The Monument of You

Loneliness and isolation are not always random. More often, they’re the bill that comes due when you’ve spent all your time investing only in yourself.

If you spend a week doing whatever you want, whenever you want, pouring into only yourself and being selfish, then don’t be surprised when you get sick and nobody comes running. Why should they? When you were well, you didn’t pour into anyone else’s cup. You didn’t show up. You didn’t nurture anything outside yourself. Why expect everyone to drop everything now?

And that truth stretches far beyond a week.

If you spend your days doing what suits you but never taking time to build with your children, no conversations, no guidance, no presence, don’t turn around shocked years later when they grow up and want nothing to do with you. They don’t owe you a sudden, magical relationship you never bothered to create. And the circumstances that you had at the time as an explanation to why there’s no relationship, are of no importance.

If you choose the bare minimum, constantly reminding others how much they “should” appreciate you while refusing to give them the space to think or breathe on their own, don’t act blindsided when people keep their distance. If you walk around being selfish, forceful, or making everyone feel like they’re tiptoeing around landmines, don’t be surprised when the invitations stop coming. Birthdays go by without your name on the list. Family trips happen and nobody asks if you’re free. Holidays roll around and even when you’re “with people,” you’re still alone.

Because here’s the hard truth: when you spend your life building the monument of you, polishing, protecting, glorifying it, you forget to build within other people. You forget to build a community. And when the cracks start to show, when you need someone to show up for you, that monument won’t hug you back.

People do not owe you a thing. However, bills can be paid down, and relationships can be rebuilt. You can turn things around before next year. Just remember: making changes doesn’t mean everyone is required to forget the emptiness your absence created. Growth takes time, and so does rebuilding trust. If you want to be surrounded, start showing up now.

When Belonging Becomes a Battle: What Unhealed Abandonment Can Look Like

Have you ever met someone who didn’t quite seem to know how to exist in platonic relationships?

Someone who, without realizing it, tried to make themselves a key character in a story that already had main characters?

They show up in your life, or someone else’s, and suddenly they’re everywhere. They start taking on the identity of the people around them. Their language shifts, their vibe shifts. They become the group they hang with.

It’s not always loud. Sometimes it’s subtle, a growing presence, a clinginess dressed up as helpfulness, a need to be needed that starts to take up space.

At first, you might feel confused. Then maybe annoyed. But underneath that? You start to feel bad. Because if you’ve been paying attention, you know what you’re looking at isn’t just personality, it’s pain.

Deep, unhealed pain that comes from abandonment.

This is what abandonment can look like when it’s still bleeding:

• Trying to fast-forward intimacy.

• Becoming over-involved in someone else’s life too quickly.

• Mistaking proximity for belonging.

• Replacing instead of relating.

• Confusing being essential with being loved.

People who’ve been abandoned emotionally, physically, or both don’t always realize how that shapes their understanding of connection. They learned early on that people leave. So they cope by trying to become so indispensable, so involved, that leaving becomes harder.

It’s not malicious. It’s survival.  They’re not trying to be manipulative, they’re just trying not to be left again.

But here’s where it gets complicated:

When someone hasn’t dealt with their trauma, they don’t just carry it, they spill it. Into rooms, into relationships, into roles that were never theirs to fill. They think they’re finding a place to belong, but really they’re forcing one. And that pressure can make you or others around them feel guilty, exhausted, or even emotionally cornered.

It’s okay to admit that. It’s okay to name it.  Empathy doesn’t mean erasing your own boundaries.

So what do you do when you see it?

You stay kind, but clear.
You don’t reward unhealthy attachment just because you feel bad.
You recognize that while trauma may explain someone’s behavior, it doesn’t excuse them from learning better once it starts harming others.
You stop letting guilt keep you in one-sided dynamics.

And maybe, just maybe, you model what a real connection looks like. Not one built on being everything to everyone, but one built on honesty, boundaries, and care that doesn’t suffocate.

Some people never got taught how to belong.
Some people think closeness has to be earned, begged for, or wedged into.
But the truth is: you don’t have to fight for a space that’s yours.
You don’t have to perform to be seen.
And no one has to shrink to make someone else feel secure.

Let this be your reminder:
You can feel bad for someone and not let them take over your life.
You can name the pattern and still hold compassion.
You can walk away and still wish them healing.

