The universe has a subtle way of telling you to keep it simple.
The other day, I wasn’t even going anywhere. But I wanted to feel a bit more like me, so I sat down to do my makeup. I ended up taking my eyeliner off three times. Three.
I was incredibly grateful I’d recently switched to doing my eyes before the rest of my face, or I would have been thoroughly defeated by the time I hit the third smudge. I finally got it right—or right enough—and realized that sometimes, “pretty good” is a victory.
I’ve noticed how easy it is to reach for small fixes lately—little things that promise to smooth the edges. I’ve even been trying the Kind patches, not as a miracle solution, but as a quiet experiment in gentleness. A reminder that care doesn’t have to be dramatic to be real. I’ll keep you posted, but for now, the eyeliner struggle is still my most honest measure of patience.
Life right now is a bit like that. Day to day. “Pretty good.” Calm.
It’s become one of our quiet morning rituals. I open the windows—lüften, no matter the temperature—and shake out the sheets. It’s meant to let the house breathe, to move out the stale air before the day settles in. Evelyn waits for the bubble it creates, laughing as she jumps into it without hesitation. I stand there for a moment longer than necessary, letting the cold air wake me up, reminding myself that sometimes all it takes to reset is letting a little fresh air in.
I remember the days when it was hard to breathe. I used to long for the moments when I’d have “nothing much to report.” To be in this middle space—where the biggest news is that I spent four days solid shoveling snow instead of going to the Y—is a gift I don’t take for granted. My back would like to formally protest that “workout,” but it’s a quiet kind of pain I’m almost glad to have. It means the storm has passed.
Of course, the “calm” is relative when you have a toddler.
Evelyn has started waking up from her naps with a certain… gaseous enthusiasm. She’ll run through the house with what we’ve dubbed the “running farts,” eventually stopping to proudly announce that she is, in fact, “The Booger King.”
But then, she’ll turn around and say something that stops me cold.
Lately, her go-to advice for me is: “Momma, you can do this. You just need to take a deep breath and make a smart choice.”
It’s good advice, especially as we navigate the “middle space” of school prep and the hunt for remote work—trying to find that balance where the math of childcare and savings finally adds up. In the quiet moments between those big questions, I’ve been working on a blanket I started knitting for Emily. It’s not perfect, but it serves its purpose: a way to comfort someone I love even when I can’t be right there.
In the quiet spaces, I’ve also been watching Shrinking.
My mother used to say Harrison Ford reminded her of my dad. She was right. He is deeply, dryly sarcastic and emotionally avoidant, and every time he is on screen, I cry. I cry for the version of my dad I remember, and the version I’m still trying to reach.
Back on December 2nd, I posted something raw: He’s Just Not That Into You… Even When it’s Your Dad. At the time, I was trying to make peace with the silence. I was telling myself that if he wasn’t choosing me, I had to stop choosing the grief of wanting him to. It felt like the only way to protect my heart.
After I posted that, a close friend sent me a message:
“Hoping healing can start. I can imagine. I went through that for 8 years when dad and I were on the outs. Just keep your heart open for him. He’s part of the reason you are who you are.”
I’ve kept that message close. I realize now that in December, I was sitting in the bleachers. I was watching the silence and calling it an answer so I didn’t have to keep feeling the sting of the “ask.”
But in a recent episode of Shrinking, Ford’s character talks about “The Field.” It’s the space where connection, risk, love, and joy actually happen. It doesn’t happen in theory, or in the “preparation” for life. It happens in the participation.
Avoidance feels like safety. It feels like a shield. But if you stay in the bleachers because you’re afraid of the history, you’ve quietly removed yourself from the game.
I realized I’ve been asking my dad to meet me in the field without actually stepping onto the grass myself. I’ve been waiting for him to be “into me” while I stayed safely behind my own wall.
So, I asked him to meet me for breakfast this Thursday, February 5th.
I’m nervous. When I’m nervous, I talk. I talk a lot. I try to script the outcome so I don’t have to feel the uncertainty of the moment. Nick gave me one small token of advice: “Less words.” Say something, but leave room for him to engage. In a way it’s not only a challenge for me, but it’s a challenge to my dad as well.
For once, I wasn’t offended. He’s right.
Participation starts with noticing. It starts with the tiny things that usually get buried under the noise—the Kind patches, the yarn on the needles, the way the snow feels against a shovel. As I look toward my 45th birthday next week and the six-month anniversary of this blog on February 17th, I’m going to be leaning into this habit of noticing more formally.
I want to hold space for the little things. You’ll start to see some updates here—placeholders for the heart, seeds of stories I’m not quite ready to tell, and links to the things I find genuinely helpful.
I want to be clear: branding isn’t my first focus—the stories are. I write because I need to, and because for a long time, it was the only way I knew how to breathe. But when people tell me that these words mean something to them, it’s hard not to get excited about the potential of what this space could become.
So, I want to say a genuine thank you to those of you who show up here every week, who check in, and who share these posts. I am so excited to continue to grow on this journey with you, and I’m hopeful that this field expands to welcome even more people as we go.
I’m hoping to turn this space I love into something that helps support my family, too. They say if you can make money doing something you enjoy, you’ll never truly be “working.” I don’t know if that’s entirely true, but I know that participating in this space feels a lot more like living than the bleachers ever did.
I’m inviting you to participate with me. Comment, share, or tell me what you’re noticing in your own field. I want us to talk about the things that matter, and even the things that don’t.
Sometimes the best participation doesn’t require a script or a defense. It just requires showing up, taking a deep breath, and making the smart choice to stay in the game. It’s a lesson I’m taking with me into our weekend getaway—saying I’m stoked is an understatement. I’m ready to just be present, without the script.
Even if my eyeliner is a little crooked.
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