Tonight, on my way home, I was sitting at the red light at Tennessee Street and Main, just minding my business (and singing like I was auditioning for The Voice), when my eyes caught something that made me laugh out loud — again.
On the corner, there’s this little art store. And right in front of it? That same “GOING OUT OF BUSINESS! FINAL DAYS!” sign that’s been flapping around like a sad little flag of desperation… for at least a year now. I’m not even exaggerating. A year, y’all. Probably longer if we’re being honest.
Every few months, I spot it again like a ghost of clearance sales past, and every single time I wonder — what is happening here? How many “Final Days” does one business get before it’s just… normal days? Did they misunderstand the assignment? Did they get emotionally attached to the thrill of a “final” moment? Are they like that one friend who throws a “goodbye” party for every move but still shows up two weeks later at the neighborhood pool?
I need answers. Real ones. Somebody — anybody — make it make sense.
At this point, that sign feels like part of the permanent landscape. Honestly, if they actually closed, I think I’d miss seeing it. It’s like the world’s slowest breakup… and none of us have any closure.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll stop in and buy something. You know, for the sake of “supporting local.” Or maybe just to ask, “Y’all okay?”
There’s just something about being a kid in the 70’s that the world today can’t touch. It was a time when Saturday mornings belonged to us, our bikes were our freedom papers, and the height of drama was whether Laura Ingalls was gonna fall down a hill (again) on Little House on the Prairie.
It made no difference if I was in Pennsylvania w/ Grampa and Gramma or in Georgia with my Daddy …it was a good life. Even with all of that messy stuff!
Let’s start with Saturday mornings — a sacred, untouchable block of joy. You didn’t sleep in because you couldn’t. You had to be parked in front of the TV, bowl of cereal the size of your head, ready for the cartoon lineup. Bugs Bunny, Super Friends, Scooby-Doo, and Fat Albert — it was a buffet of animation magic. There were no DVRs, no replays, no “stream it later.” If you missed it? You missed it. Better luck next week, kid.
Sundays were for family, and by family, I mean gathering around the TV for The Wonderful World of Disney. When that sparkling castle intro came on, it didn’t matter if you were mid-argument with your sister or halfway up a tree outside — you came running.
Except at my Gramma’s house. See, my Grampa insisted on watching 60 Minutes — and guess what? It came on at the exact same time as Disney. That horrible tick, tick, tick of that stopwatch still haunts me. It got so bad, my sweet Gramma (God bless her) went out and bought a second TV just so I didn’t have to miss my Disney magic while the rest of the house suffered through ticking and news reports. Now that, my friends, is unconditional love.
Monday nights? That was reserved for Little House on the Prairie.
You’d sit there cross-legged on the carpet, absolutely sucked into Walnut Grove life. Mary went blind. Pa’s crops failed. Nellie Oleson was being the original Queen of Mean. It was simple, heartfelt storytelling that managed to tie your little 8-year-old heart in knots.
When we weren’t glued to the TV, we were outside. Always outside. Riding bikes all over the neighborhood until the streetlights flickered on (and heaven help you if you weren’t home by the time they did). We built forts out of sticks and pure imagination. We skinned our knees and didn’t think a single thing about it unless we could milk it for some sympathy and an extra popsicle. We played kickball, freeze tag, and Red Rover — all without a single adult supervising or organizing anything.
At my Chubby’s house — right smack in the middle of town — my sister and I thought we were hot stuff getting to walk down to check her mail, or even better, walk the sidewalk to S&H. It felt like such a big, grown-up deal. Freedom was measured in steps you could take without a grown-up trailing behind you.
Our phones had curly cords (bonus points if you could stretch it into the next room for a little privacy). Our version of social media was notes folded into a triangle and passed in class. We lived simple, messy, wonderful lives.
My family lived on Park Street until I was in 5th grade. That beautiful old house was our home, until one day — it burned to the ground. Losing all our toys, our “stuff” — it was a huge deal as a kid. Traumatic, really. It’s funny though… somehow we still found a way to dust ourselves off, rebuild, and keep rolling. That’s just how it was back then. You kept moving forward, because standing still wasn’t an option. Granted, we got all NEW toys!
Somehow, without “apps” or “likes” or endless “content,” we were happy. Giddy, really. Dirty, tired, grass-stained, Kool-Aid-mustached little tornadoes of pure joy.
