4 ways to slow down life.

4 ways to slow down life

Last week I decided to do some baking on my day off. I grabbed the pile of bowls in the cupboard and instead of taking out a couple at a time, I went for the whole stack. As a result, the heavy glass one at the bottom got away from me and crashed down on my little toe.

I’m not sure if I screamed or cried, but whatever I did it was dramatic and appropriate for the situation. It was a classic “me” move, trying to do everything at once and in a hurry. 

Story of my life.

Well, my past life. I’ve been trying (bowl incident aside) to set a new tone for my everyday living.


I’ve always tended to go through life in a rush. Carrying all my groceries into the house in one trip. Frantically doing all the things I should have done on my day off, in the last hour before everyone gets home. Powering through tasks because of procrastination and poor planning, and leaving things until the last minute.

A big mess, trying to get through the day.

But why?

How about slowing down?

Is that even possible?

Anything is possible especially if you’re tired of dropping bowls on your feet. 

So, here are 4 things that I’ve been trying to do in my slow-down experiment. 

Look at the week ahead and plan accordingly. Time management has not always been my strength. For years I would take work home with me every weekend and cause stress to my family. My weekend was me running out and trying to get things done that I should have done at work. Now, I get everything off my list by Friday so that I can be present at home. When you look at the big picture of what you need to get done (at home and at work), you can break it down into manageable portions. Get the big things off your list at the start of the week to allow for balance throughout the rest, this naturally slows your week down. 

Make time for people.  How often do we tell people we’d love to get together, but we never do? I feel guilt at how often I’ve said that and it’s never happened. Of course, the reason is always busyness. So, I’m trying to slow down and make time for relationships and connection. Setting aside a specific time in my week/month with scheduled connecting time. People matter and neglecting that leads to isolation and loneliness. It’s ok to schedule in relationship time, it means it’s a priority. 

Set a pace. My natural pace is fast and furious. That has been what gets me in trouble. I lose things, I forget what I’m supposed to do, I lock myself out of places, wear shoes that don’t match and the list goes on. I am literally learning to talk myself down to a pace that is manageable where I’m still effective and productive. Otherwise, I’m a hot mess running through the streets. If you get into the habit of reminding yourself to slow down, you can do it. Take a breath and step back. You won’t get behind if you walk instead of run, and often you can think clearer and get more accomplished.

Care for self. There are a lot of things that I like to do, things that fill my heart and soul. This summer I got obsessed with our local beach and I just wanted to be by the water. So, we did that a lot. There are small, easy things in life that give me joy and I’m trying to slow down and do more of those things. We can race through life with all of it’s responsibilities but it’s important to make time for yourself and the activities that you love. Put those things on a calendar if you have too, and make time for heart-filling joy and fun. 

Slowing down doesn’t come natural to me. It feels too confining and goes against the free spirit part of life that I have always loved. However, the clearer I can see things around me, the more effective my life is.

I don’t do less, but I do things better. 

The more we slow down the more we actually see.

The pace that we set helps us define what we value. 

Making time for others and ourselves an investment that matters.

So, take a step back.

Don’t try to grab all the bowls at once, they will just crash in a mess. 

Take your time.

Take a breath. 

Slow down. 





30 Days of Walks.


It was my favourite season of falling leaves, lattes that taste like pumpkin, and trees filled with apples. I was excited for what was ahead in the next few months and I walked into work one morning in my cute boots and scarf all ready to take on fall. Little did I know what the day ahead would bring.

“We’re letting you go. We don’t have a place for you. We can’t keep you on.”

My season suddenly changed.

I was in a role that I loved, living in my creative, happy space. Continually learning new things, while being totally stretched out of my comfort zone. It wasn’t all perfect but it was a challenge that brought growth to my life. I’d never lost a job before, and right away my deep buried feelings of rejection came to the surface.

I’m not good enough.

I’m a joke.

I don’t belong anywhere.

There’s something about being told you aren’t needed that cuts to the core. When you’ve always struggled with finding your place, finding yourself without one brings a deep sense of loss. I didn’t know what to do so I prayed for direction and I felt like God asked me to do something rather strange.


Walk? Why would I walk? Shouldn’t I be out looking for direction and making contacts, polishing up my resume? I need to start planning my next steps. I don’t have time to walk. 

