Published (New Chapters, Ch. 2)

New Chapters ◦ Chapter Two: The Rebuild ◦ Entry 6

This post is part of my New Chapters series — a collection of personal essays about rebuilding, resilience, and writing what comes next, told in evolving chapters.

← Previous: Rough Draft  

Published: On sharing the story before it's perfect. ✨

By the time summer gave way to August 2025, the rebuilding I’d been doing quietly had reached a kind of pressure point. The blog I had taken down during the collapse of my life was finally standing again — restored piece by piece, reshaped through late nights and careful edits. What started as private reconstruction had become something real enough to share.

Up until then, I had been writing again quietly.

Restoring old posts. Drafting new ones. Rearranging words in private. Letting the blog exist only on my screen... safely unfinished, safely unseen.

But by August, the work had outgrown hiding.

The site was ready enough. The words were ready enough. I was ready enough, even if I didn’t believe it  

So I picked a day.

I told myself that was the day the blog would go live again. No more endless polishing. No more pushing it off into some vague future version of courage. Just a date on the calendar and a promise to myself that I would finally stop treating this as a rehearsal.

And then the day arrived.

I avoided it almost impressively. I stayed busy with anything that didn’t require opening the site. Ran errands I didn’t need to run. Cleaned things that weren’t dirty. Found small, harmless ways to delay the moment I’d already decided on.

By evening, the quiet got louder.

I sat down at my laptop and stared at the button longer than I’d like to admit. My stomach tightened. My hands actually shook. It felt absurd to be nervous about a website, but it wasn’t really about a website. It was about being visible again. About letting people see where I actually was instead of where I wanted to be.

It felt tied to everything else I’d been slowly stepping back into — friendships, routines, ambition, the version of myself that wasn’t only surviving anymore.

Hitting publish felt like pushing the door open on a room I’d kept locked for years.

So I did it.

I clicked publish.

Then, I shared the link on social media before I could talk myself out of it.

After, I closed the laptop like it might explode.

The world didn’t end.

No one laughed. No one pointed. A few people reached out and said they were glad I was writing again. Some said they’d missed my voice. Some said they saw themselves in the words.

That’s when it landed for me.

Hitting publish — on a story, on a life, on a version of yourself — isn’t about being polished. It’s about being seen. Not after you’re ready. Not after you’ve found the right words. Not after you’ve wrapped it up neatly.

It’s about learning to stop hiding while you keep becoming.

Letting myself be seen now also meant making peace with what was already out there: the earlier versions of me, the chapters I couldn’t edit away, the story that had already been told whether I liked it or not.

The past couldn’t be rewritten anyway. It was already published — flaws, footnotes, and all.

So instead of trying to erase who I had been, I started practicing showing up as who I am.

I’m still more comfortable on the page than out loud. Still someone who processes in paragraphs. Still figuring things out as I go. But I’m learning to let myself be seen anyway. In relationships, in small risks, in showing up imperfectly instead of disappearing.

Because life doesn’t have to be flawless to be shared.

You don’t have to have everything figured out to step forward.

And you don’t need to know the ending before you’re worth reading.

So I hit publish anyway — messy and real and still in progress.

And somewhere in that small, shaking click, I realized something else too:

I wasn’t just publishing a blog.

I was finally pushing publish on my life.

Chapter Three Begins: COMING SOON →

Visit the New Chapters landing page to explore each chapter and read the story in order.

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Playing Their Part (One Minute Memoir)

A Memoir of Two Brothers, One Keyboard, and the Chaos in Between

Setting: Summer 2025 — Being subjected to a home concert no one asked for

Caleb has always been a little musician. He has a quiet, contemplative soul and long piano fingers. Back in first grade, he learned about Ray Charles at school and was completely captivated. Around the same time, he went through a little Beethoven phase — soft, serious music for his soft, serious soul. It was dramatic, heartfelt, and kind of perfect. For a while, it was the soundtrack of his tiny world.

He declared he wanted to play the “plano,” and he’s been in lessons ever since. Last year, he added French horn and chorus to his musical lineup. He’s serious about it. Literal. Focused. Careful.

