A small update.

I am sitting in a cafe where the walls are garage doors that roll open in the spring time. And despite the fact that it’s March in Montana, they are being rolled open by a girl in a flour covered apron as we speak.

It’s been such a long time since I’ve written. Coming back to a blog after such a long vacancy always feels near impossible. So much has gone on since you last posted. You feel the pressure of recounting a short novel of activity, but for some reason everything that’s happened to you over the last three months is nowhere to be found in your brain.

So instead of a big long recap (snore) I’ll just start fresh.

Which would mean starting with the fact that the Saints are going to give me a damn aneurism. Grubbs is gone and I’m happy for that, but so is Jimmy Graham (R.I.P..-seriously, we won’t even go there) and now Kenny Stills. I think this is one of the stupidest things they could have done. We are talking about a rookie with a great record, low salary, and gargantuan potential. AI’ve ll this to say, UGH.

On the other hand, Spring seems to have come early in Montana and I’m getting a small glimpse into what summers will be like here. If it’s anything remotely close to today, it will be paradise. I never fully understood the reference of hearing birds chirping as the turning point of winter until last Sunday. As I woke early to sun slipping through the shades, I heard them. Little chirps of complete delight. Suddenly it hit me that I hadn’t heard a bird (that’s fun to say) in almost three months. It was such an indicator that life had come back to town, and I can’t explain what happiness it was to hear them.

I’m also realizing that we are only slightly acquainted with our little town. We’ve only seen the winter side of Bozeman. Apparently she has split personalities. The one we haven’t met involves families biking everywhere and streets shutting down every Thursday for live music and dancing and outdoor festivals.

(Next two me are two ladies who are whispering nasty things about someone’s cousin under their breathe. It makes me incredibly glad for good friends, and for friends who encourage goodness.)

Other news:

Garrett and Mindi’s wedding is AROUND the corner. I get to be home for over a week, watch two of the best people in the world get married, and dance and laugh with family for a while.

I’m trying indoor rock climbing soon, and am determined to get over being scared of heights.

I’ve accepted that buying coffee from coffee shops is something I enjoy, part of my budget, and not a flaw. It’s been incredibly freeing.

Our friend Ben is coming to visit in a few weeks and I am pumped! Familiarity is a lost concept these days.

Our company is hosting an arts and crafts fair this upcoming wednesday and I’m going to try to sell some calligraphy for the first time. YOWZA.

I cut off all my hair.

That’s it for now people. What a scattered, plotless blog. But I had to get something on virtual paper, or I’d just never post. Go have a great weekend, and follow the call of the disco ball.


New Years No Fears

It’s 7:30 in the Morning. I sit in a little coffee shop that is the only light on this dark mountain road. A cup of New Years resolution, black coffee, sits at my side. It is one hour until the new job begins. Around me baristas are steaming milk and people are ordering their regulars and Stevie Nicks voice is sauntering out of the speakers. The rest of the world is oblivious to The Big Change.

So very quietly and discreetly, I’ll raise my cup to bravery, and hard work, and new starts, and how good it is to be in over your head over once in a while.

See you on the other side of day one, friends.

Shake it Off

I pull up to the traffic light and hit the brakes as quickly as possible, throwing the car in park, trying to maximize every second of the stop. “You cannot be late. You cannot be late.”

I grapple with my make up bag until I finally find the eyeliner. Two streaks and I’m done. BOOM. Now where the hell is my mascara?? Whenever I’m in a rush, my makeup carrier turns into a dysfunctional Mary Poppins bag. It’s as if suddenly whatever I use on a daily basis is nowhere to be found, but some nail polish from the fifth grade magically surfaces whenever I reach for the blush.

As I frantically rummage through the tiny bag, the lady in the lane next to me catches my attention. She has the flexibility of a fourth grade gymnast, with one leg hiked all the way up to the dashboard, her foot resting on the top of her steering wheel. She is fighting desperately to secure a very lovely stiletto strap around her ankle. The light turns green, and in an instant she and I are both throwing the shifter out of park and screeching away.

Mornings. They can either be the ultimate ass kicker or your best friend. They can either make you feel like Beyonce, ready to conquer the world in your best blow out,


Or like Gary Busey.


One thing that I’m learning for sure is that everyone has mornings like this. The lady in the car next to me? She looked like some sort of high ranking CEO as she tore off in her Lexus, designer shoe half fastened to her little ankle. But one off morning every now and then doesn’t mean you aren’t a super star.  

