
25/08/2025
Seven years ago I was lost. I was happy, but there was this quiet ache for something more that I couldn’t put words to.
I was overworked, two years of full-time work, full-time+ coaching, raising a newborn and a three-year-old. I was tired. I was dropping every ball I’d ever been able to juggle before. I barely saw my girls, and when I did, I wasn’t really there. Usually emailing, on the phone, or rushing fast food into us just to keep moving.
Jordan and I barely talked. We couldn’t imagine the future; we were just trying to survive the present. I didn’t have friends I felt like I could call. I was on track to climb every ladder, to “make it.” But it was all at the expense of the things that actually mattered. My life was leaking out, one drain at a time.
And I knew I needed to do something. Not add one more thing. But something to pull myself back into my own story.
So I bought a laptop. Told myself I’d write. But the words wouldn’t come. I hadn’t written freely since the second grade. So instead, I talked. Into a mic. A daily podcast journal in 2019.
I said it all, the wanting to leave my home state. The wanting to write. The wanting to dream. I talked about my kids, my husband, my family. Sometimes my underwear. It got weird. But it saved me.
Little by little, those words saved my soul. They wrote my first book. Then my second. They helped me leave corporate. Open a business. Bring my kids home.
Now I’m here, seven seasons in, living the story I was desperate to get back to. Not perfect. But present. In the day-to-day. In Iowa. Building a new reality, for me, for my family, for our community, for this home state I once wanted to leave.