Growing up in the 70’s wasn’t perfect — nothing ever is — but man, it was real.
It made us tough. It made us creative. It made us the kind of people who know how to fix a bike chain with a stick, whip up a sandwich when there’s “nothing in the house,” and smell a summer thunderstorm coming from a mile away.
There are just some days that sneak up and grab hold of your heart — today was one of them.
Coming out of the office, it hit me instantly: that first real breath of spring.
The temperature was hovering right around 80 (which is perfect in my book), not too hot — just that cozy, Goldilocks kind of weather that makes you want to find a front porch somewhere and just be. But even better than the feel of it was the smell. Oh, y’all… the honeysuckle.
The heavy, sweet aroma hung in the air like some invisible welcome mat. The vines have just about taken over the back fence behind the office, winding and curling like they own the place — and honestly, I’m not mad about it. I found myself standing there for a minute, doing nothing but breathing it all in. Funny how something so small can make you pause in the middle of a busy day and just feel grateful, isn’t it?
The little birds were out too, busy with their important bird business. Their nests are tucked into the trees, and they were chattering back and forth like a bunch of tiny old ladies catching up after church. It was the kind of sound that makes everything feel a little lighter.
Spring in the South is something special. Sure, the pollen is out there plotting against us all, but for a few perfect weeks? It’s pure magic.
The world feels softer. The days feel a little longer. And somehow, even just standing by a fence covered in honeysuckle, life feels a little sweeter.
Sometimes you don’t need a big trip or a grand plan to remind you of the good stuff. Sometimes, it’s right there waiting… …just outside the office door.
Every time I think I’ve unearthed every haunting relic from my childhood, something else comes clawing out of the dark. Today, it was the “Rules and Regulations” from the Ruth Home of Compassion. And let me tell you, there was nothing compassionate about it.
I read every word. Then I read them all again, trying—desperately—to understand how my parents read the same words and still thought it was okay to leave me there. Worse—how they handed over power of attorney to that twisted, pseudo-Christian cult. I was thirteen. Just a kid. A normal, all-American, braces-wearing, boy-band-loving, never-even-kissed-a-boy kind of thirteen. No criminal record. No running away. No drugs. No drinking. Just a child.
And yet there I was… dumped in a place where most of the girls were sent by court order. But not me. Nope. I was left there willingly. Legally. Silently.
And I’m angry. Hot-faced, chest-tight, sobbing-mad kind of angry. Because today I was reminded—again—that I was placed in the hands of a cult. Not an organization. Not a faith-based home. A cult. Lester Roloff’s brood. If you don’t know who he is, do some Googling… but don’t say I didn’t warn you.
There are parts of that place I can’t write about yet. Not because they aren’t worth sharing, but because right now, they still burn too much. But I will tell you this: in my first few weeks there, I slept in the bunk room. You know what happened once we were all in bed?
THEY CHAINED FOLDING CHAIRS AROUND THE BUNKS.
Yes. Go ahead. Read that again. Chained. Folding. Chairs. Around our beds. Every single night. Like animals.
Could I tell my parents? Sure. Technically. But all outgoing letters were read by “counselors.” Who were not trained adults. They were older girls. And they were cruel. Those letters never made it to the mailbox anyway.
So here I am. Sitting in 2025, still stunned. Still trying to tuck yet another horrific 1983 memory back into the vault. But before I do, I had to let this one out. Had to breathe through the ache of remembering. Had to cry a little. Okay, a lot.
I’ll get it together. I always do. But for now—I’m gonna let myself feel the anger. Feel the grief. Because thirteen-year-old me deserves that much.
Planning a family vacation that makes everyone happy? Challenge accepted. You want big adventure, little legs in mind, and a mix of wild and restful. You want space to explore without feeling like you’re herding feral cats in a national park (although… depending on the day, that may still happen).
This 7-day itinerary through Arizona and Utah hits all the sweet spots—Grand Canyon, Lake Powell, Zion—without wearing out your patience or your feet.
Want budget-friendly? I’ve got you!
Prefer more upscale? Bring it!
The Itinerary:
Day 1: Arrive in Phoenix
Welcome to the desert! Grab your rental car (minivan or SUV—no shame in comfort), check in, and get some rest. Tomorrow’s adventure starts early!
