Blog

My husband and I recently hit a major milestone: ten years of marriage. To celebrate a decade of love, laughter, growth, and (let’s be honest) a lot of daily life logistics, we decided to go on a second honeymoon. We packed our bags and headed to a beautiful, all-inclusive resort. No cooking, no cleaning, no schedules, no alarms. Just paradise. I expected to immediately melt into a state of total, blissful relaxation. But instead, something unexpected happened.

I just spent a beautiful, sun-drenched week at the beach, doing what I think many of us do when we get a rare moment to sit by the ocean: I stared at the water.

If you were to look at my life from the outside right now, you might see a woman spinning a dozen different plates and somehow keeping them in the air.

Every year, as the final frost melts and the first hints of spring green begin to peek through the soil, my husband walks out to the yard, points to the corner of our house, and asks me the exact same question: “Can I finally cut it down this year?” He’s talking about our magnolia tree. And looking at it through his practical, well-meaning eyes, I can’t exactly blame him. For most of the year, it looks entirely, undeniably dead. The bark is weathered, the branches l

If you were to walk through my front door on any given afternoon, you probably wouldn’t find a home ready for a magazine photoshoot.

But heaven help me, I only had the kind with meatballs. And if you have a toddler, you know that a rogue meatball can feel like the end of the world.