I have spent my life building things. Businesses, relationships, dreams.

I’ve started from nothing, held the weight of responsibility, and turned ideas into places where people gather, shop, learn, and grow. I’ve built brands from the ground up, poured myself into them, and then, when the time was right—or when I had no choice—I let them go. 

Sometimes, I feel like I am everything for everyone else, and there is little left for me. I spend my days wearing many hats, teacher, mother, wife, friend, sister, daughter... with little luxury to be just me. I have dreams and aspirations of living a creative life, but they remain locked away in a prison of fear. If only I could silence the imposter and release the artist…

This must be what stepping foot on the moon for the first time feels like. Euphoric. Surreal. A moment so monumental, so extraordinary, that words almost feel unworthy of describing it. If asked to articulate it, I find myself grasping at metaphors, a mere mortal undeserving of such power.

I wish I knew how to bottle this feeling. This rare, intoxicating flow is a high unlike any other (though, full disclosure, my experience in that realm is limited—my wildest trip was an Ambien-induced hallucination, never again).

Nonetheless, I did a thing. I pressed the button. And now it’s real.