Greetings to you + yours,

I shared this quick in-the-moment photo on my IG stories last week and said we were having Bar Sandwiches for dinner. Tons of questions came in asking me what that was and where was the recipe.

I had to dig deep into my archives to find the reel that started it all.

I’ve been making Bar Sandwiches in the Henry House for at least a decade and they are always a filling crowd pleaser. The idea came to me when I was in college, I watched the movie Spanglish a lot back then— and I was always oddly comforted by the scene where Adam Sandler makes himself the most decadent stack of toasted bread, lettuce, tomato, meat, cheese, and a buttery fried egg. He washes it down with a cold Guinness, but sadly doesn’t get to enjoy it in peace.

Over the years, I’ve played around with different types of cheese and meat to step up the flavor, but really this recipe is just a reminder to toast your bread, fry an egg, melt some cheese and your family will think you’re a genius and you don’t have to go overboard in the kitchen for a night.

In eleven years of marriage, each evening when Kyle calls at 5:01p.m and asks that sometimes dreaded phrase, “What’s for dinner?’’, he has never once complained when the answer is Bar Sandwiches.

Sourdough Brioche is my favorite and I never leave out my creole mustard. Enjoy!

On Saturday evening, several different friend groups of all ages and walks of life, got together to celebrate our sweet friend, Germaine Benoit. If you follow me on IG, you’ve seen for years that I’ve shared her recipes, health advice, permission to adore butter, detox pesto, and yes—liver. Her page Nourished + Empowered stands by its name and she truly loves helping people live their healthiest and most peaceful lives.

I credit a lot of her advice to my fertility success and finally being able to carry a healthy baby girl. Eggs, steak, and butter—it’s all Germaine approved and it got us our Annie girl.

I was reminded while we were all in good spirits, in a stunning home, and fine silver and English China stacked immaculately between hors d’oeuvres—that Southern women could run the world. Among the group were executives, and business owners—mothers and widows. Each of us having met the birthday girl in a different season of life, and Germaine reminded us during her sweet speech that we are just all clocking time here. Friendship time, life experiences, heartache, and iron sharpening iron—we are all just on our own journeys and we are so lucky when our journeys align.

Also, if you haven’t completely written off the crunchy movement just yet; Germaine turned 50. Yes, five zero, 50.

Her complexion and zest for life is a testament to a whole foods lifestyle, prayer and meditation, and seeking good health. She is the poster child for a low processed life, and a good time. She is from Houma, LA and she was Miss Ole Miss—our G knows how to party, so don’t confuse an organic life for a boring one.

Also, just a reminder this is the moron you follow on the internet. I didn’t have time to take a full length selfie, but so many of you asked for a link to the pants I wore on Saturday. I’ve tried to find them on TJ Maxx website, but I’ve come up empty. I snagged these at my local TJ Maxx and there were only a few left. (Ridgeland, MS location)

I did find a ton of very similar pieces across sites like Amazon, Anthropologie, Dillard’s, & Zara— and think these are such a fun find. I will dress them up and down all fall (whatever that is anymore) long! I know I need to get back to simple links for items like this, but..I have no excuse. I will get around to it when I can.

I hope you have a fantastic week and I just adore you for being here. You’re loved,

Bailey

Let’s get one thing very clear—I have no interest in being Miss Manners.

Since 1978, Judith Martin has had a syndicated column in over 200 newspapers across the country. She has answered hundreds of thousands of questions regarding manners, etiquette, rude house guests, friendships, smacking husbands, nosy neighbors, and posture. I’m pretty sure she would never use the word bitch in a column, but I’m also pretty convinced she left very little wiggle room for nuance or grace—to each their own, right? And while I couldn’t stomach the idea of having an etiquette advice column, (I could totally be a Dear Abby though), I have been walking around lately wondering what happened to the most basic of manners.

Just a few more notes on the B word and I will move on…

The 1997 hit, Bitch, by Meredith Brooks has been playing in my head a lot over the last two weeks. I think it’s because I received so many DM’s on Instagram calling me that name, after I haphazardly posted a reel asking why today’s homecoming dresses are so short.

In case you haven’t seen it, I compared them to the length of a dish towel and women of all ages came after me. Hard. I think it’s an ADHD trait where if you hear one word that reminds you of a song then the song then gets stuck in your head. I looked up the lyrics to make sure I was understanding Meredith’s message. It mostly sounds like she is oddly flirting with a suitor and then playing hard to get, but her opening lyric that states, “I hate the world today”—got me thinking.

Do I hate the world today? Have I just gotten older or has the world gone insane? Am I a bitch or do we need a crash course on manners, hosting, and respecting those around us?

Have we taken the “you do you” philosophy way too far? Because now the freedom to do whatever makes you happy and fuels your self-care— is now actually incredibly disruptive to those around us. And for the record, for every cruel comment calling me a name or a sexually repressed, abused woman—there were two hundred more thanking me for saying the quiet part out loud.

That’s me, folks. Bailey Henry. Saying what most are thinking since 1989.

Once again, I may be showing my age—but I’d like to think that basic manners and southern etiquette are one and the same. My knowledge of manners, respect of those around you, and proper southern etiquette was poured in to me at a very early age.

We can start with my grandmother.

Alabama born and bred, Faye Massey knew how to host a dinner, polish silver, make those around her feel warm and welcome—and she knew how to hold her shoulders up. She wrote beautiful thank you cards, remembered birthdays and anniversaries, and taught me and my cousins to stand still in public, to not be disruptive at the dinner table, and how to get out of a tough conversation. She also taught us how to play poker and wouldn’t dream of leaving the house without Revlon’s Cherries in the Snow, painted on her nails and lips.

She taught me how to make a bed, to be the first to speak—even if you didn’t want to, and I have a very vivid memory of her correcting my skill of placing tinsel on the Christmas tree—though that lesson didn’t stick, the rest of them did.

Manners comes down to being aware of others. It’s that simple. Or rather, I fear it will be that complicated because the pendulum has swung so far in the direction of self idolatry—that most people couldn’t fathom putting someone else’s needs or comfort above their own.

I have to give credit to three more Mississippi women before we get to the meat and potatoes of this letter. Sandra Barker, Susan Spiers, and Judy Graeber.

All three of these women were instrumental in my upbringing and in my hometown Methodist church. Susan, a lifelong educator and my mama’s dear friend, taught me how to properly set a table and to serve your community. She knew the art of when to let manners slide for the sake of moving the day (or students) along, and she had the most well stocked guest bathroom I’ve ever seen. You would never run out of reading material or toilet paper in Susan’s powder room.

Her mother, Sandra, taught me how to make a cocktail at the ripe age of eleven.

*clutches pearls* Not because she was prepping me for a life of alcohol abuse, but because back in her day—the ability to be a mixologist made for a great host, and a welcoming neighbor. Her kitchen counters were stocked with napkins, nuts, olives, and she could usher a party with ease and poise.

And Judy. One day Judy called my parents up and said for all of us to come over to her land. She had grandchildren my age and I wondered if they were in town to visit. Instead, Judy took me under her wing and into her kitchen, and taught me how to quadruple recipes. She filled dozens of disposable foil pans with casseroles and potato salad, and then drove us to the trailer parks under priviledged neighborhoods in town.

She’d made Thanksgiving dinners for those areas and wanted me to help her cook and deliver them. I can remember getting out of her car and following her to the front doors. Casseroles stacked in the crook of her elbow and she made the delivery short and sweet, “Happy Thanksgiving! If you need more, my number is written on top.”

She didn’t want a thank you. She didn’t do it for praise. She just did it because there was a need.

The lessons of well stocked powder rooms, stout drinks, and feeding the hungry may not seem like branches of the same tree, but baby, they most certainly are rooted the same.

It started…well, I’m not exactly sure when I started to notice that people weren’t exactly rude, but they weren’t as courteous as they once were.

For starters, every grocery store and retail store I’ve been in for the last two years has employees ON THEIR PHONES WHILE THEY ARE AT WORK. It’s easy. Just slip an earbud in your ear, dial your friend, and you will never have to face a modicum of discomfort while on the job. Bored at work? Talk to a friend! Don’t want to answer a customers question? Talk to the friend! Want to look busy but are actually just riding the clock? You guessed it, talk to a friend on the phone because who needs customer service skills anyway?

I’m now convinced the wealth of the future will be found in the language of human connection and decorum. Soft skills once overlooked like homemaking, easy conversation, customer service, and simple manners will stand out the way trendy fashion once did.

Being on phones all the time, not dressing properly, not acknowledging people when they are speaking, not interrupting, not RSVP’ing—it all just comes down to being present and noticing others, their time, and efforts.

I do not want to be fussy or uppity, I just want to pose the question that we start to notice each other again. Not for links to outfits, not for judging as a sport, but remembering details about someone’s life and remembering to check in with them the next time you see them. Opening doors for others, making eye contact, being the first to extend a hand, and being a good listener—it’s all just manners.

There was once an art to small talk or making introductions and I fear now we can’t suffer through the slightest small talk because we have our phones to fill the void instead.

Please and thank you’s seem to be a thing of the past too. Chewing with mouths closed, no screens at the table (or if you must, saying excuse me and that you’ve been expecting a call), to consider the comfort of another.

I considered you…

To be considered is to be seen and really, that is all anyone wants.

In small talk last week, I mentioned that I was having a friend over for coffee and I needed to clean my house a bit. The person I was talking to seemed surprised that I would pick up for a close friend coming over. We’ve been bombarded with messages online and elsewhere over the last several years that you shouldn’t want to hang out with people who stare at your baseboards, and I think that is an extreme stance to take on house manners.

I wanted my friend to know I considered her comfort in my home, and that is why I wiped down my counters and picked up dirty socks. Her presence at my kitchen counter was considered and I thought of her comfort while I tidy’ed up and brewed a fresh pot.

To be considered and thought of—it’s just that simple.

And now for the final elephant in the room.

The dress of it all.

When I posted that reel about the length of today’s homecoming dresses it was more so about the length of a lot of things. Shorts, dresses, tank tops, patience, and so on.

Dressing properly for each occasion was critical to manners when I was being brought up.

Cover your shoulders in church, make sure a dress is past your fingertips for school, dates, and Junior Miss programs. Kitten heals until you’re 13, light makeup until you’re 15, and if you’re meeting a dates parents, skip the v-necks for now. I had church clothes, Sunday best, and plenty of skirts that pushed limits. But I knew when to where them. I think we lack situational etiquette as well.

I’m not a prude.

