This morning, I ran for Ahmaud Arbery. He was murdered one year ago by three men in Georgia while he was out for a run. The motive: his skin color made him look suspicious.

I often avoid speaking out or speaking up about the racist nature of our country. As I begin to speak, insecurity holds me back. Who am I to speak up? What value does my voice contribute? I doubt, and I remain silent.

Today as I ran 2.23 miles away from my home, I was surrounded by the dark. As a female, I have learned to fear running alone in the dark. Every step, every mile, is a practice of trust. I tell my insecurities to be quiet. I tell myself to stay aware, but to not be afraid. When a man passed me this morning, I told myself he is kind and greeted him with a smile. When a car slowed down behind me, I told myself they are being considerate and sharing the road. Over and over again, I tell myself to not be afraid.

Today as I ran 2.23 miles back home, I let myself imagine Ahmaud’s fear. I let myself imagine that my skin color wasn’t white. This time when a car passed me, I let my mind wander. What if they had a gun? What if they started following me?

When it came time for me to reflect on today’s run, I tossed words around in my mind over and over again. Who am I to speak up? What value does my voice contribute?

Fear and insecurity are one and the same. Fear and insecurity are what allow the racist nature of our country to continue. Who am I to speak up? I’ve been asking myself the wrong question. Who am I to not speak up? Silence is the greatest contributor to injustice. If I don’t speak up, who should? People who are victims of racism? Those who live with the fear every day? I am exactly who should speak up.

My words are clumsy, but my beliefs are strong. We have a problem in this country. Until those of us who aren’t impacted by it recognize its influence on everything in our country, nothing will change. Ahmaud Arbery should not be dead. Anyone who looks like him should be able to run down the street and not be afraid every time a white person approaches.

Today I ran. Today I donated. Today I decided that my words have value in this space because I am ordinary. I am the majority. I am just another middle class, middle aged, white woman. When the majority finally sees what the minority has experienced, our country will become a better place.

If you don’t see it yet, look again. Keep looking. Once you see it, it can be unseen. And if you think it doesn’t exist, start by looking inward. It is in all of us.

To learn more about 2.23 Foundation and run for Maud, click here.


Nearly one month into a new year, I am right where I always am in the beginning. Dusting off my blog, I am once again forcing myself to sit with myself — my thoughts, my words, my writing, my heart, my head. I had the opportunity to join Glennon Doyle on a Zoom chat in early January. She kicked off the chat with a beautiful description of life.

“We’re like snow globes: We spend all our time, energy, words, and money creating a flurry, trying not to know, making sure the snow doesn’t settle so we never have to face the fiery truth inside us — solid and unmoving… We keep ourselves shaken up because there are dragons in our center.”

Glennon Doyle, Untamed

She calls them dragons. I call them heart whispers. I have shaken up my life in such a furry that I have hid my fiery truth. Then 2020 happened. 2020 forced the snow to settle. The world stood still.

I miss myself.

I miss feeling wildly alive inside my own heart. I miss feeling awake. As I look forwards, I wonder what my words should capture. Should I sit here and write about how about the life got wildly off track? Should I share all the times I’ve felt joy and forced myself to look away? My life is good. I love my husband, my kids, and my career. Yet, something is missing.

I know exactly how I got here. I can tell you all the places I turned left instead of right. I can tell you about the speed bumps and the express lanes.

I miss myself.

I miss wandering.

I miss wondering.

I miss opening a book and becoming emotionally connected to every word on the page.

I miss mile after mile on the trail discussing what life means.

I also know exactly how to get back to the places I miss. It starts here. It starts with letting my words travel from my heart to my head, and it continues from my head to my hands. It starts with letting go of my words. I need to get them out of my body. I started this blog with one purpose. I was finding my breath. For years I lived an existence of holding my breath. As I documented each inhale and exhale, I brought myself back to life. Today I’m holding on to my inhales. I’ve taken a deep breath, and I’m afraid to exhale. I’m afraid to let my heart whispers travel from my heart to my head to my hands to my existence.

So here I am, listening to my heart whispers, knowing that the only way to experience the joy I crave is to create the ritual for myself that allows me to exhale.

Resign |Active vs. Passive

In an effort to stay engaged in my own practice of writing — writing for me, for my thoughts, for my clarity — I wistfully thought I’d sit down at the end of every day and jot down a few thoughts about what it meant to resign that day.

January 8th | feeling fragile isn’t a flaw. Being fragile isn’t bad. You don’t have to be and you shouldn’t be strong and brave and resilient ALL THE DAMN TIME. Resign and let yourself soften. Sink into the space of comfort. Let other people take care of you.

January 9th | Resign – Actively take action. Be resigned to – Passively interact with a moment. There is a distinct difference between these two-word variations. There is a time to resign. There is also a time to resign to something being true.

And then my (too soon to call it a) habit faded away.

January 22nd | Trust that you know yourself. Trust that you know things without having the knowledge to explain why. Trust that your vision is true.

In the 16 days since I’ve lived with this word, where I’ve tried to let my actions take shape around this word, I’ve observed a few things. This word doesn’t have a single definition. This word can be lived in so many ways.  It is a choice between being engaged or being passive. There is a place for both. It also takes a considerable amount of trust to resign your control over outcomes. It takes a lot of restraint to resign when the moment doesn’t serve you.