He spoke to me again.

Just Walk

Those are the steps I want you to take.

So, I did.

Each day I went out into the streets of my neighbourhood and put my feet to the ground. I loved the cool fall air, beautiful colours and soon I became one with the season. I prayed, I cried, I cleared my mind, I did some dreaming, I took pretty Instagram pictures and soon this time alone became the most treasured part of my day.

I kept going all month. 30 days of walks. As I travelled down paths and went through parks, I began to see the season change. I saw the leaves transform and stand out in a brilliant display. Slowly after all that beauty, I watched those same leaves fall to the ground to prepare for the next season ahead. It seemed a shame to see them all lying in the dirt. But even then, they looked incredible as they spread out all over the streets like fall’s glorious confetti.  

The season changed in front of my eyes. 

I understood why God wanted me to go on this journey. He wanted me to physically walk the experience that mirrored what I was going through in my life. He wanted me to understand that things change, and that even beautiful seasons end. I came to an understanding and acceptance in my heart. I wasn’t a failure; I was being prepared for what was ahead. I even felt excitement for the future.

Sometimes we have to let go of a season.

Sometimes we let things fall, so that we can prepare for what is ahead.

Sometimes we hit the dirt, and think it’s done.

But it’s still a brilliant display.

The letting go, is so that new things can come. 

I walked for 30 days.

Watched some beautiful things fall away.

Looked for my new purpose.

Pulled up what I had planted and got ready for what was ahead.

A season had ended, but there was hope.

A new one was on it’s way. 


Ecclesiastes. 3:1-2, “To everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.” (ESV)





Part Three – Her name was Grey.

Grey pulled herself out of bed. She hated today and she was not happy that it had arrived. The days of summer and hiding out with her notebook in the tree house were over. It was the first day of school. Because this was the 5th place that Grey had lived, it meant that this was the 3rd new school. Grey hated being new. When you are new, it takes time to be old. When you are new, everyone looks at you. When you are new, you can’t blend in. You can’t disappear. You don’t know where to sit, and you hate standing alone. Grey wondered if she could just sneak out the back door and make it to her treehouse before her mother noticed she was missing. If she couldn’t be found, then she couldn’t go to school.

“Grey, are you getting ready? Get out of bed! You don’t have much time and you still need to eat breakfast!” called Joan.

Joan was Grey’s mom. As far as moms go, she was a good one. Everyone always told Grey how pretty her mom was, and how young she looked. Grey was proud of that, like she had something to do with it. When really, she didn’t. But she was glad to be associated with a pleasant mother instead of some of the other ones she saw dragging their children around.

“I’m coming” called Grey.

She went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Eighth grade meant that she needed to care a little more, so she tried. Grey never went too close to the mirror. It scared her a little bit. It seemed that her hair never looked right, and that her face was weird if she got too close-up. She preferred to look at herself from far away with her eyes squinted, that gave just the right about of blur to make her happy. She took a deep breath, and did a hard squint.

“This will have to do,” she muttered as she went back to her room and grabbed her backpack.

As she headed down the stairs she was nearly trampled by the two pests.

“Watch out!” Gray yelled.

“It’s the first day of school!” hollered Ben, clearly not troubled about the fact that they were soon going to a building they had never been in before. Ben loved school. In fact; he thrived on it. He was the older of the two creatures and he was a little bit of a brain. Her parents were always talking about how smart he was. As she was thinking about how annoying that was, the other one grabbed her by the shoulders.

“We are SO excited, are you Grey?” asked Kale, getting right into her face.  Kale loved new. He was up for anything as long as it meant action and adventure. A school full of strange kids was the most exciting thing he could have planned for this dreaded morning.  

Grey was annoyed by the enthusiasm expressed by both of them, oblivious to the joy that comes with NOT being new.

“No, I am not excited. I’ll never be excited,” she said as she pushed by them on the stairs and went into the kitchen. Grey sat at her spot at the table and ate her usual breakfast of toast and peanut butter. She put her dishes in the sink and noticed her stomach was doing some flips, as she sat by the front door waiting to leave. Her mom was doing the final crazy run around the house to make sure everyone had everything they needed for the day. Ben and Kale weren’t listening as usual and Grey could hear her mom getting frustrated as she tried to get them to put everything in their backpacks. Dad luckily left early each morning for his job at the hardware store, so Joan had to perform this amazing feat on her own.

