Scrappy Sam

Everyone talks about staycations.

I’ve always secretly thought they sounded like the participation trophy of vacations.

Why stay home when there are passports, tiny shampoo bottles and overpriced airport sandwiches?

But then I realized I live in Southern California, where “staying close to home” still means beaches, harbors, mountains and one of the best climates in the country.

Bonus points: I can still use my Ralphs rewards number to pick up some sunscreen.

So maybe I’ve been doing staycations wrong.

And there was one place I’d never really explored.

San Diego.

I’ve been there dozens of times for dance competitions, where my entire experience consisted of parking garages, convention centers, and wondering why every teenage dancer requires three Stanley cups and seventeen costume bags.

So, my sweetheart and I decided to do something different.

We booked a few nights at an older hotel on Shelter Island in the San Diego Bay.

Not fancy.

Just fun.

The kind of place with lush tropical landscaping, a pool bar, plenty of retirees, families tossing beach balls, and enough Hawaiian décor to convince you Don Ho might still be checking people in. On Friday night the Creedence Clearwater band was playing in the concert venue on property, which meant the average age dropped from seventy-two to sixty-eight.

Vacation had officially begun.

Until…

Three days earlier, my daughter had managed to lose a fight with the Pacific Ocean.

The waves at Doheny have been huge lately. As she was bringing her surfboard in, one knocked her straight onto the rocks. Her leg looked like she’d auditioned for a zombie movie. Her foot was the worst of it.

Unfortunately, she’s a dancer.

And unfortunately, it was her turning foot.

We had planned an entire day at the Safari Park.

Then beach time.

Then pool time.

Instead, we had a sixteen-year-old with half the skin missing from one leg who wasn’t allowed in the water.

Time for Plan B.

We rented her an electric scooter for the Safari Park.

The horror.

She begged us for a regular wheelchair instead.

“Please just push me.”

Absolutely not.

That park is basically a mountain disguised as a zoo. We ended up walking over seven miles. There wasn’t enough ibuprofen in Southern California for that plan.

So there we were.

A perfectly healthy-looking sixteen-year-old cruising around in a mobility scooter usually reserved for retirees recovering from hip surgery.

The side-eyes were immediate.

Little kids stared.

Parents looked confused.

You could almost hear them whispering.

“Seriously?”

But here’s the funny thing about amusement parks.

Everyone starts the day as their best self.

Then it gets hot.

The lines get longer.

The toddlers melt down.

The YMCA camp kids become surprisingly aggressive around the platypus exhibit.

People who began the morning saying, “After you,” are now using elbows to secure better giraffe viewing positions.

By about 3:45 that afternoon, something magical happened.

The judgment disappeared.

People weren’t looking at Kolby anymore.

They were looking at her scooter.

With envy.

She was gliding effortlessly from exhibit to exhibit while the rest of humanity dragged themselves uphill, sweating through sunscreen and questioning every life choice that had led them there.

She started the day embarrassed.

She ended it feeling like royalty.

Funny how quickly perspective changes.

The next day was slower.

Kolby stretched out beside the pool while the sunshine worked its magic on her scraped-up leg. My sweet man and I floated around, played football in the water, and somehow did what people used to do before phones.

We talked to strangers.

We met a recently retired doctor and his friendly wife.

Another couple about our age.

Within an hour, we were laughing like old friends.

Somewhere between floating aimlessly and discussing whose kids were the most awesome, the conversation turned toward this season of life.

Between my boyfriend and I, we have seven kids.

Most are grown.

Mine are almost there.

And one of them said something I’ll probably remember for a long time.

“Welcome to the Fun Zone.”

I loved that.

Because for the first time in twenty-seven years…

…I can actually see it.

Kolby drives herself now.

Just writing that sentence feels strange.

For years, I spent hours every day in the car. Football, Cheer, Soccer, Dance. School. Friends. More dance. Somehow my vehicle became both an Uber and a therapy office.

Now?

The driveway stays quiet.

Two of my kids are fully launched. Careers. Families. Their own lives.

My youngest is almost there.

She’s still my baby. She still needs me. But less every month.

I wouldn’t trade those years for anything.

They were loud.

Expensive.

Chaotic.

Exhausting.

Beautiful.

But somewhere along the way, motherhood quietly did what it was always supposed to do.

It worked.

It raised independent adults. And while I’m a devoted Mimi to my grandbabies, I definitely have more downtime than I used to.

As I watched Kolby’s leg slowly heal over the weekend, I realized maybe I’m healing too.

