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What’s Changed in 19 Years…

Today would have been my 19th wedding anniversary with Fred.

That sentence still lands with weight.

Not because I am stuck there. Not because I want to go back. But because love leaves fingerprints on time, and some dates never become neutral again.

Nineteen years ago, I married a man who shaped me. We built a life in the way couples do—messy, hopeful, unfinished. We grew up together. We learned who we were by learning how to be married. And when he died, that chapter didn’t close neatly. It ended mid-sentence.

Grief doesn’t respect calendars, but anniversaries have a way of knocking anyway.

What anchors me on days like today is gratitude.

Because the love we shared didn’t disappear with him. It lives on in the children he shared with me, in the family we built together, in the relationships and roots that still surround my life. I am profoundly grateful for that legacy. For the laughter that still sounds like him. For the people who carry pieces of him forward without even realizing it. For the fact I can still see his smile in our children’s. He didn’t just leave me memories—he left me a family.

And here’s the part that still feels strange to say out loud: I am deeply, fully, undeniably in love with Tim.

Not instead of loving my Fred.

Not in competition with that love.

Just… also.

For a long time, I thought love worked like a single chair—you vacate it, or you sit in it. One at a time. I didn’t understand that love is more like a house. Rooms get added. Some doors stay closed most days, but they’re still there.

Today is one of those days when an old door creaks open.

I can miss the man I lost and still laugh with the man I married.

I can honor a marriage that ended in death and still be fiercely committed to the one I’m in now.

I can feel the ache of “what would have been” without wishing away what is.

Loving my Tim does not erase my past. And remembering my Fred does not diminish my present.

That’s the juxtaposition people don’t talk about enough—the quiet coexistence.

Tim didn’t replace Fred. He met me after loss reshaped me. He loves a woman who knows how fragile life is, how precious ordinary days are, how deeply commitment can root itself in the bones. He loves me with patience on days like today, when the calendar carries more emotional weight than usual. And that love is not smaller because it came later. If anything, it is more intentional.

Grief taught me that love is not scarce. It expands. It stretches. It surprises you.

So today, I hold both truths.

I remember the man I married nineteen years ago, with gratitude—for our life, for our children, for the family he left behind that still carries me forward.

And I choose the man I wake up next to now, with joy, loyalty, and a full heart.

Both can be true.

Both are true.

And that doesn’t make love complicated.

It makes it real.

Blessings y’all – Amy

Loving Senior Dogs

Nobody tells you how quietly it happens.

One day your dog is bounding through the house, nails clicking, tail wagging so hard it knocks into furniture. And then one day you notice they hesitate before jumping on the couch. They sleep a little deeper. Their face starts to gray in places you swear were brown yesterday.

Having senior dogs is a lesson in noticing.

You notice the way walks get shorter but more intentional. The way they follow you less and watch you more. The way their eyes still light up for food, sunshine, and your voice—even when their bodies don’t cooperate the way they used to.

Senior dogs change the rhythm of your life.

Schedules revolve around medications, vet visits, special diets, and accommodations you never thought about before. Ramps replace stairs. Rugs appear where floors used to be bare. You learn where the nearest emergency vet is without thinking. You start measuring time differently—not in years, but in good days.

And yet… there is something deeply sacred about this stage.

They no longer care about impressing anyone. They aren’t interested in chaos or novelty. What they want is simple: comfort, consistency, and you. They choose their spots carefully. They soak up warmth like it’s their job. They love slower mornings and familiar routines.

Their love becomes quieter, but no less fierce.

There’s a weight to loving a senior dog because you’re always holding two truths at once. You’re grateful they’re still here, and you’re painfully aware that time is not infinite. Every limp, every off day, every vet appointment carries a question you don’t want to ask yet.

But loving them anyway—fully, intentionally—is the whole point.

Senior dogs teach you how to be present.

They teach patience when plans change. Compassion when bodies fail. Acceptance when things are out of your control. They don’t need grand gestures. They need you to show up, again and again, in the small ways: refilling the water bowl, adjusting the blanket, sitting on the floor because they can’t climb onto the couch anymore.

They give you everything they have left.

