Goodbye Colorado...a year later

One year ago today my Pod pulled out of my Parker driveway and started its journey to Lincoln, Nebraska.

One year ago, I drove the kids directly to Idaho so I could lick my wounds for a few days with my close friends and family. I had to go back home and feel the love of my roots before I could muster the courage to face my future in the land of corn.

As my iPhone and socials remind me where I was then, I'm 100% in my feelings. And I'm surprisingly emotional.

If you know me, you know how much this development IRKs me. LOL. (even though I know emotions are good things...HA!)

It was suggested that I write a letter to myself from one year ago so here it is...so I can look back on it.

I'd use PODs again. Super slick process.

Dear Me,

I see you.

Standing in your empty house, the pod loaded, the kids in tow, your heart cracked wide open.

You’re barely holding it together—for them, for survival—but inside, something is shattering.

You're saying goodbye to a life you thought you'd be living forever.

Goodbye to a marriage that wasn’t working but still meant something.

Goodbye to the Colorado sunsets, the familiar routines, and the version of you who once believed this was "it."

You feel like you’ve failed.

You didn’t.

You feel like you’re starting over with nothing.

You’re not.

You feel terrified.

And you should be—this is a massive shift.

But listen to me: You will not stay in this darkness forever.

You’re about to do some of the bravest things you’ll ever do—move across state lines, raise kids through heartbreak, build a new life from rubble. And no one will fully understand how much it took out of you.

That’s okay. You’ll understand. And eventually, you’ll honor it.

I know you're exhausted.

I see you trying to breathe when it feels like the air has been knocked out of you. You don't even want to live in Nebraska really. But you’re doing it anyway, because you’re practical. Because it made sense for the kids. Because affordability and family support mattered more than your preferences.

And that hurts. Let’s just call it what it is. It will be a good place to land. And it's OK to still be sad about it.

You’re carrying the weight of your grief, your kids’ feelings, your dead father, the heartbreak of losing Judy, and your own damn body that feels worn out and disconnected even while everyone says you “look amazing.”

You have endured an enormous series of life changes and losses in a very short period of time. Your nervous system is overwhelmed. Your heart is grieving. You are not weak—You are processing an avalanche.

And...it’s not fair.

Unloading the Pod...required a bunch of high school football players who needed to make some quick cash.

But here's the thing: you are choosing yourself—just by surviving this.

• You left a marriage that didn’t work.

• You packed that house.

• You drove toward an unknown life.

• You started over.

• You are raising two kids with grace and grit.

• You are still trying.

Even on the days when it feels like too much.

That’s not failure. That’s strength.

I know you feel like you’re losing—but girl… you are not losing.

You’re a woman who’s still showing up. Still dreaming—even when it hurts to. You’re still someone who loves deeply. Still someone who shows up, even if you have to do so alone. Still someone who tries, fiercely, to do right by your kids.

Still someone who wants to believe in love.

Still someone with a wild, unkillable spirit—even when she’s on her knees.

Sister, sometimes when you stop running from the truth of how hard it's been, you actually free up energy to cope and heal.

Give yourself unapologetic permission to feel bitter, heartbroken, resentful, and tired. These are not signs that you’re failing—they are signs that you’re honest.

And let me remind you:

• You are worthy of love that’s real and steady—not just chemistry or crumbs.

• You are allowed to feel sad, mad, bitter, tired—without apologizing.

• You are not too much.

• You’re not asking for too much.

• You are a damn powerhouse.

  
  

One day soon, this version of you—the one who is heavy with grief and craving peace—is going to look back and say: “She did it. She didn’t quit. And thank God she didn’t settle.”

First dinner in the Lincoln house...

You are not broken. You are rebuilding.

Let this year mark not just what you lost, but what you’re finding: Clarity. Courage. Your voice. Your worth.

You’re not done yet. You’re just getting started.

With love and a whole lot of pride,

Me