“Ok everyone,” said Joan, a little covered with sweat, “I think we are ready to go.”

Getting into the car, Grey took one last lingering look back at her treehouse. She was already counting down the hours until she could come back. As they drove down her street she saw the ice truck pull up, she glanced at the flickering electric house sign, and counted 3 diapers already on the lawn at the diaper house. Grey gave a big sigh as they drove away. 

“Time to be new.” she said

Her name was Grey and she didn’t want to go to school.

Part Two – Her name was Grey.


Grey was getting settled into her new house and had figured out her daily routine. Since it was summer, she had lots of time to explore her surroundings after she checked the chores off the list her mom made each morning. She could hardly wait to get everything done and make a run to her secret hideaway up in the trees, especially before her little pest brothers beat her there. From inside the treehouse she had a perfect vantage point that gave her a view of the entire neighborhood. From the very beginning she knew this wasn’t a normal street. She had lived in 4 other towns before moving here. Most streets just had houses, but this street had more. This street was different. Through the front treehouse window, she peered through her binoculars making notes in her purple fuzzy notebook.   

The first place of interest was the Ice House. It was directly across the street from where the treehouse was located. It seemed a little bit strange to Grey that there was a building making ice, right in the middle of her neighborhood – attached to a house where people were living. A big, flashing ICE sign out on the front yard. She figured that inside the house it must be very cold. Icicles hanging off the lights, and frozen furniture that wasn’t very comfy to sit on. Everyone always shivering, and wearing their warmest winter coats when they went to bed. She watched each morning as trucks would come and pick up bags of ice and then drive away. It all was very peculiar; they must be making ice inside all day long. She kept track in her notebook of ice pick-up times, and wondered how they kept up with the demand. Maybe they had a giant fridge inside the building filled with hundreds of ice cube trays, with someone bending each one just right to get the ice to pop out. Who did all that work? Who filled up the trays? She only ever saw teenagers coming from the house. Were their parents inside? Maybe they were made of ice too, and would melt if they came outdoors. It was fascinating to watch everything happening in that cold house, from her hot and stuffy treehouse.  

A couple houses down from the Ice House was the Electric House. Another strange combination of a home with a building attached right behind it. This house had a giant window in the front with a big yellow bolt of lightning painted on it, which obviously represented the power contained inside. It looked like one of those pictures on the toaster cord that warned you not to use it in the water or you’d get fried. Beside the big bolt there was another sign that came on and off that said “TV Repairs.” This sign made a buzzing sound like a fly touching a live wire. It never made sense to Grey that that electric store couldn’t keep its power from flickering. One day she counted how many flickers happened in one hour. She compared that hour with others during the day and according to her calculations, most of the flickering happened late in the afternoon. There must be something going on inside that house that was drawing all the power. But what could it be? She never saw much action going on there besides the sign voltage. Just a man that would come and go, always carrying a briefcase and whispering into what looked like a walkie-talkie. And never, not even once did she see anyone bring in their TV for repair.

The only other thing she noticed during her daily observation was the Diaper House. Grey called it that because there was always a diaper outside. Sometimes two. The mom that lived there seemed to have her hands pretty full with her four little kids, and was always doing a diaper change. Right in her yard. Then, she’d forget to bring the diapers into the garbage. Grey thought it was a little gross to have diapers scattered all over your lawn, but she had two little brothers and she knew that kids could be a handful. Still, she couldn’t leave anything to chance so she made note of each diaper and mapped it’s location. Thankfully, they always disappeared during the night.  

Every day she did the chores on the list her mom gave her.

Every day she went up into her treehouse and took notes.

Her name was Grey.

This was her street.

Her name was Grey.


It was an old house. A brick house. Her 5th house. The first time she laid her eyes on it, she was very pleased. It had many corners and cracks, and at every turn she discovered a new place to explore. Now that they had moved in and she had staked a claim to the room in the attic, she was filled with excitement. 

After all, a girl with an imagination surely could not live in a boring house.  

