The Cosmic Post Office: Letters Of Light

Okay, so I asked God for a sign this week… and I didn’t make it easy on Him. I had just seen this video about asking for a sign, about how God answers, about how He delights in it… and something in me just… recognized that. Like, oh. I’ve felt that before. Lindsey, it was your video. And the second I heard it, I remembered something. I remembered a time, years ago, back in that early, foggy, pinkless season of motherhood, when I had asked for a sign too. I had prayed, really specifically… really honestly… “God, just show me I’m okay. Show me I’m on the right path.” And I asked for a blue butterfly. I didn’t see it right away. I waited. I wondered if I had imagined the whole idea in the first place. And then, not long after, life moved us somewhere new. A new place, new energy… the kind of move that feels exciting and terrifying all at once. They handed us the keys… and right there on them… was a blue butterfly. And I remember feeling that same quiet recognition. Like… okay. And then, a couple months after that, with prayers inside us building for a second child, we went to a park. One of those ordinary days that turns into something you don’t forget. And there were butterflies everywhere. Hundreds of them. Yellow, filling the air, lifting all at once like something out of a dream. And right in the middle of it… one blue butterfly. I just stood there, overwhelmed, because I knew. I knew I had been heard. Nearly one year to the day later, our second child was born. And then… life kept moving. Time passed. Things got busy. Full. Loud. Beautiful… but a little hazy, too. Somewhere along the way, I think I stopped asking like that. Fast forward. I’m sitting with my kids on New Year’s Eve, going into 2025, talking about goals and dreams. The kind of things you say out loud but don’t always fully claim. “I’ve always wanted to write.” And my daughter, so sure, so certain, just looked at me and said, “Then make it your New Year’s resolution.” And something about the way she said it… she didn’t question it. she didn’t overthink it. She just… believed it was possible. So I did. I started building something I’ve carried in pieces since I was in high school. Old notebooks, scattered thoughts, songs, memories… things I’ve never really known how to explain out loud. And for the first time, it felt like someone actually got it. So I got to work. Writing with a baby asleep on my chest… voice notes, typed drafts, music playing in the background… piecing together old memories with new ones. And I love it. I really do. But if I’m being honest… I started to wonder. Is this meaningful? Is this worth the time? Is this something good… or just something I want? And more than anything… I wanted to know if it was something God saw as good. Not just something that looked meaningful… but something that was. So I sat down, quietly, and I prayed. And I said, “God, if this is something I’m supposed to keep building… if I’m on the right path… if this is your will for me… please just show me. Give me a sign.” And I paused… because I knew I couldn’t ask for something easy. I had asked for butterflies before and blue jays have been unusually common in our backyard lately. I needed something specific. Something I wouldn’t just brush off. I looked over… and saw this little pink and white poodle sitting on my daughter’s shelf. And I laughed a little and said, “Okay God… show me a poodle.” almost sarcastically thinking… well, this one’s going to take a little more effort. But of course… Not even 48 hours later, we ran into Burlington. We were just there to grab socks and shoes for my toddler, her sandals were bothering her. Quick in, quick out. We ended up wandering a little. We’re headed to checkout… and my husband steps down an aisle, picks something up, and goes, “Okay, I know this is ridiculous… but we need this for the office.” And he had no idea. Nothing about my prayer. Nothing about the poodle. I’m barely paying attention yet. And then he turns it around. It’s a painting. Of a poodle. Not just a poodle… a poodle in a full business suit… sitting at a desk… reading a newspaper. I just… stopped. A business professional poodle, for the office we’re building together, a space where I can write. Like everything in me went quiet for a second. Because of all the things in the world I could have asked for… of all the ways that prayer could have been answered… it was that. I remember thinking, smiling, fighting back tears of joy… of course it is. Because I had asked for something specific. And apparently… He has a sense of humor. Also, just to make sure I didn’t miss it… because let’s be real, God definitely knows how to show out… the very next place we went… was Petco. And there was this real poodle. Then again. And again. Every aisle I turned… I kept running into it. And that feeling came back. The same one from before. Quiet. Certain. seen. beloved. Lindsey… Thank you so much, you reminded me to ask. You reminded me that God doesn’t just hear us… He answers. Not always in big, overwhelming ways… but in ways we’ll recognize. In ways that feel personal. Specific. Sometimes even funny… like they were meant just for us. And Lindsey… I just want you to know how much I appreciate all of what you’re doing. Your energy, your humor, the way you show up so fully as yourself… it matters more than you probably realize. You make people laugh, you make motherhood feel seen, and you bring light into spaces that can feel heavy sometimes. But there is also so much more than that… God really radiates through you. In the way you speak, in the way you encourage, in the way you remind people to keep going and to keep believing. It’s powerful. And it’s beautiful to witness. What you’ve created with “get your pink back”… that message, that reminder… it’s reaching people. It’s lifting people. It’s giving something back to women who feel like they’ve poured everything out. And that matters. It really does. I’m so grateful I came across your video when I did. And I’m really looking forward to everything you create next… especially your writing. You’re doing something good here. Keep going. Please never stop casting your light into the world… it really does break through the darkness.

