I’m writing this from the car, somewhere between Idaho and Arkansas, where time has stopped meaning anything and the road signs all blur together like a fever dream. We’ve already picked up my youngest, who is sick and letting the entire vehicle know it, and my four‑year‑old has entered his “constant commentary” era. My friend is driving, probably questioning why he agreed to this, and I’m in the passenger seat trying to keep everyone alive with snacks, tissues, and sheer wil

Sunday morning a few weeks ago I told the kids to get their shoes on. It should have been simple. It never is. My oldest came out wearing one boot and one tennis shoe. He looked so proud of himself. I just did not have the fight in me to argue about it. He walked into church like he invented fashion and I let him because honestly I was impressed he found two shoes at all. Then on a completely different day my other son came strolling out in socks and sandals. He always choose

This season has felt like one long stretch of in between. In between answers. In between whom I was and who I am becoming. Some days it feels like I am barely holding myself together. Other days it feels like everything is unraveling faster than I can catch it. But even in the heaviness, God keeps showing up in ways I didn’t expect. My ward family has been a quiet strength in the background. The kind of support you don’t always notice until you suddenly realize you would have

There are days when the sink feels like a mountain dishes stacked, bottles soaking, tiny forks and cups waiting for the next round. It’s the kind of mess that repeats itself before I even finish cleaning it. And for a long time, I treated it like a chore I had to race through, something to “get done” so I could move on to the real parts of my day. But lately, God has been meeting me right there; in the warm water, in the quiet clinking of plates, in the stillness that comes w

There’s a strange tension in being a mother with a writer’s heart. My days are full of small hands, spilled snacks, and the constant hum of responsibility — and yet, somewhere inside me, there’s a pull toward words, toward stories, toward the quiet place where my thoughts finally have room to breathe. I used to think I had to choose. Be a good mom or be a writer. Pour into my children or pour into my creativity. But the truth is, the two are tangled together in ways I never e

It happened on one of those evenings when everything felt rushed — dinner, bath time, pajamas, the whole routine. I was tired, thinking about the next day, already mentally sorting through the things I didn’t get done. And then I heard it: “Watch me, Mom!” Just two little words. But they stopped me. He wanted to show me something small — a jump, a spin, a silly move he’d done a hundred times. Nothing extraordinary. Nothing that would ever matter to anyone else. But to him, it