Holden… is not quiet. Or serious. Definitely not contemplative.

Holden is feral. He’s a human tornado with sticky fingers and a laugh you can hear across the house. Every so often, he’ll flip on Caleb’s keyboard, mash random keys, and activate the godforsaken auto-accompaniment feature that sounds like a karaoke bar from 1987. It’s chaotic. It’s loud. It is not music. But still… he plays with the kind of confidence only a little brother can possess.

Recently, after one such performance, Papa smiled and said, “That was really good!”

From the other room, Caleb — deadpan and entirely sincere — chimed in:

“I’m not sure I agree. I mean… it was ALRIGHT.”

He wasn’t being mean. He was just being honest. Honest in the way that only Caleb knows how to be: thoughtful, careful, and completely literal.

Two brothers. One instrument.

One makes noise

The other makes music.

And somehow, in the middle of the chaos and the laughter and the off-key confidence, they're both still exactly who they're meant to be, each one playing their part.

This post is part of my One-Minute Memoir series — short reflections on small moments that still manage to say something big.

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Before it Shows

On changing quietly, before the world catches up

Lately, I’ve been very focused on my health and my weight. It’s been almost two months of paying attention, making different choices, thinking more carefully about what I eat, and trying — really trying — to change the direction I was headed.

And I can see it working.

I see it on the scale.

I see it in how much less I eat without feeling deprived.

I see it in the way food doesn’t dominate my thoughts the way it used to.

Something is different.

But here’s the strange part: no one else can really see it yet.

To the outside world, I probably look the same. I still wear the same clothes. I still take up the same space in a room. I still look like the person I was two months ago, even though inside, I don’t feel like her anymore.

And that creates a strange emotional place to live.

Not because I need anyone to notice or say anything, just because it’s odd to carry something this real, this meaningful, and know that it’s almost entirely invisible right now.

The change is happening quietly.

It happens in grocery store aisles.

In smaller portions.

In walking away from things without feeling like I’m giving something up.

In the way my thoughts feel calmer, less pulled, less loud.

In the way I don’t reach for food the same way when I’m tired or overwhelmed.

It’s not dramatic.

It’s not something anyone else would catch in passing.

But it’s real.

So I live in this in-between space, where I already know I’m changing, even though I still look like the same person to everyone else. Where I can feel momentum, even if there’s no visible proof yet.

It feels like standing in the middle of a chapter where the story has clearly shifted, but the consequences of that shift haven’t shown up on the page yet. I know where this is going. I just haven’t arrived there. And there’s something both comforting and unsettling about that.

Because I’m not waiting to see if this works anymore. I can already tell that it is. I’m just waiting for the outside to eventually reflect what’s already happening on the inside.

So I keep going.

Not because I need confirmation. Not because I’m chasing some future version of myself.

But because I already recognize myself in the choices I’m making now.

I don’t look different yet. But I am different. And I’m learning to be okay with the fact that, for a little while, this change gets to belong only to me.

Quiet.

Unseen.

Still unfolding.

I am not yet who I’m becoming.

But I can feel the direction I’m moving now.

And for the first time in a long time, I trust where I’m headed.

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Rough Draft (New Chapters, Ch. 2)

New Chapters ◦ Chapter Two: The Rebuild ◦ Entry 5

This post is part of my New Chapters series — a collection of personal essays about rebuilding, resilience, and writing what comes next, told in evolving chapters.

← Previous: The Prologue  

Rough Draft: On relearning how to write — and how to live. ✨

Once the structure of my blog was finally back in place, the pages restored and the site breathing again, the next question arrived quietly: could I actually write something new?

Not something good. Not something polished. Just something that existed.

For a long time, writing had belonged to a version of my life that no longer existed. When everything collapsed, the words went quiet too. I didn’t make a dramatic decision about it. I just stopped opening the document. Let the drafts sit. Let the silence stretch longer than I ever meant it to.

So when I finally tried again, I wasn’t trying to write something good. I was just trying to see if I still could.

