What would I tell my teenage self today.

Teenage me was afraid of not being enough.

Not good enough.
Not smart enough.
Not pretty enough.

It wasn’t loud back then. It didn’t need to be.
It was just always… there. Quiet, steady, convincing. It showed up in comparison. In second-guessing. In wondering if I measured up in rooms I hadn’t even walked into yet. And the thing about that kind of fear is… it doesn’t ask for proof. It just settles in and waits for you to believe it.

I didn’t wake up one day and suddenly feel confident. I didn’t magically outgrow it. What I did instead … I moved forward anyway. I worked. I built. I showed up. Even on the days I questioned myself. Even on the days that voice was louder than anything else. Over time, that “not enough” girl didn’t disappear… she got busy building a life.

I became a wife and a mother. I raised children, showing up day after day for the people who mattered most. I built a career. A business. Not one… but three centers built over 34 years. I was ambitious, determined, a hard worker. Not because I always felt confident,  but because I kept going anyway.

Over time, something interesting happened. I stopped trying to feel like enough… and started building a life that reflected it. Not perfectly. Not without doubt. But consistently.

And it turns out, when you spend years showing up like that, your life starts to speak louder than your fears ever did.

Now, looking back, I can see her clearly … that teenage girl who was so unsure. And I don’t judge her. She didn’t know yet. She didn’t know what she would build. She didn’t know how strong she actually was. She didn’t know she would spend a lifetime quietly proving those fears wrong.

Teenage me was afraid of not being enough… 
not good enough, not smart enough, not pretty enough.

Adult me?

I did it anyway. I was more than enough all along!

Final thought

I ran a center for decades, built something valuable, and exited in a way that didn’t harm my staff. That’s not betrayal—that’s good leadership.

Happy retirement

I sold my center. It was a big, life-changing decision, and yes—it allows me to step into retirement with peace of mind.

What most people don’t see is that in order to make that happen, I had to sign a legal agreement that required complete confidentiality until closing. That wasn’t optional, and it wasn’t personal.

Nothing changed for my staff or the families we serve. That was always my priority—to make sure everything stayed stable and secure for everyone involved.

Change can bring emotions, and I understand that. But sometimes doing things the right way doesn’t look the way people expect.

This chapter meant everything to me. And I’m incredibly proud of how it was handled—from beginning to end.

Onward and upward 🤍

Every choice you make shapes your future

We like to think destiny is this grand, sweeping force written in the stars, but let me tell you—the reality is much less glamorous. Your path is actually being forged right now by whether you decide to hit snooze for the third time or finally drag yourself out of bed. Every tiny, seemingly insignificant choice I make—from eating that questionable gas station sushi to ignoring my car's check engine light—is actively laying down the bricks of my tomorrow.

I am the sole architect of my own existence, which is frankly a terrifying thought considering I still occasionally push doors that clearly say pull. So, while it might feel like I'm just winging it through a standard Sunday, I try to remember that the older version of myself is probably watching me through the space-time continuum, either slow-clapping in admiration or aggressively face-palming at my current path.

Fires are EVERYWHERE

Being a daycare director is officially exhausting. I spend my entire day putting out fires, and ironically, the kids aren't the ones starting them.

It’s the staff. Between the unpredictable mood swings and the constant expectation that the universe should revolve around them, managing the adults has easily become the hardest part of this job. Honestly, I wouldn't wish this career path on anyone.

Years ago, running a center was practically a breeze. Hiring reliable people was entirely possible, state regulations didn't constantly contradict one another, and the children were significantly better behaved. Now, parenting feels like a lost art. Most kids haven't been taught basic manners, and it's painfully obvious that the Department of Human Services is no longer focused on what's best for the children.

At this point, retirement isn’t just a milestone. It’s my only escape plan.