You are not their therapist.
You are not their fix.
You are allowed to protect your peace, even from people who are still in pieces.

I’m not a therapist. I’m not a psychologist or licensed clinician.
I’m just someone who understands.
Someone who’s watched people carry trauma into rooms like it was their only form of ID.
Someone who believes in empathy, but also believes in boundaries.
Because love without boundaries isn’t love, it’s self-abandonment in disguise.

You don’t have to diagnose people to recognize when something feels off.
You don’t have to be a professional to protect your peace.

You just have to trust what you see, honor what you feel, and remember that you’re allowed to take care of yourself, too.

Ready Isn’t a Ceiling, It’s a Choice

I used to think “ready” was a place you arrived at. Like some ceiling you’d finally break through the day when you suddenly had enough money, enough time, enough confidence, enough credentials. I waited for that moment. I prepared for that moment. And yet, it never came.

My husband would ask me how I felt about something, and instead of answering with an actual feeling, I’d respond with a list of reasons I wasn’t ready. “I don’t know enough yet.” “The timing isn’t right.” “I still need to figure out X, Y, and Z.” He’d check me every time: That’s not a feeling.

And he was right. What I was really saying was: I’m scared. I’m uncertain. I don’t want to fail. But those aren’t ceilings either. They’re decisions.

If you’re like me, maybe you live in that space of overthinking. The land of endless research, color-coded spreadsheets, and “just-one-more-step” planning. It feels responsible. It feels like progress. But really, it’s analysis paralysis.

That’s when you think so much about what could go wrong, or what the “best” decision might be, that you end up not moving at all.

If you’ve ever…

• Rewritten a plan five times but never started it,

• Waited to “feel sure” before taking action,

• Or realized months passed and you’re still in the same spot,

…then this is for you.

I’ve looked up before and realized that time had passed me by, not because I was lazy, but because I was stuck trying to make the perfect choice. And the irony? Even if I had just made a move, any move, by now I’d have learned something, adjusted, and been further along.

That’s the quiet cost of analysis paralysis: you trade progress for perfection. 

We keep waiting for “ready” like it’s a milestone. The truth is, “ready” doesn’t exist the way we imagine it. As if one day we’ll wake up and the doubts will be gone, the timing will be perfect, the money will be in place, and the confidence will finally match the vision. It’s not a checkpoint we finally unlock. It’s not a magical signal from the universe. It’s a decision we make in the middle of the uncertainty, in the middle of the fear, sometimes even in the middle of not knowing.

The Power of Knowing Your Value

Knowing your value is one of the most powerful things you can ever master.
If I could bottle it up and inject it into people, I would. Just a small dose of that knowing could change how someone moves, negotiates, and shows up in the world.

Some of it comes from knowledge of understanding how systems work. Some of it is shaped at home, being told early on that you are just as capable, just as smart, just as worthy as anyone else. But I also understand that even when it’s there, life has a way of trying to wear it down. The world constantly tells you, you don’t matter as much, your voice isn’t as strong, your worth is conditional.

That’s why you have to protect the knowledge of your value like it’s sacred because it is.

How You Earn

Let’s start with income.
Too many people are desperate for the offer in front of them, and I don’t mean that disrespectfully. It’s survival. It’s relief. But that desperation makes you accept less than what you deserve. You don’t negotiate because you just want to get in the door.

As an attorney, when I say everything is negotiable, I mean everything.
Even if the salary is fixed, you can negotiate equity, vacation, flexibility, bonuses, relocation, or titles. The point isn’t greed, it’s positioning. You’re not asking for a favor; you’re setting a standard.

How You Spend

Knowing your value also changes how you spend.

When you stop seeing yourself as lacking, you stop overpaying just to “feel” abundant. You stop chasing the next shiny thing that proves you made it.

When you view yourself from a place of wealth even before the account reflects it you approach decisions differently. You understand that “dream house” isn’t a dream, it’s a choice. That car, that bag, that moment? They’re options, not validation.

During the pandemic, people paid tens of thousands over asking for homes because they were scared to miss out. But when you know your value, you realize missing out on stress, debt, and overpayment is also a win. Power comes from being able to walk away.

How You Love

Knowing your value changes your relationships too.
You stop chasing people who make you question yourself. You stop trying to explain why you deserve basic respect. You stop auditioning for roles you didn’t sign up for.
You start realizing that real connection doesn’t require convincing.
That peace is not negotiable.
That the right people don’t need to be sold on your worth, they recognize it, because they know their own.