If you know me in real life you know well that I’m no goody two-shoes, but I’m also not naive. The majority of comments on that viral reel started a flood of name calling which I also can’t stand, but the mud slinging (I feel) overshadowed the larger conversation that I want to have.

Did manners leave the chat when we stopped telling kids no? Or does anything fashion related get a free pass? If you’re a parent who is choosing battles and you don’t choose the hemline fight, then which fight did you choose?

Manners are in the details, and I think details matter.

If you’ve read this far—I appreciate your time spent with me. As always, thank you for being here and I will write to you soon!

Have a wonderful week!

Love,

Bailey

For the last month, my husband and I have been preparing to host our son’s entire first grade class at our home for a tailgate party before the homecoming football game. And as everyone knows, we have suffered through the hottest summer and fall temps on record, so in my planning I pictured fans, tents, and umbrellas to protect us from the miserable heat that we couldn’t seem to shake. But yesterday as I was setting up tables and Kyle fired up the grill, the wind began to pick up and the temperature dropped a bit.

And then it dropped a bit more. And it continued to drop so much that I had to change clothes and the fans I made just became props.

And as 12 1st graders ran around our yard, the leaves whirled at our feet and fall greeted us like the old friend she is.

With the sudden drop in temperature, it reminded me that several of you have sent me DM‘s and emails asking where my Marry Me Chicken recipe can be found and I remembered that I never actually wrote it down, I only posted it as a reel which isn’t always easy to find and cook from.

So much like the cool temps, better late than never—below is the recipe I tweaked over the years. I hope you have an amazing weekend and that the weather stays lovely.

WHAT YOU’LL NEED:

• 4-6 chicken breast

• 1 package of link sausage (we use Conecah)

• 1 packet of spinach

• Sun dried tomatoes (a lot)

• Broth (1 cup)

• Heavy Whipping Cream (1 cup)

• Parmesan cheese

• Italian seasoning (or just make sure you add garlic and oregano at least)

• Olive oil

• Salt

WHAT YOU DO:

• Pat dry chicken breast and lay them in your crockpot or slow cooker

• Drizzle with olive oil and preferred seasoning

• Drop in your spinach, then sun-dried tomatoes (measure with your heart, we like a lot)

• Pour over your broth and cream, if you want your texture, a bit thicker, add more cream than broth – if you want it more soupy, add more broth. This is a choose your own adventure!

• Thinly slice your sausage and put on top, so the juices can saturate everything below.

• Cook on high for the first four hours, then turn down to medium and give it a good stir. That is when you add in your Parmesan cheese, and again measure with your heart.

• I shred my chicken before serving, but that is totally optional.

Serve over any preferred carbohydrate. Potatoes, pasta, or rice.

* the texture will thicken so don’t be afraid to add broth or cream as you wish.

Thank you so much for being here, save this recipe and I will write to you soon!

Love,

Bailey

My roommates would make fun of me if I huffed over dirty dishes in the sink. They would roll their eyes when I wiped down counters while everyone was pregaming, and they would make comments on my room for being in military style order. My senior year of college, I lived with four friends in a very old townhouse that at one time—had a huge gaping hole in the floor and the entire house itself seemed to lean a bit to the right. After an unforgettable night of partying and celebrations, I began picking up and vacuuming at 8 AM while all of my townhouse-mates were incredibly hung over. I will never forget the glare that one friend shot me as they sat up from the couch, half dead and still drunk—and stormed up the stairs and shook their head at me as I was vacuuming the celebration out of the carpet from the night before.

As the youth say, this is no shade to the people I lived with—they were having fun, we were all young, but I was scolded for having standards and keeping them high, even if a keg was in the living room or not. And now, due to some recent conversations with other moms, I feel like I’m being scolded again for having incredibly high standards when it comes to running my household and when it comes to raising my children.

A few weeks ago, I was voice texting (are you even shocked) my best friend from childhood. I was going over a few grievances about influential behavior for kids, how I want to raise screen-aware children in the age of AI and tech, and other random nuggets from this season of motherhood. My bff responded with this:

“Yeah, I’ve just decided that we are high-effort moms and there isn’t anything to be ashamed of in that.” High. Effort. Mom. My mind was blown. I called her a genius, and she said she couldn’t take credit for it—high effort mom was a phrase fed to her by the all-knowing algorithm, and she sent me the video. The original content creator who posted her thoughts to IG described a high effort mom as someone who will always do a little extra and push her efforts a little bit further than average if she can, when she can.

I’m a big believer in nuance and balance—I go the extra mile ninety percent of the time for my family, because it will be rewarded tenfold. I curate a clean and orderly home because I want my people to feel peace when they walk in the door, not chaos. I prepare three hot dinners a week, leaving room for leftovers and pizza will always be on Friday. I make sure beds are fluffy and the floors are clean so the backdrop to my children’s childhood won’t be cloaked in disorder.

The other ten percent of the time I try to refill my own cup so hopefully the ninety percent is the standard. High effort, as it turns out is the exception not the rule, and often it is laughed at or disregarded entirely.

The number one advice I feel like women get when they become mothers is to pick your battles. Pick your battle is a fine guiding tool for letting the small stuff stay small, and let your no’s hold value so your kids know when to draw the line. But now, I have to ask…what battles are you still choosing?

Food fights over vegetables and protein.

Screen time limits and reading goals.

Sportsmanlike conduct.

Behavior at school.

Character building.

Writing in cursive.

Respecting elders.

Using manners.

Spoiler alert: I’m picking em’ all.

Every battle (okay not little ones like Samuel wanting to button his top button of his shirts for school) I’m showing up to at least see if it is worth standing my ground on—because I refuse to be a passive parent. I’m exhausted. Because I’m parenting my ass off. Because I want my children to be adults with high standards too. Because I want to enjoy my children as adults. Because I want my children to know they can always come home to us, and they know we will hold the line for them.

Do you have those memories or flashbacks where you can remember the story being retold over and over again better than you can remember the original experience?

This memory is like that.

I can remember hearing about it over and over again for the last 20 years, but the actual living of it, is quite hazy.

It was summertime. I was a junior in high school and I had one of my friends over for a weekend swim at my parents house. It was summer, it was hot, the lake was glistening, and the pool was perfect. As teenage girls do, we got bored. Thankfully, social media wasn’t any form of entertainment or escapism in 2006, so we would do the next best thing: Makeup dances, snoop through my mother’s perfume drawer, and talk to boys on the phone.

My friend wanted to know if she could invite over a guy. One that she had been flirting with and talking to all summer, he was in the grade above her.

I can’t remember if I said we needed to ask my mom? Or if she was respectful enough to ask my mom if she could invite a boy over to her home.

But my mother, ever the mother hen and an ultimate girls-girl, said that we needed to call her mother first.

My mother picked up our home phone. A landline that used to be connected to a wall, but was now an early 2000’s sleek silver rectangle that she held in her hand. She stood at our kitchen sink and dialed my friends home telephone number. She began speaking once her mother answered.

“Hey, so-and-so wants to know if so-and-so can come over for a swim?”

I can’t remember if I heard the mom laugh through the phone or if the story has been retold to me so many times I know that my friend’s mom laughed here.

My mom wanted to ask a mother if it was okay for a teenage boy to be in the presence of her child without her—the mom said, “What can I care? It’s your house.” My mom forced a chuckle back towards the receiver, and said, “Well, she is your daughter.”

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When I was in my early twenties, I worked as a preschool teacher in Starkville, Mississippi. I took the job on some good advice that I’d received from a counselor at State. My major at the time was elementary education, and apparently future employers would be impressed that I worked my way through college in a classroom setting. I ended up changing my major, and that’s a story for a different day.

But one of my most shameful take-aways from my time around young children was, wait for it…their parents appearance. Specifically, my co-workers and I would study the differences in looks of age with the moms and dads. Most of the dads, all in their 30’s, would look older and weathered, dare I say sexy and settled—during morning drop-offs. Laugh lines in all the right places, gray hairs sprinkled throughout their temples, and they all had a confidence that men in their teens and twenties just hadn’t found yet. (Also, this was in the late 2000’s and early 10’s—we hadn’t yet walked the body positivity movement, nor certainly we hadn’t become obsessed with what everyone looked like online. Plus I just found out from a teacher friend that teachers 100% gossip about kids and their parents so I guess that tracks.)

Then the moms would run through the school for end of day pickups.

They all looked tired, older than their spouses. And not as settled.

Their gray hairs would be wiry and their skin oily and somehow dry at the same time.

The laugh lines on the women wouldn’t be more than the men, just different. Not a highlight of wisdom, but a sign of exhaustion I perceived as having given up. The preschool teachers would wonder aloud why the moms looked so old and the dads looked so aged, not yet knowing the difference. Mind you we were all infants at the ripe age of twenty and knew nothing, and we all quietly assumed it wouldn’t happen to us—we wouldn’t age like that.

Do you ever want to go back in time and throat punch yourself?

Now I know that the reasons the moms looked tired is because they were.

Midnight feedings, mental exhaustion of meal planning and changing schools, adding socks to the never-ending shopping list, planning vacations, taking care of aging parents, holiday planning, career highs and lows, losing friendships along the way, and slowly saying goodbye to a version of themselves they didn’t know they would have to grieve.

That mental load wears on a girl and I didn’t consider it until I lived it.

I’m sure I’m not the only one who thought aging would happen swiftly, overnight, and delayed. I always envisioned it graceful and specifically, the morning after my 50th birthday.

I had it pictured quite well actually.

My husband would throw me a surprise 50th birthday party at our home. Our children would look on lovingly, our friends would say toasts and celebrate until late in the evening, and we would dance the night away. The whole shebang would look like a mix of a Nancy Myers’ set, a 90’s Ralph Lauren catalog and have the nostalgic ease of a J.Crew commercial. Vibes baby.

I would wake up the next morning, now being 50 and one day, walk to the bathroom mirror and look…well, old. Older. I would see laugh lines that I hadn’t noticed the day before, I would take my finger and trace over sunspots, my eyes would be weathered with wisdom and my neck would have a softness to it that reminded me of my mother.

I would laugh in the mirror and think, “Well this is wonderful and right on time.”

I thought aging would greet me suddenly, like I would walk into a room forgetting what I needed and it would just be there. I didn’t expect it to find me in little ways, constantly reminding me that I’m not nineteen anymore.

And I’m not sure if it’s the social media brainwashing of youthful perfection or if I just wasn’t at the table with my mother and her friends as they remarked on their steady changing appearance, but even in my late thirties—certainly after having a baby, I just can’t believe how much my body and my skin has changed in the last five years. But I’m afraid I’m the only one who secretly loves it. I look like a mom, because I am a mom—something that I’ve wanted to be my whole life.

