The interstate unfolds into western Oklahoma—where it’s flat, so flat. Just past Yukon and El Reno, there’s nothing but farms and blue sky on all sides of the highway.

Long stretches of fields of bright yellow flowers also lined the highway, north and south—what crop was it? Canola. Canola is something farmers plant on the “off” years, between wheat crops, to cleanse the land of poison-resistant weeds that can crowd out the wheat.

Long stretches of fields of bright yellow flowers also lined the highway, north and south—what crop was it? Canola.

Canola is something farmers plant on the “off” years, between wheat crops, to cleanse the land of poison-resistant weeds that can crowd out the wheat.

The yellow fields were really beautiful against the blue sky of an early April morning. Perfect complimentary colors. I’d never seen anything like it before, not in Oklahoma. The scene waited not far from where I live, but I don’t venture out in that direction very often.

The drive up to Roman Nose State Park is uneventful except for those fields of yellow canola flowers. There are a few highway signs, telling you where to turn. There are a few small, empty-looking towns—Geary, Watonga. They’re the type of towns that confirm any theories about the decline of rural America—as people move away, to the cities, the towns get run-down and forgotten. At least that’s the view from the highway—old battered houses, beat-up cars, vacant buildings with faded signs.

We finally made it. Within the hour, we’d picked out a campsite near the lake, and staked the tent into the ground. We made lunch, sitting at the picnic table in the sunlight.

“Is there anything better than a sandwich?” I asked, after my first bite.

How satisfying it all was, all of it.

***

Roman Nose State Park was named after Henry Roman Nose, a chief that owned all 600 acres of the property. That’s all the signs told, with a line drawing of a Native American, in a feathered headdress with an exaggerated, angular nose.

The park is small, a dot on the map, really. We found the place quiet, and mostly empty—the first campsite off the road had just a truck and tent already set up, and the second—the one we chose—was completely vacant.

After lunch, we walked down the street to a putt-putt course and to the General Store, where brightly-colored paddle boats floated near the dock of the lake.

“Fifteen dollars for the hour,” the lady behind the counter told me when I asked about them. “And you can take your dogs,” she laughed, adding, “as long as they don’t jump out.”

I nodded, thanked her, paid, and left. We decided instead to play putt-putt, while the dogs laid out on the narrow greens, their leashes tied to a tree. It was a quirky course—painted metal statues of a castle and a cactus and a smiling Bugs Bunny, all with curved tunnels at their bases. At the end, we tallied up the scores. Jacob beat me by three strokes.

We wandered back to the campsite, only to find we had new neighbors. They’d already set up their tent while we were gone. You could hear the old lady coughing and laughing, instructing her companion as they finished up setting up camp. ”

Now that hook goes there,” she said in a raspy, hoarse voice. Then she added, “I’m glad I’ve been to the carnival.”

We laughed, eavesdropping, looking over our shoulders from the picnic table to watch them work.

***

We’d gotten instructions on where to hike from the lady at the main lodge of the park. She’d highlighted the trail on a map she gave us.

“This leads up to Inspiration Point. It’s the highest point of the park, well, of the whole area.” I looked down at the map, noting the switch-back looking part near the top of the hill.

So we set off. The terrain was arid—red clay earth, broad-billed cacti, fields of dry grass. The hike beside the lake was tree-covered and shaded, then it opened up into a clearing where the trail followed the dam on the north side of the lake.

So we set off. The terrain was arid—red clay earth, broad-billed cacti, fields of dry grass. The hike beside the lake was tree-covered and shaded, then it opened up into a clearing where the trail followed the dam on the north side of the lake.

We’d been walking already for ages, but you could make out the RV campsite on the other side of the lake; it seemed so close, too close for how long we’d been walking. I looked down at the map again, trying to recognize the turns in the trail with what we were seeing. The map exaggerated it all, but I could match it up.

The climb up to the top of the hill was more narrow and steep in some places. The dogs followed behind. I could hear Littleman panting and I looked back at him a few times. Even though I worried he was thirsty, he looked happy. Ranger followed behind Jacob. He was also panting, and not looking quite as happy, but he kept up.

We finally made it to the top—an overlook with a vista of the whole park and the small, red canyons to the north. There was a podium with a drawing of the same canyons, except a wide river snaked back and forth between them. The scene didn’t look quite like that now—the river had long ago been dammed up to make the lake, and the clearing between the canyon was now thickly tree-covered and green.