She was particularly fascinated with the wallpaper. It covered the walls like old dresses that had gone out of style. Her mother had decided that she hated it all. Every single room was met with disgust, and layers upon layers had to be steamed off piece by piece. Once part of a beautiful paper patterned story, now thrown in a mushy pile on the floor. She thought of the different people who had taken such care to match up all those gluey pieces and stick them precisely on the walls. Excited about how great it looked, standing back and declaring how it made the room perfect. Now their choices were outdated and the wrong color for her mother’s design pallet.  She wondered what stories those pieces of paper could tell. The things those dressed-up walls had seen. But it didn’t matter now. Her mother scooped the soggy scraps off the floor and stuffed them into a garbage bag, and just like that the stories were gone.

It was sad really. 

She had a moment of silence as she carried the bag down to the trash pile in the basement.

The basement was cold and had no personality. It had never been finished, so the walls were made up of exposed pipes, cobwebs and untamed wiring. The old wooden stairs creaked as she went down into the depths of the darkness, and she searched for the little chain that she’d pull to get the light to come on. Her heart pounded a little each time she made the descent and sometimes she wondered if she would ever come back up. One of the old cement walls had been spray-painted with graffiti, which made her think that a sinister gang had lived here before. What happened down here, she often wondered in this creepy, spider-infested concrete land. And did they do their laundry during their illegal activity? Fabric softener and crime didn’t seem to mix. But everyone needed clean clothes. Even Gangsters.

Leaving the bag of soiled paper stories on the floor, she quickly ran back up out of the darkness. The creaky off tune stairs each played a different note as she finally slammed the door behind her. The basement was not her favorite place. But the rest of the house captivated her. As she walked around, every part seemed to come alive. The old upstairs doors looked like they would open their wide mouths and start talking to her at any moment. She would peer through their old keyholes, wondering where those keys were. Did someone out there still have them? Was there one key that would unlock everything? The high windows, the winding staircase – she loved it all. Even the fireplace in her parent’s bedroom grinned at her with a smile, waiting for a lunch of burning embers to be served.

Going outside she headed to her favorite place on the property. Technically she was a little old for a treehouse. However, when she first laid her eyes on it, she was so pleased. There was just something about having a little place to get away. A spot to be by herself. A hidden location to read, and write down her thoughts. All she had to do was climb up the ladder into the sky and the rest of the world would disappear. What more could a girl ask for? It was a bit of a challenge to keep the little brothers out. But she had her ways.  Bribery and kicking them off the ladder worked fairly well. Besides, there was important work to do. She had discovered what seemed to be a code of some sort on the back wall. Her dad had tried to paint over it all, but she had managed to hold him off until she could figure out what it meant. Anything that had been carved into the walls of a treehouse had to be important.

This was where she lived now. Freshly peeled walls, a gangster basement, mysterious key holes and a secret-coded room at the top of a ladder.  

Her name was Grey, and she loved her new house.


6 ways to be kind to yourself.

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I made a commitment to myself when I became a mom that I would not pass on my insecurities to my children. That all the struggles and self-esteem issues I faced most of my life would be kept to myself. I always heard that kids would become what they saw in their parents, and I wanted to present a positive outlook in how I regarded myself, so that they would do the same.

I’d only pass on the good things.

I’d hide the rest. 

But, guess what? It’s way easier to keep your feelings from a toddler who thinks you are the queen of the world than a 16-year-old girl who you spend most of your time with, who knows you well enough to see when you are struggling. Who is perceptive and walks beside you, instead of running behind. Soon to merge ahead, coming into her own.

These are the years when it gets real. You can’t hide behind a sippy cup and snack distribution. You’re looking eye to eye. Living heart to heart.

Mom exposed. 

Transparent parenthood. 

I recently went through one of my not-so-hidden moments of doubt and angst, expressing and showing my deep down feelings of failure and insecurity. Not really proud about the words I said out loud, being the example that I didn’t want to be. A big mom fail. Then, some incredible words came out of my sweet girl. Words that were so simple, yet full of wisdom. Said with ease and confidence, showing that I’m not always the teacher – I’m also a student.

Four words, uttered in a soft spoken voice.  

Be kind to yourself.