I have a post-it note on my desk. The message is simple:

What do you get by staying in it?

The statement was made in passing during a casual conversation, but it stopped me in my tracks. I wrote it down. I stuck it in a place I know I will always see it. I ask myself this question on a daily basis.

One of my kids is misbehaving. It can be exhausting to stick to the discipline. What do I get by staying in it? I get a whole heck of a lot. I gain a lot, and my children need me to stay in it no matter how exhausting it can be. They deserve to have a mom who stays in it. They are worth the fight. I resign to the fact that it will be exhausting.

A conflict arises with a friend. What do I get by staying in it? Nothing. Not one thing but hurt feelings and loneliness. Staying in it doesn’t serve me. I resign my hurt feelings and move on.

Active. Passive. Action. Letting go.

There is an ebb and flow to these definitions that I love. It feels settled and engaged. It feels intentional. It feels welcoming and exciting. It feels like living.

Last year I made the intention to enjoy the ordinary moments. I wanted to sink into life and love the day to day. This year’s intention seems to be the welcome mat to living that way.

I don’t know what it means to resign myself to the life I am living, but I do know that something inside me tells me this is exactly right for me.


Resign | A Starting Place


1. voluntarily leave a job or other position
2. accept that something undesirable cannot be avoided.

Sitting across from my therapist — yes, another blog is starting within the four walls of my therapist’s office. I used to do my best thinking on the trails. Lately it happens on the white couch in my therapist’s office. — As I processed the pieces of my life and in a moment of pause, I heard her exhale. When we made eye contact, she said to me “with everything you share, one word keeps echoing in my mind: resign.”

I paused. A new word was just gifted to me. After the year of waking up and just observe and stay curious and ordinary moments, I’ve felt lost without a word to anchor me. Phrases I’ve used to set intentions since before Chet’s birth still carry me, but I’ve been waiting for something new.


At first the word feels repulsive. It felt like quitting. I’ve resigned from jobs. I’ve resigned from relationships. I’ve resigned from so many things and all of them have felt heavy. They’ve been a burden. It’s caused turmoil and heartache. Hasn’t my therapist been listening when I beg for life to feel easy.


The word has echoed in my heart since that appointment. But what does it mean to me. I don’t want to quit anything in my life.


Right now, at the beginning of my journey to intentionally resign from things that burden me and don’t serve me, I struggle to define this word. What does it mean to resign?



1. an act of letting go

2. choosing not to stress about things out of my control

3. consciously deciding I can’t make choices for people, I can’t be responsible for other people’s happiness, and I can’t alter my beliefs for the sake of keeping the peace

While I struggle right now to define this word, I do know what it’s not. When choosing to intentionally resign, it is not an act of quitting. It is not giving up.

So here I go. Let’s start again, or keep going, or just dive in.

To keep myself going, to dive in deep, I’ll be back monthly to continue exploring what it means to resign.

This is motherhood these days.

As I tucked myself into bed, I pulled my blankets up to my chin. It was one of the first chilly nights of the year. First I pulled up the sheet followed by my quilt. On top of that, I pulled my down comforter in close. One. Two. Three. Three blankets felt like the magic number.

As I counted them out loud, I was instantly transported back nine years. Cole was six years old, and every night I tucked him into bed. I asked him for the magic number of blankets. Some times it was two. Sometimes it was ten. Every blanket was perfectly placed and tucked in on the sides. Once he had the magic number, he’d announce It is perfect!

Tucked beneath three blankets of my own, I could see his young face. I could hear his little voice. I was in that room with little Coley for a few minutes, and I felt every ounce of loving him as a six year old.

This is motherhood these days.

It’s always been an act of letting go, but the letting go before meant letting him find his own way. It meant letting him make mistakes. It meant letting him succeed. It meant letting go of all the nonsense like forgotten homework and bad attitudes. Letting go used to mean loving.

Letting go still means loving, but it also means actually letting go — letting go of his youth, letting go of being a mom to that little boy, letting go of him being here with me. Letting go means he is leaving me.

This is motherhood these days.

A few weeks ago I watched him bike off to homecoming. He never glanced back, and I stood at the end of the driveway long after he was out of sight. I had one thought that night.

I’ve spent my entire adult life being his mother. I got pregnant the summer after college. I don’t know what it’s like to be an adult without him. We grew up together. He grew into a teenager. I grew into a mother. And now he’s leaving.

This is motherhood these days.

When we feel things, we prepare ourselves for what we need. This is the greatest lesson I’ve learned from motherhood. This is the greatest lesson Cole has taught me.

Feeling the absence of his youth now will help me guide him. It will help me let him go. Maybe that is why the memories are so vivid. Maybe that is why there is a magic number of blankets for the chilly nights. Maybe that’s why all I want to do with my free time is soak in every ounce of time he is willing to give me.

This is motherhood these days, and the moment I get comfortable beneath the three magic blankets it will change again.

And I’ll keep loving.

And letting go.

Maybe two is the magic number now: loving and letting go. Just like Cole used to say: it is perfect.

Coley and Me