I sat down, resting, on the rocks, wanting to take the time to appreciate why we’d come: the view.

***

Camping isn’t quite camping without a campfire. When we paid the $12 fee for our campsite, I’d asked about getting a bundle of firewood. I’d read in the park FAQs you had the option to buy bundles—or just take what you could find from the woods.

Jacob hesitated when Monty, the man behind the desk, reminded us of this.”It’ll save you $5,” he assured us.

So Jacob told him we wouldn’t need the firewood after all. I didn’t disagree, even though I’d planned to just buy it, and save the hassle. Monty scribbled out where he’d written out “firewood” on our receipt and handed it back to us.

After the hike, we were hungry—it was already after 6pm. And that’s when our firewood situation became more obvious. I scavenged the area, but only found a few armfuls of twigs, and a few more substantially-sized fallen branches. That’s when I started to get worried.

“This isn’t going to be enough to last us all night,” I told Jacob finally. I knew I had a scolding, I-told-you-so tone.

“I’ll go back to the lodge to see if we can buy some now,” he said, calm, as always.

He left while I went back to scavenging around the campsite for what I could find—which wasn’t much.

He came back with bad news. “I guess they’re all out,” he said. “I could hear the park ranger on the radio saying something about it. He told us he’d come by with what he had left, but it’s not much.”

When the park ranger did come by, the bed of his truck was filled with huge logs and stumps—nothing you could easily burn. “I’d sell ya this stuff, but you’d have to have a pretty good fire going already.”

I got more and more panicked. “What are we going to do?” I wailed. “I’ve only found these twigs,” I said, pointing to my embarrassing pile beside the fire pit. “This won’t last us at all.”

“Here, I’ll go drive back up to that trailhead and see what I can find.”

I was really, really worried. I couldn’t imagine sitting in the dark without a fire. It would have been a complete camping failure. While he was gone, I finally sat down, feeling helpless. At the campsite behind us, there was a man giving a Bible study. His voice carried across the lake. He read some verse out of 1 Corinthians. I faded in and out of paying attention, watching the road for Jacob.

I saw his car pass in the opposite direction, down the street, and I knew that was a bad sign.

***

I knew everything would be ok when he turned the car around to back in, an indication that he had something to unload. And he did. He’d found plenty of good firewood.

The sight of that firewood stacked in the back of the car–what a beauty. It felt like a gift, like we’d caught a boatful of fish. We’d have plenty.

“Down by the amphitheater,” he said. “There’s plenty more if we need to go back.” He nodded down the road, then shrugged like it was no big deal.

I hugged him tightly. “You saved the day, honey.”

The sight of that firewood stacked in the back of the car–what a beauty. It felt like a gift, like we’d caught a boatful of fish. We’d have plenty.

***

We cooked our hotdogs over the fire, watched as the sun faded into dusk. More campers had arrived—a father and son took the spot across from us, and a family with two toddlers and a dog to our left. A carful of teenagers arrived just after sunset, staking their tent by the light of their headlights. I was glad the close quarters didn’t seem too bad, after all.

I put on a few more layers when night fell and slipped on an extra pair of pants to stay warm. We listened to the guy, still giving a Bible study, hours later. I tried to make sense of his sermon (he actually called it that: when I was preparing this sermon.)

“I bet he isn’t even talking that loud,” Jacob said. “His voice just carries.”

We stayed up until nearly eleven, the last campfire glowing into the night. We finally settled into the tent, putting the dogs in their beds, zipping up our sleeping bags. The floor of the tent went downhill slightly, so your head sloped into the incline.

It’s not a great night’s sleep—camping. But that’s definitely not the point.

***

The sun was just coming up over the lake—and the sight of it was mysterious and ethereal. With the storm clouds in the distance, it wasn’t a bright sunrise—just a blue dawn, the morning light coming from behind the clouds, all blue. I snapped a few photos of the scene—the light reflecting off the lake, the shadows of the clouds and trees. It felt like my secret—the feeling that early morning usually gives you: hushed reverence.

We woke, before dawn, to long rumbles of thunder. Their location seemed distant, but I couldn’t believe it. I’d checked the weather before we left to make sure–no rain.

More rumbles of thunder. No one seemed too alarmed (except of course, Ranger). No one was stirring outside, or talking. It thundered and thundered. So we finally got up, while it was still dark.

