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.