Who I’m
Becoming

Most people never look at themselves this closely. I wanted to.

Not through somebody else’s eyes — I’ve had plenty of other people’s opinions of me. I wanted my own words. Years of them. How I love, how I fight, what scares me, who I become around the people in my life, and whether I’m actually changing or just surviving.

So I built something to help me do it. I called it My Damn Mirror, because that’s exactly what it is. I gathered up years of my own messages and posts and notes, the things I typed at kitchen tables and in truck cabs and at two in the morning, and I read myself back. Not the version of me that lives in somebody else’s story. The one who actually wrote the words.

I didn’t do it to prove anything to anybody. I did it to know myself. To handle things differently next time. To learn from what I got wrong, and to recognize the right kind of people when they show up. And, honestly, because I am building a life right now — healing, starting a business, working toward a home where both of my kids can come to me — and I wanted to build it on the truth about who I am, not on the old stories.

· · ·

A mirror has limits, and I want to name them up front. My words can’t carry my voice. A joke and a fight can look the same on a screen. Phone calls, hugs, the things said face to face, the reasons behind a quiet week — none of that shows up in a text. So this isn’t the whole of me. It’s the part I wrote down.

Every line in quotation marks in this book is mine, word for word, the way I sent it. I didn’t clean up my spelling or make myself sound better. I kept other people’s names and words out of it, because this book is about me, and the people I love deserve their privacy. Where I talk about someone, I use who they are to me — my sisters, my granny, my kids, my friends — and nothing more.

I also wanted this to be useful, not just pretty. So every chapter ends with two things: the rules I live by, found in my own life and written the way I’d say them, and a short list of what I’m working on — things I can actually check off. By the end there’s a full rule book, and a page about what I’m building toward.

This is what I found. Most of it, I’m proud of. The rest, I’m working on. All of it is me.

When somebody comes at me, I don’t fold. My own words say it over and over, with a lot of different people, across a lot of hard years.

The two things I do most when someone gets ugly are stand my ground and draw a line. I don’t disappear, and I don’t beg. I say what’s true and I stop there. I’m not going to pretend I never swing back — I do, sometimes, and I’m not proud of every one of those. But more and more, the strongest thing I say is the shortest.

“Please stop.”

Two words. No speech, no counterattack. Just a line. I’ve learned that the truth doesn’t need me to shout. It just needs me to not back down.

I’ve been saying some version of this for a long time. Years before any of the hardest seasons of my life, I wrote something I still believe:

“I’m not the girl that can be pushed around or controlled.”

That girl is still here. She just has better aim now.

· · ·

Here’s something I noticed about the way I handle a fight. I don’t go quiet. I write. When something matters to me, I lay it all out — every piece, in order, so nobody can misunderstand. Once, when someone told me they didn’t want a whole book from me, I wrote back:

“if I took the time to write you a book it was because I thought it was necessary and it’s important to me.”

I’m not going to apologize for caring enough to explain myself. That’s part of who I am. When I’m hurt, I don’t just want to be heard. I want to be understood. That’s a real hunger, and it comes from a good place.

But I’ve also learned something about it. Explaining myself one more time is not always the thing that works. Sometimes the other person has already stopped listening, and the most powerful thing I can do is say the short, true sentence and let it sit there. Long letters are what I reach for when plain words haven’t landed. I’m learning to trust the plain words first — and to walk away when even those don’t land, instead of writing a longer version.

· · ·

Another thing I’m proud of: when my anger comes out, it almost always aims up, not down. I push back at people who have more power than me in that moment — the ones who can walk away, say no, or take something from me. I don’t take it out on whoever can’t fight back. That’s rarer than people think, and it’s something I intend to keep.

Being aimed well isn’t the same as being in control, though. I know that. So the goal isn’t to stop standing my ground. The goal is to choose my moment. To take a breath before I answer. To notice when I’m running on empty, because that’s when the fire stops choosing where it goes. A tired Kayla fights differently than a rested one, and I owe it to the people I love to know the difference.

I don’t fold. That’s not stubbornness. It’s a spine. I just want that spine to carry me forward, not keep me in a fight that’s already over.

If there’s one phrase that belongs to me, it’s “I just want you to know.” It’s the way I say what I want more than any other way, and it’s almost always followed by love.

“Happy Thanksgiving! I just want you to know how thankful I am for you! I love you!”

Me, to my sister · Thanksgiving 2025

I don’t hint. I don’t assume people already know. I tell them. I’ve been told a lot of hard things in my life. The people I love are going to hear the good things from me, clearly and often.

Most of my wishes are for other people. “I wish I knew what I could do to take some of the burden off of you.” That’s who I am. When somebody I love is stressed, my first instinct is to pick up part of the load. I’m working on saving a few wishes for myself.

· · ·

My love has always been loyal, and it has always been the long kind. More than fifteen years ago, when I moved away and it caused hurt in my family, I wrote this:

“No matter how many miles are between us I still love you the same way I always have.”

Me · 2011

I was twenty-three. That sentence is still true of me. Distance doesn’t turn my love off. Neither does a fight. I reopen doors other people would let rust shut. I keep reaching. I don’t let the people I love drift away just because life got loud.

And over the years I’ve gotten clearer about what love actually is. Not a feeling you wait around for. A thing you do.

“Love is a choice, love is in actions.”

Me · 2025

That’s the standard I hold myself to, and it’s the standard I’m learning to hold other people to as well. I love in rides and phone calls, in showing up with feed and tools and a plan, in remembering what someone told me three weeks ago. I love by checking in. I love by staying.

· · ·

I’ve also learned that there’s more than one kind of love, and they don’t all look the same. I said it plainly once:

“Adult love is a lot different than child love.”

Child love needs somebody to take care of everything. Adult love walks beside you. It believes you can handle your own life. It doesn’t carry you — it stands next to you while you carry yourself, and it helps when you ask.