The sun was just coming up over the lake—and the sight of it was mysterious and ethereal. With the storm clouds in the distance, it wasn’t a bright sunrise—just a blue dawn, the morning light coming from behind the clouds, all blue.

I snapped a few photos of the scene—the light reflecting off the lake, the shadows of the clouds and trees.

It felt like my little secret—the feeling that early morning usually gives you: hushed reverence.

***

We packed up everything in perfect time—right before the storm arrived and the downpour came. We even had time to build one last campfire, making a pot of coffee and roasting a few croissants over the fire.

The thunder truly had been a warning of sorts, a “get ready.” Our phones wouldn’t work, so there was no radar to consult. It was just the sky and the sound of it, telling us.

We were on the road before 8am, headed home. Once we had service, the radar revealed the storm, heading straight for the park, a giant glob of green and red and yellow.

“It’s going to rain all day,” Jacob said.

I thought about the people that remained—the father and son and the raspy-voiced couple with their fishing poles, the teenagers. The young family was also packing up as we left; they weren’t going to ride it out either.

“Man, I love camping,” I said. “I’m so glad we did this.”

Would we have gone if we’d known there was a chance it would storm?

I had just finished a workout at the gym and was settling into my favorite part of necessary, obligatory exercise: stretching. I was standing near a wall, grabbing the ankle of my foot, when I noticed something: a pink plastic Easter egg, hidden down in the center of the leg of one of those aerobic step risers.

I noticed a few more eggs scattered around. There was an orange one in the corner behind a rack of hand weights, and a blue one poking out from behind a stack of yoga mats. Why were they there? I could only imagine they were the spoils of a recent Easter egg hunt for the after-school kids. I looked around, wondering if anyone else had seen them, too.

I’ll admit it—my first thought? Candy. But as an upstanding, cardio-committed adult, I decided to abstain from picking one up, shaking it, and keeping it safely in my palm until I was driving away from the parking lot. But I couldn’t help feeling like I’d found something—that little pink egg, even if I had left it behind. It was in an excellent hiding spot, and I’d been the one to find that last little lost Easter egg.

* * *

On the drive home, I got nostalgic about Easter. I still have the wooden Easter basket my grandpa made for me when I was a kid. Both ends of the basket are shaped like a bunny’s face, and it’s painted white, with lines for whiskers around the nose. My name is painted onto it, too, the handiwork of my mom. The letters are playful and arced, with decorative dots on all the ends.

Growing up, we’d wake up on Easter Sunday before church to look for our Easter baskets. They had been carefully hidden around the house, and we’d tiptoe around while my mom gave us “hot” or “cold” clues. Nothing was better than knowing you were getting closer, like following a treasure map.

Once we’d discovered our baskets, we could dig into the bounty of treats they held—SweeTarts, Nerds, Peeps, Chocolate Bunnies. Sometimes, I could make my trove last all week, but usually I’d dig in and delightfully overdose on sugar. The wrappers would be scattered around me on the floor, the only evidence of everything I’d consumed.

The Hunt & the Reward

Maybe there will always be something remarkable about a hunt—and the reward. Once we’re adults, the hunt turns to more intangible things, and the clues get harder to discern (and that’s assuming we’re given any). And the reward? That’s where it’s so easy to lose sight. We’re harder to satisfy. We don’t take the time to savor what we find.

What’s so special about these memories? Are our childhoods only magnified once our roles are reversed, once we’re the one stuffing candy into plastic eggs, hiding wooden baskets under blankets?

Maybe there will always be something remarkable about a hunt—and the reward. Once we’re adults, the hunt turns to more intangible things, and the clues get harder to discern (and that’s assuming we’re given any). And the reward? That’s where it’s so easy to lose sight. We’re harder to satisfy. We don’t take the time to savor what we find.

Discovering that lost Easter egg today felt like a benevolent reminder–don’t stop hunting for meaning in the everyday. The search is on—for little bits of beauty and meaning. The rewards truly are all around us, but they’re hidden until we tune our eyes to the shape and color and texture or sound of it, or until we break open what we find to examine it, and taste the sweetness.

I have a confession: I hate Facebook. And I’m not wading into exaggerations here (which I’ll admit I’m prone to do)—I hate it. Facebook, for me, evokes the same feeling of other things I really despise—like sitting in traffic, using the stair climber machine at the gym, going to Walmart, or owing taxes.

