as horrible as it felt in the moment, that experience marked the beginning of real personal growth. I’ve come to realize that discomfort, while challenging, is often the catalyst for the most important transformations—if you allow yourself to sit with it, feel it, and learn from it rather than running away..

It’s okay to feel, but we must be careful not to let our reactions dictate our actions. Emotional intelligence is about facing discomfort, understanding it, and choosing a thoughtful response, rather than letting the feelings take the lead.

When the Only Leader in the Room Is You

You’ve probably heard the stories—the ones about the first time you realize you’re the adult in the room. Whether it’s with your kids, at work, or just anywhere in the world, something happens, and you stop, look around, and expect someone else to step in. But suddenly, you realize that person isn’t coming. It’s you. Everyone is waiting for you to know what to do.

Funny thing is, that feeling never goes away. It may not always be about being the only adult in the room, but it shifts to different areas of your life and work. It’s being the only nurse in the room or the only leader in the room or the person who has to make a hard call you’re not used to making.

Let me take you back to my adolescent psych days for a moment. As you can imagine, the stories never end. Day after day, you’re waiting for a break, waiting for someone else to step in and take charge. But you realize that person isn’t coming, because it’s you.

By the time I’d been in my role for about three or four months, I was feeling pretty good. I had a solid handle on who to call in a crisis and how to handle a range of situations, from minor injuries to more significant mental health crises—exactly what you expect in this line of work. It was a typical weekend afternoon. We’d usually get intakes as soon as a bed opened up, and that’s exactly what happened that day. I was prepared, I knew who was coming, and what to expect. The intake process went smoothly, and everything settled down into a typical afternoon. Midday was recreation time, and I planned to catch up and prep for the evening.

Then, suddenly, the radio crackled. It was one of the male techs paging for me. I thought it was just a simple request—someone needing Tylenol or perhaps a bee sting. But no. The request was for me to come to the other campus quickly because there was an unconscious patient.

Well, in healthcare, you expect things to happen, but this wasn’t something I anticipated in adolescent psych. I grabbed my bag, stayed on the phone with the tech, and hopped in my car. I could get from point A to point B in about three minutes if necessary, and in this case, I was there in less than 90 seconds. I entered the room, handed my phone to the tech to call the doctor, and began assessing the situation.

Our new intake, a 15-year-old, was lying on the bed. My initial thought was that he was messing with us. He looked peaceful, calm, almost as if he were sleeping, but there was something off. His breathing was steady and non-labored, his skin color looked fine. As I prepared to take his vitals, I walked over and attempted to rouse him, saying his name as I listened to his pulse. I had my pulse oximeter on his finger and continued my assessment, but something still didn’t feel right. I became more concerned, my tone shifting as I moved on to sternal rubs—a technique used to check neurological function by applying pressure to the sternum. Still, no response. Nothing.

At this point, the tech came back into the room, and the doctor was on the phone. I instructed the second tech to call 911 and grab the emergency bag with Narcan while I continued briefing the doctor. We were not equipped to handle medical crises beyond a certain level within the facility.

As I assessed the situation, my immediate thought was overdose. The physician on call agreed, and as soon as the tech returned with the Narcan, it was administered. Within minutes, we could hear the ambulance arriving in the distance. But still, no response from the Narcan. I stayed on the phone with the doctor, keeping him updated, but nothing was changing. I prepared to administer a second dose, and just as I was getting ready, the EMTs arrived. They took over, and I stepped back, ushering the techs out of the room.

I moved to the hallway to debrief. Both techs were visibly shaken. One of them was trembling as we spoke.

The child eventually regained consciousness. It turns out, just prior to his arrival, he had consumed an outrageous amount of alcohol. We routinely drug test on intake, but alcohol wasn’t part of our standard screening. After this incident, breathalyzers became a mandatory part of every intake.

