We had just closed on our Blue Heron Lane home earlier that day. When we got back to my parents’ house, I sat down at the dining room table—our temporary home base that’s currently overflowing with all the odds and ends of a life in transition. Boxes. Snacks. TVs. A quarter of our closet. It’s chaotic, a little crowded, and yet somehow exactly where I needed to be.

I took a deep breath, opened my laptop, and stared at the website I’d been slowly crafting—not just online, but in my heart—for nearly two years. This wasn’t just a blog post. It was a piece of me. A release. A vulnerable offering I hoped might connect with someone else on the same winding path of rediscovery.

I felt everything all at once—nervous, exposed, excited, peaceful. I kept rereading the same sentences, tweaking small things that probably didn’t matter.

I thought:
“Does this even make sense?”
“Am I just overthinking again?”
“Who do I think I am, posting something this vulnerable for the world to see?”

And then Colton came up—climbed right into my lap like he always does—and started pressing keys and trying to shut my laptop. He looked up at me and said, “Mama, we go outside. C’mon, mama, go outside.”

I laughed at the timing. Of course. Just as I was trying to freeze the moment, life moved forward without waiting. But I also knew that was the nudge I needed—my sign from God. A holy interruption to remind me that it was time to let go. To stop editing and overthinking and doubting. To trust that what I had written was enough. That I was enough.

So I closed my eyes, took another deep breath, and clicked publish.

And then I shouted:
“I finally did it!!! It’s published!!”

I wanted everyone in the house to hear it.
Parker came in and gave me a big hug—the kind that says, I see you. I’m proud of you.
My parents looked up, a little confused (this was the first they were hearing about the blog or website😅), and kept packing for their conference in Vegas.

Just like many other afternoons spent at MiMi & Poppie’s house, we took a family walk outside while Grayson practiced riding his bike.

It was nothing special. No confetti, no fireworks.
Just a regular Monday evening in a house full of boxes, toys, and two wild little boys.
But something about it felt sacred.
I had done something brave… something just for me.
And for the first time in a long time…
I felt proud.

Not proud in a showy way.
But proud in the deep, quiet, “God I’m listening” kind of way.

I’d been slowly piecing this together in my heart for almost two years. I didn’t always know what it would look like, but I knew what it would feel like: honest, raw, faith-led, and full of heart. A space to share what I’ve learned—and unlearned—through motherhood, leadership, grief, growth, and grace. A space that would maybe help someone else feel a little less alone.