So how exactly did I get here? It wasn’t always this way. Once, a long, long time ago, Facebook was different. At the time I joined, Facebook required you to have a college email address. So, at the time, Facebook was really just an online version of a very limited social circle—your college friends and classmates.

I know that potentially sounds very superior and exclusive, but it made the purpose of having a profile on the site a little more simple. You posted what you were doing over the weekend or how awful your latest art history exam went. You made plans for study dates and wrote on someone else’s wall with inside jokes. Most of all, you knew everyone you ever knew didn’t have access to it—to this particular online representation of yourself.

“A man has as many social selves as there are individuals who recognize him”
–William James

William James once wrote, “A man has as many social selves as there are individuals who recognize him.” But what happens when you’re forced to choose just one “social self” to display? When the audience grows to include your family, your coworkers, your elementary school classmates, your childhood Sunday School teacher? This makes the question of what you share and how you portray yourself a bit more difficult.

One thing seems to be certain: it’s easy to make sure this online version of yourself is the very best version of yourself—always saying the right thing, always smiling, always doing something fabulous or exciting.

But is that “self” even really a real person?

A New Era in Social Comparison (and Discontent)

I think Facebook is a great, wide ocean of potential discontent and jealousy and envy, even if we try our best to be good, smiling Christian souls. When all we see of other people’s lives are the happiest, perfect moments, our vision gets blurred. If everyone else’s lives are so great, shouldn’t ours be, too? Or shouldn’t we be trying our hardest to make sure our lives look just as shiny and happy and fulfilled and worry-free?

During my lifetime I’ve seen a shift, but I want to be careful about the blind nostalgia of “the good old days.” Keeping up with the Joneses is a phrase that’s been around for more than one hundred years¹, so I’m not naive to think we aren’t all given to comparing ourselves to others, even on some subconscious or irrational level. We can’t help but compare what we have to what other people have, but maybe there was a time when what we potentially had to envy was a bit more limited.

Maybe social comparison (and social discontent) was more limited in scope—back before Facebook. I think Facebook is a great, wide ocean of potential discontent and jealousy and envy, even if we try our best to be good, smiling Christian souls.

When all we see of other’s lives are the happiest, perfect moments, our vision gets blurred. If everyone else’s lives are so great, shouldn’t ours be, too? Or shouldn’t we be trying our hardest to make sure our lives look just as shiny and happy and fulfilled and worry-free?

7 Facebook Rules to Live By (Or Die Trying)

So what’s the solution to all my Facebook woes? Do I jump ship, as many brave souls have done before me? Believe me, I’ve considered it.

I think, for me, the greater challenge is having a healthier and balanced relationship with dear ‘ol Facebook. I’ve started developing my own Facebook Rules to Live By (or Die Trying):

1. Set limits with my time. I can’t mindlessly scroll through timelines, refresh for new notifications, go through other people’s 1000-photo albums (alas, feeling like a “creeper”). Are there better ways I could be spending my time? Heck yes. Every minute I spend on Facebook is one minute lost doing something more productive or refreshing, so I need to be conscious of this.

2. Be mindful of how Facebook makes me feel (which is usually lousy). Have I ever really gotten onto Facebook, wanting to yell with delight, “THIS IS SO GREAT! THIS IS BETTER THAN VACATION!” No. But I’ve learned it’s important to know and recognize emotions—especially negative ones. Am I raging mad at someone’s political rant in my newsfeed? Absolutely. Am I feeling helpless to change their whole worldview with one well-worded comment? Yep. Do I feel really behind in things like foreign-country visits or entering motherhood? Yes, and yes.

3. Evaluate my motivations for what I share. This is a big one for me. Am I bragging? Am I showing off? Is it authentic? Does it represent good boundaries between what’s public and private?

4. Be conscious of how I grade myself on feedback and comments. Do I want to feel noticed, recognized, and approved? Do likes and comments really mean those things? Really?

5. Be ok that I might be missing out on knowing some important life events. Sure, I’m fine with giving up the knowledge of what some acquaintance from grade school ate for dinner last night, but I also have to be ok that I’m missing out on photos of my sweet nieces, or of my cousins (all growing up so quickly!) by my limited Facebook involvement. If I set limits on the time I spend on Facebook, I’m bound to miss out on something.