You Taught Me Beauty Even When We Were Drowning in Disaster: A Letter of Light for My Mom Mother and daughter relationships … it’s not always simple. Ours hasn’t been. We’ve lived through seasons that were heavy. Times when we didn’t understand each other. Moments that felt bigger than either of us knew how to handle. Days that felt like they might break us! You were diagnosed with bipolar disorder when I was young. Less than a year after you divorced my dad, and the same year your mom died while she was the only lifeline to our sanity. It was part of our life whether I understood it or not at the time. Looking back now, I can see that you were carrying more than I ever could have understood. Pain, loss, and things that don’t just disappear because life keeps moving forward. And still, you kept going. Imperfectly in motion… most days. I always seem to travel back in my mind to this one beautiful memory. It was Halloween, and the carnival had set up in our small town like it did every year. It had always been my favorite part of the season, that and the homecoming dance. But that year was different. We had no money. You were in bed, recovering from surgery, hurting, exhausted, heartbroken and carrying more than most should ever have to. I remember coming into your room and telling you it was okay. That we didn’t have to go. You were lying there nibbling saltine crackers, barely able to move. But you got up. You started digging through the house. Lifting chair cushions. Emptying old purses. Checking pockets. Looking anywhere you thought there might be something left behind. We found fourteen dollars and some change. And we went. We didn’t have much, but it was enough. And somehow, it became one of the best fall memories I have. You chose to get up. You chose to push through pain, through exhaustion, through everything you were carrying, just to give me those moments. You showed up for me when it would have been easier not to. And that matters more than I think you knew then. You also told me I was beautiful. I remember that too. Mornings before school, standing there in whatever version of myself I had put together, and you would look at me and tell me I was pretty. That I looked good. That you were proud of me. You grew up in a time where beauty had rules. Where thin meant pretty. Where anything outside of that felt like something to fix or hide. And even with that, you still tried to give me something softer. You tried to build me up. You taught me beauty even when we were drowning in disaster. I didn’t understand that then. But I do now. The other day, I was sitting in the bath and noticed the veins on my legs. The kind that come with time. With life. With three pregnancies. With everything the body carries. And I didn’t hate them. I actually thought they were kind of beautiful. And instead of seeing something to hide, I thought of you. I remembered being little and noticing the same thing on you. The way they looked like constellations to me. Like little lines of light. Something interesting. Something beautiful. That never changed. Somewhere along the way, the world tried to teach different definitions of beauty but my opinion has always remained the same. And I think you had something to do with that. We haven’t always agreed. We still don’t. We see things differently sometimes. We come from different generations, different experiences, different ways of understanding the world. But I can see that you were trying, even when it felt impossible, even on days when you had mostly given up otherwise. Trying to love me. Trying to build me up. Trying to give me something steady, even when it felt like we were running on quick sand! And whether you meant to or not, mostly it worked. Now I’m a Mom. And that changes everything. In a way that makes things clearer. I understand things from a different perspective than I did before. I understand how much we carry. How easy it is to fall short. How complicated love can be when you are still learning to love yourself… while also trying to raise someone else! I see now how much we carry without meaning to. How things pass through us. How easily they repeat if we don’t stop and look at them. Time keeps moving. Everything shifts, even when we don’t notice it happening. It always does. One season into the next. One version of us into another. You don’t always notice it while you’re in it. All we are is dust in the wind. And still… somehow, what we give each other is eternal. What we choose to carry forward still matters. What we soften, what we heal, what we change, even a little, still matters. It ripples. I know I won’t get everything right either. I already don’t. I know there will be things my daughters will one day have to come to terms with in their own time. Things I wish I could do better. Things I am still learning. Hope isn’t something that just breaks and disappears. It doesn’t work like that. It comes back. It repeats. It finds its way in again and again, even when you think it’s gone. Everything moves. Everything spirals. Things come and go. But somehow, hope restores. So I hope they always know they are loved. May they always have the courage within themselves to be themselves. I hope they feel understood. I hope they grow up strong, knowing they are allowed to take up space. Not for being perfect. Not for fitting into some mold. Just for being exactly who they are. I hope they know they are aloud to make mistakes. To change. To become something new over and over again without thinking they missed their chance. Because that’s what we do. We carry what we were given. And then, little by little, we decide what to do with it. And through all of it… through everything that changed, and everything that didn’t, I hope they feel seen. I hope they know that being human means getting things wrong sometimes. That mistakes are not the end of the story. That they’re part of how we learn, grow, and keep evolving. Just like we did. Just like we’re still doing! And through all of it, through everything we have been and everything we are still growing into… I truly am grateful that your my mom.

