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Daphne Turns Nine

Nine.

Somehow, impossibly, beautifully… nine.

There is something about this age that feels different from the years before it. It feels like the beginning of becoming. Like watching someone slowly unfold into who they were always meant to be. It’s a weird thing to be a mom where you are so proud of their growth and the person they are, but also realizing you never get to be with this age again. There is mourning and celebration with each passing year.

This year asked a lot of you, Daphie girl.

A new school. New experiences. New teachers. New friendships. New expectations. The year was packed full of things that kept you busy.

And yet, you kept going.

You walked into unfamiliar places and kept trying anyway. You raised your hand for things that would have felt scary to many people. You qualified for two academic competitions, and it was amazing to see you shine in those moments even when I know it was out of your comfort zone. You tried basketball for the first time. You stretched yourself in ways that would have been easy to avoid. And even when you doubted yourself, you kept showing up.

That quiet courage is one of the things I admire most about you.

Sometimes I wonder if being sandwiched between two brothers who naturally take up so much space has caused you to shrink yourself a little smaller than you should. The world around you can be loud. Fast. Busy. Full of people talking over one another.

But there is something powerful about people who observe first. Who think deeply. Who notice details others miss.

That’s you.

You have one of the most creative minds I have ever seen. Your brain is constantly moving, imagining, creating, experimenting. There are science experiments scattered across your room, drawings on notebooks and scraps of paper and sometimes things that probably were not intended to be drawn on at all. You are always building something, imagining something, wondering something.

You are endlessly full of ideas.

And what I love most is how your mind works. You don’t just color outside the lines. Half the time you’re inventing an entirely different picture altogether. You see things differently, and I hope you never lose that. You are constantly teaching yourself new things whether it is the periodic table, random facts about space or penguins, how to shade in pencil drawings, or how to make your own slideshow in different apps.

This year I also watched you build your confidence in dance. There’s been something really special about seeing you settle into lyrical and tap, seeing moments where you stop overthinking and simply move. We really saw that come out when you did the stage show “High School Musical.” Those moments feel like little windows into who you really are underneath the uncertainty.

And I wish you could see what everyone else sees so clearly.

Because the truth is: there is so much greatness inside of you.

Not the loud kind. Not the kind that demands attention every time it enters a room. But the steady kind. The thoughtful kind. The creative kind. The kind that changes the people around it quietly and deeply.

You are constantly reading the room to fill in the holes. Whether that is something physical to brighten the room up, or emotionally telling when someone needs extra attention or care. You are the everlasting helper. Your empathy is one of my favorite qualities you have, and you are someone who is always making sure that those around you feel included and seen.

My biggest wish for you at nine is that you begin to believe in yourself the way the people who love you already do.

I hope you find your voice in all the noise.

I hope you learn that your thoughts are worth sharing, your ideas are worth hearing, and your presence is worth noticing.

And more than anything, I hope you continue leaning fully into the wonderfully out-of-the-box way you see the world. Because that part of you, the imaginative, curious, creative, beautifully kind part, is how you put your mark on this world.

The world does not need you to become more like everyone else.

It needs more of exactly who you already are.

Happy ninth birthday, sweet girl. I can’t wait to see what this year brings you.

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Coaching Her First Season

Basketball has always been my favorite sport. Growing up, I spent so much of my time in the gym as my dad coached at our high school so we were often around to see the game. Then I spent years on my own teams learning the positions and the ups and downs of the sport. Hearing the bounce of the ball, the squeak of shoes, the rhythm of the game, it was something I loved and brought me so much.

When Daphne signed up for her first season this year, a part of me was so excited for her to experience that joy too. But another part of me didn’t want her to feel like she had to love it just because it was mine. I wanted to share something I love without making it feel like an obligation. I didn’t want my passion to accidentally become pressure.

I had to find the balance between my own excitement and giving her the space to love the game in her own way. That meant reminding myself not to immediately point out what she could get better at and sometimes she just needed to hear, “That was awesome.”

Watching her try something new is always such a gift. Some days were beautiful and light where she smiled, she hustled, she had fun. Other days were harder. She saw other kids who were more confident, more skilled, more sure of themselves, and she compared herself to them. She wondered why they “never” passed to her. And as her coach (and her mom), that part was tough to watch.

But those moments became opportunities, not to correct her, but to encourage her. To help her see that trying something new isn’t about being perfect. It’s about showing up, challenging yourself, and learning as you go.

