I’m going to be what most people online aren’t: honest.
Life is freaking hard. Just when you feel like you’ve finally got both feet under you and start moving forward, the universe decides to throw something else your way.
Control is an illusion. The only real control we have is over ourselves and how we respond. As a perfectionist, recovering people-pleaser with a guilt complex—currently practicing Mel Robbins’ Let Them Theory—you’d think this is a lesson I’d have mastered by now. Spoiler alert: I haven’t.
When my internal feedback loop starts whispering you have no control, you can’t fix this, you’re failing, I usually respond in one of two ways: I either run ten miles (sub-9 pace, thank you very much) or I park myself on the couch with the Hallmark Channel or true crime and a pile of cookies. In this house, we’re either sleighing or slaying—there is no in-between.
And here’s the thing: I have a good life. A life I’m deeply grateful for. I’m living inside things I once prayed for years ago. But gratitude doesn’t make life immune to hardship. Things don’t happen when we want, how we want, or for reasons that make sense in the moment. Sometimes the “why” doesn’t show up for years—if it ever does.
I’m great at my job—and I’m not going to pretend otherwise. I’m a full-blown workaholic who genuinely enjoys outmaneuvering people with much bigger degrees than mine, mostly because I can read, write, think critically, and actually hold a conversation instead of hiding behind AI or a screen. If I can get someone on the phone or into a meeting, I can handle a six or seven figure deal without blinking.
In January alone, I closed 31 deals. Yes, January has 31 days—but not 31 business days. Once you factor in weekends and holidays, there are about 20. That averages out to 1.55 deals per business day. The department average is 10 for the entire month. On top of that, I completed my Continuing Education credits. I think I’m ok being confident about my career.
And that’s just the visible part of the work. Every deal requires investigation, evaluation, preparation, and a whole lot of unseen effort before it ever gets to the point where I can even have the conversation that closes it. Add another layer: I’m dealing daily with other people’s emotional, physical, and financial trauma, while also trying to assess long-term consequences and outcomes. Every time I think I’ve seen it all, something new proves me wrong. Truth really is stranger than fiction.
My husband does threaten to turn off my computer most nights because I just want to handle one more task… but there’s always another task. Burnout doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it just looks like working one more hour. And then another.
On top of work, my petite 5’3”, 110-lb self has been dealing with a thyroid that’s been completely out of whack since July. Some days, I barely have the energy to drag myself out of bed for a cup of black coffee that Tyler lovingly makes for me (“angry bean juice,” as my supervisor calls it), then haul myself back upstairs to my office to work ten hours straight with a smile on my face.
That workday includes cats walking across my keyboard and a dog who weighs three-quarters of what I do demanding fetch every thirty seconds. Other than using my walking pad with my sit-to-stand desk, there are days I don’t leave my office until Tyler gets home—at which point I just want to crawl straight back into bed.
I’m working on it. It’s another trial, yet another waiting period for my husband and me while I try to get in with an endocrinologist in June… unless there’s a cancellation before then. And honestly, I’m lucky just to be heard at all as a woman seeking medical care. In 2024, I had TMJ and an ENT literally told me to “deal with it.” Meanwhile, my husband walks into urgent care and they test him for everything under the sun. Also—why is it called urgent care when nothing is urgent and no one seems to care? For the record, I did not “just deal with it,” but that’s a whole other post.
Thankfully, when I saw my PCP in September and told her how lethargic I’d become, she jumped into action. She knows how active I normally am, and when I mentioned I hadn’t run in weeks, she ordered labs immediately. For now, I’m monitoring everything with her while I wait for the endocrinologist—bloodwork every six weeks, incremental increases to my levothyroxine, and the recurring comment from nurses: “But you’re so fit—you don’t have any other symptoms.” Cool. Love that.
Then Gryffin broke his dew claw. Expensive. Multiple visits. To make it worse, the bandage was wrapped too tightly by the vet, causing a blister and another week in a cone and cast. He wasn’t allowed on the stairs, so I moved my office downstairs just to let him outside. My entire routine unraveled. He was barely a year old, sedated, crated at night to keep him from jumping off the bed—and the confusion in those puppy eyes was devastating.
Then the holidays hit. I love the holidays. So does my husband. Unfortunately, it’s also the busiest time of year at work. Oh—and congrats to me, I got promoted at the end of October… two days before Gryffin’s surgery. There went the extra salary. Add in laundry, life, and my seventh jury duty summons (SEVENTH). I truly don’t know why they want me—I would be a terrible juror.
Somewhere in all of this, I had the brilliant idea to sign up for the Butterfly Challenge at Dollywood: a 5K, a 10K, and a half marathon over two days. Because why not, I also registered for the Marine Corps Half and the Double Blossom Challenge at the Cherry Blossom Festival.
Here’s my logic: I love running… kind of. I will do anything to avoid a run. I hate my life for the first mile, then I love it. The first mile is a liar is my mantra for 95% of my runs. Running relieves stress, improves my cardiovascular age (thanks, Oura for telling me I’m younger than I am), and—most importantly—helps break the stress loop our bodies are wired with. Removing the stressor doesn’t remove the stress. Movement does.
Running makes me happy. It makes me feel confident. And if I sign up for races, I’ll force myself to show up even when I don’t feel great.
Yes, my doctor told me that if anyone has a valid excuse not to run right now, it’s me.
Yes, I ignored her.
And yes, I’m on a regular training regimen anyway.
My parents are getting older—which they remind me of every time I see them—and in December my father had a serious health scare that, thankfully, now seems to be healing. Blame it on my water sign, but I worry. As many times as they fixed things for me growing up, I can’t fix them. And after losing so many people in my life, I wish I could go back and tell my younger self this: you don’t have time to not make time. Life goes by way too fast.
For a long while, I lived as if I’d live forever. But my parents and grandparents always knew better. They understood that it’s the smallest moments that matter most.
So now I’m the daughter that comes home more. The granddaughter who lingers in goodbye hugs. The one who checks in, just because. They loved me this way first—arriving hours early to my dance competitions just to see me, calling just to say hey, teaching me how to make biscuits by hand, keeping fresh sweet tea waiting in the kitchen.
I was loved like that. And now, I love the same.
Someone I work with—someone I speak with often—told me he was worried about me. He said every time he asked how I was doing, I’d respond, “I woke up today,” in a cheerful voice. He thought it meant I was depressed.
I told him he couldn’t be further from the truth. Every day I wake up is a blessing. Nothing is promised, and a lot of people didn’t wake up today. That perspective surprised him.
I explained that no matter how hard a day gets or what goes wrong, I have a choice: I can ruminate on the bad, or I can focus on what I have—a good job, food on the table, a healthy marriage, friends, family, a roof over my head, and the ability to pay my bills. Everything beyond that is extra, because so many people don’t even have those basics.
I love control. I love planning. And I get frustrated when my plans don’t work out, or when I can’t have what I want right now—especially when everyone else seems to make life look so easy. But social media is flawed. No one posts the screaming kids before the family photo, the argument on vacation, or the health, mental, and financial struggles people hide while trying to keep up with the Joneses.
The truth is, I can’t control much. I can’t control other people, timing, or life’s curveballs. What I can control are my reactions, my choices, and my responses. I can do my best with what’s in front of me—and in six months, you either have progress or you have excuses.
Good things come in time.
For now I’m going to high five myself in the mirror for doing the best I can with the knowledge I have.
So pray, give it to God, and go to sleep.
Until next time, cheers🥂🍾
Coffee, Cats, & Champagne 