And if you’re lucky, you get to give it back to them in the form of dignity, comfort, and love at the end of their story.

Loving a senior dog is not for the faint of heart. It’s emotional. It’s expensive. It’s exhausting. And it’s absolutely worth it.

Because when they look at you—old, tired, still trusting—you realize something important:

They were never just a phase of your life.

You were their whole life.

Joy, Reba, Lilah – that is a responsibility, and an honor, I will never take lightly.

Blessings y’all – Amy

Confessions of a Spoiled Wife

I’ve hesitated to write this because “spoiled” is such a loaded word. It conjures images of entitlement, diamonds tossed aside, and someone complaining because their coffee wasn’t hot enough the third time. That’s not me.

But if we’re being honest—and this is a confessions post—I am spoiled.

Not in the flashy, reality-TV sense. I don’t live a life of excess or luxury for the sake of it. I’m spoiled in the quiet, everyday ways that don’t make for Instagram reels but absolutely shape how safe, supported, and loved I feel.

I’m spoiled because my husband notices things.

He notices when I’m overwhelmed before I say it out loud. He notices when my patience is thin, when my shoulders are tense, when I’m carrying more than I should. And instead of telling me to “relax,” he steps in. Sometimes that looks like attacking the never ending to do list we share between us. Sometimes it’s ordering dinner. Sometimes it’s just letting me be cranky without fixing me.

I’m spoiled because he encourages me to rest—even when I’m not very good at it.

I’m wired to keep going, to push through, to feel like there’s always one more thing that needs to be done. Rest doesn’t come naturally to me, and slowing down often feels uncomfortable. He sees that. And instead of rushing me or getting frustrated, he gently nudges me toward pause.

Sometimes that looks like reminding me it’s okay to sit down. Sometimes it’s handling things so I don’t feel the pressure to keep moving. And sometimes it’s just being patient while I learn how to stop without feeling guilty.

That kind of steady encouragement—the kind that doesn’t demand or expect anything in return—is its own kind of care.

I’m spoiled because my opinions matter.

I’ve always prided myself on being independent. I didn’t need help. I didn’t rely on anyone. I handled things myself, carried my own weight, and wore self-sufficiency like a badge of honor. Depending on someone felt risky—like giving up control.

And then there’s my husband.

He never asked me to be smaller or less capable. He just made it safe to lean. Little by little, he made dependence feel less like weakness and more like trust. Being able to say “I’ve got this” and “I need you” without shame has been unexpectedly freeing. He makes room for both versions of me—the strong one and the tired one—and somehow makes both feel equally valued.

Not just on the big stuff, but on the boring, everyday decisions. The tone of our life together isn’t dictated—it’s a compromise we work on all the time. I’m heard. I’m considered. I’m respected even when we disagree. Especially then.

And yes, sometimes I’m spoiled in the more obvious ways too.

Thoughtful surprises that say, I was thinking about you when you weren’t in the room. Surprise Stanleys (when we all know I don’t need any more). Over the top thoughtful gifts on the gifting occasions. Not only putting up with but encouraging my hobbies. Those things add up. They soften the edges of hard days.

But here’s the part that matters most: being spoiled doesn’t mean I don’t give back.

This isn’t a one-way street where I take and take and call it love. I show up. I carry weight. I contribute. I fight for us. I love loudly and protect fiercely. Being spoiled isn’t about imbalance—it’s about care being mutual and intentional.

I’m spoiled because my marriage is safe.

Safe to be honest. Safe to be imperfect. Safe to grow and change without fear of being punished for it.

If calling myself a spoiled wife makes someone uncomfortable, I’m okay with that. I didn’t stumble into this life by accident. I chose a partner who treats me well, and I choose him back every day.

So yes – I confess.

I’m spoiled.

And I’m incredibly grateful.

Blessings y’all – Amy

The Joys of Being a Brand-New Mimi

I’ve only been a Mimi for a short time—just four months—but somehow it already feels like a part of me that’s always existed.