Not from scraped knees.

From letting go.

Slowly.

One tiny piece at a time.

In two years, my last chick will fly off to college.

I’ve dreaded that sentence for years.

Now…

Maybe I’m starting to get curious about what comes next.

Maybe there’s another chapter waiting that isn’t smaller.

Just different.

Apparently, they call it the Fun Zone.

And for the first time, I think I’m ready to find out what all the hype is about.

–Samantha

The morning before my birthday, my phone started buzzing.

Not one or two texts. A full-on notification assault before I’d even had coffee.

“Happy Birthday!”

“Hope you have the best day!”

“So grateful for you!”

It was incredibly sweet.

It was also…the wrong day.

As the messages rolled in, I started wondering if I’d somehow forgotten my own birthday. (It happens when you’re…well…not 28 anymore.)

Then I noticed something else.

Apparently, according to Facebook, I was turning 28.

Now that is a glitch I can get behind.

Somewhere along the way, my birthday had mysteriously been changed to July 1 instead of July 2, and I had somehow shaved a couple decades off my age. I don’t know who was responsible, but if you’re reading this…thank you for your service.

Thankfully, there were a few people who weren’t fooled.

My kids.

My dad.

My sweetheart.

A few close friends.

And my Aunt Barb.

Let’s be honest—Aunt Barb has probably remembered more birthdays than Facebook has existed. She’s been doing this long before algorithms decided who I should wish a happy birthday to.

The whole thing made me laugh, but it also made me think.

When I was growing up, my mom had one of those little yearly planners. Every birthday, anniversary and important date was carefully written inside. She kept a drawer full of beautiful cards, a roll of stamps and, at the beginning of every month, she’d sit down and mail birthday cards before they were due.

It wasn’t convenient.

It wasn’t automated.

It took thought.

It took planning.

It took remembering.

There’s something beautiful about that.

Don’t get me wrong—I love technology. I run a marketing agency. My entire business depends on it. I’m not about to throw my phone into the ocean and start communicating by carrier pigeon.

But I do miss some of the little rituals.

Buying the perfect card because it reminded you of someone.

Keeping a list because people mattered enough to remember.

Dropping an envelope into the mailbox and knowing it would arrive just in time.

Those weren’t just tasks.

They were tiny acts of love.

Ironically, it took Facebook getting my birthday completely wrong to remind me of that.

And here’s the funny part—I actually love birthday Facebook.

For one day each year, your feed fills up with people who stop what they’re doing to celebrate you. Friends from high school. Former coworkers. Cousins you haven’t seen in years. People who made up a chapter of your life.

It’s one of my favorite things about social media.

For a few minutes, you feel seen.

Remembered.

Celebrated.

That’s a gift.

So, Facebook, thanks for making me 28 for a hot minute. I did change it back to my born in the 70’s status because I don’t want my kids and grand babies to think I’m delusional.

And thank you to everyone who wished me a happy birthday—even if we celebrated 24 hours early. Every message made me smile.

But I think I’m also going to bring back a few of those old rituals.

Maybe it’s time to keep a birthday list again.

Maybe it’s time to buy a box of cards and a book of stamps.

Maybe the little things still matter as much as they always have.

Because while technology makes it easier to remember…

It’s the thought behind the remembering that people never forget.

There’s a strange kind of exhaustion that happens in the last mile.

Not the dramatic beginning where everything falls apart. Not the messy middle where adrenaline and caffeine carry you through while you pretend you’re “fine” and accidentally use dry shampoo as a personality trait.

No, I’m talking about the last stretch.

The part where the rainbow is finally visible, but your legs suddenly feel heavier than ever.

That’s where I’ve been lately.

Back in January, I started writing another book. It pulls from real-life emotions and situations that hit close enough to home that sometimes the lines between fiction and reality blur a little more than I expected.

And somewhere along the way… I got stuck.

Not because life is bad. Ironically, life is actually good.

Work is good.
My kids are good.
My friends are incredible.
I’m healthy.
I laugh a lot.
There’s love in my life.
Peace, even.

Which honestly feels suspicious sometimes because I spent years functioning like a woman emotionally trained by plot twists.

This summer, another book I co-authored with Paul Aubin called The Family Secret comes out in August, and I’m genuinely excited about it. It’s currently in final proofing and typesetting with the publisher which sounds very glamorous until you realize it mostly involves staring at commas and wondering why chapter headers suddenly feel deeply personal.

I think this new project was my attempt to keep the momentum going. Keep producing. Keep building. Keep creating.