How You Speak

When you know your value, your language shifts.
You stop apologizing for taking up space.
You stop overexplaining decisions that protect your peace.
You don’t beg for understanding from people who benefit from your confusion.
You learn that silence, when used intentionally, is one of the loudest forms of self-respect.

How You Do Business

For entrepreneurs, this is where value is tested the most.
If you don’t know your value, every client, every offer, every price point will shake you. You’ll think lowering your rates makes you accessible, but really, it makes you forgettable.

People who know their value don’t sell for cheap because they understand they are the value.
They price from confidence, not fear.
They pitch with posture, not panic.

How You Leave

And sometimes, knowing your value means walking away.
From a job. From a relationship. From a space that once served you but now shrinks you.
It’s not disloyalty, it’s discernment.
You can honor what something gave you and still know it’s time to go.

Loyalty should never cost you self-respect. Blind loyalty is how people stay underpaid, overlooked, and overextended. There’s nothing noble about being the only one staying faithful to a place that stopped choosing you.

The Thread That Connects It All

Knowing your value means always keeping the power to walk away, not out of arrogance, but out of alignment.
It’s what allows you to negotiate smarter, love cleaner, spend wiser, and speak clearer.
It’s not about thinking you’re better, it’s about knowing you’re enough. 

The day you start moving like you know your value, the world adjusts its price.

The Petty Power Problem

Why is it that when people have just a modicum of authority, they often overdo it?

You see it in the flight attendant who talks down to passengers as though they’ve never flown before. At the DMV, where employees seem to get a strange joy out of reminding you that you’re missing one form out of the twelve they require or granting you a license is a personal favor. With police officers whose “respect my authority” stance quickly overshadows any sense of actual community service. The HOA board member who’s made it their life’s mission to patrol the neighborhood like it’s a gated kingdom. Or the state worker who can approve or deny funding, and wields that power with a smug shrug. 

Someone once told me: Never get on the bad side of small-minded people who have a little authority. And honestly, that may be one of the realest things I’ve ever heard.

See, it’s not the authority that’s the problem. It’s what happens when that authority becomes the only thing that gives someone a sense of worth. When someone has little control in their own life, they cling to whatever scraps of power they can find and the rest of us pay for it in sighs, side-eyes, and unnecessary “rules.” When someone’s entire identity hinges on being “the one in charge” in a very limited space, they often inflate it. It’s not about service, fairness, or even doing their job well, it’s about making sure you remember that they get to say yes or no. Their authority is so fragile that they have to flex it at every opportunity.

And it’s exhausting for the rest of us.

Maybe the real question isn’t why they do it, we know insecurity when we see it. Maybe the real question is: why are we forced to tolerate it? Why have we designed entire systems travel, licensing, benefits, law enforcement, where the gatekeepers are the very people most likely to abuse their little sliver of power?

What’s wild is how we’ve built entire systems that reward that behavior. We give the smallest gatekeepers the biggest keys the person behind the counter, the one who stamps the form, approves the claim, or waves you through the metal detector. And when that little sliver of power gets to their head, we call it “protocol” or “policy.”

But authority without empathy is just control.

And control without self-awareness turns into cruelty disguised as professionalism.

The people who truly have power, the kind that changes lives, moves things forward, or builds something meaningful rarely have to prove it. They don’t need to humiliate to feel seen. They don’t need to bark orders to feel respected. Teal leadership doesn’t need to be loud, and if you’re truly in control, you don’t have to remind people of it, your work, your fairness, and your consistency speak louder than your bark.

But until the system changes, all we can do is spot it for what it is: petty power dressed up as importance. And decide not to let their small-mindedness shrink us.

So the next time someone flexes their “little power,” just remember, small authority can’t handle big peace. And while they’re busy proving they matter, you can move in silence, knowing you already do.

The Cape Is in the Closet…Somewhere

You ever have one of those weekends where everything you meant to do… just didn’t happen?

I was supposed to do my budget.
Prep my taxes.
Upload the legal templates to my site.
Handle all the things that matter for my business and my future.

Instead, I baked a cake with my daughter.
Made it to church.
And now I’m in my closet, packing for a work trip to D.C.
Hair undone since March, flight leaves in the morning, happy hour tomorrow, meetings all day Tuesday.