That’s the part I’m growing into. My love has a habit of tipping over into fixing. When someone I love is hurting, I want to take the whole thing off their shoulders and solve it by Tuesday. Sometimes that’s exactly what they need. Sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes what they need is for me to sit down, listen, and trust them to find their own way — with me right there.

So I’m practicing a quieter kind of love alongside the loud kind. Still out loud. Still “I love you” every chance I get. But with a little more room in it for the other person to be strong too.

I’m never going to be someone who loves quietly. I don’t want to be. I just want my love to lift people up without leaving me empty.

When the people I love tell me they’re hurting, I answer. Almost every time.

If a friend is scared about one of her animals, I don’t send a sad face — I’m already in the truck.

“Ok I’m going there now. I’ll check her gums.”

When my aunt was hurting, I showed up every single time. My sisters, my granny, my kids, my friends — I take care of people. It’s one of the truest things about me.

· · ·

Showing up isn’t a thing I say about myself. It’s a thing anyone who knows me can check. Dogs fed across years of trips. Horses cared for. Houses cleaned. Grass cut, yards cleared, shelves hung. Friends’ animals living in my house when they had nowhere else to go.

“That’s fine. They have a room at my house lol”

I drove across a county at night for a friend who needed someone. I sat with people in the worst hours of their lives. I’ve been the one at the hospital, the one filling out the paperwork, the one making the calls nobody else wanted to make.

And I show up in small ways too. The quiet ones. One night, knowing a certain time of year was hard for the friend who has been in my life longer than almost anyone, I wrote to her in the middle of the night:

“I know it’s late and you sleeping but I woke up thinking about you. I know too well this time of year is hard and I wanted to tell you I am always here if you need anything.”

Me, to my oldest friend · 2am, November 2023

That’s what showing up looks like when there’s nothing to fix. Just: I remembered. I’m here.

· · ·

Here’s the honest part. Sometimes I carry more than my share. My own words show that too. I say yes before anyone finishes asking. I make it look easy, so nobody sees what it costs — the gas, the hours, the pain in my back, the thing I didn’t get to do for myself. And help that looks free gets treated like it is.

I also noticed that I show up so well, and so reliably, that checking on me doesn’t occur to many people. I built the woman nobody worries about. That’s a compliment and a warning in the same sentence.

So I’m learning to notice where my tank fills up and where it drains. I’m learning to say what something costs the first time, out loud: I can do it Saturday, but it’s four hours and I’ll need gas money. Not to be less generous. So that my yes means something, and so there’s still some of me left at the end of the day.

I’d rather be someone who shows up too much than someone who never does. But the best version of showing up is the kind I can keep doing for the rest of my life. That means showing up for me, too.

Some of the hardest stretches of my life are full of jokes.

Hundreds of them. In the middle of the worst of it, I was still making people laugh — and still laughing myself. Humor isn’t me avoiding what hurts. It’s me refusing to let it take everything. It’s how I bring people through with me.

If you’ve ever sat in a hard season with me, you know. I’ll cry with you, and then I’ll make you laugh before you leave.

· · ·

A lot of my humor is just me being honest about my life, which is half barnyard and half chaos. When somebody asked me what the vet bills would run for a litter of puppies, I didn’t even blink:

“Nothing. I do puppy shots and worming myself.”

When I’m keeping someone up to date, I don’t do it halfway. Here’s a real status report, typed on a normal day in my normal life:

“Car is at your house- keys in it, I have the bike, cows are out, blue is up, I haven’t fed the dogs but did clean kennels, we are out of cow feed for the little ones as of today”

Read that and tell me I don’t run a tight ship.

And I know exactly what kind of friend I am. I said it myself, with a laugh:

“I’m the “dad” friend lol you know the one that you call only when you need something that most women can’t do.”

That one is funny because it’s true. I’m the one with the trailer, the tools, the know-how, and the willingness to get dirty. I can make a joke out of it and still be proud of it. I’m also learning that my friends want more from me than a fix-it service — they want time with me, just me. That’s the part of the joke I’m taking seriously.

· · ·

Some of the moments that make me happiest are tiny and silly and completely mine.

“I’m pretty sure she’s going to hatch a few more! Lol it makes me happy because that means she’s a great mommy!”

That was about a hen. A hen who turned out to be a good mother, and I was over the moon about it. That’s me, too. The woman who fights hard is the same woman who gets giddy about baby chicks.

My humor is a little smart-mouthed. I know that. It’s armor, sometimes — a way to keep things light so nobody has to see how heavy it really is. I’m not giving it up. I’m just learning to notice when I’m using a joke to change the subject on my own pain, and to let a hard thing be hard for a minute before I make it funny.

Laughing through it doesn’t mean I’m not feeling it. It means I’m still here. And I intend to keep laughing for a long, long time.

People who only see my fire might be surprised by this.

In my own words, I said I was hurt more than twice as often as I said I was angry. I said I was scared almost as often as I said I was hurt. And when I’m hurt, I explain — I want to be understood, not just heard.

When I feel safe with someone, it shows right away. In my warm conversations, about one in every eight things I say is something loving. That’s who I am when I’m not having to defend myself. I’m not a hard woman who sometimes softens. I’m a soft woman who learned how to be hard when she had to.

· · ·

The soft part of me doesn’t always get airtime. For a long time I lived by a rule I said out loud in one short sentence:

“Really I don’t have time to be sad.”

That rule kept me on my feet through a lot. I’m grateful for it. But I’ve started to see that it didn’t make the sadness go anywhere. It just meant nobody saw it — sometimes not even me.

I tell people what my body is doing all the time. My back, my head, a foot I’m pretty sure I broke. What I don’t say as easily is what state I’m in. When someone asks how I really am, I tend to wave it off. The hard stuff I keep for myself, or for one or two people. The rest of the world gets “I’m fine.”

