Vegas with family, Friday night football and a seven-year-old cheerleader, a farm festival, another bleacher for a tiny cheerleader, daughter flying home, and a trip to Texas—-all on top of the most intense work season in a while. This fall feels less like a whirlwind and more like a hurricane. Here's how I'm learning to S.T.A.Y. in the middle of it, and why I wouldn't change one windy part.

Some weeks hold everything

You’ve probably seen the post by now. The one going around about the kind of grandmother a woman intends to be someday. Dinner on the table after a hard day. Baths and bedtime covered. Bring those babies over and go get some rest. No, you don’t have to explain yourself. My feed has been filled with it this past couple of weeks. Women I love shared it, and I understood exactly why. It names something many of us carry-- I don’t want my children to ever feel alone. I read it twi

For months there were two laptops at our kitchen table. His book came out this week. Mine’s out there too. What I’ll keep isn’t either book — it’s the two of us at that table, each convinced the other one’s work was worth the early alarm.

Some people have known us for fifty years. Others arrived exactly when we needed them. Time isn’t what makes someone your person. It’s being seen — without the résumé, the explanation, or the highlight reel. Sunday on Buckeye Lake reminded me what a gift it is to be with the people who already know your voice.

Some places change your itinerary. Alaska changes what I carried home. A reflection on slowing down, paying attention, and bringing wonder back into everyday life.