The slow drip of aging has been a humbling and heartbreaking process.

Now, look don’t get me wrong—I love getting older.

It’s a gift not afforded to everyone.

I’ve gained wisdom, knowledge, confidence, style, friendships, and a deep understanding of myself in getting older. Motherhood gave me a backbone, removing the people pleaser within me. And age is a gift that I’m very grateful for…but the aging of my physical appearance has absolutely thrown me off. Half the time I wonder if everyone thinks I look as tired as I think I do, and the other half of the time I feel vain and selfish for worrying about my appearance when so many more things rank higher in importance. (I’ve taken several breaks as I’ve written this letter to you. And on those breaks I’ve seen the announcement of an online friends death after a long cancer battle, a teenage boy was shot and killed in my home state over the weekend. And yet another mother has taken the life of her child. So at the end of it all, who gives a rip about crowsfeet.) And it’s not even the physical appearance that is surprising, it’s other aging signs that have thrown me for a loop lately.

I now have to go to sleep with socks on, because my feet are freezing.

I have to go take a pillow quiz to find the right pillow for my neck, which constantly aches. *Remembers when I slept in the bathtub after a night of partying and woke up to compete in Derby Days.

I asked a waitress to turn down the music in a restaurant last week because I couldn’t hear my friend.

I take sweaters into Costco.

I can tell a difference when I take magnesium.

I don’t understand teenagers.

And regrettably, I’ve already begun the agonizing stories to my son that start with, “When I was your age…” Life moves pretty fast.

And then there are the other physical signs of aging that have nothing to do with my face. Things like: my hips are constantly tight and aching, my calves catch cramps very easily, and my poor belly button. My belly button is very sad looking among other things that sag just above it.

For the first time ever, aging is now something that can be skipped or looked down upon. Aging, like everything else in 2026, can be looked at through a lens of affluence or privilege. With just the right amount of lidocaine, highlight, and cash or credit—you can ease your way to old age. Skipping over the uncomfortable realization that you’re not as young as you once were. (This is another topic for another day, but all of this teaches our preteens to skip over adolescence as well)

It cost thousands to keep up what we are told is aging gracefully. Botox, filler, peels, pens, and a high tolerance for pain can have your people wondering what your secret is. But that is also the thing now that is so different from years past, nothing is a secret. Everything has a link or we post just about it as we do it.

I can remember my mom running into old classmates at grocery stores or restaurants and it would take a moment to place each other, they would squint and tilt their heads and then through the fuzzy memory they would see the teenager within each other. "Oh! So-and-So! How are you? You haven’t aged a day!”

My mom would never speak ill of someone, instead she would just ask me in a whispered tone as we walked to the car, “Bailey, how old do you think that lady is? Do I look her age?”

In just the last five years, I’ve noticed that my skin is dull, rosacea is flared, my eyes are tired, and my posture is awful. It takes a minute to fully straighten after sitting for a while because of my hips and if I didn’t say these things out loud I feel like I would be the only one in my age group feeling this way. My close friends assure me that they look in the mirror now with the same shock. “I didn’t know aging would happen like this. Just a little bit at a time. Not enough to notice much, but enough for me to ask my husband if it was okay for me to spend $1400 on a 9-12 month fix for my skin.”

A few weeks ago I was voice texting a friend and I briefly touched on the subject of my skin. “I’m debating Botox again. Every year I get cold feet, but something has to be done about my skin. I look tired and I want to feel confident. I want to look my actual age and not a second older.”

“Hold out! Don’t do it!”

“Grow old with me.”

Her response made me smile and tear up at the same time.

Grow old with me is such a personal invitation. My husband said it to me when he asked me to marry him. We whisper that invitation to our sleeping babies, terrified that they will grow up in a blink, forgetting that we are growing too, just as fast.

And now growing old feels like taking a stance against the madness that we are forced to consume. AI, perfection, frozen foreheads, boob lifts, mommy makeovers, JLo at 60, Nicole Kidman’s facelift, Hillary Duff’s injector..all the things.

I hope you didn’t read this far for answers or skincare tips. I’ve had to force myself to drink water, I need to be more careful about sun exposure, caffeine is bothering my rosacea, and I’m not sure if I will get Botox again.

But I’m saying this for myself, just as much as I’m saying it to you—to age is to be fully alive, fully human, and fully present that you’ve made farther than any of us deserve to.

I want to leave you with these gorgeous portraits of women that inspire me.

Age is a gift they have accepted well.

I love a punchy title and I really wanted to name this “Things I Bought & Liked”, but I’m pretty sure our queen shopper, TIBAL, has that copyrighted.

Also, who doesn’t love a faceless account with impeccable taste and a Type A organizational flex? If you’ve no idea what I’m talking about, you can gain your own obsession here.

Follow at your own risk.

I’ve made many remarks over the last few years on how I'm exhausted with link culture, reply to shop, and the bar being set at a baseline of overconsumption—but the goal post is constantly being moved. It’s tiring, gluttonous, and I think it lacks depth. However, (there is always a caveat) I greatly appreciate people who want to support me (mainly, my family + my writing) and I stand firm in my ethical shopping approach, which is—if you really don’t need it, don’t buy it. If you won’t like it next year, don’t buy it.

Moving on..

Y’all know we moved this summer.

I still can’t believe where we landed and that our prayers were answered. But also, the sigh of relief Kyle and I feel each day knowing that the risk we took is paying off. The pruning will bear fruit. We maybe can’t see every fruit on every branch for now, but we will. Praise Jesus.

I have my husband’s full support in saying this: I. MOVED. OUR. FAMILY. PERIOD.

My husband is an incredible provider who really enjoys his career—but he works out of the home, so I can work in our home.

So beginning in March, I was the one who organized, cleaned out, called a realtor, vetted movers, packed antiques, sold furniture, updated our landscape, painted the garage, called a locksmith, buffed the floors, and packed every single item we owned. And I did it all with two kids under my feet and a geriatric dog who has a bad hip and a leaky anal gland. I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR.

I was conscious of budgets, schedules, end of school events, soccer schedules, and closing dates. Should I add all of this to my dead LinkedIn account?

And then, after the last moving van pulled away—I did everything in reverse at the new place. Unpacking, painting, organizing, cleaning, cozying.

If you follow me on IG you may have heard me mention a time or two a few details of our new home. It was a for sale by owner situation, and it was an as-is sale. *I know my realtor friends just gagged a little.

We have no regrets, just…everything is a learned experience.

Deferred Maintenance comes to mind.

So when we arrived at our new place on closing day, with painters to show up the next day at 7a.m., I was disheartened to find that the house had not been cleaned.

Like. At all.

And we quickly realized that settling in would involve unforeseen projects (and financial commitments) we hadn’t planned for.

So listed below are my essentials from Amazon that helped us settle, a few items for back to school, a few items to help me adjust to country life, and a few more treats that I ended up loving.

If you don’t care to continue reading and just want to check out my order history, you can do that here.

I quickly realized that in older homes, air flow can be stagnant in some places. In the kids bathroom for example, there is no vent. So in a damp area like a bathroom, moisture just builds and clings to the air and walls. The DampRid buckets were a life saver on drying the air, removing stale odors, and soaking up the smell of nicotine. *I would really like to talk to the people who originally built this house, but it wasn’t my business or my dollars. Also they are dead now. C’est la vie.

It became clear within a day of owning land that I would need my outdoor shoes by the back door. These boots are incredibly durable and comfortable for the price point.

I sized up to a 9 (I usually wear an 8 or 8.5) for easy and quick slipping on/off. I will be getting more colors in the future. I truly love wearing these. 10/10.

They are currently on sale!

As I was packing up our old home, I realized I didn’t have a full set of matching dish ware and we hadn’t in some time. I looked at Kyle and said, “I’m not wasting my time packing up cracked and mismatched dishes. The week before we move I will order a new set, keep it in the box, and call it a day.”

And so that’s what I did. I did a bit of research on lead free—made in America dishes and these had high ratings. It was like a little treat to unbox these and place them in new cabinets.

I don’t know how we lived so long without air purifiers before now. The BlueAir brands have cut down on dust, odors, and lets me know when I’m burning toast. These are a higher price point, but we are really enjoying them.

To see my full order history you can shop here!

I hope y’all have a great week and be looking for emails from me on Marry Me Chicken, Parenting Boundaries, and Breakfast prep!

My love,

Bailey

I’m not a morning person. I wish I was. I am if I get up early and can have my alone time before everyone else wakes up and starts talking to me. I need coffee and silence first. Even in my most groggy and crankiest mornings—feeding my people quality fats and protein to get their days going is really important to me.

For week day breakfast, I’m a huge fan of food prep now, so you can chill later.

I usually make my Olive Oil Blueberry muffins, sausage balls, or pancake bites on Sunday so I don’t have to worry with it for the rest of the week. And yes, that means we will have the same thing each morning for a week, but so do people who grab RedBulls every morning. This is no hate to RedBull or the people who drink them, I’m just making a point.

I hope y’all enjoy these and I hope your kids like them.

Breakfast (at least for my kids) is truly the most important meal of the day. The eggs will cover them in protein, and the potatoes and cheese should keep them full until lunch!

Talk soon,

Bailey

Heavens, I have missed writing to you.

I tried to pick up painting again this summer. I needed something to do with my hands that didn’t involve cleaning or painting a wall, or unpacking a box. And it turns out I’m very rusty on a canvas, but writing to you has always been a type of expression that heals me. A woman writing to other women on the internet, ahh, therapy could never. Let’s begin.

A few years ago, I tried to start the tradition of writing handwritten notes to a few mom friends the week before school started. I wanted to be intentional with stamps and stationery when telling these women that I would be praying for their kids, the new teacher or new school, and that I would be praying that she found an ease to the rhythm of her home for that academic year.

Is it a tradition if you only manage to do it twice and then be so overwhelmed with a move, and changing schools, and a tick bite, and a very expensive driveway, and more deferred maintenance than you expected, to remember to write said letters?

I know a text is fine too, but who doesn’t love snail mail?

So, in an effort to somewhat continue my tradition, please let me write to you in the same spirit, as if we are old friends and school starts next week.

Dearest Friend,

Can you believe another summer has come and gone?

The days flew by in a slow whirlwind and the heat was offensive, but we managed a few summer highlights among the chaos.

We are still settling into our new digs, and the kids finally seem to have found a happy spot with their new rooms, though I still can’t get that stale smell out of the baby’s room.