But when I do let it out, it’s real, and it’s brave:

“I’m terrified, idk what I’m doing.”

Me · October 2025

That’s not weakness. That’s a woman standing at the start of something new and telling the truth about it. Being terrified and not knowing what I’m doing — and doing it anyway — might be the most honest description of healing I’ve ever read.

· · ·

One of the softest things I ever wrote was also one of the simplest. I was talking about how I was raised to be strong and independent, and how I never really got to be vulnerable. And then I asked for something plainly, with no reason, no bargain, no way out built in:

“Sometimes I need my mom.”

Me · July 2026

Five words. No armor. It took me thirty-eight years to say it like that, and I’m proud that I did. It taught me that asking for what I need, plainly, is allowed — and that it can work.

· · ·

I also know what gets under my skin now, and I’ll get into that in the next chapter. Knowing it means that when the hard feeling starts, I can stop and ask myself — is it this, or is it that old place again? The soft woman underneath deserves that pause. She deserves to be asked what’s actually going on before the hard woman comes out swinging to protect her.

My softness didn’t get taken from me. I just kept it where it was safe. I’m learning to let more people see it.

Everybody has sore spots. The difference is whether you know where yours are. I do now.

When I looked back through years of my own words, the same kinds of moments kept setting me off — with different people, in different years, over completely different things. That told me something important. It isn’t about any one person. It’s about where the moment lands in me. And if I know where it lands, I can see it coming.

· · ·

Feeling like I’m under a microscope. Being watched, judged, corrected, like I can’t breathe without somebody’s approval. That one is old, and it’s strong. When I feel it, everything in me braces.

Being told something I already know, in my own lane. I know horses. I know dogs. I know how to run a household, handle a crisis, and get a hard thing done. When someone explains my own world to me like I’m new, I don’t take it well — and I say so:

“Just know you’re just telling me about a problem that I already know I have and I already know how to fix it.”

I’m honestly a little proud of that one. It’s clear, it’s not cruel, and it tells the truth. That’s the kind of pushback I want more of.

Being called a liar when I’m telling the truth. Truth is one of my deepest values, so being disbelieved by someone whose belief I needed cuts deeper than almost anything. Strangers doubting me stings less. The people who should know me — that’s where it really lands.

Being brushed off or left waiting. Being ignored, or being the one who always waits. It tells an old part of me that I don’t matter.

Carrying it all, and then being criticized for how I carried it. I’ll carry almost any load. What breaks me is when the work is invisible, or when it gets judged by someone who wasn’t helping.

Having someone jump in and change what I made. When I’m proud of something and want to show it off, and somebody starts editing it before they’ve even said “good job” — that gets me every time.

Being offered kindness. This one surprised me. It isn’t that it makes me angry. It stops me cold, because I don’t have a script for it. I’ll come back to that one later in this book, because it matters.

· · ·

Here’s what I’ve learned about all of them. The fight in front of me usually isn’t the real thing. The place it lands is. That doesn’t make my reaction wrong. It makes it make sense. And knowing where the bruise is means I can see a punch coming before it lands.

I’ve also noticed that my reactions are biggest when I’m already overloaded — after weeks or months of giving more than I had. When my tank is full, I can hear the same comment and let it roll off. When it’s empty, the smallest thing can set me off. So watching my triggers really means watching my tank.

The practice I’m building is simple. When I feel it start, I name it to myself: a trigger just fired. Then I take one breath before I respond. I don’t have to answer at the speed of the hurt.

I learned how to protect myself early, and I got very good at it. Some of the ways I do it are strengths I’ll keep for life. Some of them kept me alive once and are ready to retire.

· · ·

I protect what can’t protect itself. I will let a lot slide when it’s about me. I will not let it slide when it’s about a kid or an animal. My no comes out fast and clear when something small and helpless is on the line.

“I don’t hit my dogs. Hitting them makes them aggressive.”

“He is dog aggressive. That’s irresponsible to let him go to their house where they have little dogs.”

That’s not me being difficult. That’s me being the person in the room who thinks about who could get hurt. I’m proud of that.

I go toward the problem. When something goes wrong, I don’t hide from it. I make a plan. I call someone. I find out what the next step is and I take it. Nobody ever told me that was a strength. It is.

I heal with my hands and my animals. Horses are my steadiest medicine. There were months when riding was the best stress relief I had — I put a hundred miles in the saddle in a single month once, and every one of them helped. Dogs, horses, chickens, goats, the land, a quiet barn at the end of the day: that’s where the noise finally stops. I build things, too. Turning pain into something useful is one of the best ways I know to take care of myself.

· · ·

And then there are the shields I’m learning to set down.

“I don’t need anybody.” I’ve said some version of it more times than I can count. In a crisis, it sounds like this:

“I’m handling it. I don’t need anybody else involved.”

That sentence got me through some real storms. It also kept people who wanted to help standing outside the door. Handling it myself is a skill. Needing to handle everything myself is a wall.

The wall. There were years when I lived by “trust no one.” It was smart in a dangerous season. But a wall doesn’t know the difference between the dangerous people and the safe ones. It keeps both out. I don’t want to tear the wall down. I want to build a door in it, and hand the key to the people who have earned it.

Going quiet when I’m drowning. When things get worst, I tend to pull in and disappear instead of reaching out. I’m learning to treat my own silence as an alarm. The moment I notice myself going quiet is the moment to text one safe person — even if all I say is “having a hard day.”

Going to war or going silent. Under pressure, I’ve had two settings and not much in between. I’m building the middle: the calm sentence, the pause, the “I need to think about this and I’ll get back to you.”

· · ·

Protecting myself used to mean keeping everything out. Now it means something different. It means knowing who is safe, letting them in on purpose, and still keeping my fierce no for the things that deserve it.