Because when you’re a writer, there’s this weird pressure to always have “the next thing” cooking.

Like sourdough moms.
But emotionally unstable.

But maybe what I actually needed wasn’t more momentum.

Maybe I needed a breath.

An emotional tune-up.
A rebuilding season.
A quieter pace without guilt attached to it.

After sixteen years of writing books, blogs, articles, and stories, I’ve learned something important:

Sometimes creative burnout isn’t about failure.
Sometimes it’s about emotional saturation.

Sometimes you’ve simply lived too much of the story while trying to write it.

And maybe that’s where I’ve been.

I think for years I created from adrenaline:
heartbreak,
reinvention,
survival mode,
stress,
hope,
grit,
coffee.

Definitely coffee.

But peace is quieter.

Peace doesn’t bang pots and pans demanding to become art immediately. Peace just sits softly in the room waiting for your nervous system to stop pacing long enough to notice it.

And maybe that changes creativity too.

Maybe the spark doesn’t disappear forever.
Maybe it just gets tired.
Maybe it needs rest instead of pressure.
Maybe it comes back slower, steadier, healthier.

I’m beginning to think maybe peace plus a tiny spark is actually enough fuel for the next chapter.

Not frantic striving.
Not proving.
Not forcing.

Just a little hope.
A little rest.
A little curiosity returning.

Maybe creativity comes back the same way healing does:
quietly…
gradually…
without announcing itself first.

And maybe the last mile feels the hardest because deep down, somewhere underneath the weariness, you already know you’re going to make it.

The Truth About Working From Home (No One Talks About)

I read an article about Emma Grede from Skims saying working from home is basically “career suicide.”

And I get what she’s saying.

But also… I don’t.

Because here’s the part no one puts in the headline:

Working from home can be a little lonely.

Yes, I have client meetings. Zoom calls. A few in-persons sprinkled throughout the week.
But there are days I realize I haven’t really interacted with another human in hours.

I find myself living for the gym—just to be around people.
Craving the end of the day when my girls walks through the door.
Missing the easy camaraderie of workplace friendships… the “grab a coffee and vent for five minutes” kind of connection.

That part? It’s real.

---

But here’s the other truth…

I only have two more years with my youngest at home.

And for the past two years, I’ve spent about three hours a day driving her around.

Yes. Three hours.

Was it inconvenient? Absolutely.
Did it interfere with work? Definitely.
Would I have been able to do that from an office?

Not even close.

And would I trade it?

Not for one second.

Because those car rides?
They weren’t just car rides.

They were conversations.
They were laughter.
They were the quiet, unplanned moments where your child opens up about things they wouldn’t say across a dinner table.

Moments I would have missed.

---

The Part We Don’t Say Out Loud

Emma Grede talks about being a “three-hour mom” on the weekends to her four kids.

And I thought—that’s interesting.

Because I’m a three-hour mom too.

Just… every day.

In the car.
In the kitchen.
In the in-between moments where she wanders into my “office” (which is really just my bedroom) and flops on the bed to decompress and tell me about her day.

Those moments aren’t scheduled.

They’re not efficient.

They don’t show up on a productivity tracker.

But they are everything.

---

The Trade-Off No One Wants to Admit

Being a deeply engaged mom—really present—comes with sacrifice.

And if we’re being honest?

It’s usually women making it.

Do men have to make that same trade-off? Not often.
Do their careers take a hit? Rarely.

Has mine?

Probably.

But here’s the thing…

The value of what I’ve gained isn’t measurable in promotions or paychecks.

It’s intrinsic.
It’s eternal.
It’s priceless.

---

So… Is Working From Home “Career Suicide”?

Maybe.

Or maybe it depends on what you think your life is for.

Do I miss the office sometimes?

Yes.

Do I miss the energy, the people, the structure?

Also yes.

Will I go back one day?

Maybe I’ll open an office again when she graduates.

But right now?

I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Soaking up the last of these years.
Being available.
Being present.
Being her mom—not just in title, but in real, everyday life.

And I can say this with absolute certainty:

These years of mothering my three kids…
have been the most precious gift God has ever given me.

-Samantha

Silence is disappearing.

This isn’t happening by accident. It’s intentional.

We live in a world engineered to keep us scrolling, clicking, watching, and reacting. Every spare moment is occupied. Every calm space is occupied. All pauses are interrupted.

The algorithms are relentless.

This is why silence remains the final frontier untouched by algorithms—it’s the only state they can’t infiltrate.

I have a confession.

I don’t actually like social media.