Sam went to several soccer camps, and I’m wondering if VBS was a bit too overwhelming for him during the move. Anne Rollins started to call herself Nannie, and Stella is now having a hard time getting out of her bed. We think her hips are hurting her in her old age. She was never much of a sport dog, much more of a visit and bark at the Amazon driver type.

I wanted to let you know that I will be praying for you and your family during the upcoming school year. I can’t believe how grown the kids are, and more unbelievable, that we are the grown-ups taking care of them. Remember that time we took your grandmother’s minivan to Hattiesburg to go to that house party and we didn’t know anyone? And then we talked to those random men in an Arby’s parking lot.

How stupid. And now we are moms.

I know you’re nervous about the new school, in the new town, and I know you had a rough summer after having the baby—but I know that you’re going to make it. The kids will adjust perfectly and remember—the crockpot is not a cop out, its our friend. It’s going to be a great year.

I love you and you’re a good mama. I can smell October already, can’t you?

Praying every good psalm over you.

My love,

Bailey

And what a summer it was.

I haven’t created any new recipes, but I have found a new love for color.

We didn’t go to the beach at all, but Sam has thanked us several times for “buying a house in a forrest.” Sidenote: when our six year old did ask to go to the beach this summer, after we’d just bought a new house with a pool, I lovingly told him that I would rub St. Ives Apricot scrub on him for the sand effect and that we aren’t made of money. Follow me for more mom tips.

I shamefully refused to let the Lord be my solace in a new place, and instead painted every inch of this house in two months, (well, almost every inch. I’m painting again next week.)

We’ve inherited a 400 square foot garden that intimidates me when I see it each morning out my bedroom window, and I think this is the summer that my face fell.

I’d heard that dreaded expression from women a few years older than me, and wondered if it would happen when I was in my forties. For those who haven’t heard the expression, “My face fell,” it describes the conclusion that your whole face just sags a bit heavier than it used to. Gravity, dehydration, and sun damage all showed up at once to make you feel droopy. And sister, let me tell you. I. Am. Droopy. Everywhere.

I’ve bonded with our son in a way that seems special because he is the new kid at school, and I’m the new mom in town. Kyle can’t relate because we moved to his hometown, where his great-grandparents also grew up, and Annie can’t be bothered because she has never met a stranger.

I’m exhausted with AI, influencer culture, explaining myself, the apocalyptic heat, travel ball subculture, cooking dinner, lack of intentional parenting, and the cancer of selfishness. But still, we press on.

I want to bring back dinner parties, and those hand-written letters, and bad art, and belly laughs, and women’s clubs. I have so much more to tell you, but the baby is stirring, and I have to put the clothes from the washer to the dryer.

I can’t wait to share with you my favorites from the summer that helped me through the move. That will come next week.

Go wash your bra.

Bailey

I guess we may truly never know what put me in the emergency room a few weeks ago.

Was it the stress and workload of moving our family? Was it the nerves bubbling under the surface of Samuel starting a new school? Was it discovering the state of the new house wasn’t what we thought and I clocked around 12,000 steps a day for two months to clean and paint the walls? Or maybe it was that pesky tick bite? The heat! It was the air that felt like a microwave all summer!

Who knows?

But all I kept thinking while I was in the emergency room, was that I wanted to go home.

I wanted to be away from strangers whose personal hygiene was questionable. I wanted to be away from grouchy nurses who were exhausted and underpaid. I wanted to be very far from people who were drunk at three o’clock in the afternoon. I sat across from two older women in the ER who were sisters. It appeared they’d been in some sort of accident together. One with a hurt arm and shoulder, the other in a wheelchair with a bruised ankle. They couldn’t make eye contact without laughing at each other, both joking that it was the others’ fault.

I smiled at them wondering if they wanted to go home, too. Or if home was right there with them, because they had each other.

I stared at the floor, regretting throwing on a sundress for the occasion because (I didn’t know at the time) that they would have to go up my dress for an EKG, and the home I longed for in that moment—was our old house.

I’ve been thinking about home so much these last few months. The place, the smell, the sounds, the feeling, and the literal meaning.

I’ve thought about people who were born with the travel bug that I wasn’t born with.

If you’re more at peace traveling, what does home mean to you? I’ve thought about my language in the last several weeks—choosing so carefully not to say, “Let’s go home, or “I’m on my way home.” Purposefully cutting my sentence short.

It felt like cheating on a place that I can’t go back to.

Thomas Wolfe famously penned the phrase, “You can’t go home again,” in 1940. I’ve rejected that phrase since I first heard it in the opening scene of the movie Now and Then and have held firm to the rejection of it in every English Lit class I’ve ever taken.

It is the opposite of what Kyle and I teach our son, when he says he is sad that he can’t live with us forever, we say, “You can always come home, Buddy. You can always be here with us.”

But of course, I now know that Wolfe meant you can’t go back to this feeling—you can’t go back to this particular place in time. The smell, the comfort, the season, the chapter.

It is all fleeting.

Kyle took Sam out yesterday for a belated father-son birthday date. New reel, new baseball glove, and some much needed one-on-one time. They took the long way round to Target, which passed by our old house. When they got home Sam wandered into the playroom and Kyle looked to me and said, “Sam asked if we could drive around the old neighborhood on the way home.”

I buried my face in my shirt and started to cry.

He did? Did you? God, I miss the smell of that house.

“Yea, he said he missed our old neighborhood and our old house. So, we parked at the stop sign and just stared at it for a few minutes. And now it all looked so different and so small.”

I remember feeling surprised at how quickly nine years felt once it was over. That Saturday back in May was a blur of closing documents, scheduled movers, and forcing myself to be on autopilot, because if I’d thought about it too long and too hard—we would’ve stayed forever.

But if you stay where it’s good and comfortable, you’ll never appreciate the sweetness of the season. The fact that I know I will ache for that home forever is because we left it. Not every season is meant to be the last chapter, but my Lord, I’m so thankful it was a good chapter. So much life was in that house, we changed in that house.

Anne Rollins is now the age that Samuel was when he came home to us.

“Home to us,” has always been the phrase we’ve used to describe that season of becoming overnight parents. I can remember being in awe of his little body. His very presence sucked the air out of the room, it still does. We went from no children to the throws of toddlerhood in one breath and I have to remember to give ourselves grace for the embarrassing expectations we put on a one-year-old boy.

I used to share a great deal about our adoption journey online.

It was such a part of our infertility journey which had been well documented as well. I’ve since scaled back on what we share for so many reasons.

AI, Sam’s own boundaries, people who tried to make our story their story, people who thought we wrote the book on quick adoptions, creepers, stalkers (yes, literal stalkers) and again—I want so badly to protect the preciousness of our story and not let anyone else write themselves into it. But I had no idea, there is no way I could’ve known that I would ache for the days when Sam came home. The newness, the fear, and the hunger to keep him ours forever.

Our son came home to us in the house that we are now grieving, and we now have plenty of memories to make inside new walls. The options seem limitless and it also feels like we are running out of time.

I just didn’t know that by the young-ish age of 36 I would long for places like this.

The green itchy carpet of my childhood home in New Orleans.

The smells of the city that crept into my parents Jimmy Blazer.

The slinky sound of the blinds whooshing on the backdoor of my grandparents’ home.

The way the sun set on the lake I grew up on.

The sun beaming through the window of my mama’s breakfast room.

The smell of coffee in my first apartment.

The way curtains blew in the breeze of my mom’s friends living room.

The sound of Bing Crosby in my grandfather’s game room.

The smell of my dad’s spaghetti.

The sound of my Mammaw’s laughter.

The sound of the Apostle’s Creed on Sundays.

If I keep chasing a feeling I crave with deep hunger, I probably won’t think about new memories that could be made—but still, I know what I’ve had is good and I hold that with a deep gratitude. I hope you’ll tell me what home means to you and I hope if you were born with that travel bug, you tell me what that’s like to!

Grateful that you’re here with me.

Have a good week.

Bailey

I won’t beat around the bush.

Kyle loves The Parent Trap.

We were watching it this weekend and during the scene when Chessy asks Hallie (Annie) if she wants chili and cornbread while she unpacks, we both perked up at the idea and I started making the grocery list.

I think there is a century old debate on whether beans belong in chili, and I’m of the idea that they most definitely belong.

Here is my easy, one pot chili recipe. I put it on low about 2 hours before serving and we always end up in a food coma! Enjoy!

WHAT YOU WILL NEED:

2 lbs ground beef

4 cans of kidney beans

1 can of pinto beans

2 cans of crushed tomatoes

2 cans of tomato paste

1 green bell pepper

1 yellow bell pepper

2 small yellow onions

2 red onion

12 oz chicken broth

1 can of green chilis

salt

nutmeg

chili powder

garlic powder

oregano

parsley

honey

1 orange

mustard

sharp cheese

sour cream

HERE IS WHAT TO DO:

In a large pot on medium to high heat, sauté chopped yellow and 1 red onion and bell peppers in olive oil.

once softened, add 2lbs of ground beef.

Turn down heat to medium low, and add cans of crushed tomatoes, tomato paste, cans of beans (rinse beans), and small can of green chilis.

Cover with chicken broth, and seasoned to taste with nutmeg, salt, garlic powder, chili powder, oregano.

Add ½ tsp of mustard and 1 tsp of honey

Add juice of one whole orange

Cover on low and stir occasionally

Continue to season to taste, I find that you need more salt than you think you do.

serve with sharp cheddar cheese, and the remaining diced red onion.

Can be served with biscuits or cornbread.

we prefer the classic cornbread made of Crisco shortening, two eggs, buttermilk, and cornmeal.

Enjoy + have a great week 🤍

How much do you think we see of people’s lives online?

100%? 20%? Do we see the curated hard parts or is everything manipulated for sales? Is everything an honest depiction and some people just have all the luck? My platform has been known for food, faith, and fertility—not in that order, and I try to show up as authentic as I can online. I’m not a frilly follow, you know the pages that discuss gifts, hauls, and make-up tutorials. While I enjoy all of those things, the writer in me would so much rather interview people through story polls and questionaries. So with that back ground laid, I’ve answered many questions in my inbox over the last few years on recipes, miscarriage, motherhood, adoption, and prayer challenges. But one question I didn’t think I had a right to answer, was one on marriage. My marriage. Not only did I want to fiercely protect it, but I didn’t think I had the authority to dish out marriage advice online. Both of those thoughts are still true.

