Working for an icon

When I heard of Giorgio Armani’s passing, it felt like something in me left, too. I’ve felt this before; when Matthew Perry died or when a former boss (looking at you, Kev) passed. People move in and out of our lives, sometimes briefly, sometimes from afar, but the world feels different without them. It’s as if a nostalgic chapter has closed and there’s no going back. That’s how I felt about Mr. Armani. So I started reminiscing about my time working for such a legend and felt compelled to write it down; even if only for my eyes. It was an incredible time in my life, and it deserves to be documented.

Let’s start at the beginning. 

When I was little, I’d spend hours in the fitting room at Gap, Limited Too, or Weather Vane, trying on nearly everything in the store while my mom patiently checked in and my younger brother (not so patiently) wished for my swift exit. In high school, my friends and I spent Saturdays strolling the mall, trying on all the things at Forever 21 and H&M. In college, the sales team at Urban Outfitters knew me by name. Clothing has always been a form of self expression for me. A way to say, “hey world, this is how I’m feeling today.” So naturally, when I graduated, I set my sights on a career in fashion.

I’ll never forget that first summer after graduation, the summer of 2007. My mom (thank goodness for her) schlepped around NYC with me in high heels and a blazer while the humidity turned my fine hair into damp fettuccini strands. Stale subway air rushed up through the sidewalk grates, threatening to flip my black skirt and reveal my granny panties to the world. Under one arm, I carried a professional-looking leather portfolio stuffed with 50 copies of my résumé, and in my head, the Devil Wears Prada theme was on loop. A handwritten list of corporate fashion and PR company addresses was folded neatly and tucked into my Kate Spade purse. In short, I was on a mission, and no one was stopping me. 

Except, of course, lobby security. The 9/11 attacks were still a recent nightmare, and the guards made it clear: no appointment, no elevator.

I didn’t give up easily, even convincing a kind older Irish guard to buzz me up to a famous PR firm, where I was met with confusion and a deadpan “Sure, I’ll pass this along” from a stylish secretary as she pinched my résumé between her thumb and forefinger as if it were an unwashed sock.

On day three of this valiant disaster, frustrated, sweaty, and exhausted, my mom and I limped back to the apartment (note to younger girls everywhere: never wear brand-new heels in NYC without breaking them in) and readied ourselves to meet my “cool” uncle for dinner. After bandages were applied and a glass of wine—or two—was enjoyed (hello, 21!), we ventured to the authentic Italian restaurant at the corner of 68th and Columbus. 

Dana was a caterer who occasionally staffed corporate events, serving cocktails and hors d’oeuvres to Manhattan’s business elite. Among his clients was Giorgio Armani. The moment we sat down, his eyes lit up and his brows nearly hit his hairline. I eyed him skeptically. “What’s up?” I laughed. 

“The office manager at Giorgio Armani is looking for an assistant. Should I send her your résumé?” 

And my years at Armani began.

Working at Giorgio Armani’s headquarters wasn’t just a job; it was a way of life. From day one, I was handed a coffee-table book on Armani’s history. The clothing guidelines were given to me: if you weren’t in Armani, the palette was black, gray, or white—and yes, there was a generous clothing allowance and discount. Side note: It took me years after leaving fashion to stop mentally taking 50% off every price tag. As I left HR, hefty book in hand and my (now) worn-in heels clacking across the white-tiled floors, I felt I’d made it.

I quickly realized my first assignment after accepting the job should’ve been overnighting Rosetta Stone Italian CDs to my Bronx apartment. Had you visited our office, you might’ve assumed we were in Italy: clipped, melodic Italian drifted through the halls, and executive meetings often flipped from English to rapid-fire Italian, making my job as the note-taker a challenge.

And of course, when Mr. Armani came to town, it was an event. 