I used to tell myself some hard stories. No one will. I can’t trust. I do everything. I’m always the one.

We all carry a few sentences about ourselves that we repeat so often they start to sound like facts. Mine are right there in my own words, said to lots of different people over lots of years. At one point, I wrote this about myself:

“I am the redheaded stepchild that nobody wants and loves.”

Me · 2024

And another time, this:

“I have never been that girl with a bunch of friends that is considered social.”

I can read those now and feel a lot of tenderness for the woman who wrote them. She was tired. She was carrying a lot. And she believed them.

· · ·

Here’s what I wrote a little over a year after the first one:

“I know my worth and I know I’m a good woman.”

Me · October 2025

Same woman. Different story.

Stories can be rewritten, and I have proof, because I’ve watched myself do it. Years ago, at one of the lowest points of my life, I wrote something that has turned out to be true more times than I can count:

“Sometimes it takes hitting rock bottom before you remember who you are.”

Me · 2018

I remembered. More than once.

· · ·

Some stories aren’t just about me. They get handed down. Every family passes along a few sentences about what life is and what people are and what you should expect from them. I decided some of mine were going to stop with me.

“Stopping the cycle was the only way to save my daughter from the only life I ever knew… I’ve had to pick up my own broken pieces since before I can remember.”

Me · March 2025

And this one might be the most important sentence I’ve ever typed, because it takes the oldest story I was handed and refuses to pass it down:

“Nobody ever showed up for me, but I’m gonna show up for her.”

That’s the whole thing, right there. I don’t get to choose what I was given. I do get to choose what I give.

· · ·

The work isn’t finished. Some of my old stories are still running in the background. No one will still whispers when I need help. I’m always the one still shows up when I’m tired. And I’ve noticed that sometimes I believe the old description of someone — or of myself — even when what’s in front of me says something different. I’m practicing asking three questions whenever an old story speaks up:

Is this completely true? Was it true once, but not now? Or does it depend on who I’m with?

Most of the time, the answer is one of the last two. And that’s where the rewrite starts.

If you want to know what someone values, don’t listen to what they say about themselves. Watch what they won’t let go of. Here’s what I won’t let go of.

· · ·

Truth. This one is at the center of everything. I don’t make things up. I don’t do things in the dark. I would rather say a hard true thing than a comfortable lie, and I expect the same from the people close to me.

“There is only one truth. I live in it.”

I’ll be honest about the edges of that, too. Living by the truth has taught me that there’s a difference between telling the truth to be understood and telling it to land a hit. The first is my value. The second is my temper wearing my value’s clothes. I want to keep the first and put down the second.

Protecting the vulnerable. Kids, animals, anybody with nowhere to turn. I step in. Even when I have nothing left, I step in. I rescued dogs, a house chicken, a widowed goose, and more animals than I can list, long before I ever thought about building anything to help people. The mission was always there.

Loyalty. I don’t abandon people. I show up over and over. I reopen doors. I keep loving people through seasons when it would have been easier to walk.

Giving what I have. The shirt off my back, even when there was barely anything in my account. I’ve offered money I didn’t really have to people I love, because they needed it more.

Owning my own dirt. I tell on myself first. I’d rather say “that was mine” before anyone has to point it out. And I expect accountability from others too — both ways, not just one.

Not hurting people on purpose. I don’t set out to harm anyone, and I don’t screw people over — not even the ones who did it to me.

Fairness. I physically cannot let a wrong just sit there. That fire has gotten me in trouble, and it has also gotten real things done.

Faith. I’ll give that its own chapter, because it deserves one.

· · ·

Back in 2016 I wrote a sentence that I think still sums up how I try to live by all of this:

“I question my choices everyday but I know in my heart I try my best and always do what I feel is right.”

Me · 2016

I don’t always get it right. Nobody does. But I question myself, I try my best, and I follow what I believe is right. Values aren’t about being perfect. They’re about knowing which direction you’re walking when you’re lost.

A few years ago, my faith barely showed up in my words. Now it’s there about six times as often. That didn’t happen by accident.

For a long time, when God appeared in what I wrote at all, it sounded like a request sent out into the world — please pray for me. Hoping someone heard. Somewhere along the way, that changed. The way I wrote about God stopped sounding like asking and started sounding like being led. Being told. Being directed.

My faith has been my anchor through seasons when nothing else would hold. It steadied me when I had no steady ground. And in the hardest year I’ve had in a long time, it grew instead of breaking.

· · ·

Here’s the part that means the most to me. I’m the one who carries. I carry the animals, the house, the crisis, the plan, the people. Almost everywhere in my life, I’m the one steering. My faith is the one place where I don’t have to be. It’s where I get to be led instead of leading. It’s where I can set something down that I’ve never been able to set down in front of another human being.

When I handed over something that mattered a lot to me, and I didn’t know how I’d replace it, I wrote three words that I meant with my whole chest:

“God will provide.”

And I try to pass that same peace along. When my oldest friend was running herself ragged, this is what I told her:

“Stop whatever you’re doing. Take a deep breath and say a prayer. You’re staying so stressed out worrying about what you need to do instead of listening to what God is telling you to do.”

Me, to my oldest friend · August 2025

I wrote that for her. I’m learning to hear it for me.

· · ·

My faith also teaches me the healthiest kind of love I know. Walk beside people. Don’t carry them. Let go of the outcome. I believe that about God and the people I love. The next step is letting that same grace reach the way I treat myself.

There’s a difference I’m learning to feel between being led and driving myself. When I’m driving myself, it’s all effort and pressure and I-have-to. When I’m being led, even hard things have a kind of quiet under them. I want more of the quiet. I want to build my home and my business and my healing on that quiet, not on the grind.