Kyle and I met in college. On the day we met he had a girlfriend and held down four jobs. And I had a broken heart. The day after we met, he no longer had that girlfriend and I had a strange feeling that the man I’d been looking for (and praying for) my whole life was sweeter than I imagined.

The first time I was asked about our marriage was after my book was published.

In my seventh chapter titled, A Long December, I walked the reader through our first Christmas after two devastating losses that year. I wrote about a huge fight as we put up our Christmas tree, me picking a fight with my husband, me reminding him he did nothing to help me through our first two losses, me refusing to buy gifts for the Angel Tree we’d signed up for, and finally—me taking down all the decorations on Christmas Eve that year. I did tons of Q & A’s on social media a few years ago, every Sunday to be exact. And one question I would get pretty often was how our marriage survived losing babies. I would briefly white-wash over the question or just say we had to beef up our communication skills, but the truth is—we have had to work incredibly hard to still be here. To still be married. I asked Kyle if he was okay with me writing on this, and after he gave me his blessing he said, “If you’re gonna do that, be honest about it. I wouldn’t want to struggle with anyone but you.” God bless him.

So here are the biggest points, rules, and non-negotiables in our marriage.

1. Love Is Not Enough

When we said our vows almost eleven years ago we both (stupidly) thought that love would be enough to see us through. We have found that to make a marriage survive at minimum you need respect, a common faith, being okay with making sacrifices, being okay with being corrected (humbling), and then love. You must be okay with changing yourself to be more like Christ, selfless. You need a tenderness to the other’s mistakes, which is driven by love but can’t survive on love alone. In the same way that Christ’s love holds a tenderness to us, but we still must confess our sins, and accept Christ.

2. Be Good At Fighting

Fights are going to happen, but to survive them and grow from them you have to learn how to fight well. Somewhere between a Love Language and an Enneagram number, you have to cut through the weeds of fighting to resolve an issue or fighting just to get out anger. Kyle and I both have been so guilty of taking out our anger on one another. We recently just learned how to fight in our most healthy way and that is for Kyle to get out his points first—because I apparently talk too fast in arguments. I should’ve gone to law school. Also, we totally go to bed angry. We make up in the morning, but you know what makes fighting worse? Being tired.

We spent years hitting below the belt and that only causes more damage. We look at fighting like a SWAT team sweeping a unit for a bomb threat. Get in and get out as soon as possible, no casualties if you can help it.

3. Choose A Life Verse And Honor It

We didn’t think to choose a life verse for ourselves until we became parents and we chose one for our son. A life verse is one that not only you think speaks to you, but one that you pick to be your foundation for returning to the Gospel over and over again, especially if you feel your faith running dry in a season. Mine is Philippians 4:8.

“Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is of good report—if there be any excellence, if there be anything worthy of praise—think on these things.”

I’ve meditated on that scripture many times because my natural disposition is to lean negative. I don’t like that about myself. And once I spoke to that, my husband did an incredible job to constantly remind me to think of the good. And be grateful for those things—seen and unseen.

And ever the traditionalist, Kyle’s life verse is the 23rd Psalm. Over the years when I have found my husband stressed about finances, his job, our children or any circumstance—I remind him to read it or I read it over him. Choosing a life verse is also the easiest way to let your loved ones pray over you and guide you back to the cross.

4. Sacrifices and Submission

Yikes. People don’t like these words. I don’t like these words. But in a healthy marriage there is both. We have sacrificed things as a family so I can stay home with our children, Kyle has sacrificed family time to advance his career, I have sacrificed my own desires to be the best mom I know how to be for our kids. And as far as submission goes…I feel like the sound of a record player screeches each time this comes up in faith based marital conversations. We love to stop reading and start arguing right after Ephesians 22. Wives submit to your husbands..But if you keep reading it calls for husbands to love their wives just as Christ loved the church. THAT IS A SACRIFICIAL LOVE. So scripture tells wives to submit and husbands to sacrifice.

Both of those things require dying to self. And that is something that we have butted-heads over in our first decade of marriage, but have come to the conclusion that dying to self for the sake of a Godly marriage is better than living alone.

I feel like I need to add submission doesn’t include disrespect or abuse. And sacrifice doesn’t include martyrdom.

5. Take Pride In Being A Spouse

When we first got married I told Kyle that we were now one body in Christ, love, and family. And that meant if he had a dumb haircut, then I had a dumb haircut.

If he was rude to waitstaff, that meant I was rude to waitstaff.

If he walked in honor, then I did too.

It’s easy for us to take pride in ourselves if we take pride in our marriage first. To be in that covenant is a blessing that should be taken with pride. I could sit here and spout off more pointers and marriage tips but at the end of the day, it takes specific works of intention for every marriage. I’m very fortunate because I didn’t marry a jerk, and I genuinely enjoy spending time with my husband.

I read a quote the other day that said to love a woman for a lifetime is to change with her. Women change every few years—whether it’s their haircut, tastes, desires, or styles—to change with her is the key. I’m so grateful Kyle has been by my side for every change of the season.

Have a great week.

Bailey

I had a therapist once who would greet me for every session by saying, “Hello dear love!” And it made me feel like I was the only client she had. Her voice was petite and soothing, the kind of voice that can get away with calling a stranger dear love. I don’t think I have that kind of voice that can get away with such a greeting, but I do want to call you a dear love because you’ve been so patient with the inconsistency of my letters.

We have a lot going on over at the Henry House (as if no one else on planet earth has a lot going on), but you get the point—we are all doing our best.

I won’t keep you long today, I just wanted to share 5 things that I think you should listen to this week. These are not listed by order of importance, except for item #1.

Number one is crucial.

#1. Tom’s Diner by Suzanne Vega

I don’t know what it is about the whispered do-do-to-doo-doo-to-do-do intro, but it truly calms my nervous system. This song cast quite a spell over the 1990’s and I feel zero shame when I’m blaring it in the carpool line. The kids seem to enjoy it too and find it silly but soothing. The lyrics are narrative and her voice isn’t trying to be anything other than what it is. I hope it has the same nostalgic and soothing effects over you that it does for me.

#2 The Speakeasy with Blake Guichet// Episode 407

Blake Guichet, known more widely as The Girl Named Blake on social media, is a podcaster and published author. She staked her claim on the internet space by approaching politics and pop culture from a Biblically sound perspective with a heaping dose of common sense. I’m not a regular listener, but this episode came up under suggestions and I’ve followed her since 2020 and was there to witness the huge shift in her content that began last year. Curiosity got to me and I wanted to take the deep dive on how she stepped away from being a self-elected social media political correspondent. Most notable in the episode was her humble admission that she deliberately disobeyed the Holy Spirit when He told her not to do something. It struck me because I’m guilty of the same sin.

I won’t give the rest away, but it’s a great listen for those of us who are incredibly independent and hard headed. Listen here.

#3 Brigham Young University Co-Ed Choir//Come, Thou Fount// BYU Inauguration Choir

When I was pregnant with Anne Rollins I would wake up early each morning to have coffee in bed and watch my favorite YouTube series, Homeworthy.

One morning this choir video was suggested and I guess the algorithm knows me very well at this point, because Come Thou Fount is my favorite classic hymn. I clicked play and within seconds I was in tears. The video has garnered 10 millions views over 2 years and I probably have contributed to at least 100 views. I can appreciate modern praise and worship songs, but nothing brings me a moment of pause and reflection like a gospel choir, and this one brings me goose bumps each time I hear it. If you listen in the morning I think it starts your day off just right.

#4 This Past Weekend with Theo Von// #641 Breathing Expert James Nestor

I am a terrible breather.

I was a competitive dancer from ages 5-21. I’ve performed in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, competed at National’s, and was even awarded the title of International Miss High Kick in Dallas, TX. That was a very long time ago.

But during every performance, practice, and parade I HELD MY BREATHE THE ENTIRE TIME. I don’t know how I didn’t faint, but as soon as I was done I would be gasping for air after holding my breath for minutes at a time while doing extreme cardio. This episode was a great deep dive on how breathing is connected to our full body health, stress levels, and inflammation. If you’re a terrible breather like me, I hope you gain something from this one.

#5 The Tucker Carlson Show//Jeremiah Johnston: Shroud of Turin

I was a skeptic on the legitimacy of the Shroud of Turin until I saw clips of this interview circulating online. Dr. Jeremiah Johnston is currently on a book tour promoting his work on the history and proof that the Shroud of Turin is the resurrection cloth of Jesus Christ.

Not only are his findings fascinating, but on the show with Tucker Carlson he goes into extreme, brutal details of the beating and crucifixion of Jesus. For example, he references the Roman helmet of thorns. We’ve been taught that Jesus wore a thin, sweat band like crown, but they actually made more of a football size helmet of thorns to shove on his head. It was interesting and humbling to listen to this over Easter weekend.

I hope you continue to have a great week. You’re very loved and I thank you for spending time with me.

Bailey

That subtitle took a lot of humility to type.

I’m just not the medication kind of girl, or I haven’t been before now.

I hate taking anything for a headache, I power through menstrual cramps, I stick garlic cloves in my kid’s ears if they have earaches, and I made it through eight hours of unmedicated labor.

This isn’t a brag fact; it’s just the way I’m built—like the truck. Built Ford tough.

I power through things. Because up until last week, I felt I had no other choice than to white-knuckle-tight grip, power through things. I felt to stand by my motto of Buffaloing through life, that the Buffalo had to be miserable to be strong.

You don’t have to be miserable to be strong.

I think that my stance is twofold.

One: I know I have a high tolerance for pain, both physical and mental, so sometimes I wonder if taking something would help at all?

And two: I don’t want anyone to ever think I chose the easy way out? Trust me, I know that sounds unhealthy. Asinine really, why would one woman think that doing something the hard way would be more noble or worthy…I think it’s because I was raised by Boomer people who were raised by Great Depression people. They did hard and they did it well, and they definitely judged you if you had an easier road. Is this what they call, *waves hands in the air* cycle breaking?

We don’t get trophies at the end of our life for doing everything hard. But I also know that with every single choice you make there is risk vs. reward.

Gas station sushi, tanning beds, sharing cigarettes with your girlfriends on Mom’s Night Out, ordering from Temu, blind dates, and medication. All of those are rewarding in their own way (even the sushi), but each come with a level of risk. Up until last week—I had myself convinced that there were only risks and no rewards to helping my ADD. What if I didn’t even have it anymore?

As if, neurodivergence is like heartburn—it comes and goes.

I was in denial, really. Each morning I would wake up and could name at least twenty different streamlines of thought. Songs stuck in my head, meal prep, soccer prep, tutors, summer camps, my parents, friendships that needed mending, coffee, appointments, a dumb thing I said at a friend’s house six months ago..and on..and on..and on.