And somewhere between trying to look put together and actually be put together, it hit me:

When even the trivial things feel impossible, they stop feeling trivial at all.
They start to feel like failure.
Like you’re falling behind in every area.
Like life is moving, and you’re running to catch up with one shoelace untied and no time to stop and fix it.

But here’s what I’m learning:
Sometimes, doing anything is everything.

Baking a cake when the world feels like it’s on fire? That matters.
Showing up for work when your confidence is low and your curls are old? That counts.
Still trying, even when you’re tired of trying? That’s hero work.

We tell ourselves we’re failing because we didn’t finish the checklist.
But we don’t give ourselves credit for living through the kind of days that create those checklists in the first place.

Nobody’s coming to save us.
But maybe the cape was never about being rescued.
Maybe it’s about choosing to show up, again and again
Even when your hair’s not done.
Even when your plans didn’t happen.
Even when you feel like a mess.

That cape still fits.
And you’re still wearing it.
Still showing up.
Still putting on our capes even when they’re wrinkled and buried in laundry.

You don’t have to have it all together to be doing something powerful.
You don’t need perfect hair, inbox zero, or a balanced schedule to be winning at life in your own way.

Sometimes, surviving the week is success.
Sometimes, baking the cake is the business plan.
And sometimes, laughing with strangers on a Monday night is the reset you didn’t know you needed.

So if nobody told you today, you’re doing amazing.
You are not behind.
And you are definitely not alone.

Now go be great…or at least drink some water and pretend you don’t have 14 tabs open in your brain.
We’ll try again tomorrow.

Your Kid’s Schedule Is Gonna Kill You and Your Wallet

(Are Activities a Blessing or a Trap?)

Not preachy. Not judgy. Just a real question:
Are we doing this for them… or for everybody else?

At some point, we all got swept up in it.

The belief that good parenting means full calendars, booked weekends, and enough youth activities to rival a presidential campaign. That if your kid isn’t in something, anything, they’re falling behind. Not being social. Not building “discipline.” Not reaching their “potential.”

But can we pause for a second?

Because I need to ask:
Are all these activities really for the kids?
Or are they part of a bigger system that traps parents in a cycle of hustle, guilt, and silent exhaustion?

The Invisible Pressure

Nobody says it out loud, but it’s there:
The pressure to keep up with what “everyone else” is doing.

Your coworker’s kid is in piano, soccer, chess club, and French immersion.
Your neighbor’s child plays travel volleyball 9 months out of the year.
Your group chat is full of practice pics, wins, and “crazy weekend ahead” humblebrags.

So you sign up, too. You didn’t sign up for all this. But somehow, you got guilted, peer-pressured, or scared into stacking your child’s week like a corporate calendar.
Because you want to be supportive.
Because you want your kid to belong.
Because you don’t want to be the one who “didn’t try hard enough.”

Even if it costs you your sleep. Your peace. Your money.

Let’s Talk About the Money: The Economics of It All

Youth sports and kids’ activities are a multi-billion-dollar industry.

Uniforms. Registration fees. Tournament fees. Travel. Hotels. Private lessons. Photos. Fundraisers.

Don’t forget the snacks. Or the matching parent shirts. You’re burning gas, stretching paychecks, and giving up rest days.

Meanwhile everybody’s getting paid: the coach has a salary. The league has sponsors. The tournament sells out rooms.

The math isn’t mathing.

The Myth of ROI (Return on Involvement)

We’re sold the idea that all this pays off someday:
In scholarships. In confidence. In character.

Let’s be honest. Only a tiny fraction go pro or even get scholarships.

Is it character building? Sure. Teamwork. Grit.

And sure, sometimes it does.
Some kids do go on to shine.
Some families do find balance.
Some coaches do care deeply and teach life lessons that stick.

But those are the exceptions.

Do you really need a $600 registration and four cities in two weekends to teach that?

For most of us, the return looks like a sore back from bleachers, missed family dinners, a half-used vacation fund, and a child who’s maybe…kinda…burnt out? What about the kid who gains no social skills from this, who would rather be building a computer or doing the newest dance trend on TikTok?

What Are They Actually Learning?

Do They Need Something? Yes. Do They Need Everything? Do they need these activities? No. In fact, they need to learn where boredom meets creativity.

Are they learning to enjoy movement, or just win at all costs? Are they learning to self-regulate or being micromanaged by sideline adults yelling instructions every second?