As I stood in the hallway with the techs, I radioed the rest of the team, letting them know that the patient was cleared and moving out to the other campus. I had every patient escorted out of view to minimize exposure to what had transpired. In this moment, I wasn’t an official leader—I hadn’t even notified my direct supervisor yet. My attention was needed elsewhere, on those who had been right there with me through the crisis.

I’ve always had a great relationship with the techs I worked with, but this moment was the one that truly bonded us. We stood there together in the hallway, and one of them said, “I’m so glad you were the nurse on this evening. There was no panic. It was calm, methodical—everything went smoothly without chaos.”

Internally, I could feel my heart racing as I came down from the adrenaline, but outwardly, I had remained calm. Despite the intensity of the situation, I had functioned on autopilot. In many ways, I wasn’t a leader in that moment, but I was still looked to for guidance, and I provided the calm presence they needed.

It was moments like these that taught me what being a leader really is. I learned skills in those intense situations—skills that I still carry with me today. While my work may look different now, whether in hospice leadership or other settings, the level of calm and clarity needed remains the same. Leadership isn’t just about having all the answers or being the one in charge—it’s about being present, grounded, and calm, especially when it matters most.

Chickens, Soap, and Leadership: Lessons from My Homesteading Misadventures

So, I’m married, have 25 chickens, and typically, my husband Kyle is the one who takes care of them. But tonight, he’s working late as a general contractor on a painting job that needs to be completed after hours because it’s an office that people are in during the day. Of course, that’s the time I decide to need him the most. Olivia, my middle daughter, is also not around, so guess who has to make the trek out to the chicken coop to lock them up for the night? This girl.

Now, let me tell you, I had to hype myself up for a good 15 minutes before I walked down there. I mean, I had to find boots, gloves, and, most importantly, convince myself that the coop wasn’t going to be too gross to handle. It’s amazing how long it can take to talk yourself into a task that you know you have to do, but… I finally did it!

And before you think, "Wow, this is an unrelated, random story," bear with me for a second because it’s actually a perfect metaphor for a leadership lesson.

Two years ago, I found myself at a huge crossroads in my life. I had just stepped into a new management role while Kyle was simultaneously starting his own business and working another job. It was an intense time. And, what do I do when I’m in the middle of a busy, stressful period? Naturally, I decided to become a farmer.

Yes, you read that right. In the midst of all this, I had this crazy idea that I would transform our backyard into a farm—goats, mini cows, chickens, bees, vegetables—you name it. I was even convinced I was going to make soap and start an Etsy shop. Because, you know, when life gets overwhelming, the solution is always to add a bunch of living creatures and complex projects to your plate, right?

Well, I dove into the idea full steam ahead. I quickly had around 60 chickens, 10 turkeys, six baby ducks, and a garden that could have been the envy of any homesteader. I even bought all the supplies to make soap. But let me tell you… soap-making is not as easy as it seems. Unless you’re a chemist, don’t try it.

Eventually, after all the ducks, chickens, and failed soap attempts, I realized something: I don’t really want to be a homesteader. It turns out, I’m not a fan of being hot, dirty, and surrounded by things that smell, unless it’s related to being a nurse (strangely enough, I’m okay with that). The ducks, adorable as they were when they were babies, turned into slightly disgusting creatures. And if you don’t have a pond, please don’t get ducks. A kiddie pool just doesn’t cut it.

In the end, I realized where I belong. Not necessarily in a farm field, but leading a hospice team. So, while my dreams of being a homesteader and superwoman mom didn’t exactly pan out, I learned some valuable lessons along the way. Sometimes, what we think we want isn’t actually where we belong. And sometimes, stepping into the unknown (whether it’s a new leadership role or a chicken coop) takes a little convincing, a few moments of hesitation, and some tough decisions. But once we find the right path, we can truly thrive.

So, while Kyle now enjoys his new hobby of tending to chickens, while I admire from a distance, my dad has become my gardener…… I’m right where I’m supposed to be. And the journey? Well, it’s been a messy, farm-filled, soap-failed adventure that’s brought me to a leadership role where I can make the most impact.

And that, my friends, is why I’ll take the chickens in stride (as long as I’m not the one mucking out the coop).