Before I explain the journey my brain has been on, well my whole life, but more so in this last week—I feel like I need to also tell you, in deep earnest, that I have tried.

I have tried every meditation tactic, herbal supplement, time-block strategy, paper calendar, digital calendar, post-it notes, ashwagandha, keep your shoes on trick, and podcast lesson. I’ve spent thousands of dollars in the last decade on everything my algorithm could sell me on focus, energy, and calm. Probiotics for mental clarity or vitamins for attention—I tried it all. And what my algorithm didn’t suggest—I tried all those things too.

In reflecting on my years spent in a state of frustration and overstimulation—it occurred to me that the same self-soothing tactics I threw at my grief, are the same erratic tools I tried to fix my attention and mental focus.

I was in a constant state of searching.

If I could just find the thing that would turn my brain off.

If I could just see the thing, hear the song, find the right item or podcast—then I could focus. I would seek doomscrolling, just knowing that the next video would be the scratch my brain needed to get realigned. One more add to cart, one more link to click. And then I would feel reset.

Same for alcohol. One more drink and that will be the one to turn my brain from an overheated engine idling constantly to the calm, compartmentalized place I needed it to be. Scroll, drink, shop, click. Scroll, drink, shop, click. Rage. Cry. Beg for forgiveness. Clean up my mess. Start over.

That was my cycle. I was searching for something, anything to order the disorder in my life, and when I didn’t find it—exhausted from searching, I blew up. And then I would breakdown.

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I eased out of the Costco parking lot on a chilly Monday morning when I pulled up behind a crisp white 2026 Range Rover. My eyes drifted down the shiny, pristine vehicle to the personalized license plate that read, “KIDFREE”, and I huffed at the statement.

I wondered what compelled the owner of the car (that I’m sure didn’t smell like baby wipes and petrified bananas) to take such a stance about their lifestyle choice. What made them hold such a posture when filling out the plate form? Were they smug to the DMV clerk who typed in their child-free-by-choice tag, did they enjoy a quiet dinner each night, I wondered.

I stopped myself and thought, “No, wait a minute. Mother’s do this all the time. We buy hats that say MAMA in cursive fonts, or order hoodies that say Mom Era or Boy Mom—and we tell the world we are mothers with gusto—so she can do the same.” I fought for my right to be called Mama, maybe she fought to never be one.

And just when I felt a pang of sadness for her or maybe discomfort for me, the light turned green.

“Have you seen the movie, Nightbitch?”

I’d text my friend a few Saturdays ago.

Her baby is about four months younger than my daughter and she is a movie buff like me, so I figured she would at least know the film I was mentioning. I can remember watching Amy Adams in the semi-indie film where her character morphs into a wolf-like dog to find herself again postpartum. Like becoming something else entirely, rooted her back to herself. It’s artsy, bizarre, and not exactly straightforward on how the metamorphosis takes place. I was still very newly postpartum, inside the first twelve weeks, when I pulled up HULU to see what me, my baby, and my breast pump would watch for the morning.

In the movie, there are great monologues that sum up the rougher edges of motherhood—on the days where you’re exhausted and you try to remember the last time you felt like yourself, looked like yourself—your old self. Amy Adams’ character laments to her husband when he asked where the fun woman he married was, to which she responds, “She died in childbirth.”

I heard my phone ding as I parked my car at Aldi. Making more than one grocery stop is an odd side effect of adulthood that I didn’t see coming.

“Isn’t it about postpartum depression? I haven’t watched it yet because I didn’t want it to upset me further.”

I knew she’d been having a tough time because her baby refused a good night sleep, or any sleep for that matter—and I thought back to all the people who said pregnancy tired is worse than newborn tired and I wanted to call them liars.

I stared carefully at my phone.

I wanted my response to her to be truthful, even if it wasn’t encouraging. I wanted to talk through my answer with nuance because I felt we weren’t just talking about a movie plot anymore, so I slid my thumb downward to find the audio text option, deciding to ramble through my answer, and this is what I said.

“So not to ruin the plot or anything, but it kind of is and isn’t? It’s not so much postpartum depression but rather a postpartum inertia?” I felt a lightness once the word came to me. Yes, inertia.

Inertia is the inherent resistance of a physical object to any change in its state of motion or rest, as described by Newton’s first law of motion. It means an object at rest stays at rest, and an object in motion stays in motion, unless acted upon by a greater external force. Motherhood being the greater external force.

I was in motion being Bailey. The woman whose body didn’t know how to have babies or raise babies. And then I blinked and had two babies—who I didn’t feel I deserved. I was stunted—an object thrown off its axis and therefore, stuck.

Immovable in the shock at which my life became infinitely better, and richer, and so very unrecognizable. In the movie, Adams’s character isn’t portrayed as crying a lot or not smiling at her child or retreating to a dark room—but rather it shows her going through the motions and transactions of her day in a daze of whiplash. She was a woman, an artist, she had a career. And then—in one miraculous act of childbirth, she was something else; someone else.

“Which is what I’ve suffered,” I continued.

“Yea, postpartum inertia, I think. I didn’t know how to be a mom to two kids, so I froze. I sat in my nothingness. My kids were the greater external force that jolted me from myself, and I floated in the waves of their existence. I’d never been a mom of two, I’d never had a newborn. I’d never not worked. I’d never been so out of touch with my body. I was sitting in my confusion after so much of my adulthood was fighting for motherhood and then once I had it, what was I to do with it. What was I going to do with these two gorgeous kids?”

I sent in a follow up text – “What are you to do with your precious baby who refuses to sleep?”

“The movie is filled with these zingers, one liners, of..you know…maybe I will turn into a wolf and run around my neighborhood naked at night..what do I have to lose? Watch it, I don’t think it will upset you.”

My phone lit up with her reply, “Postpartum inertia. Brill. I can handle that and I love Amy Adams.”

As I wandered the produce section of Aldi I thought about the Range Rover, and all the years I spent being a kid free adult, though I’m not sure it counts because a lot of my years were spent in doctors’ offices trying to escape being a kid free adult. And I thought about the Matrescence—the drastic shift one goes through to transform from woman to mother, and how none of it is a fair and straight line.

How every season and cycle is breathtaking with beauty and cruelty, with challenges and theft of time. How none of us can fully enjoy each step without knowing the moment is fleeting or feeling guilty that we hate bathtime or would give anything for a decent night sleep.

I thought by now, at sixteen months postpartum I would know more…I thought I would have a stronger grip on who I’ve become after the event of childbirth, or being a mom to two, or surviving my first summer with two kids at home—I keep waiting for the moment when it all clicks into place, but in the back of my mind, I know it is just a metamorphosis—it’s an undoing of self over, and over, and over again. Each season is a challenge to greet yourself in a new light to see what she is built for, what this version is capable of.

Like becoming something else entirely, rooted her back to herself.

To become like a mother, to become something outside yourself, to become more like Christ, to become stronger, more faithful, braver, to become animalistic, to become wild with fury, to know the weight of motherhood, to become the version of yourself you’re afraid to be.

To risk it all, for love.

When my husband and I started dating in college, we he knew right away that it was for life.

I took a little bit longer to come around to the idea that I’d met a handsome, very kind, quietly funny, Godly man and he wanted my phone number. Was this for real? Was it a prank? Surely, I was bound to screw this up and he wouldn’t understand my sense of humor and I would be signing up for a life of huffs and rolled eyes after I made my jokes—or he would wake up one day and think I was just okay. But somehow, fifteen years later he adores me, and I him, and he loves my potatoes. Jesus is so good to me.

After a few months of dating, I figured I would knock his socks off and make him dinner. Grilled salmon, sauteed zucchini, and roasted red potatoes were on deck. He could take or leave the fish and veggies, but he has requested these potatoes at least one a month since 2010.

Here is what you need:

Whole bag of small red potatoes (12-15), quartered

Olive oil

Oregano

Butter

Garlic powder

Salt

White pepper

Black pepper

Parmesan cheese

*optional: add one small yellow onion, diced

Wash and quarter small red potatoes and soak in cold water for a few minutes. Rinse and pat dry. Put into a bowl to season. Cover generously with olive oil, salt, pepper(s), oregano, garlic, and finely grated parmesan cheese. Melt butter in saucepan and dump in your seasoned potatoes.

Cook on medium high heat for the first two minutes, reduce to medium low and cover pan to let the potatoes cook under moist heat. Stir occasionally and add more cheese and olive oil as needed. Season to taste.

For softer texture potatoes, you can boil first for about 3 min before seasoning and roasting.

My husband is demanding that I elaborate and correct my earlier story.

The first time I made this meal, I perfected the salmon and the potatoes. But I forgot the asparagus, and I need a vegetable with my dinner. I put the lid back on everything, turned off the heat, ran back out to the store, bought my bundle of asparagus and planned to cook and reheat everything to serve Kyle in his one-bedroom apartment that had no dining table, but I digress.

By the time I got home half of the potatoes were gone, and ALL of the fish filets were gone. I was mad just for a minute (okay, maybe a little longer because I was starving) but Kyle was in a haze of food love. I’d made my way to his heart via his stomach, and I don’t ever remember going back to my apartment to pack a bag. I just stayed with him, and I can’t recall too many days without him now.

Lucky me.

Before you read this you should know I wrote it in 2022. It was written from a place of anger and loss, and while I don’t completely resonate with it today, (at least not all day)—I’m still proud of it. I always envisioned myself reading this in a quick cadence at some sort of female driven open mic night, but I don’t attend a lot of those, much less speak at them. So here I am sharing it with you, on a Tuesday afternoon following a three day weekend from my local Barnes + Noble, because it still feels important to me.

And when I go back to re-read it every once in a while, I can still feel the overwhelming sense of panic that everything moves so fast and I feared it would never slow down, but I know now that it does. It really does.

Everything is work. A manifesto.

But not that kind of manifesto.

You know the kind you find in a young man’s room describing his disdain for the world and irritation with the constant rejections from women who didn’t ask for his advances. The manifesto that explains why he shot up a Bed Bath & Beyond in Topeka and then they blame everyone else but him. Because he thought everyone else was wrong and to be blamed, and that he was right.

But this isn’t that kind of manifesto.

Because I think everyone else is right and I’m wrong.

Everything is work. For women that is, everything is absolute work. My mother tells me to take in all in stride. You have the best of the best, a good life she insists. But how do I tell her I’m drowning and all I can see looking back are the ways she could’ve inflated my life jacket, but she didn’t know how to blow up her own.