Day 2: Drive to Sedona
It’s only a two-hour drive, and you’ll start feeling the magic of the red rocks before you even park the car. Hike (lightly), explore, and take those “we’re doing outdoorsy things!” selfies.
Must-Do: Montezuma Castle National Monument (short, cool, and historic)
Day 3: Grand Canyon Bound
Load up and head north. You’re going to the Grand Canyon! Hit the Visitor Center, Mather Point, and maybe grab ice cream after watching the sunset. You’re still winning at parenting.
Day 4: Explore the Grand Canyon
Ride the shuttle, stop at overlooks, visit the Geology Museum. Optional: add a helicopter ride or junior ranger badges to make the kids feel like pros.
Low-Impact Ideas: Hermit Road shuttle hop-on-hop-off Ranger program or scavenger hunt
Day 5: Drive to Page, AZ
Today’s drive comes with some scenic bragging rights. Stop at Desert View Watchtower on your way to Page. Once you get there, explore Horseshoe Bend (short hike, huge payoff).
Day 6: Antelope Canyon & Lake Powell
Your kids will remember this one forever. Walk through the twisting sandstone of Upper Antelope Canyon, then take a calm boat tour of Lake Powell (think breezy, not bumpy).
Pro Tip: Some Antelope Canyon tours have stairs—let me help pick the best one for your crew!
Day 7: Zion National Park
Zion is the exhale you didn’t know you needed. Beautiful and peaceful with just enough adventure to feel epic. Take the Riverside Walk—flat, scenic, and toddler-to-teen approved.
Day 8: Head to Las Vegas
Pack up and head toward Vegas. Consider a stop at Valley of Fire State Park on the way—just one more “wow” moment to wrap things up. Fly out full of memories (and probably trail mix).
Let’s Be Real…
Planning a family trip takes time, research, and patience—three things most parents are running low on. That’s where I come in. From hotels to hikes to hidden gems, I’ll handle it all.
All you need to do is show up with snacks, sunscreen, and a sense of adventure.
Let’s plan your perfect national park family escape—your memory-making machine awaits!
Let me preface this by saying—I’m not exactly the skittish type. I’ve weathered storms, survived family holidays, raised boys into men, been in the travel industry and customer service (which might be redundant), and once watched someone microwave fish in an office breakroom without throwing hands. So no, I don’t spook easily.
But nervous? Oh, I’ve got my moments.
First off, I get nervous when someone says, “We need to talk.”
Ma’am. Sir. Unless this “talk” comes with wine, snacks, and a contract saying I won’t be emotionally destroyed by the end of it… no we don’t.
And don’t even get me started on group texts where the bubbles start and stop like someone’s typing a confession, then deletes it. What are you about to say? What did you decide not to say? What are you hiding? I will spiral.
Also—when I’ve got a full week of travel plans perfectly laid out, and the client sends me a “quick question.” That’s never a quick question. That’s code for “I’ve completely gone rogue and booked something on Expedia and now I need you to fix it.”
But you know what really makes me nervous? Silence. Not the peaceful kind—no, I love quiet when it’s earned. I’m talking about the silence of loneliness.
I also get twitchy in Hobby Lobby between August and December. One second it’s back-to-school, and before you can say “pumpkin spice,” there’s a 7-foot glitter Jesus next to a tree that costs more than my first car. It’s a sensory overload and a budgetary ambush all rolled into one.
And finally, nothing sends me into a full-blown internal panic quite like the words, “We’ll figure it out when we get there.”
No. No, we will not. I am the figure-it-out-before-you-get-there person. I am the spreadsheet. I am the Google doc. I am the itinerary in human form. If you wanna wing it, please do so on another flight.
So yeah, I’m not exactly walking around riddled with anxiety, but if you want to see me sweat—send me a vague calendar invite, take me somewhere without snacks, or suggest we just “play it by ear.”
Someone asked me recently why I’m so open about things people usually avoid talking about. Trauma. Mental health. Grief. The hard, heavy stuff. Well, here’s the thing—I’ve lived through some things. Not just “bad days” but soul-splitting, gut-punch kind of things. And the truth is, for a long time, I didn’t have the words for it. I didn’t even know it had a name. But it does.
PTSD.
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder sounds clinical, like something you only get from a battlefield. But life hands out battlefields in all shapes and sizes. And some of us didn’t wear uniforms—we wore backpacks, wedding rings, scrubs, or just that fake smile we mastered in childhood.
