There’s a photograph saved on my phone that I come back to often. It’s a sepia-colored snapshot of a woman leaning out the window of an old car, hair wild from the wind, sunlight catching the edges of her defiance. One arm is raised high above her head, fingers curled in that unmistakable shape of rebellion and self-ownership—part victory, part boundary, part declaration of this is who I am now. II had used it as a post on my Facebook page months back. Every time I look at it, I feel something inside me nod in recognition. It’s the energy of a woman who once opened her heart freely, without hesitation, and learned—sometimes softly, sometimes painfully—that openness and access are two very different things.

The quote across the image reads:

“The door to my heart will always be open. But I’ve renovated the front porch, and you’ll have to step up to reach it these days.”

As if the words themselves were a quiet anthem for every woman who has ever outgrown her old patterns. It’s a reminder that kindness does not have to come at the expense of self-respect, that love can remain warm while access becomes intentional. And it speaks to a deeper truth we learn somewhere between heartbreak and healing: it’s not that we stop loving, it’s that we stop lowering ourselves to be loved.

There was a time when I made my heart easy to reach. I left the porch light on for everyone. I kept the steps low, the door unlocked, the welcome mat worn from the comings and goings of people who only stopped by when it was convenient for them. I thought that openness meant goodness. I thought accessibility was the same as compassion. And I thought that saying “yes” meant I was being loyal. But seasons have a way of exposing what we can no longer carry. Life has a way of showing us where our greatest leaks are. And eventually, I realized that I had built a home around my heart that anyone could walk into—but few cared enough to stay.

Renovation, in any form, begins with honesty. Something inside whispers, You deserve better boundaries than this. So you pick up the broken boards, clear out the old debris, reinforce the weak spots, and rebuild. And when you rebuild, you don’t build it the same way. You’ve earned the right to elevate the steps. You’ve earned the right to choose who climbs them. You’ve earned the right to keep your heart warm without keeping your soul exposed.

Today, my heart is still open—wide, radiant, full of compassion and hope.

That part of me hasn’t changed. I still believe in people. I still believe in connection. I still believe in the kind of love that chooses you every single day. But I no longer hand that softness to anyone unwilling to rise to meet it. The porch is higher now. The steps require intention. You can’t stumble in by accident or convenience. You have to want to show up. You have to try. And effort, I’ve learned, is a beautiful filter.

This renovation is not about bitterness. It’s about worth. It’s about recognizing the sacredness of your own energy. It’s about allowing your boundaries to become the architecture of your healing. And it’s about honoring the version of you who once gave too much too easily—not by shaming her, but by promising her you’ll do better now. Because she was never the problem; the problem was believing she had to shrink to be loved.

So here I am—heart open, porch lifted, peace intact. I no longer apologize for asking others to meet me where I am. I no longer dilute myself so that people with lower standards feel comfortable. And I no longer fear that raising the steps will keep the wrong people away. In fact, that’s the point.

Let it keep the wrong ones away.
Let it attract the right ones in.
Let it teach you that elevation is a form of protection.

If you’re reading this while standing somewhere between who you were and who you’re becoming, let this be your sign: it’s okay to renovate your heart’s entryway. It’s okay to raise the standard. It’s okay to require effort.

You are not “harder to reach”—you are simply no longer willing to be reached by those who do not know how to honor you.

And that, my friend, is the most powerful shift of all.
​

Every weekend, I sit down and write out this giant to-do list.

You know the kind—the everything-and-the-kitchen-sink list. The one that includes house cleaning, bigger home projects that have been waiting for months, organizing for another week of homeschooling, planning meals and after-school activities, and squeezing in work emails or lingering business tasks that I know will help me feel a little more “on top of things” by Monday morning.

It’s a list that could easily take a small team to complete. And yet, I hand that impossible workload to one person—me.

Some weekends, I power through and check most of it off. But most of the time, I end Sunday staring at what’s not done. The unchecked boxes glare back at me, whispering all the ways I fell short. And if my body dares to ask for rest—or I decide to meet a friend for coffee or spend the afternoon outside instead—I end the weekend feeling guilty, as though I traded productivity for pleasure.

But recently, something shifted.

It dawned on me that these lists I create are never going to end. There will always be more things that could be done, more ways to be better, cleaner, more prepared, more accomplished. I realized that my list wasn’t a tool to support my week—it had become a silent standard of perfection I could never, ever reach.

So, I decided to pivot.

This weekend, instead of writing my list based on everything that needed doing, I wrote it based on what would leave me feeling accomplished and grounded before Monday morning. It sounds so simple—almost laughably small—but that single shift changed everything.

When I reframed my list, I found myself focusing on what truly mattered for that moment in time. I asked myself, what would make me feel ready? What would ease my mind? What could I complete that would genuinely add peace to my week ahead? And once I finished those few things, I gave myself permission to stop.

