Hot Mess, High hope: Rock Bottom to the Top.

A true story from me to you. If you're reading this, welcome to a page out of my story—not the highlight reel, not the Pinterest board, but the messy, beautiful, painful beginnings that shaped the colorful chaos I live in today. It all started on October 2nd, 2009—the day I met my daughter, Ellie Rose. She was born still. And in that moment, so was I. Still. Frozen. Stuck in a silence that didn’t match the world rushing around me. Losing Ellie cracked something open inside me. A grief I couldn’t name. One I couldn’t outrun. Less than a month later, I found out I was pregnant again—with her little sister, Danika. And just like that, there was no time to heal. No time to breathe. I had to keep going, keep mothering, keep surviving... even though I hadn’t had a single second to fall apart. And let me tell you—I fell apart . Quietly, privately, and often with a drink in my hand. Alcohol wasn’t my party—it was my pause button. My grief had no exit, so I gave it shortcuts. And those shor...

For most of my life, I couldn’t quite figure out where “home” was supposed to be. Sure, I had a roof and family and love. I created a home with my husband and kids that fills me with warmth and gratitude daily. But deep inside, I felt like something was still missing—some anchor, some center, some quiet place that whispered, you belong here . And for years, I didn’t feel settled enough— safe enough—to let myself find it. Then one morning, while doing my usual makeup routine for the job I’ve bounced back to more times than I can count, something just clicked. Like one of those moments in recovery, when suddenly everything makes sense—not because life got easier, but because you got stronger . Your heart starts connecting the dots you didn’t even know you were drawing. New China is my home. It hit me like a ton of bricks—but soft ones, the kind you feel in your chest instead of your head. This restaurant has been the one reliable constant through nearly every chapter of my adult li...

  This past year has carved its way through me in ways I didn’t see coming. As our children have grown—especially the older two, who are mine from before—something shifted in him. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment, but it started with irritation. Little things. A tone. Then it hardened into something colder: anger, blame, disconnection. He gave up. He won’t even try with them anymore. There’s no warmth left in his voice when he speaks to them—if he speaks at all. Just frustration. Just absence. But it isn’t only them now. Even with the babies we share, I see it: the snapping, the yelling, the message that crying is weakness and emotions need punishment. “One parent has to be stern,” he says. And somehow, that now means him—loud, sharp, and always on edge. So I’ve become the calm one. The soft place. The keeper of peace. But inside? I’m unraveling I guess the part that really stings is that I didn’t find this out in a blow-up or a confession or even a text message. I found it t...

The ugly truth is never easy to face, but today, I’m not holding back. This is the reality—unpolished, unapologetic, and exactly as it is. I’ve shared my struggles with alcoholism, autoimmune diseases, and the loss of loved ones, but today, I want to talk about something I am still trying to navigate—my marriage. When I met my husband, he felt like everything I had ever prayed for—kind, loving, supportive. He loved my children before he even loved me, stepping up as "Dad" for my newborn son when his father walked away. But life has a way of shifting under us, and somewhere along the way, we lost ourselves. During the early years, things felt right—until we both lost our jobs. I found work quickly, but he didn’t, and the weight of that imbalance settled in. Resentment grew between us, quiet at first, then undeniable. I came home exhausted, to messes and unmet expectations, and instead of dealing with it, I reached for a drink. Not every night, but often enough to make avoidanc...

 In the whirlwind of my early motherhood years, I was unstoppable. Picture this: a hardworking mom clocking 40+ hours a week, juggling the chaos of raising kids, running errands, and squeezing in time to be there for my mom. Somehow, amid the frenzy, I found pockets of joy—those stolen moments after school at the park, the laughter and bonding over shared adventures. Then, as the sun dipped below the horizon, I’d return home, roll up my sleeves, and create a meal that brought smiles and warmth to everyone’s faces. And it didn’t stop there. Hosting dinners was my ritual—a chance to connect, to laugh over good food, and to revel in meaningful conversation (even if my husband wasn't a real people person I still did it haha). I thrived in the hustle, pulling off miracles I never even thought possible. Life had rhythm, energy, and purpose. I didn’t just live—I thrived.  But Rheumatoid Arthritis has a way of rewriting the story. It’s not an immediate, earth-shattering rewrite—it’s s...

Picture this: I walk into the doctor’s office, unsuspecting, probably wishing I were anywhere else. But nope! Instead of a pat on the back and a “You’re all good!” I get smacked with the news that I’m pregnant. AGAIN. For the seventh time. But wait—it gets better. Not just one baby, oh no, this time I’m having twin girls. TWINS. For the second time, because apparently the universe likes to keep things spicy. Now, let’s talk logistics. Tubal ligation? Doesn't matter, says the baby gods. They went ahead and rerouted the package, and now I’m left staring at the doctor like, "Excuse me, I didn’t order this! Please put it back on the shelf. I’ve been thoroughly satisfied with the prior editions of this product, thank you very much." Meanwhile, my husband—who swears up and down that he’s firmly on the no-new-babies train—is practically throwing confetti, excited for more kids. Really, dude? I’d like to see him carry twins again after already dealing with five kiddos, because at...