I’m learning that one trait of my personality is to paint a mosaic of myself out these rough moments. If I’m not careful, I forget the Beyonce mornings. The ones that involve getting up extra early, french press, yoga, reflection. When the stress piles up, these moments become crumpled up scraps in a trash can next to the collage I’ve painted out of the bad moments.

The trying times don’t negate where you’re headed. They are speed bumps on a road paved out in gold for you. You just have remember to put Taylor Swift on repeat, roll your windows down, hopefully swing by and pick up a girlfriend who won’t judge you for top secret T Swift mix, and floor it.

These mornings, along with a million other moments (meetings that feel more like boxing matches, your complete inability to actually create that killer portfolio, rolodex to do lists) are diesel fuel to fear. Fear of inadequacy, fear of failure, fear of judgement. It’s like every time one of these little moments happens, a naysayer buys a ticket to the Big Game, and sits in the visitor’s section of your head, booing their heart out.

I think that fear dictates more people’s lives than would ever admit to it. Last night I had a conversation with one heck of a guy, and he reminded me how important it is not to live a life where fear is crouching behind the driver’s seat. He also reminded me how incredible it feels to have a partner who supports everything you want, and everything you are capable of being. It sure makes the fear a lot less daunting.

I’ll leave you with the words of Hannah Brencher, a girl who has unknowingly become a mentor of mine.

    “The week is yours. Please don’t stay still. If you know you need to grow, please don’t stay still. Staying still– and never going to the next level inside of yourself–  is a whole different kind of failure. It is failing at the one thing that all humans are called to: change. Change that scares you out of your mind. Change you swore you never would want or need. Change that pushes you. And makes you new.
That sort of change is not to be missed. That sort of change is what guarantees that who you are today will only last for that long. Just today. Just this moment. And isn’t that beautiful? You get to be whoever the hell you want to be. And you get to kill your own comfort zone. Please don’t miss out on how lovely that could be, to finally be bigger than the broken systems of your yesterday.”

Writing 101 Challenge: Unlock the Mind

In Writing 101’s Challenge, we are to write without anything particular on the brain, just let out a flow of consciousness. This is to “unlock the mind.”

I think the fear in this doesn’t come so much from the idea that the mind can’t be unlocked, rather that you’ll insert your key, give it a good twist and a yank only to find nothing behind the door. Just some empty room and a strange musky smell.

It was so much easier to write in college. I never would have thought writing was something that would ebb and flow that way. I always assumed that it was like a giant finish line with pink streamers and a beer booth, and once you crossed it, you crossed it. Turns out, not so. In college, when you were forced to write, there had to be something behind the door, because if there was not, could be sure that the next time you tried to open it, there would be a fat, red F sitting on the couch eating all your potato chips.
Maybe I need to hire Kathy Bates to break my ankles until I actually get something done.
(Thought: Kathy Bates —-> all your old English professors.)
How do you set a deadline for yourself? Does that really work? Does it only work for a certain kind of person? Can you be any certain kind of person you want?
How’s that for your flow of consciousness, Writing 101?


At 2:00am today, Sarah had Isaiah. I can’t stop staring at his little photograph. It’s like I’m glued to it. I can’t imagine how she must feel, this same feeling times a million, with him making sweet, helpless noises from her arms.

I’m so overcome with how full life is in it’s circular nature, and how beautiful. To think that we, we girls are becoming mothers. We girls who would muddy our tights up and dig traps for robbers with our tiny fingers. Who would squash berries from Gran’s garden and argue about who got to be which boxcar child. ( I always wanted to be Violet, even though I had never read a lick of the books.) The girls who grew up hundreds of miles away, but always stayed sisters, through handwritten letters, plane trips, and week long visits that always seemed to get sucked up into some time vacuum.

It still baffles me that the girls have grown up. I remember when I first began to feel it happening, small shifts in our little world that signaled to us: adulthood is coming. “I wonder what it will bring,” one of us said one year on a beach.

I never realized just how beautiful it would be, adulthood with you girls. And I never thought I could love anything the way I love your little ones. It’s so inexplicable the way you can instantly love someone to death, through and through, that you would do anything for them. It’s a love so innate, that begins the moment you hear that, finally, after nine long months, they are here. 
And just like that, without another word, without meeting, without any of it, you love them madly.