Growth: It's Like a Roller Coaster, But With More Emotions

Anyone who knows me is well aware of my obsession with self-help audiobooks and guided meditations. The value of both has become even clearer during this pivotal time in my life.

Right now, I find myself at a significant personal crossroads, reflecting on multiple areas of my life and trying to decide what comes next. While reflection is essential, it can stir up a whirlwind of emotions—part excitement, part uncertainty. It's during these moments that I turn to the tools that have supported me through various stages of life, such as audiobooks and meditations, to help center my mind.

In the midst of this self-reflection, I realized something. The mood I’m in often determines which one I turn to. Recently, given the many thoughts running through my head, I chose a guided meditation that focused on grounding. It was a meditation I had never tried before, but it provided me with the chance to stop, reflect, and reconnect with the present moment. I stopped obsessing over the past and trying to predict the future. Instead, I focused on where I am right now—rocky waters, fast-moving currents, and all.

Even though things feel turbulent at times, I realized I’m exactly where I’ve always wanted to be. After all the struggles, the obstacles, and the challenges, this life—the one I’ve been working toward for years—is finally here.

My 30s have been the greatest period of growth in my life. This is the decade where I’ve truly learned who I am, both as a person and as a professional. I’ve let go of the expectations I once had about what my life “should” look like and started living with purpose. And along the way, I've learned that purpose is less about checking boxes and more about accepting where you are in the journey.

Social media often makes it feel like you’re falling behind. It’s easy to feel envious of those who seem to have it all figured out, posting about their glamorous vacations or seemingly perfect families. But the reality is, social media only shows the highlights—what people want you to see. Behind the filtered photos and perfectly curated posts, there could be struggles you’ll never hear about. It's easy to forget that life is messy, and it’s rarely as perfect as it appears online.

For most of my 20s, I waited for everything to “fall into place” before I could truly live. I thought, when we get a house, I’ll do this; when I become a nurse, I’ll do this; when I get that promotion, I’ll start living. But the truth is, life starts now. If we wait for the perfect moment to make our next move, we’ll be waiting forever.

Living doesn't require perfection. It requires presence. And while happiness is something we all chase, it’s not the same as life satisfaction. Learning to embrace life as it is—messy, unpredictable, and full of ups and downs—has given me a sense of satisfaction. Happiness follows naturally from there, but it’s not about being happy all the time. It’s about being at peace with where you are in the moment.

This shift has also helped me stop comparing myself to others. The constant need to compete, to measure up, can be exhausting. When you focus on becoming the best version of yourself, you stop worrying about what everyone else is doing. Only then can you start to build the life that’s right for you.

Growth, however, is not a straight line. It’s messy, difficult, and filled with moments where it feels like you’re not progressing at all. In fact, it’s rarely discussed—the messy middle where you're caught between where you were and where you're going. We talk about the destination, but not the journey.

I am very good at getting caught up in my own head. I let the whirlwind of emotions take hold, and it’s so easy to allow these feelings to spiral. Not just a small spiral, but a deep dive—down a sewer, around the bend, and popping out on the other side of the world. One thing that time, growth, and patience has taught me, though, is that this spiral does not benefit anyone. It doesn’t make any part of life easier, and if nothing else, dwelling on the “what-ifs” only leads to more feelings of inadequacy, confusion, and further spiraling downward. While I still may not know what the future holds, and my thoughts may be a jumbled tangle of weeds, I do know for certain that in this moment, right here, right now, I am exactly where I belong.

As I reflect on my path, I realize how often I’ve compared myself to others. The saying “comparison is the thief of joy” couldn’t be truer. I spent so many days, hours, and years measuring my progress against someone else’s timeline. In doing so, I lost sight of my own journey. Now, I see that my path is uniquely mine, and that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be.

It’s time we acknowledge the messiness of growth. It’s the in-between, the moments when things feel uncertain, that shape us into the people we’re meant to be. The struggle is part of the process, and embracing it is where true transformation happens.