Being a brand-new Mimi is a quiet kind of joy. It’s the joy of learning her rhythms, her sounds, the way her face lights up when she recognizes me. It’s lighting up like I won the lottery when a text comes in with a new video or picture. It’s realizing that even at four months old when I visit she knows exactly who I am—and that I am safe, familiar, and love her beyond measure.

There is something incredibly grounding about holding a baby who fits perfectly in the crook of your arm. About rocking her while the world slows down just enough to breathe again. In those moments, nothing else matters—not the noise, not the stress, not the endless mental lists. Just her steady breathing and the way her tiny fingers curl around mine.

At four months, everything is new. Her curiosity is wide open, and I love my front-row seat to the wonder. I get to hear the first belly laughs, the wide-eyed fascination with ordinary things, the serious concentration as she studies the world around her. Being her Mimi means I get to marvel alongside her.

This season comes with a beautiful freedom. I don’t carry the weight of being her parent—but I carry the privilege of loving her deeply. I get to support, to soothe, to show up without pressure. I get to be present in a way that feels both intentional and light. I get to watch my kids thrive as parents and be so proud of how they love and shape this little person.

There is also something unexpectedly healing about this role. Becoming a Mimi has softened parts of me I didn’t realize were still holding tension. It has reminded me that love doesn’t have to be earned or managed—it can simply be given.

I know this stage will pass quickly. Four months will turn into crawling, then walking, then running. But right now, in this small and fleeting season, I’m soaking it in—the weight of her in my arms, the sound of her laugh, the way being her Mimi feels like a gift wrapped in the quiet moments.

Being a brand-new Mimi has already changed me. And I have a feeling this joy is only just beginning.

Blessing Y’all – Amy

Choosing Intentional in the Middle of Chaos

I know we’re halfway through January and I’m just now trying to form coherent thoughts about everything that’s hit my world over the last few weeks—but bear with me.

My word for 2026 is intentional.

I intend (no pun intended) to keep that word front and center as a reminder that life only happens to me if I let it. If I hand over control of my emotions and thoughts to the things that scare me, then I’m the one who pays the biggest price. And since my emotions and thoughts have been in a pretty steady free fall since before Christmas, I clearly need that reminder.

Someone once said—at least Fred repeated it often—that when life stops changing, you get about the business of dying. I know that. Even with as much growth as I’ve had in therapy, change still rocks my world. Nothing triggers my depression and anxiety faster than everything around me shifting for reasons I didn’t choose and can’t control.

Right now, I’m standing in the middle of massive change and chaos at work and last week Lilah was diagnosed with a soft tissue sarcoma. Either one of those alone would be enough to shake me. Both together have left me struggling to function… or even want to get out of bed.

Professionally, after almost 15 years in this place, I know I’ll be fine. Eventually.

Right now? I’d rather not be around anyone. I’m not fit company, and my patience is nonexistent.

My brain feels like someone dumped a bucket of ping-pong balls inside my head and then said, “Function as you normally would.”

Sometimes in life, you just get tired of operating at 200% when everyone around you struggles to hit 75% or to care as much as you do. But slacking off isn’t how I’m wired—no matter how bad I’m struggling. That’s the thing that keeps me being overlooked. Amy will always rise to the occasion no matter what.

And that’s exhausting.

Re: Lilah.

She is my baby. The other half of my heart.

We’ve lost so much in the last year—dog-wise—to cancer. Our vet firmly believes the surgery scheduled for the 23rd will put this monster to bed, but the fear is still there. We’ve already said goodbye to Paris and Hope because cancer and tumors won.

Does anyone really blame me for being just a little resistant to the idea that everything will be rosy?

I’m not sure any of this even makes sense, but the urge to get it out of my head and into written words was stronger than my need for polish. I’m carrying so many emotions right now.

Anger is at the top of the list. I’m tired of giving everything I have and being overlooked like paint on a wall.

Worry is right there with the anger.

Fear and anxiety have joined the line.

Tim would tell you depression is here too—and I know he’s right.

But circling back to my word.

Intentional.

I’m going to be intentional about how much I give.

Intentional about what I carry.

Intentional about where my energy goes.

Intentional about protecting the parts of me that are worn thin but still standing.

I don’t have answers. I don’t have clarity. I don’t even have peace right now.