One of my duties as assistant to the office manager was preparing Mr. Armani’s Upper West Side apartment whenever he came to New York. With two grocery carts in tow, I’d circle the aisles of The Food Emporium, tossing in, and checking off, each item on Mr. Armani’s approved shopping list. When I rode the elevator up to his penthouse, I’d slip off my black flats, tuck the Häagen-Dazs into the freezer, and set about making sure every room was perfect. Each Armani Casa pillow was fluffed and every cashmere throw smoothed. I’d imagine him and his guests lounging on the sleek couches and retiring to their minimalist beds each night. For a moment, I could pretend I belonged in his chic inner circle.

With each passing year, I moved up in the company. As executive assistant to the EVP of Retail, I did everything from escorting a famous Italian talk-show host around Manhattan to walking the massive white spiral staircase—clipboard in hand, Armani hard hat on—as the Fifth Avenue flagship was being built.

In the marketing department, I became the customer relationship manager and traveled to Milan, where I spent my days at the Giorgio Armani Italian headquarters, learning new technologies and lingering over long, delicious lunches. The people were incredible; brutally honest in that very European way (they’re quick to tell you if your idea is awful and will never understand the concept of iced coffee), but also brilliant, stylish, and kind. I attended my first Italian fashion show, feeling like an impostor with my lanyard and last-season Armani as fashion’s elite floated around me.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the clothes. They defined luxury. The fabrics were heavenly; the drape, oh-so-flattering. When I maxed out my clothing allowance, which was easy to do, I’d head up to the sample closet and ask the manager to loan me a look for company events. Gliding between the racks, I’d revel in the textures, breathing in the ever-present Acqua di Giò and praying for a size 6.

By year five, fashion recruiters had started calling, turns out CRM is an uncommon skill set, and I eventually moved on to a new luxury brand, though my heart never fully left the House of Armani.

As I reconnected with old colleagues when news of Mr. Armani’s passing spread, one woman, Lucinda, put it beautifully: “To my beloved Armani family around the world, I know we feel each other deeply today—bonded by our love for our Maestro and the pain of his passing. No matter the year, the role, the location, we shared the singular experience of belonging to the House of Armani—where the man, the brand, and the company were unwaveringly one.”

Heaven just got a bit more stylish. Rest in peace, Maestro. Thank you for the memories. 

A skeptic at Burning Man: one night that changed my mind

One of the first things my husband told me when we met was how badly he wanted to go to Burning Man. I played it cool, as you do when you’re newly in love, and said, “Sure, one day.” Secretly, I hoped he’d forget. He didn’t. After much hemming and hawing (and twelve years of procrastinating), I finally gave in three years ago. And actually, it was pretty great. No, wonderful. I’ll even say this: if you ever get the chance to go, say yes, immediately. Don’t overthink it. Everyone should experience Burning Man once.

In my mind, Burning Man was a drug-fueled festival where supermodels strutted around in barely-there exotic clothing, taking drugs was a must, or you’d get laughed at, hugging everyone you crossed paths with was mandatory, and survival was completely up to you because this lunar-like land was 1,000 miles from civilization and the only way out was to fake a heart attack, which even then, you’d probably be screwed because their can’t possibly be medical supervision around, right? So you see, there was no way I was ever going. 

Except, I saw how important it was to my husband, and so, I relented. Our first “Burn” was 2023 — yes, the year of the great floods (more on that later).

In preparation, I watched every possible YouTube video (twice), read all the articles on the internet, and checked off every single item on the “Personal Survival Checklist” provided by the great people of Burning Man. “Duct Tape?” Sure. “An extensive first-aid kit?” Obviously. “Common sense, an open mind, a sense of humor, and a positive attitude?” Um, can I phone a friend? (which, actually, you can’t because there is zero cell service.) 

I did have fun planning the outfits. The YouTube videos taught me that supermodels exist, but they’re not the norm. So I went for it: sky-high boots, floral tights, a fringe vest, heart goggles, and all the glow. Amazon boxes stacked up. Suddenly, it was official.

After fifteen hours on the road, my husband and I rolled up with our rented trailer. Burning Man shimmered in the distance, and I exhaled. It was remote, but there’s actually a town just a few miles away with gas, cell service, and even pizza. We pulled to the side, duct taped every window on our car and trailer, and continued into the car line. 