Be the Unicorn: Leading with Confidence, Even If You're the Mountain Holding Yourself Back

I recently wrapped up listening to two books that hit me right where I needed them. The first, Be the Unicorn by William Vanderbloemen, was like motivational pep talk wrapped in a rainbow-colored package. The second, The Mountain is you by Brianna Wiest was a bit more of a gut check—so much so that I listened to it twice because the words were just too spot-on to ignore. Now, let’s dive into how these books aren't just self-help fluff, but serious leadership lessons that—let's be real—some of us desperately need.

Be the Unicorn: Lead Like You’re the Only One in the Room
If you've ever struggled with stepping into your own leadership power, Be the Unicorn is your ticket to the confidence train. This book is all about leading with authenticity, embracing your uniqueness, and showing up unapologetically in your role. In the context of leadership, it’s a call to stop blending in with the herd and to let your quirks, skills, and strengths shine. The whole "be the unicorn" mantra is about fostering an environment where you stand out for the right reasons—not because you’re trying too hard, but because you’re genuinely leading with your personal brand of magic.

What makes this so powerful for leadership is that it’s not just about being different for the sake of it—it’s about understanding that your individual strengths are exactly what a team needs. When you lead with that kind of self-assurance, you're not just a leader, you’re the one who helps others step into their own unique potential. And let’s be honest, who wouldn’t want a leader that inspires them to feel like they’re all magic?

The Mountain Is You: Realizing You’re the Obstacle (But You Can Move It)
Now, on to The Mountain is you. After the unicorn glitter-fest, this book was a bit of a reality check. The premise is simple, yet profound: You, the leader, are the mountain. You're the immovable force that shapes your own path, but you’re also the one who sometimes stands in your own way. And let me tell you, hearing that was like someone shining a flashlight on the giant boulder I've been pretending wasn’t there.

As a leader, sometimes it’s easy to think that external challenges are your biggest hurdle. You know, the things that are clearly out of your control: market shifts, staffing issues, or that one colleague who still thinks emails should be written in all caps. But The Mountain is you is a reminder that often, the toughest barrier is the one you’ve built inside your own mind.

You’re the one overthinking that decision, rehashing past mistakes, and—let’s be real—creating mountains out of molehills. I’ve definitely found myself in a leadership meeting where my brain has decided to erect a mountain out of a simple question, only to later realize it was just a speed bump. So, yeah, that mountain you’re staring at? You might have built it, and only you can knock it down with a little introspection and maybe a few good laughs along the way.

The Leadership Takeaway:
So, here’s the kicker. As a leader, you can be the unicorn—leading with confidence, authenticity, and an undeniable sense of purpose. You inspire your team to embrace their uniqueness and shine. But at the same time, don’t forget that sometimes, the biggest barrier to growth isn’t the external factors—it’s the mountain you’ve built within yourself. It’s easy to get comfortable behind that mountain, thinking you need to have all the answers. But the real magic happens when you push past that mountain, tear down the barriers, and embrace the unknown with the confidence of a unicorn leading the way.

In the end, true leadership isn’t about pretending to have it all together. It's about leading with your flaws, your strengths, and your ability to break down the walls that you, yourself, might have built. And if you can do that while staying true to yourself, you’re not just leading a team—you’re helping everyone discover their own magical potential.

My First Two Weeks: A Trial by Fire

It was only two weeks into my new role in adolescent psychiatric nursing, and I walked in expecting a day like any other—routine, predictable, perhaps with a few challenges. But the reality of that shift was anything but.

Things were just settling down when I walked into the nursing office to receive my report. There had been some commotion earlier, some shenanigans that were now calming down. But the calm didn’t last long. No sooner had we sat down than a loud bang echoed through the building, followed by screams that cut through the air like a knife.

The radio crackled to life, and the only word that came through was one I’ll never forget: “Help.”