Everything is work. Staying young is work. Young at heart and young in appearance is almost impossible. Don’t forget to put Aquaphor on your elbows because as they say, forgotten skin is rotten skin. Don’t forget to get Botox, work out, do those kegels, laugh enough to enjoy yourself, but not too much where it crinkles your face.

Don’t forget to have sex with your husband.

Everything is work.

Work is work. Work to provide and retire your husband early! Take back your routine, boss babe because we will pity you if you work until 5 o’clock and have to answer to someone else, but you will also be judged if homeschooling and homesteading is your “work”. But because everything is work anyway, don’t choose wrong.

Everything is work.

Raising children is a job they lied about in the description. Gentle parent, authoritative parent, hands off cage-free parent. We hold the next generation in our hands, it’s not like that’s a lot of pressure or anything.

I’m consumed with work and failure and happiness and contentment and finding my center, why didn’t they tell us that being happy would be work too?

Everything is work.

I’m so sorry I missed your birthday dinner. We had a sitter and then she canceled and then the stomach flu, and then spring break… Let’s get together soon. I miss you. Are you drowning like me? Maybe if we hold each other up we won’t go down, but it feels like the waves are getting taller. Coffee soon?

Everything is work.

I know you want to play puzzles before breakfast, but mommy got up early to work out in the garage and if I don’t fill my cup soon I will spill my grief onto you and I don’t want you to question who I really am— so give 5 minutes to squat through my trauma. Be right there! Yes, you can turn on the TV.

Everything is work.

Did you hear what food coloring does to your kids? We saw that pediatrician but he doesn’t believe the hype so we will just see where it goes. I will send you the article.

Are you happy? Because my husband says I don’t smile anymore and I seem ungrateful, and at the end of the day I forget to practice gratitude because I’m so tired from everything else, but really I’m just afraid I’m making one wrong decision after the next and I am ruining everything. Because everything feels like work.

Everything is work.

I used to get my nails done every Friday and it made me feel confident and put together even if I wasn’t. I stopped after we had our son and apparently you can’t leave a nail salon now for less than $130 bucks so I guess I will just do my own at home. When I find the time.

Did I cover everything? My memory is so bad these days and I’m trying keep up and any free moment I have I blow it on my phone because it makes me feel like I’m in control of my time, but really I’m just wasting it watching everyone else work.

Everything is work.

Yes, we are gonna try again in January I think. The doctors say I should be ready again and my fertility specialist is really confident it should be a breeze. Who knew growing your family would be so much work.

Hey. I’m sorry about last night. It’s just a season and this too shall pass. We will catch our breath in a few weeks and finally go on that trip. Okay. Love you too, honey.

See you after work…

The other day I shared a string of videos on my IG stories about the dangers and hidden features of not only Ai, but how our trusted + chosen apps are secretly funneling our information into Ai data bases.

I then went on to share a story that may seem like a far stretch but bear with me.

I knew a girl in college (a few of them sadly had the same experience), who made the decision to take a nude photo of herself and text it to her then boyfriend. She passed along information, trusting that he would hold it with the same privacy as she took it. She thought they had a common trust. She didn’t think that he would show the explicit photo to his entire fraternity and then upload the picture to a pornographic website.

It was 2009. Cellphone picture quality was grainy and blurry. But the damage was done regardless. The same goes for Ai in my mind. We take pictures, we ask ChatGPT deep questions, and we use images of our children to create silly videos that might go viral.

We trust that information is private or only used one time, for the purpose we intended it to serve. But, not unlike the crappy boyfriend in college—the information is now out of our hands and into others, and their intentions of photos, data, information, and locations are being used to make someone else rich or far worse. And Ai has only been part of our world for barely a year. In ten years…twenty... Can you even imagine the quality of life for our kids.

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It became clear early one morning in December, that we needed to get Sam an alarm clock.

I could hear him breathing and shuffling, a little after five—our windows still dark, and has he clumsily crawled over me, looking for my warmth he asked, “Mama, could a blackhole swallow our house?”

Probably, I answered him.

Kyle rolled over, grabbed his phone to hit Buy Now on the basic alarm clock that had been waiting in our cart. And with it came the boundaries of, “If it’s an emergency or a bad dream, absolutely come get us. But if you just wake up ready to play before six o’clock, just play in your room until then.”

Our son is the question kid.

So many boy parents share stories of climbing trees, climbing roofs, whittling sticks, or doing back flips off the couch. But our boy is restless with his mind before his body. We wake up answering his questions, we go to sleep answering his questions. And for a while now, I’ve been pushing back on some topics of things he has been asking. Shutting him down because I didn’t think he was ready to handle the answers he was searching for, but now, I’m afraid he is at an age where we have to start talking about things.

Even if I’m ready for it or not.

Kyle and I stood in our kitchen drinking coffee on Sunday morning. We should’ve been in church, but a dreary overcast morning encouraged us to oversleep. We were discussing divorce. A friend-of a friend’s marriage was ending, and we remarked how sad it was.

Not knowing Sam was behind me, he popped around and said, “What’s a divorce?”

I started to say my usual, “It’s nothing, baby. I will tell you later.”

But I stopped myself. I looked at Kyle and looked back at my six-year-old who loves information and said, “It’s when a husband and wife, or a mommy and a daddy, don’t want to be married anymore. So, they stop being married and they live in different houses.”

“That is really sad,” he said.

It is, I agreed.

He looked at the floor and just when I thought he would have a follow-up question, he jumped back and screamed,

“POOOOP SANDWICHHHHH TIME.”

That wouldn’t be the last time he asked me a question I wasn’t ready to answer, nor would it be the last time he joked about a poop sandwich.

I have this memory from my childhood that sticks out further now that I’m a mom.

I’m playing with my mother on our living room floor. My first living room. The small one in New Orleans, Louisiana. The home my parents bought from my grandparents, the one with the courtyard, the one that overlooked a canal, the one with the emerald green carpet.

I’m laughing and giggling with my beautiful mother, the green carpet is itchy under my skin and I feel completely safe. I’m fed, taken care of, and giddy. And my young mind wanders to the permanency of this feeling.

“Mama, is this real life right now?’’

“Yes, it is.”

“Are you sure this is real? Are we dreaming? What happens after this?”

My mother went on to explain Heaven. I was four and grew up in a Christian home, but to hear her explain Heaven, a concept I couldn’t grasp yet, I didn’t like what I didn’t know.

“After that Mama, will God start us over?”

I think my mom answered with “I don’t know”, and now that I have a child who asks me a bah-gillion questions a day, I totally get and accept her “I don’t know.”

Sam and I were jumping on the trampoline a few days ago when he asked me the very same question, “Mama is this real right now?” I flashed back to the same feeling I could remember when I was a girl. “It is, buddy. This is real.”

Just when I thought he was going to scream poop sandwich at me again, he turned up at me and said excitedly, “Trevor watches Ai and told me about it!”

“Oh really?” My mind flashed to the data centers that were announced in our state, and I pictured no clean drinking water, astronomical electric bills, and no laws to hold anything or anyone accountable.

“What did Trevor say about Ai?” My stomach started to hurt as I pictured a six year old viewing something that most adults can’t comprehend.

“I can’t remember, but it sounds really cool!” He emphasized the word cool, saying it breathy with his full chest, the way kids do when they really believe something.

I asked a few more questions about what his friend described and if anyone else at school talked about Ai.

“Do you know what Ai stands for, Sam?”

“Hmmm, no.”

“It stands for Artificial Intelligence.”

Since our boy loves information, we’ve been breaking down the words and meanings of things so he can better digest them. I went on to explain that artificial means fake and intelligence means, smarts or a collection of knowledge.

“So, if you put those words together, what else can they mean?”

“Fake smarts?”, he asked with his eyebrows scrunched.

“Yea! Kind of. We have to be super careful about what we watch on our tv’s, phones, or tablets, because a lot of it could be fake. It could be made with computers or Ai, and you could see something really silly, or really scary and none of it could be real.”

“But it just sounds cool, Mama.”

“I know it does, but it’s important that we remember to not believe everything we see or read behind a screen. If you can’t see it or touch it for yourself, maybe we should not trust it totally?”

I felt a little embarrassed as I talked to him, needing to take my own advice as I remembered all the photoshopped images of celebrities I’d seen over the years that made me feel less than, the altered waistlines and pore sizes of people who are paid to be perfect, the news outlets that manipulated headlines to be scarier. My father’s voice came to mind, “Don’t believe everything you see on TV, Peanut.”

“I know, Mama. But I want to see it. Can you show me some Artificial Nutrients on your phone?”

I smiled at his mix-up, knowing that he just said a mouthful in that slip. And thought of ways to relate Ai to junk food, could I do some sort of science experiment with him that would convince him to never want either one. So I could protect him even after I’m gone.

I pulled out my phone and showed him three videos. One was real, two were AI. I told him if he could guess the real one, he could have a piece of chocolate.

When I envisioned my role as a mother, I really pictured the highlight reels.

Taking family walks, cooking, dancing in the kitchen, rocking my babies to sleep and breathing them in as I prayed over them. All of that happens, not all day everyday—but I check off my sweet moments pretty often and I know that is a gift.

But what I didn’t expect was raising children in an Epstein File, something is wrong with our food, TikTok minister, Ai world that is slowly burning. The added pressures of not only talking to my children about sex, but sextortion and bots tricking kids for money on Instagram and Snapchat—I didn’t picture that. I envisioned talking to my kids about drugs, but never pictured that someone would trick them through game apps like Roblox and Minecraft to buy synthetic fentanyl that could end their lives.

The added pressure of raising babies in a tech world does scare, even though I know scripture says to not be afraid. But like School House Rock says, knowledge is power. Actually, I think that came from Sesame Street, who adapted it from Sir Frances Bacon. Anyways.

I feel certainly that community, when we are stronger together and if we are aware of what is trying to tear us apart. Headlines, and data centers, and even halftime shows—all of it can be pawned in a light to divide and distract us. But if we are aware of it, will that change the outcome?

If you’ve read this far waiting for my parenting punchline of, “Here is what you say to your kids about Ai,” I’m afraid I will leave you empty handed. I’ve no idea..and just as the technology will change and advance overtime, so will our conversations.

I’m not an alarmist, I’m not a Chicken Little the sky is falling kind of woman.

But again. We have to know what we are up against, and we have to stand strong together for our children—to show them that real life is so much better the old fashioned way. If I sound like an alarmist to you, then I deeply encourage you to look into a few things and just see how your spirit sits with it.