As a coach, it’s easy to see mechanics and missed opportunities. As a mom, I had to make sure to see her first. I had to practice pausing. I had to ask myself, “Is this about her growth or my expectations?”

I know from experience how early comparison creeps in. It is part of the reason I stopped playing after my sophomore year. How quickly kids can measure themselves against someone else’s strengths can be something. And I learned that my job wasn’t to eliminate that feeling, it was to help her build the resilience to move through it.

What made me the proudest wasn’t how she dribbled down the court or her stats, it was her heart.

She was always the first one down the court when possessions changed over. She hustled. She encouraged her teammates. Even on the tough days, the ones where she felt discouraged or compared herself, she came back the next practice ready to try again. She didn’t give up. She listened. She worked. She grew.

And watching her grow forced me to grow too.

I learned (again) that my role isn’t to smooth every hard moment for her. It’s to sit beside her in it. To remind her who she is when the scoreboard feels louder than her confidence. To model steadiness. To cheer effort. To let her story be hers.

She learned so much this season, about basketball, and about herself. She learned that hard things are worth trying, that effort counts, and that being a teammate is about more than making baskets.

And I learned (again) that success looks different when you’re a parent. It’s quieter. It’s deeper. It’s less about outcomes and more about character.

This might be the only season she and I do together. Right now she says she wants to come back, but we’ll see what the year brings. And that’s okay if not because this season was a dream in itself.

When I was in middle school, my dad coached my basketball team. (See below, I am number 6, and my dad is the tall one.) It was the only team that he was officially my coach, but he was always supportive of the sport he loved as well. I didn’t fully appreciate it then, but now I look back and see what a gift it was, the time, the encouragement, the belief he had in me. Standing on the sideline with Daphne this season, I finally understand that dream in a whole new way.

Maybe she’ll keep playing. Maybe her path will lead somewhere else. Either way, what we gained this season was so much more than wins or losses.

It was connection. It was courage. It was growth.

And if this was our only season together, it was awesome.

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A Step Into Teaching

Tomorrow I begin my second semester as a middle school teacher, and I’m filled with gratitude, anticipation, and a depth of peace I wasn’t sure was possible when I made this transition.

Six months ago, I shared the why behind this pivot, the long, honest reflection that led me to leave a career in higher education that had been my professional home for two decades. I wrote about feeling a quiet nudge that eventually grew into a persistent whisper I couldn’t ignore. I realized I wasn’t just ready for change, I was being called back to my original dream: being in front of students.

Since stepping into this classroom, that call has become joy, meaning, and connection in ways I could never have fully anticipated.

Creativity as Lifeline

I didn’t realize how much I missed creating, not just planning or strategizing, but crafting moments, lessons, activities, and experiences that live and breathe in real time. Over time, my work became shaped more by navigating initiatives and carrying forward other people’s ideas than by creating from my own gifts. I spent a lot of energy trying to bring others along, shaping messages, and working through layers that slowly pulled me further from the student and the heart of the work. Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of how deeply I’m wired to create in order to encourage learning.

Now, every day, I get to use my skills in a way that feels aligned with my calling. I create, I respond, I adjust, and I engage in real time with the students in front of me. I’m no longer removed from the impact. I get to witness it as it unfolds. It’s one thing to dream up ideas; it’s another entirely to watch them land (or not) and learn from it immediately. Even when things don’t land perfectly, the freedom to try again, reshuffle, and adapt has been deeply restorative. There’s a joy here I didn’t realize I had lost,

Connection and Showing Up

One of the most meaningful parts of this work has been the connections with students and the privilege of truly getting to know them. Middle schoolers are raw, honest, funny, and deeply human in a way that feels sacred to witness. They show up as they are, still figuring themselves out, carrying stories that are sometimes light and sometimes incredibly heavy. This work is not easy. There are moments that stay with me long after the bell rings, stories that remind me how much some kids are holding at such a young age. But rather than feeling helpless, my perspective has shifted. I no longer feel removed; I am in it with them. Being present, listening, laughing, and offering consistency has reminded me that meaning isn’t found in fixing everything, it’s found in showing up. Those connections, even on the hardest days, are what anchor me and continually affirm that this is exactly where I’m meant to be.

Community That Feels Like Home

In higher ed, I was part of teams (some truly amazing teams), but often in leadership roles that felt isolating. Even when I had support, solitude was part of the territory. Leadership can feel like being on an island, surrounded by people but still very much alone. And I had been in a leadership role for the last 8 years.

