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.

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.