As we waited, I took in the beat-up school buses, Sprinter vans, and rented Cruise America RVs. The energy was unlike anything I’ve felt; everyone so welcoming, so excited, so dang happy to be alive. Music blasted; people danced outside their cars; the costumes were mesmerizing. It was contagious.

We grabbed our tickets and welcome booklet at the box office and entered Black Rock City. As first-timers, we were invited to ring a gong and make dust angels in that famous playa sand. The greeters offered hugs, which, to my own surprise, I gladly accepted.

Finding a spot was easy, and we set up camp near a med tent (yes, they exist!) By then, the sun was setting, we pulled on our full regalia, lit up the bikes, and off we went.

There aren’t really words for riding onto the playa at night for the first time, but I’ll try to explain the best I can. Warm air, a soft breeze, silky dust, and a river of blinking bikes. Then the “mutant vehicles” glide by: a shark, a unicorn, a strobing T-rex. I don’t do drugs, but the world tilted anyway.

An older couple in a decked-out old-school carriage stopped and asked if I wanted a chocolate chip cookie. They pressed a somehow-still-warm one into my hand and said, “Welcome home.”

Off in the distance, I saw the Man, with gorgeous art pieces flickering between. We rode past a moon, a shimmering tree, a mechanical butterfly, a geodesic dome, dragons, jellyfish, and a huge pink bear. The art felt endless. I was euphoric, no substances required. 

We hopped off our bikes at each new installation; playing on the art piece, meditating, or simply standing there and taking it in.

My favorite stop was the Temple; a quiet, cathedral-sized structure where people sit in stillness to remember loved ones or just take a moment to breathe.

We wove in and out of camps where people hosted concerts, poured drinks, and set out cozy spots to rest. There were crafts, yummy food being passed around, pop-up yoga classes, and even a sauna. It was all completely free, everyone welcome. 

The people were all shapes, sizes, and ages. Most were dressed up; some weren’t, and that was fine. Different accents, different cultures, and none of it mattered. Everyone was accepting. I didn’t see a single fight or sloppy scene. It was the most beautiful, communal experience I’ve had. People handed me friendship bracelets, smiles, and light-up rings. 

I never once felt uncomfortable. Sure, there’s plenty of nudity, there are orgy tents, and drugs were around I’m sure, but I never felt pressured to do or be anything other than myself. 

Afer a full night of experiencing, we went to bed just before dawn. 

We woke the next morning to a greywater leak — a major playa no-no — and a gut feeling that after one beautiful, life-changing night, it was time to go. We packed our dusty bikes and rolled out three hours before (unknown to us at the time) the gates closed for flooding.

Leaving the playa under bruised clouds, one line from the BM survival checklist echoed: “Common sense, an open mind, a sense of humor, and a positive attitude.” If you do go, pack that above all (and goggles, face masks, plenty of string lights and bikes.) 

People say you need a few days at Burning Man to feel the magic. I don’t exactly disagree; we went back the next year with friends and stayed longer. For me, the heat, the dust, and RV living have a shelf life of a few days. But one night can be life-changing, and for some, it’s enough. Above all, if the chance comes, say yes, and let it change you.

Winks from heaven

Do you believe in winks from heaven? 

Not just signs from the universe (which I believe in and wrote about in my first blog post), but something more personal, like God or a loved one showing you that they're here, that they're listening? 

Yesterday, my husband and I were driving to town for groceries, a casual 50 minutes away (yes, this is our life). The kids were asleep, so naturally, we began discussing the big stuff. The kind of deep life convos that only seem to happen in the car. And just when we started deep-diving on a certain faith-based topic, we looked up to find a perfectly shaped cloud heart in the sky; a wink from heaven.

Tomorrow marks 16 years since my husband’s sister passed. She was just 19, taken suddenly in a car accident. I met him a week later. At the time, I was engaged to someone else and feeling completely stuck. My (now) husband was grieving the loss of his sister and struggling in his own way. We were both just surviving.

