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

Keep Going: For Mom Funny thing about blogging—life explodes with chaos, and the moment I sit down to write, my hands decide to rebel. First time ever, I’m struggling to type thanks to an RA flare. Perfect timing, right? But I’m powering through, because I can, and I will. Plus, I’ve been listening to these motivational podcasts, and the guy in my ear is literally telling me not to quit right now. “Keep going,” he says. And then—bam—an ad. Story of my life. But he’s back, and I’m soaking it all in. This might just be my new thing. Anyway, back to blogging. A lot has happened, though nothing I’d call remarkable. One day I’ll spill all the nitty gritty of my crazy, unfiltered life, but today’s post is for Mom. We’re coming up on five years since you left us, and it hasn’t gotten easier. My heart aches for you just as much as it did the morning I got that phone call—Christmas Eve, 6:46 a.m.—telling me you were gone. That day will always be a blur. But that’s not what I’m here to write ...

 I’ve tried so many times to figure out how to put her into words—my mom. But parts of her live in me in ways words can’t always reach. Not all memories come clearly. Trauma fogs things. But love? That breaks through. Hers for me. Mine for her. She had a huge heart—always helping people. Legal forms, hospital rides, late-night talks—she showed up. Even if I didn’t understand why. Heck, I often didn’t. I even resented it, wondering why others got her support before I did. Selfish? Probably. Human? Definitely. Now, I get it. And while I can’t tell her that—I can live it. Every day, I try to do what she did. And do the parts she never got the chance to. Funny how I catch myself repeating her old favorite: “Do as I say, not as I do.” I use it with my kids now. Legacy’s strange like that. One thing she never did? She never called me a failure. Not even when I was drowning in addiction. She just quietly stood by, praying I’d surface. She was diagnosed with cancer during my rock bottom. S...

There are moments in life when you don’t just want support—you need it. Not the kind that shows up for a photo op or checks a box, but the kind that stays. That holds your hand through the fear, the pain, the unknown. I had one of those moments—a hospital stay that left me physically fragile and emotionally raw. And while I was surrounded by machines and medical staff, the person I thought would be my anchor was already drifting. He was there to drop me off. He sat for a few hours. And then he left—waiting for me to be well enough to come home, not because he missed me, but because he needed to get back to work.  December 23rd. I remember the cold air on my face as I wheeled myself through our front door, still weak, still healing, still unsure how I’d make it through the next hour—let alone the next chapter. I had just spent two months in the hospital, recovering from the consequences of self-medicating through drinking. I was wheelchair-bound, using a slide board to move from b...

  🏈 It Started With Football and Fried Rice It was the Packers vs. Bears, always a heavy-hitter here in the Northwoods. I was with my then boyfriend, his mom and aunt at a local tavern—surrounded by beer, wings, laughter, and the usual rivalry chaos. I was still a “sprinkled” Bears fan back then, raised that way by my mama. Spoiler alert: I’m now a reformed Packers fan. (That game may have had something to do with it—last time the Bears beat the Packers, and yeah, Urlacher was still their quarterback. Whoa... look at me reminiscing like I own a jersey collection.) Ask me about today’s football, though, and I’m just a schoolgirl crushing on a second-string red-headed quarterback. Maybe one day word will get out he made it into my blog. 😉 👣 Something Was Off—But I Didn’t Know What After the game, we loaded up the four-wheelers and headed to the farm to wind down for the night. I noticed baby girl—Ellie—was unusually quiet. A few wiggles here and there, but not the usual excit...

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...