I know it sounds strange for someone who runs a marketing agency to say this. Social media is how I make a living. I get it. I build strategies, track engagement, and focus on targeting and reach. But I also know my industry adds to the digital noise in our lives. Marketers like me help shape what you see and keep the cycle going. I think it’s important to admit our role in how these platforms affect attention and culture.

And still… I don’t like it.

Here’s why.

I’ll open Instagram to post something for a client. Just a quick upload. Thirty seconds, maybe a minute.

And then suddenly it’s thirty minutes later, and I’m sitting there wondering what just happened.

What happened is I’m scrolling through content designed specifically for me.

Relationships. Parenting. Comedy. Inspiration. Fitness. Faith. Skiing. Business.

It’s like an alcoholic casually walking up to the bar.

Except the bartender knows my name, my preferences, and exactly what will keep me sitting there.

The algorithms draw me in.

The ironic thing is, I know exactly how it works behind the scenes. This is what I do for a living.

And it still works on me.

That’s how powerful the noise has become.

---

Noise has become the norm; silence, a rare and precious commodity.

The average person spends less than fifteen minutes a day in silence. Studies show that background media and notifications fill most waking hours. According to a 2023 Pew Research Center survey, most Americans rarely experience true quiet. Silence is measurably rare.

Every day, I make an effort to set aside time to be still before God. For others, stillness comes through meditation, quiet reflection, or just being in nature. However we find it, taking that pause matters.

To be grateful.

To pause.

To sit in silence.

Sometimes I go for a walk outside. I listen to the breeze in the trees. I enjoy the sound of the birds or the ocean.

Other times, I just sit quietly with a cup of peppermint tea before anyone else wakes up.

No phone.

No music.

No input.

Just quiet.

And I’ve started to realize something.

The enemy of silence is noise.

Distraction.

Notifications.

Pretty shiny things on our feed.

Today’s world is designed to keep us from being alone with our thoughts.

Something powerful happens when we finally get quiet.

---

The modern world fears silence because silence reveals _______.

Silence has a way of clearing the fog.

It reveals what we’re avoiding.

What we’re worried about.

What we need to change.

What we need to forgive.

What we need to let go of.

Noise numbs us.

Scrolling numbs all of that.

Busyness numbs all of that.

---

We scroll to avoid silence and end up missing what silence teaches us.

I see it in myself.

When there’s a hard decision ahead.

When something feels unsure.

When emotions are sitting just below the surface.

It is so easy to reach for the phone.

Just five minutes.

Just one scroll.

Just a quick distraction.

But this distraction is by design.

It’s engineered.

The algorithms are patient.

They will wait for us.

They always do.

---

In the age of information, ignorance is a choice — but silence is a rebellion.

Choosing silence today feels almost radical.

It means stepping away from the stream.

It means refusing to be constantly stimulated.

It entails choosing presence over performance.

It signifies choosing truth over distraction.

And maybe that’s why it matters so much.

Because silence is the street where clarity lives.

Silence is where gratitude grows.

Silence is the place faith deepens.

Silence is where God speaks, not in noise but in stillness.

---

The world keeps getting louder.

Notifications. Headlines. Reels. Podcasts. News. Endless opinions.
Endless opinions.

And somehow the louder everything gets, the more valuable silence becomes.

Peace doesn’t shout.

It waits within the quiet.

---

The algorithms know what I like.

They know what makes me laugh.
What makes me think.
What keeps me scrolling.

But do they know who I truly am? What exists in the space that algorithms can never measure?

They don’t know who I am becoming.

That happens somewhere quieter. Somewhere slower.

Somewhere the signal can’t reach.

Because silence is still the one place no one is optimizing for.

Maybe that’s exactly why we need it.

Ever accidentally get copied on an email that was not meant for you?

Yeah. Me too.

Like today. When one of my clients casually mentioned he was replacing me “with a new gal in a few months.”

A new gal.

I read it twice, just to make sure my decaf coffee hadn’t spiked itself.

Apparently this gal got old. Expired. Past her best-by date. Should’ve come with a sticker: Consume within three fiscal quarters.

We’ve worked together for a few years. I’ve referred him business. We’ve sat in meetings, traded ideas, laughed about clients, built campaigns that went legitimately viral. Not marketing-viral. Real viral. The kind where strangers comment things like, whoever runs this account deserves a raise.

And yet. Here we are.

Tossed aside with the breezy efficiency of a seasonal throw pillow.