Is it their dream, or your obligation?

What’s the Cost to You?

Let’s not pretend this isn’t costing your mental health, your schedule, your relationship, your finances.

Family dinner? Gone.

Budget for summer vacation? Eaten by AAU.

You’ve rearranged work shifts.
You’ve forfeited Sunday naps.
You’ve sacrificed time with other kids, your partner, yourself.

You’ve told yourself this is what “good” parents do.

But maybe what a good parent also does is protect peace.
Reclaim time. Set boundaries.
Choose what aligns instead of what impresses.

Maybe your “yes” to every activity is actually a quiet “no” to rest, margin, and memory-making that doesn’t involve a tournament bracket.

The Quiet Rebellion

Here’s your permission slip—if you need one:

You don’t have to keep doing it all.
You don’t have to “keep up.”
You don’t have to go broke, run down, or burned out to prove you’re invested in your child.

You can choose the one activity that brings joy instead of five that drain it.
You can skip the travel team and still raise a child with character.
You can say, “not this season,” and still be a great parent.

Because your kid’s future matters.
But so does their parent’s survival.

Maybe they do need something. But not everything.
Maybe you’re not a bad parent if you say “no.”
Maybe you’re just finally saying “yes” to your own peace, presence, and priorities.

This is not an anti-sports rant. This isn’t “kids should do nothing.”

Structure is great. Movement is necessary. Exposure is powerful.

But when does it stop being about enrichment and start being about obligation?

Because some of these kids never had a chance to even be bored and boredom breeds creativity.

Some of these kids don’t know what it’s like to simply go outside and play, because every waking minute is micromanaged and monetized.

Some of these kids are learning performance before they’re even learning themselves.

When You Don’t Fit the Mold

School has a way of teaching us more than math or reading. It quietly teaches us how to follow directions. Line up here. Do the assignment this way. Answer the question the way we want it answered. Some kids slip into that rhythm easily, they follow the instructions, add a little creativity when allowed, and move on.

Others take that rhythm into the military, where the commands are sharper, the stakes higher. Do what you’re told. Go where you’re told. Stay as long as they say. Some find their place in that system, even thrive in it.

Others graduate into corporate life. Show up at 9, stay until 5 (or longer). Speak the language of performance reviews and promotions. Smile in meetings. Keep your seat at the table.

And others find their belonging in church. Raise your hand when it’s time. Worship in the way that’s acceptable, not just to God, but to the eyes that might be watching. Learn which rules are divine, and which ones are just the traditions of the people around you.

Everywhere you turn, there’s a mold waiting for you. A shape to step into. A structure that promises belonging if you just fit yourself to it.

But what if you don’t? What if no matter how many molds you’re handed, none of them feel like they were made for you?

Does that make you a nonconformist? Does it mean you “have a problem with authority”? Or does it just mean you’re still searching for something real, something that fits who you are?

There’s a loneliness in being the one who doesn’t fit. At times it feels like you’re the only one awake in a room full of people who seem perfectly content to dream. You wonder: is everyone else crazy, or am I? Did they just find their passion already, while I’m still turning the puzzle pieces around in my hand?

The truth might be simpler: not everyone is meant to fit. Some people are meant to build. To question. To carve a shape no one’s handed them yet.

Most people find comfort in molds because they don’t want to ask harder questions.  If you’re asking, if you’re restless, if you can’t seem to sit quietly in the shape you’ve been given…good…you’ve outgrown it and what’s life if you aren’t growing.

Maybe that doesn’t need a label at all. Maybe it isn’t that you’re lost. Maybe it’s that you were never supposed to fit into what already exists. The molds were built to keep things predictable, to keep people manageable.

If you don’t fit, it isn’t a flaw. It’s a sign. The world doesn’t shift because of the ones who follow; it shifts because of the ones who forge.

If you feel defiant: Stop apologizing. The world doesn’t need you to conform, it needs you to create.

If you feel free: Take the gift. Not fitting means you’re not bound by anyone else’s design. You’re free to carve your own path, even if it takes longer to find.

If you feel convicted: Sit with the truth. That restlessness you carry isn’t proof you’re broken, it’s proof that you’re awake and you’ve already outgrown the shape they gave you.

The gift of not belonging anywhere is realizing  you’re free to belong everywhere.