6. Be more intentional about fostering relationships and having personal interactions with those that I love. Facebook isn’t a substitute for a phone call or meeting up for coffee. It isn’t an excuse to not make time for spending time with friends and family. I shouldn’t pretend to know what’s going on in your life based on your recent Facebook posts.

7. Value privacy. See it as a rare, special gift. Are some moments (and the pictures of those moments) not for anyone else to see or know about? Does knowing that a moment—a dinner out with friends, a concert, a vacation—is something only you will live and experience make it a more valuable memory? I’m starting to think so.

So to everyone out there scrolling Facebook timelines, thinking needles in their eyeballs would be a better alternative, I feel your pain. What will we think of Facebook in ten, twenty years? I don’t know. But for now, I want to see Facebook for what it really is—a digital, highly-curated version of our imperfect lives. It will never beat living the real thing, everyday. It will never beat truly knowing and loving those that are dearest to us.

It will never beat seeking to view the entirety of life, holding the good days and bad days close.

One of my favorite ways to spend an evening is with two of my favorite girlfriends, Emily and Rachel. For over a year now, we’ve been meeting about once a month for what we’ve deemed “Creative Betterment.”

“Know your own bone,” Thoreau wrote. “Gnaw at it, bury it, unearth it, gnaw it still.” Of course, the beginning of this powerful piece of wisdom is: “Do what you love.” In order to do what we love—whether we are woodworkers, legal-aid attorneys, emergency room physicians, or novelists—we must first know ourselves as deeply as we are able. ‘Know your own bone.’ This knowledge can be messy […] But it is at the center of our life’s work, this gnawing, this unearthing. There is never an end to it. Our deepest stories—our bones—are our best teachers. Gnaw it still.”
—Dani Shapiro, Still Writing 

We meet up at a little tea house not far from my house, get teapots of our favorite tea, and talk. We talk about what we’ve been working on lately and how things are going. We talk about issues we’re having in our creative pursuits and, usually, between the three of us, come up with creative solutions to our latest conundrums. Sometimes, it’s all high-fives and great-jobs (yes, we have show-and-tell time).

Ladies just need to talk. I know that now—as much as I need to write things out, I also need to talk them out. So our little meetings have been a chance for me to wade in about writing and the challenge of balancing creative work with the rest of life, and how to stay inspired. They were the first to know that I’d decided to write a book a year ago, and sometimes I wonder if I could have actually gotten it finished without our meetings (and their friendship). They’ve kept me sane, focused, accountable—through verbal processing and the cutest little teapots of sweet almond tea.

Last night, we met up again. It was a damp, dreary night—a perfect night for hot tea and staying indoors. I brought a book along to share: Creative You: Using Your Personality Type to Thrive. I’d emailed Emily and Rachel earlier in the week to ask them to take a personality test. Since taking the test myself last week and getting my results, I’ve been enamored with everything I could find to read about my personality type.

Why? Well, it’s spooky. I’ve learned things about myself—those rare, objective things that are completely outside of your own arrived-at revelations. It was a glorious dose of insight. And I hoped I could share it, that I wouldn’t be the only one feeling like I’d just gotten a healthy heap of affirmation.

Know Your Own Bone

My personality type (INFP) is prone to pursuits of self-exploration and self-discovery and introspection; it’s good to know that. I also need time to think and derive meaning. I’m an idealist; possibilities interest me more than realities. I struggle with perfectionism and sharing my work publicly—again, true to my INFP nature.

Are four letters enough to represent all the complexities of our inner lives, our preferences, our habits, our hopes and fears?

The most powerful thing I learned—without a doubt—is that I’m an introvert. While we usually think of introversion as the way we are around people versus being alone, introversion is really more about our orientation to the external world. Introversion is explained like this in Gifts Differing: “Minds inwardly directed […] interest and attention being engrossed in inner events. The real world therefore is the inner world of ideas and understanding.”

Thoreau once said, “Know your own bone; gnaw at it, bury it, unearth it, and gnaw it still.” Are four letters enough to represent all the complexities of our inner lives, our preferences, our habits, our hopes and fears?

Probably not, but maybe they’re a start.

Further Resources & Readings

Take the Personality Test

Gifts Differing: Understanding Personality Type by Isabel Briggs Myers and Peter B. Myers

Creative You: Using Your Personality Type to Thrive by Otto Kroeger and David B. Goldstein

What Type Am I? Discover Who You Really Are by Renee Baron

I took a walk out into the snow, alone. I bundled up first, in layers, combing through drawers for insulated leggings and gloves and warm socks. By the time I was ready to go, I was almost unrecognizable in the mirror—no makeup, my hair hidden away under Jacob’s stocking cap and tucked into the neck of my fleece, my shape rounded out with two coats, zipped up tightly.