I think what surprised me most wasn’t the replacement. Marketing is a carousel. Everyone’s chasing the newest thing, the shiniest strategy, the younger algorithm whisperer. I get that. This industry has the emotional stability of a toddler on a sugar crash.

It was the word.

Gal.

Somewhere between 1952 and now, that word survived like a cockroach. Men in business still reach for it when they want a woman to sound smaller. Friendlier. Replaceable. A gal is interchangeable. A gal is decorative. A gal is… temporary.

A professional is not.

And here’s the uncomfortable truth I don’t love admitting: being a woman has opened doors for me in marketing. It has. I walk into rooms I might not get into otherwise. People underestimate you when you’re a gal. And sometimes that underestimation is a Trojan horse — you slip in, do excellent work, and suddenly they’re shocked you have a brain and a strategy.

But the girl card has a limit.

Apparently mine has an expiration date.

I’ve been sitting with this all morning, trying to figure out why it hit so hard. It’s not the lost account. I’ll get another one. I always do. Work is renewable. Skills are renewable.

It’s the disposable feeling.

That quiet realization that in some corners of business, loyalty is thinner than the paper your contract was printed on. Years of work can be summarized in one sentence: we’ll swap her out for a new gal.

No conversation. No transition. No acknowledgment.

Just… next.

And if I’m honest, the part that stings isn’t even about him.

It’s the mirror.

Because how often do we do this to ourselves? Tie our worth to how useful we are to someone else? To how long we stay shiny? To whether we’re the current favorite flavor?

The lesson, I think, is this:

Do excellent work. But never confuse proximity with friendship.
Be warm. But don’t build your identity on being chosen.
And for the love of all things holy, don’t shrink yourself into a “gal” to stay likable.

I am not a gal.

I am a professional business owner who built something valuable. If someone can’t see the value anymore, that doesn’t make it disappear. It just means my work is meant for a room with better lighting.

And maybe the real expiration date here isn’t me.

It’s the version of me that thought being indispensable to someone else was the goal.

It’s not.

Being indispensable to myself is.

I’ve been skiing with the boys all week and I’d like to formally acknowledge that I am no longer 22. My legs have submitted evidence. But somewhere between the soreness, the altitude, and the quiet luxury of the mountain, I remembered something important.

I used to be this girl.

In high school and college I was in ski club, then the club team. We had a condo in Mammoth growing up, and I’ve been on skis since I was three — which means I learned to walk and fall at roughly the same time. Inevitably, I outpaced most of the girls ability-wise. I’d room with them, sure. But when the lifts opened, I disappeared into the trees with the guys.

We spent our days launching ourselves off anything that could reasonably be justified as a jump, shredding moguls, and racing straight down runs that required both skill and questionable judgment. It was the freest I’ve ever felt in my life. The beauty. The speed. That thin line between control and flight where your mind goes quiet and your body takes over. Almost flying.

The boys never gossiped. No post-run dissections of who said what and what it meant. I earned my respect the simplest way possible — by keeping up. By sending it. By wiping out, laughing, and going again. Were they immature? Deeply. But it was clean. Easy. The mountain didn’t care about feelings. It cared if you could ski.

This trip felt like opening a door I hadn’t walked through in years.

It was an executive retreat hosted by my boyfriend — four brilliant men who also happen to be exceptional skiers, plus one snowboarder who may legitimately be the best I’ve ever seen. Watching him ride was like watching physics take the day off. Effortless. Precise. Calm.

That first day, we covered 32 miles of terrain. Thirty-two. We stacked more double blacks in one day than I’ve done in the last 15 years combined. It was intense and technical and humbling and exhilarating in the way only real challenge can be. There were moments I questioned my life choices — and then pointed my skis anyway.

The gauntlet was high. And I stepped up.

We scaled it back the following days because we’re adults with calendars and responsibilities and bodies that now require recovery. But that one day stood apart. It reminded me that growth lives just outside comfort. That living sometimes means choosing the harder line — doing the thing that scares you because it calls you back to yourself.

At this stage of my life, I’m intentional about the women I surround myself with — women who build instead of compare, who move instead of measure, who understand that becoming is far more interesting than performing. That lesson didn’t come from a podcast or a caption. It came years ago, from ski guys who showed me that respect is earned through action and joy is found in forward motion.

I’m heading home today exhausted. Sore. Slightly offended by stairs.

And completely full.

My body is tired.
My spirit is soaring.

Turns out the version of me who flies down double blacks never left. She was just waiting for an invitation.

I did something hard.

And she showed up.

What a gift. I’m taking her with me.