Without thinking, we jumped up, running toward the sound of the chaos. When we reached the main level, the scene was already unfolding. Children were being ushered inside, their faces a mix of fear and confusion. In the corner of my eye, I noticed a shattered window—glass scattered across the floor. Out on the grass, a chair lay in pieces, and there was blood. I turned to see one of the boys standing there. He couldn’t have been older than 16, but his arms were covered in tattoos, and his face bore the weathered look of someone who had seen more than his fair share of hardship.

Tears streamed down his face, and my heart sank. This was no ordinary day. The sirens in the distance grew louder, and within moments, emergency responders arrived, ready to take control of the situation. It was the first major crisis I’d encountered in this new role, and I was still trying to process the scene before me.

I told myself it wasn’t going to be the norm, that this was just one of those unfortunate events that happens occasionally in this line of work. But in that moment, I was a nurse—not a leader, not someone with answers, just a nurse who was two weeks into a job that carried a weight of responsibility I had not yet learned how to bear.

For the rest of the shift, I was paralyzed. Petrified. I had no idea what was coming next, but I stayed on high alert, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios. The rest of the night passed in eerie silence. No more incidents, no more chaos. Just a palpable tension that hung in the air, making every small sound feel like the precursor to something else.

When I finally left at the end of the shift, I was exhausted. Physically and emotionally drained. I couldn’t help but question whether I was truly prepared for the demands of this job. The truth is, I wasn’t. I had walked in with an idea of what my work would entail, but nothing could have prepared me for the unpredictability, the raw emotions, and the urgency that come with caring for these young individuals.

But that shift where I navigated my first crisis of this role, taught me something invaluable: in this line of work, there is no time to be paralyzed by fear or doubt. You show up. You do your job. You put one foot in front of the other, even when you’re not sure what’s next. You lead, not with authority, but with calm and care.

That night wasn’t the exception; it was the norm. The incidents only grew more intense, the chaos more overwhelming, and the stakes higher. But with each challenge, I pushed on. I learned to face each moment with the same determination, even as the demands increased. The fear never fully left, but neither did my resolve. In this line of work, there’s no room for hesitation—only the drive to keep moving forward, no matter how difficult the journey may become.

The Real Lesson Wasn't the Chair

That day wasn’t about physical safety—it was about emotional safety.
Yes, I was the one hit. But I wasn’t the only one shaken.
Leadership meant showing up calm when others felt chaos.
It meant processing the trauma with the team, not above them.
It meant staying human, even when I wanted to retreat.

Here's What That Moment Taught Me About Leadership:

✔️ You don’t need to have all the answers—just presence.
✔️ Regulation beats reaction. When you’re calm, others find their footing.
✔️ Leadership is not about appearing unshakable—it’s about being real and responsible at the same time.
✔️ Debriefing with care builds trust more than any title ever could.

Leaders on Edge

We don’t get to choose when the chair flies—literally or metaphorically.
But we do get to choose how we show up when it does.

In the years since that day, I’ve sat in boardrooms, led through a significant organizational shift, helped a team through crisis, while navigating several significant personal challenges simultaneously.  But I’ve never forgotten the lesson from that small psych office:

Crisis doesn’t define your leadership—your response does.

Thank you for being here. If this resonated, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Let’s keep redefining what leadership looks like—especially in the hard moments.

#LeadersOnEdge #AuthenticLeadership #TraumaInformedLeadership #NurseLeadership #Resilience #HealthcareLeadership #LeadershipLessons

I Should Have Known…

Working in adolescent psych, you learn quickly that everything comes to the nurse—whether it's a scraped knuckle, a meltdown, or something no one else quite knows what to do with. The nurse becomes the fixer, the emotional sponge, the “safe one”—at least, that's how it often felt.

He was about fifteen. I remember reviewing his chart during intake and thinking, “He doesn’t seem like one of the troubled ones.” He looked like a kid you’d see in a school hallway—quiet, guarded, too young to carry anything that heavy.

When they brought him down to the office, I happened to be there. He didn’t speak, not a word, but something in his eyes made me pause. There was a quiet chaos behind them. I stood in front of him as he sat on the exam table, trying to connect—nurse to patient, human to human—trying to figure out what he needed.