PTSD is when your body keeps sounding the alarm even though the danger is long gone. It’s your brain saying, “Nope, not safe,” when you’re just standing in a grocery store trying to pick out a bag of coffee. It’s exhaustion that no nap can fix. It’s wondering if you’re going crazy because nobody sees what’s chasing you. And it’s hard.
It’s crying for no reason. It’s waking up in the middle of the night with your heart pounding like you ran a marathon. It’s that moment you flinch when someone raises their voice. Or maybe it’s not feeling anything at all—just numb, disconnected. It’s being angry and not knowing why. It’s avoiding people, places, and sometimes, your own thoughts.
Let me be real honest—there is no one-size-fits-all trauma.
Here’s just a sampling of things that can lead to PTSD:
Being abused—physically, emotionally, or sexually
Living in chaos as a child (been there)
Watching someone you love suffer Car accidents
Medical trauma (hello, MS diagnosis)
Domestic violence Losing someone you love suddenly
Going through addiction—yours or someone else’s
Spiritual or religious abuse
Surviving a natural disaster or major life event
Feeling abandoned or betrayed by someone who should’ve protected you
Sometimes, the trauma isn’t what happened—it’s what never did. Never feeling safe. Never being comforted. Never being seen.
So how does it affect you?
In every way. Your relationships. Your sleep. Your self-worth. Your body. Your work. Your sense of joy. You start avoiding things just to avoid feeling. You second-guess your memories. You carry shame that was never yours to begin with.
And healing? It isn’t a straight line. Some days, I’m strong. Other days, I’m not. But every day I get up, pour my coffee, love my people, and try again. That counts.
I want you to hear me loud and clear: you are not broken.
If any of this hits close to home, know this—you are not “too much,” “too damaged,” or “too sensitive.” You’re a survivor. You lived through something hard, and your brain and body are just trying to keep you safe the only way they know how.
Therapy helps. Writing helps (it’s why I blog). Talking helps. Letting yourself feel helps. Healing doesn’t mean forgetting or pretending it didn’t happen. It means learning to live with the memory instead of in it.
And if you love someone with PTSD—be gentle. Ask questions. Don’t push. Just show up.
For me, writing is therapy.
It’s how I sort through the mess in my head and heart. I’ve kept journals since I was little. I was writing long before I had the vocabulary for what I was feeling. And now? I share it. Because maybe someone else is walking around thinking they’re crazy, when really—they just need someone to say, “Me too.”
So here I am. Saying it. Me too.
If you’re fighting this fight, I see you. Keep going. You’re not alone.
There’s just something about Northern California that speaks to my soul. Maybe it’s the way the fog rolls over the Golden Gate Bridge, or how a chilled glass of rosé hits different when you’re sipping it in the heart of wine country. Either way, I’ve done Northern Cali a time or two—and if you’re dreaming of views, vineyards, and a little bit of vodka (trust me, we’ll get to that)—then honey, buckle up and let me be your guide.
San Francisco: Fog, Charm, and Cable Cars
Start your trip in San Francisco, the city where your FitBit will scream at you for all the hills but your heart will be happy. You could spend days exploring neighborhoods alone—from the boho vibes of Haight-Ashbury to the seafood and street performers of Fisherman’s Wharf.
And listen, I know Alcatraz is touristy. I know. But go. It’s eerie, it’s fascinating, and you’ll leave wondering how in the world people actually tried to swim to freedom in that cold, sharky water.
Don’t forget to snap that iconic shot of the Painted Ladies (yes, the Full House houses!) and hop on a cable car just for the heck of it. It’s part amusement ride, part transportation, and totally San Fran.
Sonoma County: The Heartbeat of My Northern California
Now, let’s talk about the real soul of this trip—Sonoma County. The second you cross into this region, everything slows down in the best way. It’s golden hills, winding backroads, and that sweet smell of grapes on the vine.
But here’s the truth: Sonoma isn’t just a place I visit—it’s a place that knows me. And I don’t just mean the tasting room staff recognizing me (though, hey, perks!)—I mean relationships. We’ve made genuine connections here over the years. People like Baeyen, Marina, Johnn, Carlos, and so many others have turned what started as vacations into something that feels like coming home.
We recently lost our dear friend Scott, and the heart of Sonoma beats a little differently without him. His kindness, his spark, and his unwavering love for this community made him unforgettable. He will be so deeply missed.