I wondered if I’d forgotten how. If the part of me that knew how to shape sentences had gone dormant. I hoped writing might be like riding a bike — that my muscles would remember even if my mind hesitated. That I’d wobble at first, maybe feel unsteady, maybe even risk falling on my face, but that once I started moving, something familiar would take over.

Some days it did.

Other days it didn’t.

There were moments the words felt stiff, like they didn’t quite belong to me anymore. Days I reread what I’d written and wondered if it made any sense at all. But I kept going, not because it was good, but because it was happening. Because trying felt different from hiding.

That’s what a rough draft really is.

It isn’t graceful. It doesn’t know where it’s headed yet. It just exists long enough to become something.

My life started to mirror that same rhythm. I tried small changes without knowing whether they would stick. I said yes to things I might have canceled a year earlier. I experimented with routines instead of locking myself into them. I learned to tolerate the discomfort of not having clarity, trusting that movement mattered more than precision.

Some days I moved through it cleanly. Other days I tripped over my own sentences. I changed my mind. I adjusted expectations. I kept pieces that didn’t quite work yet, just to see what they might become.

I used to think rebuilding meant getting it right quickly. Having something finished to point to. Proof that the mess had resolved into something orderly and respectable.

This season taught me something different.

Rebuilding is slow. It happens in revisions no one sees. In false starts. In quiet persistence. In learning to stay present inside unfinished things instead of rushing to tidy them away.

Writing became the place where I practiced that.

A space where I didn’t have to know the ending to keep going. Where imperfect pages were allowed to exist. Where consistency mattered more than confidence.

My life still feels like a rough draft.

Not broken. Not complete. Just actively becoming.

I don’t have the ending figured out yet.

But the page isn't blank anymore. And I'm finally willing to keep writing, even without knowing what it will become.

Next: Published →

Visit the New Chapters landing page to explore each chapter and read the story in order.

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2026 Goals

2026 Goals: Fewer Lists, Clearer Focus

For a long time, I’ve been someone who documents everything: monthly goals, resets, recaps, intentions. Sometimes that structure helps. Other times, it becomes noise.

Going into 2026, I realized I don’t need more goals. I need fewer ones that actually carry me through the year.

So this year looks different. I’ve stepped away from my monthly goal posts — not necessarily forever, but for now. Instead of constantly recalibrating, I’m narrowing my focus to a small set of priorities for the entire year and letting them do the heavy lifting. I’ll likely check in quarterly here rather than monthly, giving myself room to build momentum instead of restarting over and over. 

Here they are!

Health

Goal: Lose 78 pounds

How I’m working toward it:

• Continuing to cut back on sugar
• Focusing on smaller portions and finishing when I'm full
• Start running back up when weather permits
• Letting progress be steady instead of rushed

I’m not trying to optimize every habit. I’m sticking with the behaviors that actually move the needle.

Running

Goals: 

• Go for 80 runs
• Complete 3 races

How I’m working toward it:

• Easing back in after time off
• Running consistently when conditions allow (ideally 2–3 times a week)
• Finding races to help me stay motivated
• Letting missed weeks happen without turning them into quitting

No pace goals. No mileage targets. Just showing up and following through.

Money

Goals:

• Pay off credit cards completely (3 total)
• Increase savings by $2,000
• Raise my credit score to 760

How I’m working toward it:

• Paying more than the minimum each month
• Using a snowball approach, moving from smallest to largest debt
• Prioritizing credit card payoff in the first half of the year
• Not using credit cards at all
• Keeping my savings goal intentionally less aggressive while I focus on eliminating debt first

The plan isn’t flashy, but it’s deliberate: clear the cards first, then shift focus forward.

Reading

Goals: 

• Read 100 books
• Complete at least 3 series
• Finish reading Freida McFadden's backlist (18/31 read so far)
• Finish reading Noelle Ihli's backlist (3/8 read so far)

How I’m working toward it:

• Less scrolling, more reading
• Being more intentional with my downtime
• Completing older series I’ve been sitting on
• Finding more small pockets of time to read: lunch breaks, before work, etc.