Teaching is different. I have peers I can walk alongside, not lead, not manage, not supervise, just colleagues who share the same floor, the same schedules, the same moments of triumph and challenge. We brainstorm together. We laugh together. We support each other without competition. I am not having to convince anyone of anything. We show up knowing we have the same goal.

That sense of team, not as a title, but as a shared experience, has been one of the greatest gifts of this change.

Joy, Play, and Presence

My day isn’t dictated by data dashboards and proposal pipelines. Data still matters. I use it to inform and adjust, but now it’s woven into the action of teaching rather than looming outside it. The joy, the play, the laughter, these are not distractions; they are essential.

Some days, I laugh all day. On heavier days, I still find gratitude because even in the weight, I can see God’s hand at work. On the last day before break, I cried on the drive home, not from exhaustion, but from deep thankfulness. I was overwhelmed by the quiet assurance that I am walking in God’s plan, that this path was prepared long before I ever stepped into it. This work aligns so deeply with who He has shaped me to be through every season, every detour, and every hard decision. I cried because I knew I had followed His leading, even when it meant letting go of something familiar to step into something unknown.

Those tears weren’t sadness. They were surrender. They were relief. They were peace. Peace that comes from trusting God’s timing and recognizing His faithfulness in every step that led me here.

Honestly, I have at least one moment of genuine, unfiltered thankfulness every single week, moments that stop me in my tracks and remind me to pause and give thanks. Sometimes it’s a student’s unexpected comment that makes me laugh out loud, a lesson that finally clicks, or a quiet moment at the end of the day as I straighten desks and erase the board. I know this may sound Pollyanna, almost too neat or optimistic, especially to anyone who has felt professionally stuck. But the truth is, I was stuck in higher education, weighed down by roles and rhythms that no longer fit. This shift in perspective didn’t come from naïveté; it came from clarity. And that clarity has been deeply freeing.

In those small, ordinary moments, I feel God’s presence so clearly, a steady reminder that He is near and that this path was never accidental. This gratitude feels different than it has before. It isn’t rooted in novelty or ease, and it certainly doesn’t ignore the hard days. Believe me this work is challenging, and some days I scratch my head on how to reach some of these 8th graders. Instead, the gratitude flows from the peace of knowing I am walking in obedience, stewarding the gifts God has given me in a way that feels honest and aligned.

Some transitions are about growth, about stretching into something unfamiliar. But this one feels like a return, a gentle leading back to who God created me to be in the first place. It’s a homecoming of sorts, marked not by perfection, but by peace, purpose, and a renewed trust in His timing and faithfulness.

Movement, Body, and Belonging

On a lighter note, I am not meant to sit behind a desk. I feel that in my bones. I walk, I move, I dance around my room, and yes, it’s tiring. But it’s the good tired. The kind that fills you up because it comes from being fully alive in your work.

Test days, when I’m suddenly sitting again, feel longer. They remind me of what I was missing: activity, motion, and the simple physical rhythm of a real, full school day.

Growing Into Myself and Not Away From My Story

I am still me. I didn’t leave all my skills behind, I bring them here. All that I learned in higher education, data analysis, leadership, strategy, advocacy, they are now tools I apply in real time with students. I still believe firmly that “detour” into higher ed wasn’t wasted, it was preparation. It shaped the teacher I am today and gave me perspective.

But the difference now is that the work feeds me and not just my resume or boosting me on a leadership organization chart.

This change wasn’t about leaving something bad. It was about recognizing that something good was no longer the right fit for me anymore , and having the courage to follow the whisper that said there was something more waiting.

I am thankful for higher education and all it taught me: the growth, the relationships, and the seasons that shaped me. I’m deeply grateful for the people God placed in my life during those years and for the lessons I carried forward with me. But I am equally grateful that I learned to listen when God began to stir my heart, when the quiet whisper grew clearer and I sensed Him saying, “There is something else for you.” Trusting that nudge required faith, but it led me exactly where I am meant to be.

And that whisper led me here: to a classroom full of life, laughter, challenge, joy, and purpose.

Here’s to the work that lights us up, the journey that shapes us, and the courage to choose what feels right in our bones.

Here’s to finding our why and living it.

I can’t wait to see what the rest of this year brings.

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Walter Turns Five

My sweet Walter,
Today you turn five. Five feels big. Five feels like the official goodbye to babyhood, toddlerhood, and so many little moments I’ve held onto with both hands. You came into this world with a sweet simplicity, and you have been healing parts of me ever since. You’re our youngest of three — the grand finale — and somehow watching you turn five feels both impossibly fast and incredibly sacred.

