I refuse to take full accountability during December. There’s simply too much happening.

There’s a very specific kind of silence that happens right before a school bus arrives for a field trip. It’s not peaceful. It’s…suspenseful.

It started with a meme and ended with me performing emergency surgery on Godzilla’s crotch using a pair of dirty black leggings.

I scanned my “home turf”: the bottom shelf, the middle shelf, the easy grab-and-go zones. Then, on a whim, I rose up into a shaky little relevé—heels lifted, narrow second position, channeling every ounce of balance and ankle strength left over from yesterday's class.

It was one of those late nights—dance class ran long, so dinner ended up being “Old McDonald’s,” as we call it. Fries, nuggets, and wrappers scattered on the counter. That’s when we realized French Fry, Bennett’s betta fish, had died.

The dentist’s office has never been on my list of “can’t wait to get there” places.  But today I had one of THE best dental experiences of my life—and it had everything to do with two women who turned what’s usually a checklist chore into a moment of joy, learning, and emotional connection.

This Bounce-Back Bowl is what I make when I come home from a workout, sneakers still on, ponytail askew, and stomach growling like a motivational podcast host who skipped breakfast. It’s warm. It’s satisfying. It’s built with recovery in mind. And it has Red Hot—because emotional intelligence is spicy, too.

Even in the moments when we feel like we may not be providing an exceptional amount of value—when we feel like a burden for needing help or care—we still matter. Because those moments, too, are teachable.

It was the kind of Michigan evening that makes you forget how gray April was. The kids were buzzing with end-of-school energy, the grass had that newly-mowed smell that makes you feel like a responsible adult, and my husband and I made the genius-level parenting decision to buy a trampoline with the the vague hope this single purchase would magically entertain our children all summer while also building their character, improving their coordination, and keeping them from figh

To me, it’s a non-issue. I’m in and out of the cabinet 17 times a day. It’s not in the way. It doesn’t creak or leak or do anything offensive. It’s just slightly… ajar. Like me. But the other day, my husband walks by and casually says:  “Have you ever noticed this door is always open? I shut it like a million times a day.”

We’d been outside for a while—running, laughing, exploring, existing. No big plans. Just the kind of playful, everyday magic that doesn’t feel all that significant until someone says something that stops time.

Somewhere along the way, we started believing that holding on is noble. That letting go is lazy. That making things work—even when they very much do not—is somehow virtuous.

There I was, alone in my kitchen, marinating steak kebabs with the level of care usually reserved for newborns or wedding centerpieces, when the words just tumbled out of my mouth.

Some ideas still hold up. Most… do not. But here’s the thing: being easily inspired is an art. And like any art form, it comes with beauty, chaos, and the occasional “what was I thinking?” moment.

It started—as many of my evenings do—with a child asking an innocent question and me trying to micromanage the fun out of it.

This friend recently celebrated a birthday, and his perspective on aging, purpose, and presence has reframed how I think about growing older, moving slower, and showing up wiser. This story is for him, for anyone who’s ever wondered if they still matter, and for everyone ready to listen a little more closely.

If you’ve ever been told “you’re ruining my life” by someone who still needs help opening a string cheese, you may be raising a human between the ages of 3 and 13. Or worse—13 and beyond.

If you’re currently spiraling over centerpieces—be it for a wedding, a shower, a birthday bash—please let this serve as your gentle, slightly ridiculous reminder: Time is wild. Priorities shift. And glassware is forever.

Spoiler Alert: It’s not about the watermelon. It’s about how you bite into the world.

We’ve shared tissues and tequila. Couches and campers. Joy and heartbreak. Four couples. Eight adults. Six kids. One chosen family.