I pray you are having a great week, enjoying your people and your food. You’re loved.

Talk soon,

Bailey

I often wonder how many other millennial women get baffled at the passage of time. Am I the only one who is shocked at doing grown up things like taxes, annual exams, or talking to their parents about plans and wishes ‘when that time comes’. Am I the only one who gets homesick for my childhood bedroom and listening to Avril Lavigne CD’s, and waiting for my friends to decide which movie to see—waiting to go drive around town in my 1998 Nissan Altima with a sunroof. How did time go by so quickly and how did my boobs sag so fast?

What do you mean I’m on the back nine of my thirties and I have friends who are getting hysterectomies and divorces? What do you mean my childhood best friend has a daughter in high school? What do you mean my husband’s twentieth high school reunion is this year?

Like I said, baffled.

It wasn’t even motherhood or my journey there that made me feel like a card carrying grown-up. Quite the opposite really, my infertility made me feel like a child who was begging to stay up late with the adults and I kept getting told no. But here we are in 2026, I am in my (gulps harshly) late thirties, and I have two beautiful children and my thoughts are constantly consumed with their health, development, and schooling. Side note: I hope very soon to be able to discuss the stresses of choosing a school for your kid, and the frustration that no one talks about how labor intensive it is on your marriage, finances, and choices. But rather it’s the small movements and moments that jolt me into reality of aging. Things like drinking mint tea after a big meal for bloating, being hungover from salty food and staying up past 11, and wondering how many holidays I have left with my parents.

My age and how so very quickly I arrived here, has been on my mind a lot lately. And just the absolute warp speed in which time passes now that I have children. My aunt Denise told me that would happen.

My daily routine and things I’m drawn too now are a constant proof and reminder that even though I feel 17, and I feel like 2004 was just a few years ago—we are so very far from that moment in time. I’ve compiled a list of ways I know that I’m getting older.

And since most of you are my age, or older, I’m hoping you can relate.

Ways I know I’m Aging:

• I remind myself to exercise not for being skinny or fit, but to fight osteoporosis.

• I now use my heating pad for joint and back aches, and not menstrual cramps.

• I will risk getting a speeding ticket on the way to an estate sale.

• I will risk getting a speeding ticket on the way to a botox appointment.

• Antiques Roadshow is my favorite tv show.

• I worry about my husband’s cholesterol and stress level

• I love the music at the grocery store, but they play it too loud.

• Taking magnesium before bed centers me.

• My belly button doesn’t look how it used to.

• I’m on committees. People asked me to be on committees.

• I get excited for my morning coffee at 6pm the evening before.

• I cried looking at my Mama’s hands a few weeks ago.

• I make sure to eat walnuts for the health benefits.

• I know how to roast a chicken now.

• I can’t name a single famous person under the age of 40.

• I do neck exercises to tighten my jowls.

• I bird watch.

• I want to host holidays.

• I get excited over matching pajamas.

• I can no longer purchase a swimsuit from just anywhere, it has to be well made to hold all the things.

• I’m a bit cynical.

• I can’t have caffeine past 1pm.

• I’ve started a table linen collection.

• My week lives or dies by Sunday laundry routine.

• I’m very proud of my gray hair.

It’s an absolute privilege to grow old, I just didn’t think it would happen so fast.

I hope you all have an amazing week! What would you add to this list?

I’m not sure why roasting a chicken seemed so overwhelming to me before now? If I’d known how easy it was I would’ve been blowing through whole chickens like a mad woman.

I’m sharing two recipes today. One for my Dutch Oven Roast Chicken, which leads to the most beautiful broth. And the second is my Chicken Pot Pie recipe.

Both are easy, crowd pleasers, and I’ve kept these recipes 90% organic.

My father grew up poor.

When I ask him about it now, he says they were lower middle class—but when discussing my dad’s tumultuous childhood, their socioeconomic status is a key factor. Like an odd relative who showed up in every family photo, always lurking in the background—money was sparse.

Now that I’m older and I understand how people have very different opinions on wealth and money, I know that they weren’t poor. But rather, my paternal grandfather who held the purse strings, didn’t let on if anything was left over and whatever money was left over, he spent on himself.

Alcohol, secretaries, tools, golf clubs, hunting money.

When my dad was a senior in high school, he wanted a letterman jacket to celebrate his seniority, his father bought a new shotgun instead.

So, no—not poor, just not a priority.

The first time I heard about the fire I was twelve.

I’d gotten off the school bus and knew I had about ten minutes to myself before my dad got home from work. I wasn’t totally playing with matches, but I did love to strike one and watch it burn.

I loved the sliding crunch of the ignite, the flame, the smell of sulfur dioxide. I would stand in front of the kitchen sink, strike a match and watch it burn, then run it under the faucet. I wasn’t a total pyro. I knew when to run it under the water and let is simmer in the sink. I got caught playing my little game one afternoon when my dad got home early.

He came in and stuck his nose in the air. “What’s burning?”

I froze.

I hate lying.

I don’t lie.

I just didn’t want to tell him the truth. I stood there, still as a statue. And what I didn’t know as a kid, is that parents have already done all of this.

He knew the dried out and soggy matches would be in the sink.

*Just as I was sitting at my dining room table, my six-year-old son came to me with a box of matches and wanted me to safely demonstrate a strike. He doesn’t know I’m writing this story.

He doesn’t know I write stories at all.

My father, who I now realize operated from a place of anxiety and panic for most of my childhood, lost it.

“You don’t mess with matches!” His voice was thick and heightened. Slamming the used match sticks into the garbage can and searching the kitchen for embers, he paced as worry washed down his forehead. And then as anxiety and unhealed hurt prompts, he overreacted and launched into a story about the worst-case scenario.

His worst-case scenario.

He began to yell a story at me about when his home, when he was twelve, burned to the ground.

Knowing that money was tight, my dad came home from school one day to find his parents packing up the family Pontiac station wagon. It was 1968, and for the first time in his memory—they were going on a family vacation. My daddy grew up in Obion County, Tennessee, it’s about two and a half hours from Nashville. His parents told him to gather he and his siblings because they were taking a weekend trip to the Grand Ole Opry. He was too excited and too much of a boy to think about where the funds could’ve come from.

As the story goes—the car was packed, the kids were overjoyed, and the station wagon pulled down the driveway. And suddenly the car jerked to a stop, his father threw it in park and told everyone he forgot to grab something inside.

He ran in and out in just a minute. And that was the last time they saw their home upright.

My dad towered over me, the smell of sulfur still filling the kitchen as he told of walking through ash and rubble. “My red phone melted into a ball,” he said. He told me they would have to start over from nothing; they had nothing, they could save nothing. “You’re not old enough to even be able to try and stop a fire. God, what if something happened to you, to our house.” He paced a bit more and then sat me down to finish the story.

He and his younger brother had their own hotel room, they were settling in giddy as colts, drinking Coca Colas, and watching the hotel TV when the phone rang. They had to come home right away; their house had burned down to the foundation.

My daddy still hasn’t seen the Grand Ole Opry.

I sat across from him at our breakfast table. My dad was a weathered kind of handsome, and I watched the deep lines around his eyes get tighter when I asked him more questions. “How did the fire start, Daddy?”

“Well, for a long time they said my dad did it.”

I couldn’t comprehend this. I can hardly understand it now.

“But then another man in town was said to have framed him and set the house on fire for revenge. But the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation couldn’t prove anything on either side. So, they closed the case.”

We will start with the man who allegedly wanted to frame my grandfather.

I won’t say his real name, but it was long and southern, something like a ‘Winston Bradford Graves’. And ole Winston wanted my dad’s dad, named Laurus (also dramatic and southern)—to hire his son at the clothing plant in town. Laurus managed the factory in Troy, TN that produced items like Levi’s blue jeans. Laurus said no. Winston got mad. And then Winston saw an opportunity to… burn his house down? That doesn’t sound right?

The other, and sadly more plausible story is this:

My dad’s dad was a very bitter and angry man. He married a woman that he didn’t want to marry. He had kids that he didn’t want to have. He had a job that just got him by. I think he lived a higher and mightier life in his ego, and my dad bore the brunt of most of his disappointments.

So, on a wild hair, he tries to plan an escape. He figures he needs to get the kids and the wife out of town; a total loss has a big insurance pay out, and his secretary would make for a fine partner to run away with. What my father didn’t tell me at the time was that the house didn’t just burn down, it blew up.

Two cans of kerosene were found in the oven, and the oven had been set on a timer.

He ran in and out in just a minute, he said he forgot something.

For my dad’s entire life, and now for the majority of mine—this story has been a huge question mark over our family. The story will get brought up at dinners or visits and I gawk each time at more details. Until last week I didn’t know the TBI was involved. I didn’t know it was the talk of Obion County for the next three years. Did his dad really do it? It clearly wasn’t an accident, and we know that Laurus was not kind, but to burn down your family home, it all seems so extreme. He must have been so miserable that arson and losing everything he owned may have been worth the fresh start that he never took. He remained married, working at the factory, and fiercely cruel until the day he died.

I called my dad last week to ask him if he cared about me sharing this story with you.

“Sure, I don’t care,” he said. In between my questions other family lore was brought up too.

His grandmother killed a man for hunting on her land.

And her husband put out a lit cigar on his feet in a court room to prove his innocence. They were bootleggers and moonshine was involved in both of those stories.

So why am I telling you about this now? I’m not totally sure.

It certainly isn’t to embarrass my father, or to bring shame to our family. I think because during this season of wintering, we slow down long enough to let our brains wander.

And that is what mine did. I thought about the people in my family and the wild old southern stories that I grew up hearing. Every one of them true—stories with characters in them of heroes, villains, moonshine, highspeed chases, and dead mules.

Since the beginning of time, we have documented our existence. We have documented us by way of art and words, and songs, and poetry, and tattoos. We don’t want our favorite stories to be forgotten, or rather, we don’t want to be forgotten. Sadly, when I think of my paternal grandfather whom I never met, I think of fire. And really, that makes sense on so many levels. We are all still dealing with the smoke that his legacy left behind.

Everyone loves an old southern whodunnit and as it turns out, my family has quite a few of those under our rug.

To this day, my dad swears the Winston Bradford Graves character did it, revenge is best served in a gas tank, or something like that. And truth be told, we will never know who did it or why. The insurance money built back a new home, and my dad left Tennessee in his early twenties and never went back.

But the stories of us, the gnarly legends of our people; people of grit, and poor character, or poor spirits, or heroes, or cycle breakers—those only stick around if we bring it up every now and then.

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