And y’all—the music! If you spend more than five minutes here, you’ll quickly realize this isn’t just a town of winemakers and dreamers; it’s a place full of musicians. It’s like everyone you meet has a guitar in the trunk or a killer voice just waiting for the right moment. Impromptu jam sessions? Totally normal. Harmony under the stars? Happens on a Tuesday.
There are stories I could tell—like Tammy and her “tamboline” situation—but let’s just say… what happens in Sonoma, stays in Sonoma. (For now. Stay tuned.)
Evenings here are something special. Whether you’re at Murphy’s Pub, slipping into the Speakeasy, or brunching your heart out at Sunflower Café, the vibe is the perfect blend of laid-back and lively. It’s where the wine flows, the laughter echoes, and music fills the air like magic.
Windsor Wonders: Wine & Vodka? Yes, Please.
Let’s zero in on Windsor, shall we? This charming town is home to Bricoleur Vineyards, one of my all-time favorite wineries. It’s not just about the wine (which is fabulous, don’t get me wrong), but the experience. The grounds are gorgeous, the hospitality feels like family, and every visit leaves me smiling bigger than a kid in a candy store.
Right between Napa and Sonoma is a hidden gem—Hanson Distillery, where they’re out here making vodka from grapes like it’s no big deal. Their vodka flights are smooth, creative, and dangerously easy to love. Grape vodka might sound fancy, but I assure you—it goes down real friendly.
The Drive to the Sonoma Coast: Where Magic Happens
One of my favorite things is driving across Sonoma County all the way to the coast. That winding road? It’s where therapy happens. Tall redwoods stretch up around you, little towns pop in and out like postcards, and then suddenly—bam! The ocean.
Bodega Bay is a must. Hitchcock filmed The Birds here, and the seagulls are still holding auditions. But the views? Unreal. Dillon Beach is another hidden treasure, perfect for quiet walks, salty breezes, and a reminder that nature still knows how to show off.
Napa: A Little Fancy Never Hurt Anybody
I love Napa for its glam and its grapes. It’s like Sonoma’s high-maintenance cousin who drinks Champagne before noon and makes it look effortless. You can go full luxe here—hot air balloons, spa days, five-course meals with wine pairings that make your tastebuds do a happy dance.
If you’re not all about the wine (who are you?), pop into Oxbow Market for artisan everything. Or just stroll downtown and soak in the California sunshine.
Evenings in Sonoma: Pure Magic
Now here’s the real tea—the evenings in Sonoma are where the magic lives. After a day of tasting and touring, we love settling in with friends (new and old) for a night of food, music, and easy conversation.
Murphy’s Pub has that small-town feel with a local heartbeat, and the Speakeasy is just what it sounds like—moody, tucked away, and full of charm. And don’t even get me started on the food. A Sonoma dinner could rival any big-city meal, but let me say this loud for the people in the back: brunch at Sunflower Café? UNTOUCHABLE. That garden patio is my happy place.
Hidden Gems to Toss Into the Mix
Healdsburg: Stylish, vibrant, and foodie-friendly. Just go. Glen Ellen: Quaint with major history. Great for slow strolls and deep breaths. Sebastopol: Quirky, artsy, and full of cider if you need a grape break. Corner Project Ales & Eats: Laid-back, tasty, and never pretentious. The Fremont Diner: Vintage vibes and Southern-style brunch. You’ll thank me.
Let’s Get You There
Northern California isn’t just a destination—it’s a feeling. It’s cobblestone charm mixed with vineyard elegance, ocean views laced with redwood trails, and most of all, it’s about connection—to nature, to community, and to yourself.
If you’re ready for your own sip-and-stay adventure, I’d be honored to plan every detail. Whether it’s your first time or your fifteenth, there’s always something new to fall in love with here.
Let’s plan your perfect California escape.
Our Team ✈️ Cindy, Jani, Tammy, Trisha and Krystal
Let’s get something straight, right off the tarmac: you don’t have to be rich, retired, or reckless to travel well. And you sure as heck don’t need to follow the crowds to have an unforgettable adventure. Some of the best destinations on the planet are flying under the radar—and guess what? They’re safe, stunning, and shockingly affordable.