I’m not going to argue with anyone about what they believe. My faith is mine. But I’d be leaving out one of the truest parts of who I’m becoming if I didn’t say it plainly: I’m not doing this alone, and I never really was.

I have started over from zero more times than most people ever have to. That isn’t the sad part of my story. That’s the strong part.

Who I was

I became a mom young, running a household and figuring it out as I went. I was a hard worker from the start. I bought my first real camera with my birthday money and taught myself photography until it became a job. I remember the day my little family got a house of our own. I was so proud I typed it in capital letters:

“IT’S OFFICIAL WE GOT A HOUSE”

Me · March 2011

I held onto that feeling for a long time. I’m still holding onto it. It’s part of what I’m building toward now.

I was also a woman who learned to survive. I lived through seasons I wouldn’t wish on anybody. I lost a lot. I built walls, and I learned to handle everything by myself because I had to. I don’t regret the girl who did that. She got me here.

Who I am

I’m a builder. Photographer, business owner, horse trainer, dog trainer, the one who can fix the fence and the paperwork in the same afternoon — and now someone who builds apps. Every time life knocked me flat, I got up and made something new.

I got hurt badly in a fall off a horse, and after a long recovery I got cleared to ride again. I got back in the saddle. That’s pretty much my whole life in one sentence.

And this year, I found out something I didn’t know about myself. After I built tools meant to help other people, I said something that surprised even me:

“I didn’t realize how good I would be at this.”

Me · August 2026

Growth, over time

When I look across all the years at once, I can see myself changing. Not in a straight line, but for real. I did a lot of work on myself — years of it — and I was honest about what it showed me:

“That’s a few lessons I’ve learned after a lot of therapy. I thought I liked who I was, but I didn’t.”

Me · January 2025

That’s not a sad sentence to me. It’s the sentence of someone who stopped pretending and started growing. Here’s some of what changed, in my own words:

A few years ago, I called myself the one nobody wants. Now I know my worth. A few years ago, my faith barely showed. Now it’s everywhere. A few years ago, my first move when someone came at me was more likely to be swinging back. In the last two years, drawing a line and standing my ground happened more. I used to be able to describe what I didn’t want. Now I can say exactly what love is supposed to look like. And the loving words between me and the people closest to me grew over the years.

Who I’m becoming, and who I want to be

I’m becoming a woman who lets people in on purpose. Who can say “I’m having a hard day” out loud. Who builds a business that pays the bills and helps people at the same time. Who knows who her real people are.

And who I want to be, when it’s all said and done, is simple: a woman at peace in her own home, with the door open and room for both of her kids, who is proud of the life she built with her own two hands — and who let a few people help her build it.

My kids are the center of everything. They always have been. Every version of me — the young one, the struggling one, the builder — has had the same gravity pulling at her: my son and my daughter.

Being their mom is the thing I am proudest of and the thing I’ve worked hardest at. It’s also the thing that has asked the most of me.

· · ·

When my kids were small, the mama bear showed up fast. When one of them was hurting and I felt like nobody was taking it seriously, I wrote:

“my kids will not suffer if I have anything to do with it.”

Me · 2014

That’s still my creed. I will fight for my kids with everything I have, every single time.

I also know that nobody hands you a manual. I said it plainly years ago, and it’s still how I feel:

“We don’t get the chance to “get ready” to be parents. It’s put on us and we do it.”

Me · 2021

You just do it. You do it tired, you do it scared, you do it without having it all figured out. And you keep doing it.

· · ·

My love for my kids isn’t only the fighting kind. It’s the sweet, silly, can’t-help-it kind too. When my twenty-year class reunion was coming up, I knew exactly who I wanted by my side:

“So my 20 year class reunion is coming up.., I feel like this is kind of weird, but I really wanna take you with me lol.”

Me, to my daughter · May 2026

And when I worry, it’s because I love them. I said it just like that, run-on and all:

“I asked because I’m worried I’m worried because I love you.”

Me, to my daughter · May 2026

· · ·

Being their mom means breaking the cycle, not just talking about it. It means taking the oldest story I was handed — that nobody shows up — and refusing to pass it down. “Nobody ever showed up for me, but I’m gonna show up for her.” That’s not a line. It’s a promise.

It also means being honest when I didn’t do as well as I meant to. I’ve told my kids the truth about that, and I’ll talk about it in the next chapter. A mom who can say “I’m sorry” with no excuses attached is a mom her kids can come home to.

Here’s what I’m learning about the kind of mom I want to be now that my kids are growing up. My love tends to come out as a plan — the next step, the fix, the solution. That’s real love, and it comes from wanting them safe. But sometimes my kids don’t need a plan first. They need me to hear the feeling. They need me to sit down, be quiet, and say, I hear you. Then the plan.

Everything I’m building right now — the healing, the business, the steady income, the home — is for this: a place where both of my kids can come to me. A door that’s always open. A mom who is calm, and whole, and there.

Looking at yourself honestly means looking at the parts that aren’t pretty.

I’ve written to my kids and told them the truth: that I swore I’d be a different kind of parent, that I didn’t always do as well as I meant to, and that I’m sorry — with no excuses attached. That is not an easy thing to put in writing. I did it anyway. The end of that apology is one of the most honest things I’ve ever written:

“if there are words to explain how sorry I am for that I don’t know what they are. But I am.”

Me, to my daughter · April 2026

No excuses in it. No but. Just love, and the truth, and an apology with nowhere to hide.

I take responsibility more than people who only see me fighting would ever believe. Not perfectly and not every time. But when I own something, I own it all the way. That’s part of who I’m becoming too.

· · ·

Here’s something I noticed about how I apologize, and I want to be honest about it, because this chapter isn’t worth much if I only show the good half. I’m quick to own how I said something. I’m slower to own what I said. Here’s a real example:

“I apologize for yelling at you and losing my temper. However, I did not tell you anything that was not true. But the way I said it, was not OK.”