With a Little Love and Some Tenderness: A Letter of Light for Becky Greer With a little love and some tenderness. That’s what it takes, isn’t it? Not just to raise children, but to shape them. To steady them. To leave something behind that lasts longer than the moment itself. We talk a lot about our mothers when we talk about who we become and rightfully so. But, there are other women too... the ones who stand beside them. The ones who show up in the background, in the inbetween, in the everyday moments that don’t seem big at the time. The ones who fill in the gaps, step into ordinary days, and leave fingerprints all over a childhood without ever needing credit for it. You were one of those women for me. I remember you as light. Summer. Baseball somewhere in the distance. Music playing with the windows down. That kind of 90s joy that felt easy and full and alive. You had the most beautiful smile, the kind that made everything feel a little more fun, a little more possible. You were creative in ways that stuck. I still think about the way you wrapped birthday presents in newspaper comics, like even the outside of the gift deserved to be part of the magic. But what stays with me most is the way you cared. I had long, thick hair, and brushing it was always a battle. Tears, frustration, the whole thing. I can still see you sitting down with my mom, calm and sure, saying, “Liz, you’re doing it wrong,” then showing her how to start at the bottom and work her way up. Taking something overwhelming and turning it into something gentle. I think about that almost every time I brush my daughter’s hair. That small moment didn’t stay small. It kept going. From you, to my mom, to me, and now to both my daughters. You helped shape me, not in some loud obvious way... but in the quiet kind of way that actually lasts. I have this vivid memory I can almost still see so clearly. Like a safe place in my mind I often wander… My mom was in the hospital. It was a hard season. My brother and I stayed with different families, trying to keep some sense of normal. But I remember begging to stay at your house. I just wanted to be there. With you. With my brother. In that space that felt safe and fun and full of life. And they let me! I remember homemade Mickey Mouse pancakes in the morning. I remember you brushing my hair, gentle and patient. I remember sitting in the living room watching the Ewok movie, just feeling… okay. Taken care of. Like everything was going to be alright, safe and steady in a way that settled deep emotionally and stayed with me. That kind of tenderness doesn’t fade. It follows you. It shows up later when you’re making pancakes for your own kids, when you’re brushing their hair, when you’re trying to create that same feeling of comfort and steadiness for them. You gave that kind of care without making it a big thing. You just lived it. Every Christmas, like clockwork. That peanut butter fudge that didn’t stand a chance in our house. My dad and I would practically race to it, hover over it like it was gold, knowing it wouldn’t last more than a day or two. It was that good. And now, not every year but close to it, I make it too. Somewhere along the way, it became part of my rhythm. Something I carry forward without even thinking about why. Something that reminds me of you and that time and that feeling. The feeling of pure joy and nostalgia. The feeling of genuine gratitude. Because of you our family ended up with weenie dogs. Our very first one traced back to your house! It’s funny how something like that can become a such a huge part of your life, like a thread that keeps weaving through the years. How often even the smallest things are the ones that last the longest. And somewhere in the middle of all that, you took us to our first real concert. Dishwalla, The Refreshments, and Chalk Farm. I didn’t know it then, but that night unlocked something in me. A love for music that would go on to shape who I was becoming. A rhythm I’ve been following ever since. You were an incredible boy mom. Strong, fun, creative, full of life. But you were also something more than that. You were part of the village that helped raise us. Part of the constellation of women who shaped the way I see the world, the way I care for my own children, the way I move through memory and meaning now. I don’t know if people always realize the impact they have when they’re just being themselves. But I do. And I carry it with me. You left behind patterns. Ways of loving. Ways of showing up. Ways of making a child feel seen, safe, and at home. I don’t think those things ever really disappear. They just keep moving forward, showing up in new places, in new hands, in new generations. So thank you. For the love you gave so easily. For the tenderness you carried into ordinary moments and made them matter. For the joy, the creativity, the steadiness, and the care. With a little love and some tenderness. That’s what you gave. It never left. It’s still moving. It just keeps spiraling outward, finding its way into the lives it touches next.