I’ve known this day was coming, but there’s something about the youngest hitting this milestone that hits a little differently. You’re the last one who needed me for everything. And now here you are — tall, hilarious, opinionated, fiercely independent, and so wonderfully you.

You were born into a loud house with siblings who have wrapped you up into their chaos. You’ve grown up trying to keep up with the big kids — running a little faster, climbing a little higher, talking a little sooner and a whole lot more. You’ve taught us all how to laugh at the chaos and soften in the sweetness.

You are the perfect blend of tough and tender. You know how to hold your own, but you also know how to melt into us when you want to be little. I secretly love those moments — the ones where you curl up next to me and remind me that no matter how big you get, you’ll always be my baby. You did this last night as climbed up to me to snuggle after you had a scary dream, and I will hold those last moments of being four so dear.

What I want to remember about this age with you Wally:

  • The way you are always the last to wake up, and always with wild hair. You still have me carry you down to breakfast on school days, and I will keep doing it since I never know when the last time will be.
  • The sound of your footsteps running down the hallway because you have important things to tell us…or how you are sneaking down to get a late night milk.
  • Your obsession with chicken nuggets.
  • The way you throw yourself into things and teach yourself how to do something hard, like swinging on your own.
  • The way your body moves and dances anytime you hear music. Your movie credit dancing is my favorite.
  • The way you set your boundaries and stick to your strong will. You are firm when you don’t want to do something, and you cannot be swayed once you are convicted. This isn’t just about doing things like chores, but how you aren’t going to engage in activities that don’t bring you joy even if they seem fun to the rest of us.
  • The way your brother and sister light up when you do something funny. You bring out the kid in all of us. You are always trying to make everyone smile around you, and you bring levity into every situation.
  • You are wild beyond measure, but you still search for my hand to hold as we walk places which reminds me of your gentleness.

I want to remember how you look at the world with wide-open excitement, as if everything is an adventure waiting for you to join in.

You made our family feel complete. You taught me how to let go of perfection, how to savor the littlest moments, and how to find joy in the middle of messy days. You stretched my heart in ways I never expected.

As you step into five, into kindergarten this next year, into bigger shoes and braver steps, I hope you carry these things with you:

  • Keep your imagination big.
  • Keep your laugh loud.
  • Keep your kindness close.
  • Keep your dance moves coming.
  • And keep believing that the world is good, because you make it better just by being in it.

One day, you’ll be too big for my lap and too cool for my hugs. But I hope you’ll still read these words and know how fiercely loved you’ve always been.
You are my last baby, but you’re also the one who taught me that endings can be beautiful — because they’re really just beginnings in disguise.

We love you more every single day Wally, and we can’t wait to see you grow this year.

Here’s to five — to the magic, the mischief, and the memories ahead.

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George Year Eleven

Dear George,

Today you turn eleven and start middle school. I cannot believe that we are at this stage, but welcome to this adventure called middle school! You are about to grow, stretch, stumble, laugh, learn, and change more in the next few years than you may even realize. And that’s okay—middle school is meant to be a little messy.

Here are a few things I want you to know:

  • It’s okay not to have it all figured out. You’re still learning who you are, what you like, and what matters most to you.
  • Mistakes are proof that you’re trying. Some of your biggest lessons won’t come from getting things right the first time, but from trying again.
  • Kindness matters. The way you treat others (and yourself!) will always matter more than grades, clothes, or being “cool.”
  • You are not alone. Even when it feels like no one understands, I promise there are people cheering you on—teachers, friends, family, and more.
  • You are enough. Exactly as you are today, you are worthy of love, respect, and joy.

Middle school is just one chapter in your story, but it’s an important one. Take chances, work hard, be curious, laugh often, and remember—who you are becoming matters more than who you’ve been.

So this is a very special birthday for you, you not only began a brand-new school year but also stepped into middle school today. Eleven is such a special age—you’re right in between being a kid and becoming a teenager. What I love most is how you get the best of both worlds: you still have that playful, silly side that makes life fun, and you’re also starting to see the world in deeper ways, asking big questions and sharing your thoughtful ideas.

I am so proud of you—of your positive attitude, your courage, and most of all, the way you are freely and unapologetically yourself. What a gift to walk into this new chapter on such a meaningful day.

You’ve got this.

Love,

Mom