Me · October 2025

I actually respect that sentence. It owns the yelling. It says clearly that the way I said it was not okay. And it stays true to what I believe. But I can see the “however” in it, too. Sometimes the most healing thing is an apology that doesn’t need a however at all. I’m learning when to use one and when to leave it off.

· · ·

Owning my part also means accountability goes both ways. I hold myself to a high standard. I’m allowed to hold other people to one, too. Being accountable doesn’t mean taking the blame for everything so that everyone else can stay comfortable. It means being fair: here’s what was mine, and here’s what wasn’t.

Some of what’s mine, said plainly:

I can say hard things as if they’re final, with no room for the other person to answer. I sometimes decide what someone is about before all the facts are in, and then it’s hard for me to change my mind. When I’m overloaded, my temper can land on whoever is closest, and that’s usually the people I love most. And I can make it hard for people to help me, and then feel alone.

None of that makes me a bad person. It makes me a person. And every one of those is something I can work on, which is the best news in this book.

One of my favorite moments in all my years of words is a time a friend told me, gently, that something I was doing was hard for her to hear. I didn’t argue. I told her I loved her, I promised to stop, and I kept that promise for months. That’s the kind of accountability I want to be known for: when someone I love sets a boundary with me, I say yes and I mean it.

I fight hard. I also come back. Those two things have always lived side by side in me.

When I look across my own words, I see a woman who ends things — and then, more often than not, reopens the door herself. I let relationships go quiet for months or even years, and then I’m the one who reaches back in. I don’t let the people I love die of neglect.

· · ·

Once, after I had pulled back from a close friend for a while, I came back asking for nothing at all. Just this:

“You’re my friend. And I love you.”

Me · February 2026

Another time, only a few days after I had said I was done with someone in my family, I came back with the most practical kind of love there is:

“Do you need me to bring you anything?”

That’s how I repair. Not always with a speech. Sometimes with a plate of food, a ride, a check-in, a simple question. My love comes back through the side door.

And once, to someone in my family I hadn’t been close to in a long time, I did something harder. I offered to respect their space, told them I loved them and was proud of them, and left the door open with no pressure at all:

“If one day you change your mind I’ll be here.”

Me · August 2025

That might be the healthiest kind of repair I know. Love, with no hook in it. An open door, not a demand.

· · ·

Here’s what I’m learning to add. Coming back is real, and it matters. But coming back isn’t always the same thing as repairing. Sometimes I skip past the hard conversation and go straight to the errand. The fight stops, and the next message is food or a ride, and we both move on without ever talking about what hurt. It feels like peace. But the same fight tends to come back around, because nothing actually got settled.

Years ago I asked someone, “Can we end this on a good note?” That’s a good instinct. I still want to end things on good notes. I just want the good note to come after we’ve actually talked it through.

So the kind of repair I’m practicing has a few more steps than it used to:

I wait until we’re both calm. I say what was mine, without a however. I ask what it was like for them — and I listen to the whole answer. We figure out one thing that will be different next time. And then, yes, I bring the food.

Repair also means knowing when not to come back. Some doors should stay open. Some should close gently. Coming back to someone who keeps hurting me isn’t loyalty. It’s a habit. I’m learning the difference, and I’m allowed to choose.

For a long time, I could draw a line for everyone except myself.

Here’s something I noticed in my own words that surprised me. I almost never say no on my own behalf. But I say it constantly — fast, clear, no apology — for an animal or a child. I’ll protect a dog’s safety before I’ll protect my own Saturday. I can see now that my boundaries have always been strong. I just pointed them at everyone but me.

That’s changing.

· · ·

The best boundaries I’ve ever set were short. When someone came at me in a way that wasn’t okay, I didn’t write a novel. I wrote two words: “Please stop.” When someone tried to drag me into something while I was busy earning a living, I kept it just as short:

“I’m working I don’t have time for this.”

No explanation. No debate. That’s a line.

I’ve also gotten clear about my standards in relationships. I can say them now in a way I couldn’t ten years ago:

“A WOMAN wants a PARTNER. Not a boss.”

Me · January 2025

Capital letters and all. I meant every one of them. I don’t need someone to take care of me. I don’t need someone to run me. I want someone who stands next to me.

· · ·

The boundaries I’m building now are the quieter ones — the ones for me.

Saying no to a favor. Not to punish anybody. Just so that no is a real possibility in my friendships, and my yes means something.

Caring without carrying. Before I pick something up, I ask one question: is this mine to carry? If it isn’t, I’m allowed to care without carrying it. I can even say it out loud: I love you, and I’m not going to fix this one for you.

Wanting things for me. I noticed I’ll talk myself out of something fun before anyone else has a chance to:

“I’d love to go and I think it would be really fun but... we need to prioritize the house over everything else.”

Sometimes that’s responsible. Sometimes it’s just me putting myself last out of habit. I’m learning to protect my own joy the way I’d protect a friend’s.

Walking away when a line gets crossed. Instead of staying to fix it. Instead of explaining myself one more time to someone who has already decided what I mean.

Protecting my peace while I work. When I’m driving, riding, or working, I’m not available for a fight. That isn’t rude. That’s safe.

· · ·

A boundary isn’t a wall. A wall keeps everyone out. A boundary tells people where the door is and how to come in. I want to be a woman with good doors.

I know what I’m worth to the people around me. Let me put it in writing.

When I needed work, I didn’t hide it. I posted it right out in the open, to a room full of people who work with animals the way I do, and I told them exactly what I can do:

“I train dogs, tune up and start horses, feed, groom, do ground work, desensitize, exercise, clean tack, stalls, kennels and pens. I can haul (locally) for you and I’m not afraid to get dirty or work hard.”