*A letter of light for Rosey Blair* Okay this is going to sound oddly specific but stay with me... You remind me of a very particular kind of feeling. The kind that lives somewhere between fall air, soft lighting, and a childhood movie that most people forgot existed, but the ones who remember it? Oh we remember. The 1987 Chipmunk Adventure! Which I did not expect to ever connect to another adult human about, and yet here I am. There’s just something about that movie the movement, the music, the chaos, the fun, the outfits, the chipettes... like being in motion and color and sound at the same time. And watching you feels like that again in a weirdly beautiful , full circle way. Not in a “this is aesthetic content” way more like a “this is a person who actually lives inside her life” way. And ironically that’s what makes your aesthetic top notch in my opinion. Cozy but not fake. Honest and raw but not too harsh. Funny without trying to perform funny. (which is rarer than people think) There’s a warmth in how you show up that feels familiar in a way I can’t fully explain but definitely recognize. I came across you scrolling my phone, postpartum, trying to find my footing again. At the time I was in that weird in between space, relearning my body, trying to feel like myself inside something that had completely changed... yet again. And you showed up in your space on instagram in a way that felt real. Authentic. Original. Not “perfect body positivity” not curated confidence just a woman existing in her body dressing it, living in it, laughing in it and making that feel normal again. Healthy. Beautiful. Fun! Something I really grew to respect about you was that you didn’t stay frozen in one version of that message or yourself just to make people comfortable. You shifted. And I really admire the way you talk about Changing your mind. Leaving spaces that don’t feel right anymore. Figuring out that loving yourself isn’t one fixed version it evolves. That kind of honesty is quietly powerful and extremely profound. You evolved and changed your mind out loud. And people always have something to say when a woman does that... but you stayed steady anyway. That kind of self trust? That’s the part people don’t talk about enough. That’s what bravery looks like in real time! You don’t just create content, you create an honest space for people to re-meet themselves in whatever version they’re currently in. It’s the kind of magic that doesn’t need to be announced it just exists, and people feel it when they orbit around it. You didn’t just show up on my feed, you showed up in a moment where I needed to feel like myself again. Like a song you forgot you loved until it comes back on and suddenly you remember everything. And somehow through outfits, honesty, humor, book reviews and a lot of zany ingenuity... you saved parts of my girlhood that likely make me a better mother. Thanks so much for being you! Thanks for being real. Thanks for taking up space, your energy’s reach is more powerful than you ever might have imagined. P.S... I have to add this because it lives rent free in my brain! That Taylor Swift workout series you did?!? absolutely unhinged in the best way It was funny and chaotic and somehow still motivating… I'm not deep in Taylor Swift knowledge territory, but it made me pause and go “okay wait... there’s something here.” The way she owns her work, reclaims it, redraws the line that I own me energy it felt incredibly aligned with what you were doing too. With love, light and gratitude, Stay Weird! -Lauren “I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship.” -Louisa May Alcott

For Kimberly, and the beautiful family who carries James’s light forward, There are moments in life when someone we have never met still manages to leave a quiet imprint on our story. A kindness, a presence, a way of loving the world that travels farther than we realize. Your husband was one of those rare people whose light reached beyond the boundaries of his own life and found its way into the hearts of strangers like me. This letter comes from that place. Years ago, in 2011, I went through an ectopic pregnancy that nearly took my life. I lost the baby and part of my fallopian tube, and the doctors warned me that I might never be able to have children. What followed was a long, strange, and disorienting season of healing. My body was recovering from surgery, and my heart was trying to make sense of a kind of grief that is difficult to explain to anyone who hasn’t lived it. The curtains stayed closed most days during that time. Not always because it was night outside, but because it was a dark season inside. Sometimes grief has a way of dimming the world for a while. Jamie and I spent those months mostly in bed, binge-watching TV while life slowly stitched itself back together around us. During those months of bed