The Foundation Always Shows

We don’t pay enough attention to foundations.

A foundation isn’t flashy. Nobody brags about the concrete slab under their million-dollar home. They brag about the granite countertops, the open floor plan, the infinity pool. But the house only stands because of what you don’t see. If the foundation crumbles, everything else follows. 

The same is true for people. Childhood is only a sliver of your life on paper, but it frames the rest of the story. For better or worse, the foundation you start with shapes the walls you build, the doors you can open, and the ceilings you’ll bump against. We all live in the echoes of those early blueprints.

Cycles And if that’s true for individuals, it’s even truer for nations.

Cycles of lack.

Cycles of playing small. America’s foundation wasn’t justice, equality, or freedom. Those are the shiny granite countertops we were sold. The actual foundation was laid in slavery, exploitation, and profit above people. Whole fortunes were built on stolen land, stolen bodies, stolen credit for work never done by the ones reaping the benefit.

That’s the concrete slab. Everything else is just the remodel.

So when we scratch our heads about why we can’t seem to solve gun violence, or why a cure for cancer never “quite makes it to market,” or why poverty still cycles generation after generation, it’s not that we lack solutions. It’s that the foundation resists them. Because solutions that put people first would shake the very ground this country was built on: greed and gains by any means.

That’s the ugly truth about foundations: you can decorate, renovate, paint over, and distract with shiny things. But if the ground under you was poured wrong, you’ll always feel the cracks creeping in.

And until we’re honest about what this country was built on, nothing we build on top of it will ever truly stand.

“Families Not Welcome” How Airlines Profit from Making Travel Impossible for Parents

Traveling as a family should be a joyful experience. But for many parents, especially those with babies or toddlers, it feels more like running a gauntlet designed to make us feel unwelcome, unseen, and unreasonably penalized.

Want to fly first class to make the journey bearable with a toddler? That’s cute. Now pay for a full-price seat for your two-year-old even though she won’t sit in it. Want to use the lounge while you wait? She’ll need her own business class ticket to enter.

This is about our recent experience flying internationally with our two-year-old daughter, who is still a baby by all accounts (although a lounge employee corrected me that she’s not), though not just legally, but physically. She's small, she can’t sit still in her own seat safely for 10+ hours, and like most toddlers, she needs to be in a parent's lap for comfort and security.

When my spouse and I chose to fly business or first class, a necessity on long-haul flights with a toddler, most airlines and lounges now require your child to have their own premium ticket just to enter the lounge. That’s right. A 2-year-old must hold a business class ticket to sit in a lounge they can’t even comprehend, let alone appreciate.

And if you’re thinking: “Well, fly economy then.” Here’s the kicker...

Domestic and international airlines require you to buy a full-priced seat for a child over 2 (by over 2, they mean a day over 2 as in she just turned 2 last week) even if they’ll be sitting in your lap 90% of the time. They claim to have a discounted child fare, but most of the time they don’t. That’s not a fee for added convenience. It’s the same as buying an adult ticket which could be thousands of dollars.

Booking a flight for our 2-year-old made it crystal clear: this system was not built for families, it was built for maximum profit at minimum empathy.

Airlines don’t care that your baby still fits in your lap. They don’t care that she’ll scream on takeoff and sleep on your shoulder. What they care about is that she doesn’t have her own full-fare ticket and that’s a problem for them. Don’t be fooled into thinking this is about safety…I won’t even go there, but it makes no sense.

This is not just inconvenient. It’s disrespectful, tone-deaf, and grossly exclusionary. The policies may be cloaked in language about “safety” or “fairness,” but the result is clear: families are being priced out, pushed out, and left out. It’s not about policy. It’s not just about the money. It's the total lack of empathy.

We’re not asking for luxury. We’re asking for basic practicality:

·      Let our toddlers sit on our laps without paying full fare.

·      Let them into the lounge if their parents have paid for access.

·      Offer discounted family bundles or loyalty perks for families flying together.

·      Stop making every step feel like a penalty for daring to travel with our children.

I’m just trying to be a mom. A legal professional. A human being who wanted to take a vacation with her family without having to financially recover from the flight alone afterward.

You don’t have to scream to know something’s broken.
Sometimes all it takes is sitting in an airport, holding your baby, wondering why simply existing as a family has become a luxury purchase.

Airlines: Do better. Because we’re not just customers, we’re raising your future customers.

