Two Years in Lincoln...

It’s two years today since I moved my life to Lincoln, Nebraska. In just a few days, it will also be two years since my divorce became official.

Two years. That feels impossible and completely believable at the same time.

If I’m being entirely honest, I thought my life would look different by now.

I thought I’d feel more rooted.

Less restless.

I thought the walls in my house would all be painted, my guitar strings would have etched stronger callouses on my fingertips, and my circle of friends here would be wider.

Instead, I find myself hovering in a strange space between absolute gratitude and quiet disappointment.

When the disappointment creeps in, I try to force-feed myself gratitude.

Look at what you have, Sarah. Look at how much good there is. 

But sometimes, logic doesn't heal a heavy heart.

Neither does cutting bangs. Apparently I looked at myself and thought, "You know what this situation needs? More forehead drama."  (Thanks Ella Langley)

Summer rodeo nights for the WIN!

Last year, when the emotions felt big, someone suggested I write a letter to myself from a year prior. It healed something in me then. So, sitting here at the two-year mark—killing it in so many ways, yet still mad at myself for being a slacker and making questionable choices in the man arena—I decided to pick up the pen again.

Dear Me, One Year Ago,

I (still) see you.

I see you sitting in that beautiful 1915 home, surrounded by giant trees, still wondering if you’ll ever fully feel at home in your own story again. Your cowgirl style is everywhere, and it’s comfortable. Your dining room table is small, but it’s always filled with love and laughs.

But I also see you mourning. You’re in your late 40s, navigating a life you never planned for. You look at the dating world and secretly feel like you aren't a "catch" because you’ve been divorced twice, and because you don't have the material proof of your success yet—the truck and trailer, the cutting horse, the custom saddles and "things" (even though you know deep down "things" are not the measure of success).

I see you worrying about the business, spinning plates, wondering how you'll keep making ends meet without letting the kids feel the weight of it.

I see you feeling disconnected from your son, worrying because his world is full of football, baseball, and video games you don't understand. But remember those moments in the hot tub? When he opens up and just talks to you? Or when he holds your hand while you sit on the couch or when you sing songs to him before bed (because he STILL loves this routine), hold onto that. It’s real, it’s deep, and it’s exactly the connection you’re craving.

Humidity is ok when you're with your best boy at a summer rodeo.

And yes, you are still carrying the heavy ache of your dad being gone, and Judy being gone. But look at who is there. Look at the friends who send the sweet notes, who show up to eat at your table, who make sure you and your kid are mounted to the nines, who just love you.

Look at your two amazing stepmoms who have ALWAYS had your back.

You’ve needed that community more than you like to admit, and that’s okay.

Now, let's talk about romance. Or the lack thereof.

I see you chasing that dipshit "red flag cowboy." The one who loves to love you and then crushes you. You’re giving him chance after chance because he sees sides of you no one else has, but let’s call it what it is: insanity. He is NOT your guy. You’re chasing hope wearing a cowboy hat, and you need to wake up.

A year from now, you’re still going to want a man—a real man who opens doors, understands agriculture and adventure, and mows the damn lawn because doing yard work just pisses you off.

But a year from now, you will respect yourself too much to let the wrong one stay.

I see you hitting the gym like it’s your job, because it’s the one thing you can control. Keep doing it.

I see you loving the convenience of the Lincoln airport (and totally sulking when you have to brave the Omaha construction and terrible drivers). I see you hitting the taco truck for birria tacos and running through the McDonald's drive-thru for that endless supply of crispy Dr. Pepper.

I see you watching B turn into an epic horsewoman, sweeping up endless amounts of corgi hair, and standing on stages of your dreams, delivering keynotes to clients you freaking love.

And then... I see you doom-scrolling. Napping. Watching silly TV instead of painting the kitchen or playing the guitar. You’re choosing comfort over joy, and then beating yourself up for it.

Horses and stages can't be the only things that light you up, Sarah.

Joy requires your participation. You have to step outside.

You are waiting for life to begin in places where it is already happening. Stop waiting for the shift. Shift happens every day and you are ok. In fact, you're way more than ok. You are doing epic shit, just like you ask others to do.

See it. Know it.

Love,

Me

A reminder to follow the joy!

When I look back at this letter, I realize something...

I have spent a massive amount of energy over the last two years measuring exactly what is missing. I've counted the unpainted rooms, the missing truck, the calls that never came. But simultaneously, I have built a life that many women would be proud to call their own.

Both things are true.

The longing for more is entirely real.

The accomplishment of what is already here is real, too.

For the past two years, I haven't just been surviving; I’ve been co-parenting with my ex-husband with grace (mostly), showing up for my kids, and continuing to building a business entirely on my own shoulders while carrying grief that could have easily flattened me.

That tension—the space between what is missing and what is built—feels like the most honest part of where I am right now.

Maybe I’m not "rebuilding" anymore.

Maybe this is just my life. And you know what? It’s a pretty beautiful one.

Branched Oak park is one of my favorite places in Lincoln, and one year ago I took the old boy for a trail ride for the first time EVER and it was one of the best days I've ever had in Nebraska. I'm so thankful for that memory.