Me · October 2025

“If you or someone you know, need someone who is honest, reliable, and can be trusted with your animals. Please send them my direction!”

Honest. Reliable. Trusted. Those aren’t words I made up to sound good. They’re the words people who know me would use.

· · ·

Here’s what I bring, all of it:

Follow-through. I do what I say. When somebody asks me for something, I get it done. When life gave me a list of things I had to accomplish, I came back with every one of them checked off.

Showing up in a crisis. The most reliable thing about me. At two in the morning, in a waiting room, in a barn on a bad foot.

Persistence. I don’t quit on people and I don’t quit on goals.

Hard work and real skill. Horses, dogs, cleaning, fixing, hauling, organizing, photographing, building. I would rather work with my hands than sit still.

A mind that sees patterns. I notice what other people miss. I figure out how things actually work. I teach myself whatever I need to know.

Curiosity. I ask more questions than almost anyone I talk to. I want to know how you’re doing and what you think.

A builder’s heart. Hand me rubble and I’ll make a home.

· · ·

Right now, I’m bringing all of that into a business of my own. I’ve always wanted work that pays the bills and means something. I wrote once that “I wish I could find a house or 2 to clean!” — and I’ll still clean the house. But now I’m also building apps and tools, teaching myself as I go, and I’ve found out I have a real gift for it. I’ve been telling people for a while now:

“You need to learn how to use AI. That’s how I’m getting it all done.”

I’m not the type of girl who can sit behind a desk all day — I said that once, too. Turns out I can build at a desk and still spend my evenings in the barn. I get to be both.

· · ·

One thing I’m learning about what I bring: I’ve always led with what I can do. My skills. My labor. What I can fix. That’s real, and I’m proud of it. But I bring more than that. I bring my humor, my loyalty, my faith, my big mouth and my bigger heart. I’m not just a woman who is useful. I’m a woman who is worth knowing even on a day when she can’t do a single thing for you.

And I’m learning to price what I bring fairly — to say out loud what it costs, to get paid for my skill, and to stop giving away the whole store just because someone said thank you.

This is the chapter that stopped me cold when I first saw it in my own words. Everything I give is at the top. Everything I take in is at the bottom.

Loyalty, follow-through, showing up, going to war for people — as high as it goes. Letting someone help me, saying how I feel, letting someone take care of me — almost nothing. For years, love in my life mostly ran one direction: out.

· · ·

Here’s the moment that made me see it. A friend offered to bring me something. That’s all. A small, ordinary kindness. And I had to stop what I was doing:

“I had to just stop for a second because you have no idea how much I appreciate that offer. I have never had anyone do that before lol and I’m so serious. I’m always the one going and helping everyone else.”

Me · October 2025

Being yelled at, I know what to do with. Being offered help with no strings attached — I didn’t have a script for that. And I turned it down.

I want that to stop being rare.

· · ·

I also noticed how I ask for things. When it’s practical, I ask clean: “Hey please water my plants.” Easy. But when the ask is about whether someone cares about me, I build them an exit before they even need one:

“You do not have to if you don’t, it’s OK”

“It can wait I have one left”

That’s me making it easy for people to say no to me — while my help never comes with a no. I can see now how that makes the scale tip without anyone meaning for it to.

· · ·

Reciprocity doesn’t mean keeping score. Love isn’t a ledger. It means making room for the other person to give too. It means noticing who offers, not just who thanks me. A thank-you is lovely, but it costs nothing. The people who ask how I am, who offer before I ask, who show up without a job attached — those are the ones I want to spend more of my time with.

And I’ve noticed something beautiful: the friends who ask me for the least are often the ones who reach out to me the most. The one who checks on me when the weather is bad and wants nothing. The one who told me, when I was crying, that I’m a good mom. The ones who start conversations just to see how I’m doing. They were there the whole time. I just spent most of my time with the people who needed something.

So I’m practicing receiving. When someone offers, I say yes, thank you, and I stop there. I don’t pay it back. I don’t say “I’m fine.” It feels itchy and exposed and undeserved. I’m doing it anyway, because that feeling isn’t the truth about what I deserve.

A mirror of a life is mostly a mirror of the people in it. I’m not going to name anyone here. They deserve their privacy, and this book is about me. But I can tell you who I am with them, what they bring out in me, and what I’ve learned.

I also learned that I’m not one woman in every room. I’m the same person everywhere, but different people call out different parts of me — the caretaker, the fixer, the laugh, the student, the mom. None of those is the fake one. They’re all me. The real question is which versions I like being, and who brings those out.

I’m not finished. Here’s what I’m working on, out loud, so I can’t pretend I didn’t say it.

Letting people help me. When a friend offered to help, I wrote back, “I have never had anyone do that before lol and I’m so serious.” I want that to stop being rare. This is the big one. Almost everything else on this list is connected to it.

Not carrying everything. “I don’t need anybody” kept me standing for a long time. It doesn’t have to be my whole personality. I’m learning the line between caring and carrying — where I end and other people’s problems begin. When I get that line right, a lot of the rest gets easier.

Saying the real answer. When somebody asks how I really am, I tend to wave it off. I’m practicing telling the truth to the people who’ve earned it. Not a letter. Just one true sentence. I’m running on empty, and I can’t do this one.

Wanting things for me. Most of my wishes belong to other people. I’m allowed to keep some.

Walking away when a line gets crossed — instead of staying to fix it.

· · ·

Catching the overload early. My hardest moments don’t come out of nowhere. They climb. First I’m giving and it feels good. Then I’m stretched, tired, sore, and I don’t say so. Then I start quietly noticing who never offers. Then I get short. Then one small ordinary thing happens, and it all goes off — usually on whoever I’ve given the most to. Then I feel guilty and give even more, and the whole thing starts over. The place to stop it isn’t at the top. It’s early, when I’m stretched. That’s where one plain sentence can stop the whole climb.