But I do have intention—and for now, that’s enough to keep me trying to move forward.

Blessings y’all – Amy

Confessions of A Seasoned Cruiser

After 30+ cruises, I can tell you there’s a big difference between your first time stepping on a ship and your thirtieth. The first time, you’re wide-eyed at everything—the glittering atrium, the sheer size of the ship, the endless food options. By the time you’ve cruised dozens of times, you still appreciate the beauty, but you also know where the best coffee is without consulting the deck plan, which elevator banks actually move faster, and which quiet corner is perfect for reading when the pool deck is packed.

Boarding Day: No Panic Necessary

New cruisers often bolt onto the ship the second boarding opens, racing to squeeze in every minute. Seasoned cruisers know better. I’ve learned the art of the late arrival—letting the initial rush die down before strolling aboard without stress. The ship won’t sail without me, and sometimes the best move is to head straight for that tucked-away lounge instead of fighting the buffet line with half the passenger list.

Packing Like a Pro

On my first cruise, I packed half my closet. By cruise thirty, I’ve mastered the art of less. Packing for the Caribbean means keeping it light—swimsuits, sundresses, sandals, and easy layers that don’t take up much space. For a leaf-peeping cruise, it’s an entirely different approach. The mornings are crisp, the afternoons warm, and the evenings chilly enough for a sweater and scarf. My suitcase shifts from flip-flops to sturdy shoes, from cover-ups to cozy layers. The key is versatility and always having a carry-on ready with what I’ll need that first day, whether it’s a swimsuit for tropical waters or a fleece pullover for watching fall leaves roll by from the deck.

Skipping the Crowds

After so many cruises, I know when to join the excitement and when to duck away. First-timers chase every trivia contest and poolside game. I’ve learned the joy of finding the hidden decks no one bothers with, slipping into the spa pool when most passengers are in port, and savoring specialty dining instead of fighting buffet lines. It’s not about doing it all—it’s about knowing what fills your cup.

Loving the Rituals

Even after thirty sailings, there are traditions I never miss. The sailaway moment—drink in hand, wind whipping my hair—as the ship pulls away from port. The late-night stroll under starlight when the decks are quiet. That first coffee of the day with nothing but ocean stretched ahead. These rituals are the heartbeat of cruising, and they’ve never lost their magic.

Why I Keep Coming Back

Being a seasoned cruiser doesn’t mean the excitement has faded. If anything, it’s richer now. I no longer stress over what to pack or whether I’ll “miss something.” I know what I love, what I can skip, and how to pace myself. Every ship has its own personality, every itinerary its own surprises, and every voyage still feels like an escape.

After 30+ cruises, I’ve learned this: the sea always gives you something new, whether it’s a sunrise you’ve never seen, a flavor you’ve never tasted, or a memory you’ll carry home. That’s why I keep boarding—because cruising, at its best, is never about the count. It’s about the journey.

Blessings y’all – Amy

Welcome To The Jungle…The Concrete Jungle That Is!

Coming from Texas, New York City hit me like a wall of sound. At home, the nights are wide open and quiet—just cicadas buzzing in the heat, the hum of a porch fan, maybe the crackle of mesquite wood in the fire pit. Weekends smell like barbecue drifting from the neighbor’s backyard, and the pace of life is as steady as a two-lane road stretching toward the horizon.

In Manhattan, silence doesn’t exist. Horns blare in constant argument, buses hiss as they brake, and the subway rumbles below like a restless beast. Layered over it all are voices—thousands of them—clashing, laughing, bargaining, shouting in languages I couldn’t always place. The city doesn’t hum—it roars. And stepping into it, I felt like I’d been dropped into the middle of a song that never stops playing.

The Smells of the City

Texas air is familiar: mesquite smoke, cut grass, fresh rain on dust, the sweet smell of bluebonnets in spring. New York, though, is a kaleidoscope of scents that change block by block. On one corner, a halal cart fills the air with cumin and sizzling lamb. Walk a little farther, and roasted nuts or a hot pretzel tempt you. Then, just as suddenly, the sharp tang of garbage bags waiting for pickup crashes in. But even that fades the moment a bagel shop door opens, releasing the warmth of toasted sesame and fresh bread. It’s chaotic, sometimes foul, sometimes heavenly, but never dull.