She said.

Little girl grown up and all smart. 

And I thought, when did you get so wise, saying things that stop me in my tracks? Words that I always wanted you to have the confidence to say, saying them to me in my weak moments. Words that I should be expressing, but coming out of you with so much truth. We all could use a little kindness directed to ourselves. She was so right. Perhaps it’s time  to care about the state of our own hearts, and recognize that self-worth grows with self-care. 

Maybe being kind to ourselves means –

Not obsessing with perfection. The dishes can wait for the night, the house will always need cleaning and we’ll never be the perfect size. Shake life up with a little imperfection. 

Forgiving ourselves when we do something wrong. Throwing and receiving all the punches is wearisome. Let’s give ourselves a break, and stop the punishing. Let it go.

Taking time to do something we love without guilt. Have a night out. Do something you love. Take time to laugh and find the things that bring you joy. 

Letting go of pain. People are going to hurt us, and things are not always going to be the way we thought they would be. Release it from your hands, and walk to what is ahead. 

Loving who we are been created to be. Live in the confidence and trust of our Creator. Stop zooming in on what’s not right, and deleting all the things that don’t measure up. Zoom out and capture what surrounds your life, take off the filters. 

Stopping the comparison. There will always be something that looks better than what we have. Live with gratefulness and don’t wish away what’s been placed in your hands.  

We’re taught at a young age to be kind to others.

Kindness matters.

Always be kind.

All those things are all true.

But as you spread kindness wherever you go,

Let some of it trickle back.

In the words of a wise (sometimes a little sassy) 16-year-old,

Be kind to yourself.



Bento Box Living

Bento BoxLiving

There are these super adorable little lunch revolution products called Bento Boxes. They keep your food in perfectly neat compartments, like a dream. Your own healthy stainless steel lunchable that can be reused over and over again, and filled with creative and culinary delights. (For unattainable ideas, visit Pinterest) I personally don’t have a Bento Box. They are rather expensive for a person who misplaces things, and to be honest I could never dream of having that organized of a lunch. I’m more of a “mis-matched plastic container that gets left-in -the-car for a month” type of girl. I wouldn’t know how to treat a Bento Box with the respect it deserves.   

But the compartments. 

I’m a little obsessed with the compartments.

They are perfect.

Nothing touches anything else.

The division is impeccable.

Every time I see a picture of one, I have this deep philosophical thought. 

My life is a Bento Box.

Everything in it’s place. 

Steel walls of separation.

I’ve actually become a master of this. 

Work life. Home life. Caring for my parents life. Friend life. Sibling life. Pastor life. Holiday and special events life. Things I worry about Life. Pursuing dreams life. Trying to be a good wife life. Mom life. Writer life. Going outside life. Daydreamer life. Leader life. 

So many types of life. 

Each happening in their own little compartment. 

Created with steel walls of separation.

Don’t make them touch. 

Bento boxes work because they don’t let things come into contact with one another. That’s a great strategy for food prep and picky kids who don’t want their cheese to touch their apple slices. But it’s not the best strategy for abundant life living. Honestly though, sometimes it’s just easier to live in the compartments. The walls become protective. Nothing gets let in because who know what would happen if the barriers came down. But what if they did? What if we let all parts of our life mix together in real authentic living with no walls between everything?

Would it be messy?


But, somedays I long for the mess. These walls, they are hard to keep up. 

Messy isn’t always bad. Messy means contact. Messy means connection. Imagine all the walls in your life coming down, and everything inside given a good shake. What would happen?

Maybe – 

The places where you are weak become stronger through your vulnerability.

The places where you walk alone are now filled with support.

The places where you struggle are now surrounded with hope.

There is room for difficult conversations, open conversations, honest conversations, forgiving conversations and healing conversations.

What if messy life IS abundant life? 

The worst part about living a compartmentalized life is the walls that surround.  If all our walls came down, it might be messy but at least it would be real.

The time that you start to identify with a steel box of compartments, is likely the time when you need to evaluate your walls. To start taking them down. To let things touch. To live in the whole, not as tiny divided parts.

Full life living, takes down walls. 

Full life living, mixes our self-preservation with vulnerability. 

Just one big old plastic container with a worn lid, everything shaken up inside.