So for all my fellow wanderers who want the experience without the expense (and don’t want to be looking over their shoulder the whole time), here are my top underrated, non-billionaire-requiring, travel advisor-approved spots to explore.
1. Oaxaca, Mexico – Culture, Cuisine & Color
Why go: This region is a feast for the senses—vibrant markets, colonial charm, ancient ruins, and food that will ruin you for basic tacos forever.
Safety Snapshot: Stick to well-lit, central areas, use hotel-arranged transfers, and don’t go tequila-tasting with strangers named “El Diablo.” Be smart, and it’s very welcoming.
2. Albania – Europe’s Secret Slice of Paradise
Why go: Mediterranean beaches, rugged mountains, charming towns, and meals that cost less than your Chick-fil-A order.
Safety Snapshot: Low crime, especially for tourists. Locals are friendly, and you’re more likely to be offered homemade raki than robbed. Just don’t drive yourself—the roads are… adventurous.
3. Georgia (The Country, Not the Peach State)
Why go: Mountains that rival the Alps, ancient wine regions, and a capital city full of quirky charm and history.
Safety Snapshot: Extremely safe for tourists. Occasional protests in Tbilisi happen, so check with your advisor (hi, me) before heading to any big squares waving a selfie stick.
4. Vietnam – Breathtaking Beauty on a Budget
Why go: Lantern-lit cities, beaches, rice terraces, cruises on Ha Long Bay, and food that’ll make you question every chain restaurant you’ve ever loved.
Safety Snapshot: Petty theft in busy areas is the main thing to watch for. Big cities can feel chaotic but not dangerous. Scooters are wild. Pack your patience.
5. Alentejo, Portugal – The Other Wine Country
Why go: Quiet villages, rolling hills, olive groves, and enough vino to fill your carry-on and your soul.
Safety Snapshot: Portugal consistently ranks as one of the safest countries in the world. This region? Even safer. Only danger is becoming too relaxed.
6. Uruguay – Chic, Chill & Cheaper Than You’d Expect
Why go: Colonial charm in Colonia, beach bliss in Punta del Este, and Montevideo’s artsy, laid-back vibe.
Safety Snapshot: Safe, stable, and underrated. You’re not likely to have issues—but like anywhere, stay alert in cities and don’t flaunt the bling.
7. Québec’s Eastern Townships – Bonjour on a Budget
Why go: You get all the charm of rural France—without that pesky transatlantic flight. Cozy inns, cheese, wineries, and maple everything.
Safety Snapshot: Honestly? Unless you’re mugged by a moose (unlikely), you’re good. It’s Canada. They’ll probably apologize before they rob you anyway.
So… Is It Really That Easy?
It can be. When you work with someone who knows how to read between the reviews, navigate the news, and plan a trip with both heart and good sense.
Affordable doesn’t have to mean risky. Underrated doesn’t mean unknown.
And just because you’re not a Kardashian doesn’t mean you can’t have a passport-worthy experience.
Ready to explore the world smart, safe, and within your budget?
I’ve had enough of cancer, y’all. Flat-out enough. Breast cancer, especially, has stomped all over too many of my friends and a few of my family over the years. And working so closely with Trisha? Whew. It changed everything I thought I knew. Because it’s not just the physical toll—though that is brutal enough—it’s the mental side that doesn’t always get talked about.
This disease? It’s a thief. It takes your peace, your plans, and for a while there, it’ll try to take your power. It’s not just a “let’s remove the lump and move on” kind of deal. Sometimes it’s that. But most times? It’s appointments, and meds, and surgery… and then another surgery… and another. Oh wait! One more for good measure.
And let’s talk about that port in your chest. And the drain tubes with the little bulbs hanging down like some twisted DIY project. I mean… should we bedazzle them? Put ‘em on Etsy? “Limited edition dangly drains—one for each round of chemo!”
You won’t see most of this on social media. And Hallmark sure as hell isn’t showing you the midnight meltdowns, the gut-punch anxiety, or what it feels like to look in the mirror at a body you barely recognize anymore.
And don’t even get me started on the fact that it’s 2025 and we can bring back dire wolves—yes, literal Ice Age wolves—but still no cure for cancer? I’m not saying I’m the smartest gal in the room, but somebody explain that to me. Please.
To every single woman fighting, surviving, and picking herself back up day after day—you are more than a warrior. You are a walking miracle. And I see you. I really see you.
Journeys With Jani 