The story of how we met could be its own novel, but here’s the short version: we locked eyes from across the room (cheesy but true) and talked into the early morning like we had known each other all our lives. We went deep that night, like we did yesterday in the car. And it was love at first sight; the kind you see in movies. I’ve always believed his sister brought us together. That was the first—and biggest—wink from heaven I’ve ever received.

Sixteen years later, we have three wonderful kids, an (at times) messy, but joyful marriage, and a life we’re truly grateful for. 

There have been other winks, too; less dramatic ones. My mom has always believed that when a sunbeam breaks through the clouds, it’s her dad looking down. And every time I see that golden light slicing through the dark clouds, I pause. 

Some of my friends experience these winks in butterflies, rainbows, feathers, crows… they show up differently for every person. 

If your heart is open, I believe you’ll see them too. My faith tells me God shows up exactly when we need Him. This belief gets me through my hardest days. 

So, how are these winks different than these signs from the universe? Well, obviously it’s all up to interpretation, and everyone has their own beliefs, but here’s my take on it all.

When I’m in pain or overwhelmed, I pray. God always answers, sometimes soon afterwards, sometimes after a season of waiting, but the answer always comes. It’s a practice in patience.

When I’m thinking of a loved one who’s passed, I often feel their presence in signs like the ones I’ve described above, winks from heaven.

In my belief, God created the universe, so to me it’s all connected. But I see signs from the universe as different; they often show up when I’m actively thinking about something, while winks from heaven arrive exactly when I need them most. In other words, God is orchestrating the big picture, while the universe offers gentle nudges to guide me along the way. 

I’d love to hear your winks from heaven, those moments that made you pause and feel something bigger at work. Send me a message if you’d like to share. These stories are even sweeter when we share them.

Let’s hear it for the hometowns

If you’re like me, you’re lucky enough to come from a hometown that fills you up—where the roots run deep and the love runs deeper. It’s the kind of place not many people leave, and the kind that never really leaves you. A place that welcomes you back without question, and in my case, proudly puts your book on its shelves.

If you’re an indie author, you know what a big deal this is. I’m almost willing to give up my firstborn for some shelf space in these bookshops. JK, Stevie. 

Self-publishing is exhausting, definitely not for the faint of heart. Admittedly, I knew this going in, so it’s fine. I mean, sure. But, yikes. 

And then…what even is TikTok? I cannot for the life of me understand why some videos go viral. I watch a twenty-something type on her laptop with a vaguely existential question floating in Comic Sans, and somehow it gets 400K views. Meanwhile, I’m out here filming golden sunsets and enchanted forests, contorting my 40-year-old body to capture just the right shimmer on a stream—and my top video? 968 views. Total.

But then something like this happens: your hometown bookstore says yes. They make room for you on the shelf. And suddenly, none of the algorithms matter. You remember why you started. And you’re reminded—again and again—that the truest kind of support is the kind that’s rooted in home. River Bend Books on Main Street in Glastonbury, CT… thank you.

Let’s hear it for the hometowns.

Everyone gets a cabin

Recently, I had the honor of being published in the Western Colorado Voices Anthology. My piece was a short story about my perfect world—my friends and I living on a shared piece of land in a mountain valley, each with our own cozy cabin. It was dreamy and easy to imagine, a world I’m sure many of us can relate to—especially those of us with long-distance besties.

How incredible would it be if we could all live communally and raise our kids together, right?

While writing this story, I had a certain friend group in mind—a small circle of girls I’ve been best friends with for over 25 years. We’ll be friends forever—a built-in family to help navigate all of life’s twists and turns. It was an ode to the friendship I’ve built with them, a love letter of sorts. 

I posted a snippet of the story on Instagram and got a few messages from newer friends asking, “Can I have a cabin too?”

Honestly, that thought hadn’t occurred to me.

I mean, of course, you can have a cabin too. But why did I only reserve these fairy tale cabins for my oldest friends?

It got me thinking about friendship.

Some of us are lucky enough to keep our childhood friends close as we age. But navigating new adult friendships? That’s a whole different experience.