It will never look as good as a Pinterest Bento Box.

But it will feel like messy and full abundant life.










An open letter to my son. I know how to boil water.


Dear Son,

I’m so proud of you this week as you’ve started your 2nd year of school, living in your own place with friends. I know it’s going to be an amazing experience for you.

I was quite worried when we left you in your new house, because I wasn’t sure if I had fully prepared you, particularly in the area of cooking and kitchen prep. I’m not sure why, perhaps I was more focussed on getting you to clean your room all these years. (which I’m not sure I was successful at either…) So, I took you shopping on moving day and gave you ideas for easy meals while trying to hold back my tears. I filled your fridge with easy prep food that I hoped you’d learn to make. Then, I stocked your freezer with the baked goods I’d prepared for you with a mother’s love earlier that week.

I hugged you good-bye through my tears and told you to call me if you needed any help in the kitchen and I would be there for you. I had a restless sleep that night, tossing and turning. Legitimately concerned for you, because you like food. And I wondered if you’d be able to turn any of those items into an edible meal.

Maybe you’d just eat chips for the whole year. 

Or learn 48 ways to make KD. 

My dreams were full of angst and worry. 

But I had to have faith in you.

I believed in you. 

If what everyone told me was right, you’d be fine. 

The next day, I saw a post on instagram that made my heart leap. There you were, making pasta for the first time. I almost called you to see if I could help, but I thought that I needed to let you soar on your own. Soon, a lovely picture followed of a beautifully set table, with napkins and plates and an impressive dish of pasta. 

You did it. 

You were going to be ok.

I was basking in pride at your accomplishment. 

Then, your father sauntered upstairs.

He said a phrase that pierced straight through my heart. I don’t want to assume he was being smug (but let’s assume he was.)

“Noah called me for some help to make dinner.”

Now maybe I was already emotional from leaving you at school, and a crazy long day of moving and driving, and the other general stresses of life. But those words, sent me crying into my pillow for 30 minutes.

Deep sobs, repeating the phrase, “No one needs me for anything. I’m useless.”

(In hindsight, perhaps a little over-dramatic.)

Listen, I’m aware of the fact that I’m not known for my culinary skills. I’ll never make it onto MasterChef Canada or win a pie contest. Heck, most of the time I stare into the fridge and wonder what magic I’m going to use to make dinner. I’ve noticed that no one asks me for a favourite meal, and your sister has said I’m better at liquids.

But guess what?



“Dad’s Italian” is what you said, when I tearfully texted my feelings of betrayal. Yah. He’s Italian. I taught HIM how to boil water. I’m pretty sure he never saw the inside of the kitchen until we got married. 

I don’t want to get into a big gender war or anything. I know men can cook, I’m glad you feel like you can call your Dad for anything. I’ll forgive him for being the favourite eventually. 

But I carried you in my womb for 9 months. I gave birth to you, and you were a big baby. I’ve devoted my life to being the best mom that I could be. Just last week, you spilled an entire large-sized Tim Horton’s coffee behind the couch at the cottage and I kept my yelling at a reasonable decibel. 


So the next time you’re preparing a rather basic meal, feel free to give me a call. Dad’s going to live off the energy of this victory for a long time. Only contact him if your wi-fi goes down, you have to start a lawnmower, you require a money transfer or have no interest in receiving any Christmas gifts from me. 

I can help you with sliceable cookies, salad in a bag, and I’m super good at coffee and peanut butter toast. 

I’ve got your back. 

I know how to boil water.











All these roads.

We were out of town today, and made a visit to our “old” little town that we used to live in (Little towns are our fav). We took the long route because my daughter wanted to look at our old house. As we drove, I realized that all past memories, decisions and moments are connected by roads.


Ordinary Roads.

In this little town, I could see the road where I used to run (when I decided I wanted to be a sporty girl), the street where I first let my kids walk to school alone together, the path to the park where we would fly kites and the little side avenue where our favourite cupcake store used to be. As we drove around I was holding back some tears. All those roads, all meaning different things. Things that could be remembered so clearly. With the good memories, there are always the hard ones too, and I remembered those painful roads as well. Losing someone we loved dearly, struggles financially, heart hurting job decisions, and ultimately a move that was hard for our family.