The Rat Race in Motion

In Texas, people wave at strangers on backroads, traffic slows behind tractors, and “running late” usually means you stopped to chat somewhere. New York doesn’t have time for that. The sidewalks churn like a stampede. Before the crosswalk light even changes, crowds surge into the street, weaving between cabs with coffees in hand. At first, I hung back—hesitant, cautious. But soon I matched their stride, dodging traffic like it was second nature. The city pulls you into its rhythm whether you’re ready or not.

Finding My Place in the Chaos

Back home, solitude is easy. Step outside at night and the sky opens, stars scattered wide above dark fields. In New York, solitude is impossible—but community is everywhere. Packed shoulder to shoulder on a subway car, sharing an eye-roll at a train delay, or laughing when a cab screeches too close—it felt raw and unfiltered, but real. In its own way, the city made me feel less alone than an empty Texas backroad ever could.

Why It Stays With Me

New York is relentless. It doesn’t slow down, doesn’t soften its edges, doesn’t stop for anyone to catch their breath. But for a Texan used to space, stillness, and skies that seem to go on forever, the chaos was intoxicating. It rewired my pulse to its own restless beat.

New York doesn’t politely invite you to love it—it dares you. And as much as I’ll always cherish the wide skies, the slow drawl of a summer evening, and the comforting smell of barbecue smoke drifting through the Texas air, I know I’ll take that dare again.

When Did We Stop Listening?

I almost never watch the news. Honestly, I can’t stand it.

But this week, during an hour-long nail appointment, the television was on. In that short time, I heard stories of a shooting at an ICE facility in Dallas, a semi-truck being pursued by police in Anaheim, and a stabbing at a school on the East Coast. And of course, you’d have to be living under a rock not to have heard about the Charlie Kirk shooting.

It struck me how much heaviness, violence, and grief can fill just sixty minutes of airtime. For me, that’s exactly why I usually avoid tuning in. Still, the stories linger, and they’ve left me chewing on something deeper: when did we stop listening?

Over the last twenty plus years, we’ve gotten very good at talking. With social media, 24-hour news, and endless platforms, everyone has a microphone, and everyone wants to be heard. But somewhere along the way, listening seems to have fallen out of practice.

When did we stop breaking bread with friends and neighbors and really trying to put ourselves in someone else’s shoes? Right, left, polka dot, or rainbow—it doesn’t matter the label. When did our brains stop stretching to see the world from another vantage point? When did the sound of our individual voices grow louder than the sound of voices bonded together—as Americans, as human beings, as family by blood or by choice?

Lately, I’ve struggled most with understanding the tragedy around Charlie Kirk. The things I’ve learned about him since his death make me wish I’d paid more attention before. But more than that, I keep coming back to his widow. Watching her carry herself with such strength in public, knowing the depth of pain and grief she must be enduring, moves me deeply. I imagine how all she must want is to pull the covers over her head and wish it all away.

And I find myself asking: when did the world become a place where taking another person’s life was seen as an acceptable way of dealing with conflict? When did celebrating the loss of someone’s husband and father become okay?

Maybe it’s age. Maybe it’s the season of life I’m in. But I feel like I see things through different glasses now. I long for a time when I could keep my babies close and not have to trust this cruel world to spare them. These days, my heart aches as I wonder where all of this is headed.

I don’t have tidy answers. But I do know this: the more cruelty I see, the more convinced I become that compassion is the only way forward. Listening doesn’t mean agreeing. It doesn’t mean silencing your own beliefs. It means making space, honoring another perspective, and remembering that life is fragile, sacred, and shared.

Maybe the first step is simple. Notice how much we talk. Notice how little we listen. And choose, in small ways, to listen again.

Because the sound of voices joined together—not in anger, not in argument, but in genuine listening—is still one of the most powerful sounds in the world.

Blessings Y’all. Pray for each other and our country.