In her book The Let Them Theory, Mel Robbins explains how making friends is easier when we’re young because we move through life together. We have school, sports, activities—all built-in opportunities to connect. As adults, we have to work harder. We have competing priorities pulling at us from every direction—work, kids, pets, dinner, laundry, aging parents. Finding and maintaining new friendships takes effort.

And oof, do I relate. 

I’ve taken a different path than many of my peers. I moved to New York City right after college, then to the suburbs outside “the city”, and eventually to a state 2,000 miles away. Meanwhile, many of my friends stayed—or returned—to our hometown.

By the way,  I get it. Glastonbury, Connecticut is honestly kind of perfect: beautiful homes, rich history, endless apple orchards, and arguably the best Whole Foods in America. (The closest one to me now is over three hours away… but that’s a grievance for another day.)

And so, from thousands of miles away, I sometimes watch with a twinge of envy—old friends gathering for birthday parties, hayrides, boat shenanigans on the CT river… APPLE FEST.

Meanwhile, I’m here with my husband and kids, living a life I love—grateful, full—but still missing that easy closeness that only lifelong friendships bring.

For a while, I kept trying to recreate the same kind of bond I had with my core girlfriends. I measured every new friendship against that blueprint—and, not surprisingly, nothing quite measured up.

That led to loneliness, frustration, and self-doubt.

But then I changed my mindset.

I realized I was a different person when I met those girls—I was young. Our bond is so deep because we grew up together. We know each other’s histories, heartbreaks, awkward phases, and inside jokes that go back decades.

I’ve grown a lot since those days. And the friendships I have now? They reflect that growth—deep, beautiful, full of meaning and possibility. I’m beyond grateful for them.

So yeah… long story short: everyone gets a cabin. ♥️

What’s the soundtrack of your life?

I’ve always journaled. 

Of course, over the years, the topics have changed. I no longer care much about what Jonathan Taylor Thomas is up to (though, I wish him well), or if Kate and Leo will date IRL (that said, if you hear of anything, please hunt me down — I’ll be at the library.) And I know that Jon Keane is not my future husband (sorry, fifteen-year-old me.) But through every season of life, one thing has stayed constant in my journals: music.

Music has been a best friend, a therapist, a co-pilot. It’s been so important, in fact, that I started writing down lyrics and little quotes on the inside covers of my journals.

In my 2014 journal, the top quote (surrounded with stars and hearts, naturally) reads: “Music enhances every experience.”

And it’s true, isn’t it?

Let’s set aside for a moment the transcendent experience of hearing music live (God, is that you?) And focus on the day-to-day. 

Some people say when they’re crabby or having a bad day, they go for a walk and it turns things around. To which I say, “Yes, AND listen to your very favorite songs on repeat.” 

I’ve got playlists for every mood. Sometimes I want to lift myself out of a funk, other times I want to lean in and feel it all.

Off the cuff, here’s what I reach for:

When I’m...

• Feeling self-doubt: America’s Sweetheart – Elle King

• Overwhelmed: Fast Car – Tracy Chapman

• Nostalgic: Boys of Summer – Don Henley

• Just plain sad: The Stable Song – Gregory Alan Isakov

And when I’m ready to shift gears...

• Wanting to have fun: A Bar Song – Shaboozey

• Feeling excited: Beautiful Things – Benson Boone

• Mellowing out: Tadow – Masego & FKJ

• Just plain happy: Letter to Lady J – Dispatch

It’s amazing, isn’t it? How much power music has over us? It’s incredibly healing and deeply personal. 

We all have our own unique soundtracks. That’s kind of magical, if you think about it. You can tell a lot about someone by the songs they keep close. 

So it’s not a mistake that music is a central theme in my novel, Lavender. It’s been there for me through everything. 

The idea for my novel actually came to me after one unforgettable night two summers ago...

My husband and I were at a Dispatch concert, one of my favorite bands, and they were performing with the Colorado Symphony Orchestra.

It was, honestly, one of the most spiritual experiences I’ve ever had. People were holding hands, leaning on each other, even crying. No fights. No rudeness. Just this collective, emotional exhale.

Everyone filed out of the venue like they’d been given some unspoken blessing. And I thought: What if life could always be like this? What if music could shift how we treat each other? How we move through life?

