Healing from family trauma is not a destination but a journey—one that reminds me, even on the strongest days, that the wounds of the past still echo into the present, not just for me, but for my children as well.

Nevada itself has been in our hearts ever since we left. Every week, for the past decade, we’ve found ourselves missing it. The bold, earthy colors of the landscape, the harshness of the geology, the unrelenting heat of the summer—it all calls to us. More than anything, though, we miss the spirit of Nevada, the adventure, and the people who make it feel like home.

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The words I write today, the blog posts that don’t get comments, the social media updates that go unnoticed—none of them are for nothing. They’re part of the long game.

In a world that constantly preaches the importance of authenticity and self-expression, we seem to have lost sight of an undeniable truth—how we present ourselves matters. Society has embraced phrases like, “Oh, sorry, I have resting bitch face,” or “I probably have ADHD,” as casual justifications for behavior that might otherwise be considered rude or unapproachable. But no matter the excuse, the reality remains: if you look angry, people will think you are angry. If you ignore someone speaking to you, they will assume you are rude.

As parents, we are teaching our daughter that her actions—whether intentional or not—send a message. If she wants to be perceived as kind, she must act kindly. If she wants to be understood, she must communicate. These are lessons that, for generations, were common sense. Yet, in today’s climate, they are increasingly dismissed as outdated or unnecessary. But are they? Or are we simply making excuses for behavior that distances us from one another?

Because in the real world, perception isn’t just an opinion—it shapes the way we connect, interact, and succeed.

In an era where moral absolutism dominates public discourse, society seems to have forgotten a fundamental truth: we are all fallen in our nature. This empirical reality, whether examined through a biblical or secular lens, is an essential component of human existence. And yet, our collective amnesia regarding this fact has led to a toxic culture of unrealistic expectations, relentless condemnation, and historical revisionism. From friendships and family dynamics to the way we judge public figures past and present, the inability to accept human fallibility has sown division, resentment, and an illusory pursuit of moral perfection that no individual can attain.

Rather than clinging to an unrealistic expectation of moral purity, we must return to the understanding that human nature is and always has been flawed. This does not mean excusing truly egregious behavior, nor does it mean abandoning the pursuit of justice or moral improvement. Rather, it calls for a recognition that people—whether our friends, family, or historical figures—should not be defined solely by their failings.

By embracing our fallenness, we do not excuse wrongdoing, but we allow ourselves the grace to learn from it, move forward, and build a world that acknowledges imperfection without demanding perfection.

Leaving the military is more than just a career change—it’s an identity shift. For years, service members are molded by the profession of arms, their routines, values, and sense of purpose tightly woven into military life. But when the uniform comes off, many veterans find themselves lost, grappling with a sense of purposelessness and isolation. I made it a point to start planning for my retirement five years before it came, yet I still felt underprepared. I knew I didn’t want my veteran status to define me entirely, so I consciously reshaped my identity—ditching certain habits, exploring new hobbies, and embracing a style that felt authentic. While I’m proud of my service, I’ve found that recognizing there is more to me than the military has been key to my mental well-being. The Department of Defense and Veterans Administration must do more to help service members plan their transitions early, ensuring they step into civilian life with purpose, not uncertainty.

This year, I made the decision to find a faith community, something I’ve wanted for years but never pursued. A recent health scare awakened something in me—a realization that time isn’t guaranteed, and I shouldn’t keep putting off what matters most. As we returned to church, the sermon about “phishing” took on a much deeper meaning than I expected. It wasn’t just about cybersecurity; it was about how, in life, we can be “phished” into believing false narratives about ourselves, pushing us to chase external approval rather than embracing our true worth.

This resonated with me deeply, especially as I reflected on my own life, my constant drive to meet others’ expectations, and how that pursuit often led to unhappiness. It was a reminder that we are all worthy, regardless of our perceived shortcomings, and that true happiness comes not from external accomplishments, but from embracing who we are.

As a federal employee participating in the Deferred Resignation Program, I’ve found myself at a crossroads—balancing my desire to escape an environment I never intended to join with the need to secure financial stability. The Trump administration’s push to downsize the federal workforce made the decision to accept the program an easy one for me. Despite my political alignment, I’m not thrilled with the rhetoric surrounding this program, especially when it implies that federal workers, including myself, are taking advantage of taxpayers. The truth is, like most people, I’m simply trying to navigate life’s challenges and seize the opportunities that arise. With my family’s move to Las Vegas on the horizon, this program allows us to pursue our dreams and future goals without sacrificing our financial stability.

After over two decades of service in the Air Force, I retired with a mix of emotions—relief, empowerment, and a renewed sense of self. My time in the military had been defined by rigid structures and ever-changing values, especially in the face of social issues like COVID and the Black Lives Matter movement. My final years were marked by disillusionment with the very institution I had dedicated my life to. The tipping point came when I was denied a promotion due to my race—not because I wasn’t qualified, but because I didn’t “look diverse enough.” This injustice, coupled with the shifting priorities of the military, led me to make the decision to retire. Since leaving the uniform behind, I’ve found fulfillment in new pursuits: journalism, policy analysis, and fiction writing. The lessons I learned in the military still shape me, but I now define myself outside of the constraints of that identity.

Reflecting on my journey from military service to pursuing my writing dreams, it’s been a monumental path. Growing up, I was told that writing wasn’t for me, and I was steered into a military career that shaped much of my identity. But after leaving the service, I rediscovered my love for writing, even as life’s obstacles, including toxic family dynamics, held me back at times. Finally, after breaking free and setting a clear plan for my future, I’ve passed the halfway point in writing my first book. The same 18-year-old who doubted her abilities is now well on her way to proving those doubts wrong.

For years, I tried to be enough for my mother, believing that one day she would show me the love and acceptance I longed for. But as an adult, I had to face the painful truth that my mother didn’t love me, and perhaps, she never had. My family’s journey to care for my father, who has Parkinson’s, revealed the stark reality of my toxic relationship with my mother. Despite my sacrifices, she chose her emotional abuse, her hoarding, and her toxic son over me and my family. In the end, I chose myself, I chose my own family, and I walked away from the cycle of abuse that had defined my life for too long.

Today, I received the best news I could have asked for—I don’t have cancer. A few weeks ago, after noticing changes in my breast, I feared the worst. I’ve watched my parents’ health deteriorate over the years, and my mind began racing through all the possibilities. But, through it all, I realized how much time I had spent avoiding things I truly wanted to do, simply out of fear or excuses. As I sat in the doctor’s office and received the news that my health concern wasn’t cancer, a wave of relief washed over me, but more than that—it reminded me that life is a gift, and I shouldn't wait for "someday" to live it. I'm making plans, starting with a trip to Maine, a dream I've long put off. Life is short. It’s time to stop talking about it and start doing it.