Where Hope Lives Now

On love, safety, and choosing what matters most

The road bends, but it continues.

The space between Christmas and the New Year has always been my favorite week of the year.
A time for gratitude.
A time for reflection.
A time for closing doors—and for opening new ones.
(And occasionally standing in the hallway staring into space, wondering what day it is.)

Years ago, when I taught at Tennyson Center for Children—a residential treatment facility at the time—we often sent students off with hopes and dreams. Kids came and went. The average number of placements before arriving at Tennyson was eight. Our goal was always to love them hard, teach new skills, and send them somewhere more stable, more permanent.

Before a student left, we’d gather in a circle. Each person would share a hope and a dream they wanted the child to carry into their next chapter.

Lately, the words hopes and dreams have felt a little fragile. Almost unattainable.

But that isn’t actually my truth.

I do have hopes and dreams.
And I fully intend to bring them to life in 2026.

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2025: Both Beautiful and Terrifying

2025 was absolutely wonderful—and astonishingly terrifying.

I fell in love.
I started building a future with JD.
We camped. We bowled. We bought a house.
We moved. We grew. We evolved.

And at the same time, Carter became more aggressive.
The elopements became more frequent—and more dangerous.

When Carter was a toddler, Chris—Carter’s father—and I would position ourselves at opposite ends of the park, eyes locked, bodies tense, ready for the bolt. When he was five or six, he once ran straight into the middle of Ward Road. One second he was at a family gathering—there; the next moment, gone.

In elementary school, eloping became routine. Police were called far too often for this mama’s heart. Eventually, he moved to a different school: smaller classes, more adults, more training, fewer peers.

Eloping has always been part of Carter’s story.
(It turns out there’s a big difference between “this is hard” and “this is not safe.”)

In 2025, it became unmanageable.

(Stay tuned for October 4, 2025.)

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Hopes and Dreams for 2026

Mason

This kid is the best. Truly. I enjoy him so damn much—and I miss him deeply when he’s with his dad.

Mason deserves space to heal. To discover who he is beyond being Carter’s brother. That journey has been unfolding over the last few years, and it will continue—especially now.

I want him to find himself.
To love himself.
To let the world see the magnificent human he already is.

Let’s make memories. Let’s grow together.

Being the sibling of someone who requires constant care and attention is not an easy road. Mason loves his brother fiercely. They’ve always been close. And now, as his world shifts through high school and beyond, my hope is to support him through this season of change, rest, and healing—as fully as a mother can.

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Carter

Safety.

Safety is everything right now.

Of course I want Carter to develop skills—to hold a job, to live independently. But those dreams feel far away at the moment. First, we need safety. Once that foundation is steady, we can begin building the rest of his life—one step at a time.

And still—there are dreams.

I want Carter to keep chasing joy.
To keep being the kid who lights up rooms without trying.
To keep laughing loudly, loving deeply, and connecting in the ways that come so naturally to him.

I want him to continue building meaningful relationships—with the people who surround him now, and with those still waiting to meet him. I want him to feel known, valued, and safe enough to be fully himself.

The world doesn’t always know what to do with kids like Carter.
But he knows how to bring warmth into it.

That matters. And it always will.

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JD

My love.

I want to keep growing with you and building a beautiful life together. I want to travel—camper days and quiet mornings—making memories in small, ordinary ways. I want to turn our house into a home. To find our calm. To find our peace.

To keep choosing each other—and the life we’re building—one steady day at a time.

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For Me

I will write a book.

This has lived in my heart for years.
(And yes, I am aware that everyone says this. I am saying it anyway.)

For a long time, I wasn’t sure who it was for—educators or families. The answer is painfully clear now.

There is far too much guilt and grief wrapped up in parenting children with exceptionalities. No one talks about it. And we need to.

Writing has reminded me of something I’ve always known: stories create connection. They normalize what feels isolating. They make space for hope without pretending the hard parts don’t exist.

I feel that same pull toward public speaking again—not to inspire in a shiny, polished way, but to connect. To stand in rooms with educators, leaders, and families and say the things we’re often too afraid to say out loud. To bring my lived experience into my leadership, and my leadership into these conversations, so we can build systems that are more humane, more honest, and more sustainable.

I want to tell my story so others feel safe telling theirs. I’ve been writing essays for just two weeks, and already people are sharing pieces of their lives with me. I love it. I’m here for it.

Let’s take the stigma out of shame-based parenting—and out of leadership that pretends we don’t carry our lives with us—together.

There are stories I’m not ready to tell yet.

But one of them is about full-circle moments—about how the places that once shaped me would one day hold my son.

I’ll tell you that story soon.

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Hope lives here now—not in grand plans or five-year visions,
but in small, steady choices.

And occasionally, in surviving another day without losing our keys, our patience, or our sense of humor.