I started writing the very next day. 

Last thought, then I promise to cease my ramble…

I was running with my favorite Peloton instructor, Becs Gentry, yesterday (well, I was watching from my treadmill, trying to keep up.) She started talking about how “off” she’d felt lately, and eventually realized it was the absence of music in her life, at least the kind she would normally choose for herself.

And it made me think… we often forget how deeply music supports us… until it goes missing.

So here’s some homework (the fun kind): What’s your song right now — the one that lifts you up? The soundtrack of your life? 

Write it on the cover of your next journal and come back to it the next time you’re feeling “off”. 💜

But then… the sunscreen.

To borrow a line from one of my favorite movies, Love Actually:
“Whenever I get gloomy about the state of the world, I…”
… find comfort in watching people apply sunscreen to their loved ones’ backs.

I know. Weird. Maybe even a little creepy taken out of context. Let me explain.

Last week at the beach, I was enjoying a rare quiet moment to myself. My boys were surfing, my husband was snoozing in a beach chair beside me, and my daughter was happily digging for sand crabs nearby.

I had my notebook open on my lap, writing down sensory details for my next novel, when I looked up and saw an older woman carefully applying sunscreen to her (I assume) husband’s back. She made sure to get the back of his neck, the curve of his shoulders, not forgetting the spots along his sides.

There was something so lovely about it. So natural. A tender kind of love in the way she moved.

When I glanced around the beach, I realized it was happening everywhere—
Moms applying sunscreen to their kids.
Kids helping each other.
Teens awkwardly slathering lotion on their friends’ backs.

And it got me thinking…

The act of it—applying sunscreen so carefully, so thoughtfully—to protect a husband, wife, child, or friend from future pain… it might be the purest, simplest form of love. A wordless way of saying, “I don’t want you to hurt.” 

These small, everyday acts of love—they’re everything, especially now.

The state of the world is…well, scary. It feels as though we're becoming numb to the daily bombardments in the news, each story more outrageous than the last. 

We can only handle so much. 
I know many of us simply don’t actively pay attention anymore, a form of self-preservation. And yet, by the time a story reaches us, nothing is surprising. “Oh, the president swore on national television? Cool.” 

And it’s impacting us. All this doom and gloom. Whether we notice it or not. 

People are on edge. Neighbors are fighting. Strangers avoid eye contact. We’ve stopped smiling and waving. We all seem to be pitted against each other. 

We’ve all heard the phrase, “You can’t control anyone but yourself.” 

It might be cliche, but it’s true. 

Imagine if we actually lived that way? If we owned our choices instead of blaming others for our circumstances. The world might feel a little less chaotic. A little less angry. 

The neighbor called the police because your dog got loose and ran into his yard?
Annoying? Yes. But instead of fuming about it and labeling him a “loser,” what if you tried a different lens? They might be dealing with something you don’t know about.
And also, I should be more mindful with my pup.

And let’s bring back the wave. Wave at strangers. Smile at your neighbors. Say “hi” to the guy walking his cat. Sure, some people won’t respond—but most will.
And pretty soon, they’ll start doing it too. Life is weirdly wonderful like that.

Just to be clear—I’m not on a soapbox here.
I struggle with this, too. It’s hard to truly internalize the idea that I’m in control.
It’s so much easier to react, to stay busy, avoid eye contact, point fingers, and just keep moving.

I’ll listen to a podcast or read a book that reminds me of this truth—and for a moment, I remember. Right. Yes. I’m in control.
And then someone honks at me for driving the speed limit, and poof, it’s gone.

But then… the sunscreen.
That simple, heartwarming act shifted my perspective again. It was there for me to see all along. 

I am in control—of my reactions, of my energy, of how I choose to see the world.

So if you’re struggling with the state of the world, look for the good. The small signs. The quiet acts of care.

Start there. And just see what you notice.

One stone heart at a time.

Turning 40 is weird. 

