The Forty Files

Life has been wild. So wild, in fact, that I haven’t posted since March.

In my mind and heart, I’ve written to you all countless times. The anonymous readers. The friends who check in. The people who stumble across these words and somehow find pieces of themselves tucked between the paragraphs. I’ve wondered if you missed me. I’ve imagined you waiting for an update. I’ve composed entire essays while driving, folding laundry, sitting through swim meets, and staring at the ceiling at 2 a.m.

But while I was ready to share, life was far too busy to allow me the luxury of crafting those thoughts in real time.

Alas, today marks the first day of summer, and I have so much to update you on.

As always, I don’t pretend that my life is particularly internet-worthy. Most days are wonderfully ordinary. But the art of sharing—and the beloved tradition of creating—feels like something worth preserving. In a world where so much communication has become hurried, abbreviated, and algorithm-driven, I fear thoughtful storytelling is dwindling. So I write on, abandoning insecurities and choosing to believe that the sentiments matter more than I can ever adequately express.

First, the home renovation is complete.

Friends, I cannot overstate the relief.

People tell you that renovating a home is stressful, but until you’re living through it, you don’t fully understand the chaos. For months, I felt like I was living in a college dorm room while simultaneously trying to be a wife, a mother, a professional, and a reasonably functional adult. Four people sharing a fraction of their normal space goes from cozy to complicated remarkably fast.

Then came the delays. The endless delays.

The renovation gifted me lessons in patience I never asked for and a few adult tantrums I’m certain my family will never let me forget. My personal favorite was what has now become known as The Wallpaper Incident—a dramatic chapter involving samples, indecision, panic, certainty, regret, and eventual acceptance. Looking back, it’s funny. Living through it? Less funny.

Still, we made it. The dust has settled. The boxes are unpacked. The walls are exactly where they’re supposed to be. And for the first time in a long time, our house feels like home again.

While the house was transforming, so were the people living inside it.

My oldest has officially finished elementary school.

Even typing that sentence feels surreal.

This milestone carries a little extra weight because she isn’t simply moving up a grade. She’s heading to a new school next year, in a neighboring town, embarking on a path that is uniquely hers. Watching her make this decision and embrace this opportunity has been both inspiring and humbling. There is something extraordinary about witnessing your child step toward independence, even when every instinct in your body wants to hold on a little tighter.

I am excited for her. Proud of her. And if I’m being honest, just a little emotional.

Meanwhile, my youngest continues to teach me lessons I didn’t know I needed.

Perhaps it’s because she’s my baby, but I find myself paying closer attention to every first and every last. I linger longer at events. I take more photos. I memorize little details that I know will someday disappear. With her, I am acutely aware of how quickly childhood moves. She reminds me, often without realizing it, that there is beauty in slowing down enough to notice the moment before it becomes a memory.

And then there is my husband.

The patient, persistent man who never ceases to amaze me.

He has endured renovations, school transitions, my endless ideas, my occasional spirals, and more conversations about paint colors than any human should reasonably be expected to tolerate. Through it all, he remains steady. When I am dreaming, he is planning. When I am overwhelmed, he is grounding. When life becomes complicated, he somehow finds a way to simplify it.

We have a lot on deck.

There are trips to take, decisions to make, schedules to coordinate, and the ever-present logistics of raising a family. But perhaps the biggest thing occupying my thoughts right now isn’t what’s happening around me.

It’s what I’m finally claiming for myself.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about adventure.

Not the grand, movie-worthy kind. Not necessarily a passport stamp or a dramatic life change. I’m talking about the adventures we quietly deny ourselves. The classes we don’t sign up for. The invitations we decline. The dreams we keep postponing until life is less busy, less expensive, less complicated, less uncertain.

I make lists constantly.

Books I want to read. Places I want to visit. Things I want to learn. Projects I want to start. Experiences I want to have.

And yet so many of those lists remain untouched.

I’ve spent a lot of time wondering why.

Perhaps it’s fear. Perhaps it’s habit. Perhaps it’s the tendency women have to place everyone else’s priorities ahead of their own. Whatever the reason, I’m beginning to realize that waiting for the perfect time is often just another form of waiting forever.

So this summer, I’m choosing differently.

I’m choosing curiosity.

I’m choosing experiences.

I’m choosing to stop treating my own aspirations like optional extras.

I don’t know exactly where that will lead, but for the first time in a while, that uncertainty feels exciting rather than intimidating.

Life remains wild.

The renovation is done. The kids are growing. The calendar is full. The coffee is strong.

And somewhere in the midst of all of it, I’m finding my way back to myself.

I’d say that’s a pretty good start to summer.