I just finished Pico Iyer’s beautiful little book on The Art of Stillness and wondered: when was the last time I was really alone with my thoughts and not engrossed in doing something (writing, reading, scrolling through webpages)? Somehow I knew I was being called out into the rare snowy morning.

Outside, it was still snowing lightly and I met the quiet, empty streets with a pause, deciding on my path. A neighbor was shoveling her driveway, so I decided to head in the opposite direction, avoiding a nod, or an acknowledgment, or the unspoken question of “why, what are you doing out here, all alone?”

It was good to feel the cold air in my lungs and I thought about those swimmers plunging into cold waters (from a podcast on finding the secrets of longevity)—how they seem to live longer, healthier lives. The theory has something to do with the benefits of exposing yourself to short-term, controlled physical stress. Your body responds, repairs, and gets stronger.

I walked south a block, then turned right on the next street. My footprints were the only ones and I looked back over my shoulder a few times, to see the pattern, in a line. It seemed like the whole world was still asleep, or inside keeping warm, with no intention of going outside. Cars were parked, unmoved, in driveways. The proof? There weren’t any tire imprints disturbing the snowfall on the streets.

I thought about how I need to see the way the familiar can be transformed; I have to commit it to memory, if only for comparisons later, in other seasons. It was easy to imagine sunny evenings, walking in the golden sunlight, under the heavy shade of the old oak tress that lined the street. I’d be saving this memory for that moment, in the future, when I’d think back to the same snow-packed versions of the same streets.

I only saw two more people—a man walking his dog, halfway down the next block, and another man standing in his garage, smoking a cigarette, letting his car idle. I trudged onward to the park, noting the particular stillness of snow-covered surroundings. It was so quiet.

I passed a tree with nearly thirty birds perched high on the branches. They huddled their heads down into their wings, keeping warm, and their round black outlines were like ornaments on the tree. I kept walking.

I climbed the hill overlooking the park’s field and the sidewalk that circles the perimeter. Standing in the grass, my feet sunk down into the snow, so that the toes of my rain boots were nearly covered. I stood there for a moment, taking it in. Although I could hear the traffic from the interstate in the distance, I had the feeling of finding the world, all alone, rare and untouched.

On the way back, I passed the same tree with the birds still in the branches. I stepped on something—a crack of ice or branch underfoot—and with that, they all flew away in one giant sweeping motion, to another tree on another block.

How do we come to love the places where we live? Why do they become so endeared to us? Our neighborhood—the perfect square of it, bookended on each side by a park, a school, a church, and a Jewish temple. It was my snowy morning expedition, finding adventure in each footprint in the snow, in each deep breath in and out, through the snowflakes.

What was the thing calling me outside? Perhaps it was the realization of how crucial it is for me to explore. It’s rooted somewhere in my childhood: combing the dark hallways of church after everyone else had gone home, or riding my bicycle down the street from my house to wander the woods. Now, as an adult, it manifests differently: traversing the landscapes within.

Today is a little sentimental.

A year ago today, I started journaling through the details of my days, and set out on one of the most meaningful journeys of my life. A year later, I have a book to show for it. I’ll never be the same.

Today I’m launching a redesign of my website, so all of my work can finally have a place to call home. I hope to blog more regularly, organize my quote collection, offer some book recommendations and, most of all, share more.

On Expression and Sharing

Over the past year, I’ve learned some important lessons about myself and my work. The biggest lesson? I have to write. I have to get up every morning or stay up a little later each night to spend some time turning a blinking cursor into sentences and paragraphs.

Writing makes me the best version of myself. While writing is a solitary pursuit, there’s another key ingredient of expression: sharing it. I hope this site will be another way to share more, and with that, to practice a few of my key values: authenticity and vulnerability.

So take a look around the new site, visit the home page (my favorite part!) or send me a tweet.

Check out the home page

Here’s to another year of lessons and growth and doing brave things.

P.S. Thanks to my dear friend Emily Grober Trotter for my beautiful logo design, which served as inspiration for the rest of the site. She knows me too well.

P.P.S. Yes, there is a GIF library.