Asking without an exit. I tend to give people a way out before they need one. “That sounds a lot like a no… and you can just tell me that. And I love you.” I want to ask for what I need and just let it sit there.

Letting people finish their sentence. I talk fast and I’m usually a step ahead. But being cut off makes people feel unheard, even when I’m right. Letting someone get to the end of their sentence is a way of showing respect.

Reading the room with my words. I cuss more than a lot of people around me. To me, words only have the power you give them, and I stand by that. But I know some rooms stop hearing what I mean and only hear how it sounds. The words don’t change who I am. They change who’s still listening. So I choose my words for the room I’m in.

Going slow with new people. When someone feels like relief, I tend to attach fast. Now I treat that fast, flooding feeling as a signal to slow down. Real safety doesn’t expire.

Not letting building become my new hiding place. I love what I’m building. But “I’ll fix it myself” looks a lot better when it’s a business than when it’s feeding somebody else’s dogs. It’s the same shape in a nicer outfit. Every now and then, I want to show up needing something, instead of showing up with something useful.

· · ·

That’s a long list. I’m not ashamed of it. Healing isn’t a light switch. It’s reps. You do one, it’s hard, you adjust, you do the next. I already did the hardest part — I decided to look.

Half a joke, half the whole truth — consider this my matchmaker page.

My own words taught me something about people: I get softer, funnier and more loving around the ones who show up, say sorry and then actually do something different, laugh with me, and carry some of the weight without being asked. Those are my people. So if you want to be in my life, that’s the list.

· · ·

Let me make it plain. This goes for friends, and it definitely goes for anybody who thinks they want to date me.

Show up. Not in speeches. In actions. If you say you’ll be there, be there. I can’t stand people who say they’ll show up and don’t.

Ask how I am — and wait for the real answer. I might wave you off the first time. Ask again. I’m working on it.

Offer before I ask. And when I say “you don’t have to,” do it anyway, if you want to. I’m learning to say yes.

Say sorry, and then change something. I don’t need a perfect person. I need someone who owns their part and does something different next time. I’ll do the same for you.

Tell me the truth. Kindly, if you can. But tell me. I can handle hard truths. What I can’t handle is being lied to.

Don’t try to run me. I want a partner, not a boss. Stand next to me, not over me.

Let me finish showing you what I made before you fix it. Say “good job” first. Seriously.

Laugh with me. If you can’t laugh in a barn at the end of a long day, we’re not going to make it.

Love animals. Or at least respect them. Non-negotiable.

Go slow with me. If it’s real, it’ll still be real in a few months.

· · ·

And here’s what you get in return. Someone who shows up at the worst hour and doesn’t make you feel bad for needing her. Someone who will stand up for you and stand her ground. Someone who remembers things, checks in, and says “I love you” out loud and on purpose. Someone who can make you laugh on the worst day of your year. Someone who will haul your trailer, doctor your dog, and pray for you — sometimes all in the same afternoon. Someone who tells the truth, owns her part, and comes back after a fight. And someone who knows who she is — or at least who she’s becoming.

If that sounds like your kind of person, you might be my kind of person too.

This is every chapter boiled down to the rules that matter most. Not rules somebody else made for me. Rules I found in my own life, written the way I’d say them. I keep this page where I can find it on a bad day.

Rules tell me how to be. This page is about what I’m actually building, and why.

I’m building three things at once. They’re really one thing.

Healing

I’m doing the work. Not all at once, and not perfectly. One rep at a time. Saying one true sentence about how I feel. Letting one person help me. Catching the overload before it climbs. Letting the safe people through the wall. Spending quiet time with God. Riding. Laughing. Resting without earning it.

Healing, for me, doesn’t mean becoming a different woman. It means becoming more of the woman I already am underneath the armor — the soft one, the funny one, the one who can finally set some things down.

Growth

I’m building a business. Work that pays the bills, uses everything I’m good at, and helps people along the way. I’m teaching myself as I go, the same way I taught myself photography and horses and everything else. I didn’t realize how good I would be at this. Now I do, and I intend to keep going.

I’m growing my circle, too — slower, and on purpose. More friends who show up with nothing attached. More time with the people who fill my tank. At least one friendship where nobody is the helper.

A home

And all of it is for this: a home. Mine. Steady. Paid for by my own work.

A home where both of my kids can come to me. With a room ready for each of them. With a door that’s always open. With a mom inside who is calm, and whole, and there — who listens to the end, who doesn’t need them to prove anything to be believed, and who is so glad they came.

I remember how it felt to type “IT’S OFFICIAL WE GOT A HOUSE” years ago. I’m going to feel that again. This time, I’m building it on the truth about who I am.

I looked — really looked — and I like what I see more than I thought I would.

I stand my ground. I love out loud. I show up. I’m funny in the hard years. I’m softer than I let on. I know what gets under my skin, and I’m learning to breathe before I answer. I protect what can’t protect itself. I’m rewriting the old stories. I live by the truth, and I lean on my faith. I’ve started over more times than I can count, and I built something every time. I’m a mom who shows up. I own my part. I come back. I’m drawing my lines. I know what I bring. And I’m learning, slowly and on purpose, to let people show up for me too.

A few years ago I called myself the one nobody wants. Now I know my worth and I know I’m a good woman. I took the oldest story I was ever handed — nobody showed up — and decided it stops with me. That is not a woman who is stuck. That is a woman who is changing, even on the days she feels like a mess.

I’m not finished. Nobody is. But I’m not my worst moment, and I’m not my hardest year. I’m the woman who looked at all of it, kept what was true, and kept going.

I’m proud of who I am, or at least who I’m becoming.

If you’re healing too, try this: look at yourself with the same grace you’d give your best friend. You might be surprised who’s been there the whole time.

— Kayla