The road wasn’t always smooth.

But it was always joined.

There’s always been a road. 

We never drove off a cliff. 

Then I got to thinking.

I could get in a car and basically drive through all the seasons of my life. 

If I were to leave my house right now, I could do a roundtrip that would take about 2 hours and encompass all the moments and decisions of my life in the last 30 years.

All those roads.

I’ll be honest, I don’t know that I’ve always chosen the right road. The best way. The correct direction. But you have to take a road. Always. Even when you can’t see the final destination. And when I think of those roads, and curves and turns and roundabouts that sometimes didn’t go as planned – I realize that not once did I ever come across a dead end. Not once did I hit a wall. Never so lost or directionally challenged that there wasn’t a way back, or a solution or answer.

The road hasn’t always been easy, but it’s led me where I needed to go. 

In fact, every road that seemed uncertain and unclear, led to a destination. Every road has been part of the journey. Even the ones that have been confusing and unclear. Even the ones that needed me to make an adjustment and turn myself around, while yelling at a GPS that didn’t seem to know what it was doing.

But it did.

All roads lead somewhere.

So I close my eyes and think of where I began, and where each part of the journey has taken. I realize I could drive it all and smile, and cry, and laugh and be filled with sorrow and with joy.

My road is made up of so many things. 

All these roads, they are my life.

All this pavement tells a story.

As we travel, we live.

As we journey, we grow.

Asphalt, stuck to the ground winding and turning through cities, towns, and countrysides are stories woven and moments lived and destination and arrivals reached and everything we take leads somewhere and somewhere is where we always are going. 

So take your road.

Drive in peace.

Get through the rocky places.

Potholes and bumps along the way.

Know that you’re led.

There is a purpose to your path.

Take a drive through your moments and remember your roads.

All roads lead somewhere.


The crooked roads shall become straight, the rough ways smooth.


Legacy and the day my shoes didn’t match

Legacy and the day my shoes didn't match-2

I was having a pretty good morning. You know, I liked my outfit. I felt pretty pulled together. I even pre-planned my day and remembered to bring a lunch to work.

I was ready. 


I led my first meeting for a summer program, it went well and the team seemed excited. Then, I had a meeting with another staff member as we planned some future events.

All was well in my world. 

“You’ve got this. You are rocking today.” I said to myself with confidence.

Then, I went to the office kitchen to make a coffee. As I was chatting with a work friend, she looked down at my feet.

Then this,

This happened. 



All of a sudden I was actually the least pulled together person on the planet. Slightly consoled by the fact that none of the 10 people I had seen in my meetings had noticed. But still, completely mortified. 




I do this.

I wish I could say this was the first time anything like this has happened to me, but honestly this is actually part of who I am. I’ve left town with all the keys (husbands love that), I’ve chased rolling cans of peanuts under cars in parking lots, I’ve tried to start cars that weren’t mine, I’ve lost bank cards into the dash of my car, put groceries in a stranger’s cart, walked into vaguely branded men’s bathrooms and in my most horrifying moment I almost went live on national television with the full leg size sticker running down the front of my new pixie pants.

I do this.


But it’s not all I am. 

I know I’ll be remembered for some of my Shelly-isms but I’m determined to make my legacy about more than mismatched shoes, inside out shirts and unfortunately placed leg stickers.

We can’t control everything that happens to us, but we can control who we are in all our situations. Every reaction, every response, every word is all part of our legacy.

We are creating legacy each and every day. 

I used to think that legacy was something we just left behind, but more and more I think legacy is about the present. How we live our lives each day. One day we will all be remembered by those who loved us, and we can help shape that by intentionally living a legacy-filled life now. We can purposefully participate in what we want our legacy to look like. 

We have a choice in – 

How we love

How we serve

What we say

The way we respond 

What we value 

Where we spend our time

Everything we do, is our legacy. 

And while I want to leave a good one behind when I go, I want to intentionally live legacy life each day now. 

Legacy living is a choice.

Let’s chose to let our life speak loud for who we are.

Maybe you’ll have some mismatched shoes along the way.

Or people staring at you running through a restaurant.

That’s ok.

We will always leave something behind, but we can choose who we want to be now.