No one really warns you what it’ll feel like, and I guess that’s a good thing. Lord knows I don’t want to tell my six-year-old that she can expect to wake up one morning only to find a wrinkle above her left eyelid, four gray hairs, and a digestive system that suddenly decides survival depends entirely on leafy greens and kombucha. (Okay, so this is a bit dramatic, but ugh, just the occasional scoop of ice cream would be nice.) 

But beyond the physical, the mental is way harsher. 

Did I accomplish what I thought I would at 40? Why does it feel like everyone else has their ish together when I’m floundering on mom Island? Shouldn’t I feel like more of an adult by now? And wait. In 40 more years, I’ll be… EIGHTY?

And so, as I prepare to launch into one of the scariest adventures of my life at nearly 40 — releasing a young adult novel into the world to be read and judged by actual strangers — I find myself wondering… am I insane? 

To answer this completely reasonable question, I decided to follow the theme of my own novel and consult the signs.
Yes, the actual signs. From the universe. Over the last few years, I’ve been into this whole phenomenon — looking for signs when I need a little life feedback. Should I buy the trendy barrel jeans, or will I resemble an Oompa Loompa? Coffee or tea? Should I ask the cool mom at my kid’s school to be friends? Not entirely life-changing things. But today, with the publication date for my debut novel, Lavender, inching closer (July 15. Go ahead, I’ll wait while you add it to your calendar), I asked the question: Am I really meant to release this book into the world? And if so… show me a sign or two? More specifically, I asked for a heart. It felt fitting — it’s a major symbol in the story, and also, frankly, the thing I poured into every single page.

And, guess what? 

I received four. Yep, four. One for every gray hair. 

They came in stones. Heart stones. 

We’re spending some slow, salty days in Rhode Island, and this afternoon, while my husband and boys fished off the jetty, my daughter and I wandered the beach in search of paint-worthy rocks. That’s when I spotted the first one. Small, pink, and a little shy in its shape — but a heart, no doubt. I smiled. Felt seen. Okay… maybe this whole “signs” thing is actually working for this major life event. Just then, my daughter shouted, “Mommy, look. There’s another one!” Indeed, only a foot from where we found the first, another came into view. This one was smaller and more defined. “Yep, baby girl. That sure is a heart.” My smile got deeper, my chest even lighter. Moments later, a gray one peeked through the sand; a beauty. No denying the heart shape. And then, as we were mere inches back to our chairs, and as I was thanking the uni, the big kahuna came into my field of vision. Big. Bold. DUSTY ROSE PINK. If you read Lavender, you’ll understand exactly how much that color means.

Maybe it is a common thing. I mean, I’ve never actually looked for heart-shaped stones before. You might have a jar full of them at home.

Or maybe it was just a coincidence. 

But I believe it was something bigger communicating with me. And that’s what matters. That’s all life is anyway; what we make it.

A few weeks before this, one of my favorite authors, Jedidiah Jenkins, recently shared how Cheryl Strayed changed the course of his career. He was set on self-publishing when she convinced him to take another path.

I happened to be reading his post at the exact moment I was about submit my manuscript on a self-publishing platform. I immediately messaged him and told him he may have just ruined my life.

He replied:
“Self-publishing can be amazing. Or it can be safe and avoidant. It’s all about interrogating yourself—your motives, your fears, your options. And then moving bravely. Self-publishing might be the perfect right move.”

And he’s right.
It forced me to pause and look inward.
What do I really want?

The answer came quickly: I want this story to be out in the world—now. I believe it will resonate with anyone who is going through hard things. If it lifts someone’s day or gives them inspiration, a reason to keep going, that’s everything to me.

Could I wait years to land an agent, sell the book, and get through the publishing process? Sure. But this story matters now. 

I’ve done the research. I’ve put in the time.
And for me, right now, self-publishing is the brave move.

It won’t be easy. It’ll take work to get my name out there. But I’m ready.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is this:
Do the damn thing.

Whether you’re 14 or 40.

It’s never too early or too late. Who cares what people will think. Who cares if it succeeds or it fails. It’s all experience. It’s all fun with the right perspective. Do it for you. Be brave. And trust in the signs. One stone heart at a time.