I was raised in a small Ohio town by my grandparents and a mom who worked harder than anyone I've known since. We didn't have much, and I never once felt like I was missing anything, because there were always people around who showed up when it mattered. That's the whole inheritance.
Then I was diagnosed with juvenile rheumatoid arthritis at thirteen, and my friends disappeared. Not all at once, and not meanly. Kids that age just don't know what to do with a sick kid, so they stop calling. I went from having people to being the girl nobody knew how to sit next to.
It's been decades and I still think about it constantly, mostly because I know exactly what it feels like to be the only person in a room who understands what you're carrying. Everything I've built since has been some version of fixing that for someone else.
For twenty years I planned other people's biggest days without ever calling it what it was. I was building rooms where people felt like they belonged, one weekend at a time.
From Ohio to Montana (And Back Again)
Telluride with Nick. My favorite chairlift, my favorite person.