That afternoon, my son and I spent the day at the ocean. The air was unusually warm for fall, and the sun seemed to stretch itself across the water just for us. I remember thinking, I could be home doing laundry or answering emails right now. But instead, I felt calm, full, and satisfied. Not because I finished it all—but because I chose to be content with enough.

I’m sure not every weekend will land this way. Life, after all, rarely follows a neat plan. But if this small change—this simple redirection of intention—helps me start most weeks with more peace and less panic, then I’ll take that as a success.

Maybe It’s Time to Reimagine Your To-Do List, too! Here are a few reflections you might try this week:

1. Start with how you want to feel.
   Before you write your list, ask: What emotional space do I want to be in when this weekend ends? Peaceful? Grounded? Accomplished? Build your list around that.
2. Name your “enough.”
   Choose 2–3 key things that would help you feel genuinely prepared for the week. Let everything else be optional.
3. Add at least one “soul task.”
   Something that nourishes you. A slow morning coffee, a walk, a conversation, or creative time that doesn’t serve a “purpose” beyond joy.
4. Release the illusion of done.
   The list will never be finished, and that’s not a failure—it’s simply life unfolding.
5. End with gratitude.
   Before bed on Sunday, instead of counting the unchecked boxes, name what you did do—and who you became in the process.
6. Struggling with this process? Check out this Surviving the Storm guide!

Journal Prompts:
What would my to-do list look like if it was built around peace, rather than pressure?
What tasks would stay?
What could I release without guilt?

Healing Practice - This weekend, before you begin your usual to-do list, pause.
Take three slow breaths.
Ask yourself: What would help me feel satisfied, not stretched?
Then write from that place.
And when the day invites you to rest or play—accept the invitation fully.

"Do you want to get married again?"
His question was so innocent. The early stages of "getting to know another" when stepping out into the dating world again post-divorce, and with children.

I completely fumbled over my words.

I haven't mastered a good response for that question, despite it rolling in my head for nearly a decade now.

My thoughts flow more easily via pen and paper than they do when formulating a thought to speak.

I think my answer is, marriage is no longer a destination for me.
But if it is part of the path, of my journey, and it feels in alignment rather than the "next step" of a relationship, then yes.

There is a quote that you can only love someone as deeply as you have met yourself.

Conversely, someone can only love you to the depth that they have met themselves.

I have to tell you; I have gone deep.
Dug deep.
I have excavated every hurt I have both received and inflicted on others and rolled it around in my heart and soul. 

I have spent countless hours introspecting and looking at each experience through multiple lens to not only learn what was triggering me in life's moments up until now, but also how I may have been triggering in someone else.

I have sat looking in the mirror at my own reflection naked, afraid, vulnerable, begging the universe "how many more lessons in love do I have to learn?"

Sat until the tears that stained my cheek ran empty and my heart felt wide open.

Until I found the stillness inside of me.

Until the parts of me that once ached had been loved back to health.

Not by someone else, but by me.

In When the White Picket Fence is No Longer Enough, I write: "​When you are of a certain age and you find yourself looking for a partner and a love that is not derived around having children, having a family, building a house together, consolidating resources, it creates a strange dynamic. It is not a love built for the outcome but rather the journey. You realize you are looking for someone just for you—not to establish a legacy or generation to leave behind you. You’re not trying to create something that will compete with past loves or exes or even families who came before. You’re not looking to intertwine finances or debate the number of children and how they will be raised and what a family looks like. When you are looking for someone at this point in your life, it becomes incredibly personal in a very different way than when you were looking in your twenties."

I have found peace both within my own heart and my home.
That carries with it a price tag that no one can afford. I won't exchange my peace.

Too picky? I want too much. My expectations are too high.

Maybe.

Or maybe I just want something, believe in something, that others have long since given up on.
Or maybe even talked themselves out of by saying things like: "it's never going to happen."

Maybe the idea of juggling life, finances, schedules and the unexpected alone is too much.

Or it will cost too much to choose your own peace.

And that is okay, we all get to go about life our own way.

My heart hasn't turned black.
I don't have a zero-tolerance with relationships.
I don't want to grow old alone, forever.

I just have just come to the place where the peace I have found is greater than my need for partnership, even greater than my need for desire or passion.

I have tasted love that is so expansive, so unconditional, that defies all logic.

I am okay waiting to cross paths with the man who has sat with all of the versions of his younger self and healed them, loved them, honored them.

I don't need to get married, but I do need a love that runs deep. 

A man that doesn't just love my glow but honors the fires I have walked through to get here - because he has walked through his too.

Marriage? Okay, maybe.

But first - give me the man whose presence honors my peace and solitude.

The man whose own battles within give me the strength, courage and curiosity to grow even more.

Give me the man who finds me through the center of his heart.

I'll be waiting for him in the center of mine.