Breaking the Chain

Somebody in the family had to be first.
First to say, “This stops with me.”
First to say, “I won’t live like that.”
First to take the uncomfortable step into the unknown.

It’s not glamorous. People don’t clap for you when you disrupt the way things have always been. They question you. They whisper. They call you “different,” like it’s a bad thing. But deep down, they know what you’re doing: breaking chains that have been passed down for generations.

Cycles of silence.
Cycles of lack.
Cycles of playing small.

You disrupt them every time you choose differently.
When you save instead of spend to impress.
When you speak instead of staying quiet for peace.
When you walk away instead of staying trapped.

For me, it looked like becoming a lawyer in a world where that wasn’t even on the radar. I grew up in a community where I never once saw a lawyer who looked like me. I didn’t know a single attorney personally. I had no idea how to get into law school, what the process was, or what to expect when I got there. Everything felt foreign like I was trying to crack into a system that wasn’t designed for me to enter.

And yet, here I am. Not because the path was clear, but because I chose to walk it anyway.

Generational curses don’t shatter in a single dramatic moment. They crumble in the everyday choices that feel lonely, misunderstood, and sometimes even selfish. But that’s the price of building a new foundation.

And while everyone else may not see it yet, the future will. The ones who come after you will live lighter because you carried the weight of being first. They’ll get to stand on the ground you fought to make solid.

Breaking barriers doesn’t look like a victory parade. It looks like courage in silence. But make no mistake, your disruption is history in motion.

Why Don’t We “Test Drive” Homes?

We test drive cars. We try on clothes. We even sample ice cream before we commit to a scoop.

But when it comes to the biggest purchase most of us will ever make, a house, we walk through it a couple of times, nod politely at the realtor, and then sign away the next 30 years of our paychecks.

At first, it feels magical. The floors shine. The walls are freshly painted. The realtor is burning a “warm sugar cookie” candle like they’re auditioning for a Yankee Candle ad. You think: “Wow, this is it. My dream home.”

Then comes the first summer, and suddenly your air conditioning wheezes and dies. Turns out it was never installed properly, or maybe it wasn’t even meant to handle a house this size. Or maybe it’s the winter nights when you hear it, the creak in the floorboards, the one sound that only appears in the dark, like the house has been waiting for you to settle in before revealing its secrets.

A year in, the paint begins to peel. Tiny cracks snake across the walls where the foundation has shifted just enough to remind you that speed was valued more than quality when this subdivision was thrown together. The trees that looked so perfect in the landscaping brochure? Their roots are quietly working their way toward your foundation.

Suddenly, the house doesn’t feel like the dream you walked through. It feels like the truth has been slowly leaking out, one crack, one hum of the AC, one shifting floorboard at a time.

The problem is, houses today are built like fast food: cheap, quick, mass-produced, and guaranteed to give you problems later. Entire suburban cul-de-sacs pop up overnight like mushrooms, and buyers are herded through them with the same pressure as a Black Friday sale: Offer now or lose it forever.

And that’s the crazy part: we don’t get to “test drive” a home. We’re expected to know if it’s the one after a handful of walkthroughs, usually rushed, usually staged, and always under the pressure of, “Better put in an offer before someone else grabs it.”

No chance to see how it feels in the morning light. No chance to hear what the walls sound like at night. No chance to live in it through a storm, or a season, or even a week.

So people rush. They skip inspections. They ignore the little voice whispering, “Something feels off.” Because hey, the granite countertops are nice and Zillow said it’s “hot on the market.”

We wouldn’t buy a car without driving it first. We wouldn’t buy clothes without trying them on. But a home? The very place where we’ll laugh, cry, build memories, and pay bills for decades? We take it on faith, on staging, and on speed.

And maybe that’s why so many dream homes quietly turn into money pits.

Maybe it’s time we stop rushing and start demanding more. Because a home isn’t just a purchase, it’s a life you’re stepping into. And that deserves more than a polished showing and a charismatic realtor.

The New Trap House

When you hear “trap house,” your mind might go to hip hop, drugs, or the infamous Atlanta museum. But there’s another kind of trap house that isn’t on the streets. 

Not the kind in rap lyrics.

Not the one with boarded windows and traffic at all hours.

This one is on Zillow being sold as the American Dream. 

I’m talking about the one with granite countertops, a smart thermostat, and a 30-year sentence.

