---

It’s Been a While…
Yeah. Oof. Sorry about that.

I have a whole folder—okay, maybe several—filled with half-written posts, half-baked ideas, and full-on ramblings that I started and then promptly abandoned. Lately, though, I’ve felt a more persistent pull to translate those thoughts into actual words. The kind that make sense to someone other than me. I’ve also been quietly inspired by a couple of truly phenomenal humans, which helps. Chronicling—whether it’s in a journal, a Word doc I’ll definitely misplace, or the notes app I pretend is organized—has always been part of my wiring.

But here’s the truth: I’ve been afraid to write.

And that fear has worn different outfits over the past few months. So, before I get back to regularly scheduled programming, I think it’s only fair to unpack that first.

Fear.

My identity lives at the intersection of three core threads: Wife, Mom, Worker. When one of those threads snapped, it was like my entire tapestry unraveled. My outlook, my confidence, my sense of self—they all took a hit.

I had just taken on a new role with a team led by a CEO who unapologetically prioritizes God, family, and company—in that order. (I know. That hierarchy is basically a unicorn in corporate America.) Add to that a team of women leaders who embody grace and grit in equal measure, and it felt like I was walking into something good. The industry was new to me, but I wasn’t worried. I mean, I once sold cybersecurity without knowing much more about online safety than how to hide my sticky note passwords under the keyboard instead of on the monitor.

But this wasn’t a gentle onboarding. No floaties, no shallow end. On day one, I was swimming blind in a murky pit of system conversions, team dynamics, and building structure where there was, well… none. I was managing a team that didn’t want managing, working long hours and weekends, just trying to check something—anything—off the list to feel like I wasn’t drowning.

Imposter syndrome moved in like an uninvited roommate.

I was scared. Scared I’d made a mistake. Scared I was in over my head. Scared I wasn’t good enough. Scared I’d let everyone down—including myself. After being fired in July, my confidence wasn’t just shaken—it had cracked open.

But here’s the thing: I don’t go down easily. When a challenge pushes me, I tend to push back. I reached out to mentors. I reflected, reframed, rewired. I leaned into my strengths, acknowledged my weaknesses, and called BS on the mind games. By mid-November, I felt like myself again. Maybe even a version 2.0.

Then came Thanksgiving. At around 10 a.m., it hit me—I hadn’t checked my work email. Not because I didn’t care, but because for the first time since 2017, I wasn’t juggling international teams sprinting toward quotas while Americans watched oversized cartoon characters float down Fifth Avenue. I missed my global crew. But not checking in? That felt… peaceful.

Grief.

One week later, a phone call changed everything.

My brother-in-law was in the hospital, and we were suddenly in a fog of questions with too few answers. In the days that followed, our family was forced to navigate the unimaginable. And we were left with a 5-foot-7-inch hole in our lives that no stitch could possibly mend.

Grief is not a linear process.
It’s not a checklist you hustle through. It doesn’t respond to strategy decks or sales stages. And it definitely doesn’t come with a user manual.

As a parent, you’re expected to help your kids process something you don’t even understand. As a spouse, you’re trying to hold space while also simply holding it together. All while trying to create some semblance of normal through the holidays.

I remember riding in the car to the funeral home thinking, How is the world still spinning? People were shopping, pumping gas, picking out Christmas gifts… didn’t they know?

That day, I watched my in-laws hug 2,000 people. Two. Thousand. People who paused their lives to share a memory, a laugh, a tear. The world may not have stopped, but for that day, 2,000 people slowed down. That meant something.

Then, a couple of months later, on a golden Friday afternoon, we got another call. A dear friend had passed peacefully in her sleep after a long, brutal fight with cancer. It wasn’t entirely unexpected, but still—unexpected. It left the world feeling just a little… dimmer.

Fear and grief.
Two of the most foundational emotional experiences out there. Pretty much the bread and butter of the therapy business—right up there with questionable parenting decisions from the ’70s and ’80s.

Lately, I’ve been working through all of it in my own messy, imperfect way. Instagram scrolls, fantasy novels, and other low-effort escapes have had their moments. (Therapeutic outlets, right? Asking for a friend.)

But at the end of the day, these tangled thoughts?
They need untangling.

And it’s time to start weaving words again.