Amy

Relics From The Past

Let me preface this by saying: I am not a hoarder. I’m actually deathly afraid of becoming one. But somehow, I’ve ended up with an attic full of memories (read: buckets of stuff), a garage that can’t fit both cars, and a house full of furniture that could probably tell a better life story than I can.

There’s a fine line between “sentimental” and “featured on an episode of Hoarders: Emotional Edition,” and I’m walking it.

There’s a beast of a dresser that’s been with me since the beach house days. It’s roughly 40% wood and 60% pure sentiment. One drawer sticks, another only opens if you bribe it with a candle and a soft song, and the side door swings open on its own like the ghosts of my past are trying to get my attention.

It’s heavy as sin, scuffed to oblivion, and borderline haunted—but it reminds me of a different version of myself. A different season. And no matter how many times I curse its weight while moving it (again), I just can’t bring myself to let it go.

My grandmother’s sewing table matches absolutely nothing in my house. It doesn’t even pretend to go. And I don’t sew on it—I have a modern table with wheels and storage and cupholders and probably Wi-Fi. But every time I think about getting rid of Mom’s table, I get a knot in my stomach the size of a humpback whale.

Suddenly, I’m back in her sewing room, small and wide-eyed, watching her whip up curtains, costumes, and magic with just fabric and a foot pedal. And just like that, I find yet another random corner in my house for this table that serves no purpose, clashes with everything, and will—without a doubt—outlive us all.

So why do we keep these things? Because they’re not just things—they’re time capsules. They hold memories, emotions, versions of ourselves we’re not quite ready to let go of. Letting them go feels less like decluttering and more like deleting chapters of a story—or worse, throwing away someone else’s.

And maybe, deep down, I’m clinging to the hopeful (if slightly delusional) idea that these items will mean something to my kids someday… even though, realistically, they’re probably walking through my house right now mentally cataloging what they’ll have to haul to the curb when I’m gone. Or worse—carrying the guilt of tossing it that I can’t stomach now.

I get it. I really do.

But for now—the haunted dresser, the attic full of memories, the sewing table with no purpose—they stay.

Because I remember. And that’s enough.

They remind me where I came from. They make my house feel lived-in and loved—not showroom perfect, but memory-perfect.

Blessings y’all – Amy

Team Pumpkin Spice

Look, I know it’s 112 degrees outside. I know my car seat belt buckle is hot enough to brand cattle. I know I shouldn’t even be thinking about fall flavored drinks right now unless they come with a hydration IV and a personal misting fan.

But friends, I am deep in a pumpkin spice spiral.

It happens every year—like clockwork, right around August 1st. I’ll be standing in Target, drenched in sweat, buying something completely unrelated like a garden hose or ant killer when my eyes land on an orange velvet pumpkin in the seasonal aisle. The next thing I know, I’m sniffing cinnamon-scented candles like a lunatic and trying to justify why I absolutely need a 5-foot inflatable pumpkin holding a PSL.

Pumpkin Premonition Syndrome.

Symptoms include:

Sudden urge to buy decorative gourds
Irrational anger when you remember Starbucks hasn’t released their fall menu yet
Googling “when do leaves start changing in Texas” (the answer is: never, and you know this)
Endlessly scrolling fall craft ideas on TikTok

The worst part is the cruel taunting from stores. Target has started putting Halloween décor on the shelves, but the only beverage option within 10 miles is a coconut cold brew with almond milk. Ma’am, I don’t want my coffee to taste like a tropical vacation. I want it to taste like a haunted bakery.

But I am manifesting fall, y’all. I am changing all my household scents to “Crisp Autumn Leaves” like it’s a sacrifice to the weather gods. I am scrolling past swimsuit sales with the smugness of someone already mentally in a corn maze. I am fantasizing about cardigans, crunchy leaves, and not sweating through my socks.

So while the rest of the world is still living their best summer lives—grilling, swimming, and trying not to melt—I’ll be over here, dreaming in shades of orange, sipping my lukewarm, semi-homemade spice sludge, and whispering sweet nothings to my fall decorations in storage.

Because fall isn’t a season. It’s a state of mind. And I live there #PumpkinSpiceForever #TooSoonButIDoNotCare

Blessings y’all! – Amy