I’m talking about the beautiful suburban home that doubles as a financial cage.

I’m talking about the $500,000 “starter home”. They used to call them “starter homes.” Now they’re $475,000 “opportunities” with HOA fees, foundation issues, and a mortgage that rivals college tuition.

There was a time when a starter home was just that, a start. A modest place that matched your income, let you grow equity, and still left room for:

·      groceries that weren’t put on a credit card,

·      vacations that didn’t feel like financial sins,

·      or the basic right to dream of something more.

But today? A three or four-bedroom home can cost you half a million dollars (that’s literally on my non-fancy block, not an exaggeration), even in cities that used to be affordable. Wages haven’t doubled. Inflation has. And banks, builders, agents, and tax systems all get paid before you ever see your own money.

You don’t own it. It owns you.

Let’s break it down:

• You bring home $6,000/month? (a stretch for most people) Mortgage, taxes, and insurance eats $3,500.

• Add childcare, gas, food, utilities, student loans... and suddenly:

You own a home, but you own nothing.

It’s the perfect trap: you’re tired from working, but you can’t stop. You have a home, but you can’t afford to live in it. Your neighborhood is quiet, but your mind never is. You feel like you're building something, but it’s not wealth, it’s just a longer to-do list and a deeper hole.

By the time you finish paying it off, you’ve paid for it three times. You’ve upgraded the appliances, replaced the roof, argued with a contractor named Mike, and still had to mow the lawn yourself. And worst of all?

You’re told to be grateful for it.

You’ll work to afford the house. You’ll budget around the house. You’ll stay at jobs you hate and say no to trips you need… because of the house. Because in this system, owning a home makes you feel “successful” while it slowly steals your ability to do anything else. And if you dare complain, the world tells you you’re ungrateful, lazy, or just not managing well.

But let’s be clear:

You’re not failing, the system is or rather, it’s operating the way it’s supposed to so that you fail, but don’t realize it.

The Real Cost of Keeping Up

We don’t talk enough about the emotional toll of financial survival. The quiet panic. The buried resentment. The feeling of being stuck in a “nice” life that’s eating you alive.

If you’ve ever sat in your house wondering, “How did I get here?”
If you’ve ever skipped a trip, a dream, or a dinner out just to pay the mortgage...

Then you already know: This isn’t freedom. It’s a financial trap, built brick by brick with our compliance.

But hey, it appreciates, right? That’s a guarantee right?

Everyone got paid.

The seller got paid.

The bank got paid.

The appraiser, the inspector, the agent, the underwriter, the title company, the county.

And you?

You got keys. You got debt. You got a perfectly staged slice of the American Dream with no room left for yours.

It's not just a house.  It’s a beautifully wrapped invoice. With your name on every line.

They Set the Price. You Just Try to Live With It.

At some point in the last two years, something clicked.

I’ve always been “good with money.” Paid down debt. Stayed below my means.
Budgeted. Skipped the splurges. Tried to do everything “right.” But no matter how well I played the game, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was losing. 

Because the truth is: I don’t control the scoreboard.

Someone else does.

Someone else gets to decide when or if I get a raise.
Someone else gets to determine what my skills are worth.
Someone else gets to say, “This is the market rate,” even if it’s insulting. Even if it’s less than I made five years ago. Even if their competitors are paying double. 

And what do I get?

A check that barely stretches.
A salary that looks nice on paper but disappears the moment it lands. Because the water company doesn’t care. The rent doesn’t care.
The car note, the trash pickup, the internet, the dentist, the daycare, the vacation fund, none of them care how you feel about your income.

They just want to be paid. On time. In full.

So you save. And save. And save again. You budget for the car, and the car eats your savings. You finally take the trip, and the trip devours your account. You do the responsible thing, and the money is still gone.
Only now you have to start over again, from the slow, pitiful grind of a salary someone else decided you “deserved.”

Here’s the revelation:

If you’re not building something for yourself, something that earns, multiplies, or appreciates, you will always be broke.

Not paycheck-to-paycheck broke.
Control broke. And there’s a difference. You can be high-income and still feel trapped. Because if the money’s always going out… If you have to start over every time you spend… If someone else is always holding the lever to your raise, your bonus, your time off… Then what are you really working for?

I’m learning to have patience with myself. Because this isn’t about personal finance. It’s about personal freedom. And budgeting won’t get you there.

Building will.