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A rainy day — unexpected in California. We loaded up our many cans and bottles and drove them to the recycling center in the parking lot of Target. We arrived efficiently, prepared to do this quickly. No one was there. We stood in the gray pause of it — that moment when plans dissolve and you realize you are stuck between what you expected  and what is actually happening . The rain clouds thickened. Two young children. No snacks. No backup plan. We decided to wait. And so we

In 2006, I graduated from University of California, San Diego with two bachelor’s degrees. I finished my final classes days before I was married. I did not want to attend graduation. Sitting in the coastal humidity listening to hundreds of names felt unnecessary. Especially with a wedding days later because of an unplanned pregnancy and miscarriage. It was a complicated season. There wasn’t much celebration around that accomplishment. And I didn’t really pause to celebrate it

There were three different sets of parents, each holding their own child, each granted one wish. The first said, “I wish for my child to have success.” The second said, “I wish for my child to have happiness.” The third said, “I wish for my child to have goodness.” At first glance, the wishes seem nearly the same. But they grow into very different lives. A child raised toward success  may learn to strive, achieve, accumulate. Success often measures itself in titles, wealth,

My mother is the neck—and the heart—of my family. When my recent relationships needed repair, she was the one who reached out. That surprised me. We had perfected the art of shunning. Silence could stretch for so long as my Dad could withstand it. Pride could calcify into distance. And yet, when it mattered most, she texted me- "Why raise your daughter to be a lady, when you can raise your daughter to be a warrior." Tonight, after an hour-long conversation—the kind that hadn’

In a garden known for its competitions, every vegetable believed it had to be extraordinary. The carrots stretched tall and straight, whispering about symmetry. The tomatoes polished their skins with morning dew. The pumpkins measured themselves daily. And then there was a beet. She was round—but not perfectly round. One side dipped slightly inward. A faint scar marked where a worm once tried to nibble. She grew in soil that was sometimes too dry, sometimes too wet. She did h

Henry 🌱 You may not want to hear this, but your birth was calculated. I hoped for you. So much so, that I encouraged your dad to have sex with me, which wasn't hard- "That's what she said.." (Relax. You can handle the gritty.) You were conceived in the room you know well in our Murrieta home. The sun was out. I don’t know why I remember that, but I do. I took the pregnancy test in the purple room. I walked out, laid next to your dad, and told him we were having another baby

Shelby 🌱 You were conceived in a tent, on a very cold night. Before you existed, your dad taught me how to fish. I caught my first fish that night. Years later, a client told me that dreaming about fish often symbolizes pregnancy. We weren’t dreaming. We were living it. And you came anyway—unplanned, unmistakably wanted. You are my best and most beautiful catch. I was an Associate Manager at Mervyns when I was pregnant with you, in charge of Men’s, Children’s, and Home. My b

Some People Believe... My children were exposed to religion the way I once understood it myself—factually. Some people believe this. Some people do that. I offered faith like a landscape you could walk through if you wanted, but never a road you had to take. I trusted that if belief mattered, it would find them in its own time, the way I hoped it would one day find me. Now they are on their own paths. They sit beside me in church, quietly drawing on their notepads, secretly e

When my children were young, I was unsure of my faith. Not hostile to it. Not opposed. Just unconvinced. So I did not teach them to grow within it. I spoke of faith and religion the way one speaks of geography or temperament— some people believe this —hoping that one day they would arrive at their own conclusions, the way I assumed I would eventually arrive at mine. I wanted their beliefs to be chosen, not inherited. I wanted openness more than certainty. Now my children are

Some years in, two children later—around 2012—our marriage was, at best, neutral. Not broken. Not particularly warm. Just existing, like a field left fallow—not dead, but not producing much either. I am grateful that I was able to stay home with our children, even though it was not truly financially feasible. By the end of each day, I was tired in the deep way that comes from constant presence: waking with them, feeding them, entertaining them, moving their bodies, feeding th

I learned from you what it means to live in service. Not the loud kind. The quiet kind. The kind that shows up every day without needing recognition. You served what you loved most—fully, faithfully, without complaint, without rest, without hesitation. This is how you loved my mother, your truest love. And this is how you loved us girls too. Steady. Present. Unassuming. Complete. I hold so many memories of you—moments that shaped how I move through the world—but what I want t

I Didn’t Plan a Wedding—So I Planned a Marriage The wedding formalities were never really for me. I didn’t pick the bridesmaids’ dresses or the color palette, and honestly, I would’ve been perfectly happy with an Elvis situation. I’ve said that before and I mean it. But at fifteen years, I decided my husband deserved romance—all the romance. He’s the romantic one, not me. I’m just really good at the gesture. …Shit. Maybe I am the romantic. So I planned a surprise backyard wed

I Married Young I used to say, “That story is for a different time.” But that time is now. When people ask me the secret to being married for so long—nineteen years—I usually hesitate. There isn’t a tidy answer. The truth is, I have renewed, repaired, and saved my marriage more than once. But my saving grace has always been service, distilled into a single phrase: “Can I get you anything?” I was twenty-one years old. So was my soon-to-be husband. I had a positive pregnancy te

Leaving the Room Growing up, I knew I had quirks. Numbers mattered—on my alarm clock, on the stereo volume. I ate two of the same snack at a time so they wouldn’t be lonely in my stomach. I told the truth compulsively so I wouldn’t go to hell. I performed small religious rituals at night to keep myself from dying in my sleep—and to keep my family safe. Before karate tournaments, I had a very specific routine: a hearty breakfast of Coca-Cola and beef jerky, thong underwear (be

A Good Shunning My family has long practiced the art of shunning—naturally, practically, and with a kind of stubborn elegance. In a cultural diversity class years ago, I explored my Scandinavian roots and found a theory that felt uncomfortably familiar: when winters are long, cold, and dark, families stay inside together for months at a time. In that environment, open conflict may be less adaptive than silence. If you can’t escape each other, you learn to withdraw within the

you can find love for yourselfLove Is All You Need (But It’s Not Easy) “Love is all you need.” —The Beatles I resisted this idea for a long time, not because I disagreed with love, but because I misunderstood it. I confused love with the feeling of love—the rush, the desire, the warmth that can arrive easily and leave just as quickly. The truth isn’t that love is insufficient. The truth is that love is demanding. Love is all you need—but it takes work. Love Is a Daily Practic

Baptism — April 30, 2024 On April 30, 2024, I was baptized by my father—a true believer. I like to choose. I like to control. And yet, I keep finding that what lies outside my control becomes the most interesting part of my existence. The timing of my parents’ visit was practical. The day that worked best for my baptism was also practical. It just happened to fall between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. As someone who loves symbolism, I couldn’t have chosen it better—even if I

I don’t know what Good Beet is yet. I once imagined it as a kind of digital Pay It Forward—a place where people could record small acts of kindness. Each act could be traced backward and forward, mapped visually, telling the quiet story of how goodness moves through the world in ordinary hands. I wasn’t sure how to begin something like that. I told my younger sister one idea: a QR code people could pass along, inviting whoever received it to share what had been done for them