Series I want to prioritize finishing:

• The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins
• Dread Nation by Justina Ireland
• Birthright by Gabrielle Zevin

In 2025, I focused on catching up on bestsellers. In 2026, I’m focusing on series, specific authors, and finishing what I start.

Blogging

Goals:

• Publish 100 new posts (ideally, 2 per week)
• Publish 50 One Minute Memoirs (ideally, 1 per week)

How I’m working toward it:

• Sticking to formats and blog series that already work for me
• Writing, scheduling, and planning posts ahead when possible
• Keeping the focus on consistency and follow-through
• Publishing posts even when they're not my standard of "perfect"

How I’m Starting the Year

On January 1, I documented all my starting numbers on various spreadsheets — weight, finances, books, and more — simply as a baseline. Not as judgment. Just context. I'll update those monthly to keep track and measure progress.

From there, I’m trusting this narrower set of goals to carry me through the year, one step at a time.

This year isn’t about doing everything. It’s about doing a few things well, staying with them long enough to see change, and trusting that consistency counts.

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Holden at the Doctor (One Minute Memoir)

A Memoir of Checkups, Small Talk, and Bargaining Power

Setting: December 2025 

Holden is a whole experience, and his seven-year checkup was no exception.

It started in the waiting room. A woman walked in and, before I could stop him, Holden greeted her with a bright, confident hello, like he’d been expecting her. When the medical assistant called his name, he shot out of his chair. “YES, I’M COMING,” he announced, already halfway down the hall.

She weighed him — 99th percentile — and under his breath he muttered something about losing weight. Then she measured his height, lining him up carefully against the wall. When she finished, Holden looked up at the height chart and asked, very seriously, “Can I tell you something? Has anyone ever reached all the way up there?” She told him she hadn’t seen anyone that tall yet. He accepted this calmly, as if he’d just been checking.

In the exam room, she asked if he was experiencing any pain. Holden thought about it. “Well, I stubbed my toe a couple days ago. That hurt. And I went sledding,” he added, holding up his elbows, “and hurt my arm.” After the line of questioning, she told him the doctor would be in soon. Holden asked, “Is he a boy or a girl?” This has been his doctor since birth.

When she asked if there were any final concerns today, Holden nodded. “Yeah. I don’t want any shots.”

The doctor came in smiling. He mentioned that the assistant really liked Holden, that he'd made an impression on her (he is a mini mayor). He then asked about fruits and vegetables. “I eat ranch at school with salad,” Holden explained. “I don’t always eat the lettuce.” Milk? “I don’t drink it. It tastes weird.”

Any concerns? Holden paused. “My eyes have been watering.”

“When did that start?”

“I think since birth.”

The doctor asked if he did any activities. “Yeah,” Holden said. “I went sledding.” I clarified that he meant regular sports or clubs and mentioned that he plays soccer. The doctor asked what position. Holden stared at him. “What do you mean?” After a brief explanation of the various positions from the doctor, Holden decided, “defense.” He does not, in fact, play defense. They all still run in clumps.

As the doctor finished the exam, Holden lay back on the table and said, casually, “Did you know you grow in your sleep?” The doctor said he hadn’t heard that, but that sleep does help with your health. Holden immediately demonstrated, pointing his feet straight up. “If you sleep like this,” he said, “you’ll grow.”

The doctor glanced at me, nodded once, and said, “YouTube.”

After the doctor left, it was time for his flu shot.

Holden did not want a flu shot.

What followed took twenty minutes, a nurse, a medical assistant, a bubble machine, and me slowly running out of dignity. There was screaming. There was crying. There was flailing of the arms. There was outright, indignant refusal.

Finally, desperate, I said, “I’ll buy you Robux if you get your shot.”

Holden stopped crying immediately. He looked up at me and said, “How much?”

He tried to negotiate for one hundred dollars.

We settled on twenty.

This post is part of my One-Minute Memoir series — short reflections on small moments that still manage to say something big.

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