Then it happened.

Without warning, he leaned over, picked up the small machine used to test hearing, and hurled it at the wall with everything he had. The crash of it hitting the wall wasn’t what made my heart race—it was the silence that followed. I reached for the walkie to call for help, but before I could even speak into it, the chair in the corner came flying toward me.

I didn’t have time to think—just move. I turned quickly, shielding my head, my arms instinctively raising in defense. The angle of my turn saved my upper body, but the chair slammed into my leg. I felt it buckle. Pain shot up and through me, but I stayed standing.

Two male techs rushed in, finally, and helped deescalate. They managed to safely restrain him and remove him from the room.

What came next was a blur—but I remember every detail.

911 is called. The doctor is notified. Papers are signed. And then the sirens. State troopers whirling in. An ambulance. A fire truck. All converging on what had, just moments earlier, been a standard intake.

And then, the part no one prepares you for: the aftermath.

It’s up to me to debrief with the other teens on the unit—some shaken, some wide-eyed, some quietly trying to process what they just witnessed. I check in with my coworkers, who are rattled but trying to stay composed. And then comes the call to the patient’s family, the ones who had just dropped him off for much-needed help. They entrusted him to our care, and within moments, it had all spiraled. What was supposed to be the beginning of healing now felt like betrayal and confusion.

And me? I walked out of that office with a throbbing leg, adrenaline still buzzing through my system, and the weight of what had just happened settling in. By the time I got home that night, the bruises had already started to form—deep purple, aching reminders of a situation that could’ve ended very differently.

I iced my leg. Took some ibuprofen. Told myself it was just part of the job.

But the truth? I should have known.

I should have known this wasn’t sustainable. That this wasn’t normal. That the physical bruises were warning signs—but the emotional ones had already been there.

But I didn’t take the hint. Not then.

The Unwritten Job Descriptions of Leadership

No one ever handed me a leadership manual with a chapter titled: “What to do when someone’s world is falling apart.” Or “How to show up for your team when you haven’t slept.” Or “How to be the glue when everything feels like it’s coming undone.”

But that’s the reality of leadership—not the bullet points on the job posting, but the invisible threads we carry every day.

We step in when it’s inconvenient. We show up when it’s uncomfortable. And we stay long after the scheduled shift is over.

Leadership, I’ve learned, isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about being present when the questions are heavy and the path forward is unclear.

There have been days I’ve covered visits when no one else was available—not because it was in my job description, but because the patients needed care and the team needed to breathe.

There have been late-night texts, early-morning phone calls, and hallway conversations where staff have opened up—not about documentation or metrics—but about divorces, grief, burnout, and fear.

And in those moments, leadership looked like listening. No solutions. No timelines. Just presence.

These aren’t things you learn in orientation. They’re learned in real-time—in the quiet crash courses of crisis, humility, and grace.

I’ve taught myself how to be a sounding board. How to deescalate when tensions are high. How to sit with someone in silence until they’re ready to speak. How to read between the lines of a “I’m fine” and know when to dig deeper.

I’ve learned to hold space for people without trying to fix them. To offer support without overpromising. To be strong, even when I feel stretched thin.

This is the unseen work. The kind that doesn’t get logged or measured. But it’s what shapes a team. It’s what earns trust. It’s what turns coworkers into collaborators—and a job into a mission.

If you’re in leadership—especially in fields like healthcare, human services, or education—you already know: You don’t lead from a desk. You lead from the middle of the mess.

And that’s what makes it meaningful.

Because the truth is, we don’t grow despite the chaos—we grow because of it. And every time we say yes to the parts of leadership no one warned us about, we become stronger. More human. More real. More ready for what’s next.

So here’s to all the self-taught leaders. The ones learning on the fly. The ones showing up when it’s hard. The ones filling roles that never made it onto paper.

You are doing the real work. And even if it’s not written down—it matters more than you know.