rest, when the world felt very small and very quiet, I found myself returning to old reruns of Dawson’s Creek. It was something simple. Familiar. A small pocket of comfort on days when everything else felt uncertain. Jamie sat beside me through every episode. We watched the entire series together during that season of healing, and without realizing it, the show became tied to that memory of love sitting quietly beside me in the dark. Sometimes a television show becomes more than a television show. Sometimes a song becomes tied to a season of life so deeply that years later it still echoes through memory like a quiet lighthouse. The funny thing is that when we streamed it on Netflix, the original theme song wasn’t even there. Licensing had changed somewhere along the way, and a completely different intro played instead. Jamie and I both looked at each other immediately. “Wait… that’s not the song.” Anyone who grew up with Dawson’s Creek knows the real one. That opening melody is practically etched into memory. And even though the version we watched that year was different, the echo of the original still lived somewhere in the background. At the time it was just a television show. Eventually, I would realize it had quietly become something else entirely. Years passed. Life moved forward the way it does, slowly and then all at once. And somewhere along the way another small thread of inspiration appeared on a tiny pixelated app we like to call Instagram. The path that led me there actually started with another artist whose work has inspired me for years. Christina Sutra has this beautiful, earthy creative spirit that radiates kindness and imagination through everything she makes. One day she shared something with genuine excitement. Kimberly Vanderbeek had reposted one of her reels. She shared a video afterward about what a cool world it is when creativity and kindness cross paths like that. Curious, I clicked over to Kimberly’s page. And almost immediately I understood the excitement. Kimberly’s page carried a kind of calm that’s hard to describe unless you’ve felt it. There was a groundedness there. A quiet sense of presence. Motherhood, nature, spirituality, family life all woven together in a way that felt sincere and unforced. The kind of energy that makes you pause for a moment and breathe a little slower. I followed her almost immediately. For a long time, that’s all it was. A quiet corner of the internet where I occasionally stopped to absorb a little bit of peace. Over time, through her posts, I began to see glimpses of her husband as well. James. At first it was just small moments. A reflection here, a story about fatherhood there, a glimpse of family life. But the thing that kept standing out was the way he spoke about the people he loved. There was a softness to it. A sincerity. The kind of presence that doesn’t try to perform goodness but simply lives it. And the more I watched their world unfold through those little windows of social media, the more something about it felt familiar. Not because I knew them. I didn’t. But because the love between them was visible in the quiet ways that real love tends to show itself. In the way he looked at her. In the way she spoke about their family. In the way their children moved through the world. Curious, thoughtful, grounded. You could feel that they were building something beautiful together. A life full of intention. A life full of light. And sometimes when you witness that kind of love from the outside, it does something strange to the heart. It reminds you of the places in your own life where love has quietly carried you through the hardest seasons. For me, those memories went all the way back to that dark bedroom in 2011. Back to Jamie sitting beside me while Dawson’s Creek played softly in the background and the world slowly started to come back into focus again. Not long after I had been following their story for a while, something strange happened. The kind of strange that you don’t quite know what to do with afterward. A few years ago I had one of the most vivid dreams I can remember. In the dream I was standing in a quiet room filled with warm light. Kimberly was there, in a bathtub, giving birth. The room felt calm and peaceful in a way that dreams rarely feel. Everything moved slowly, like time itself had softened. James was beside her. He was holding her shoulders, brushing her hair back, kissing the top of her head, and whispering encouragement while she breathed through the moment. There was nothing frantic or fearful in the scene. Only steadiness. Love. The kind of calm strength that makes the world feel safe. From where I stood, I could see her shoulders above the water and his hands gently resting around her. And behind them was this incredible light. Not harsh. Not blinding. Just a radiant warmth pouring into the room like sunrise. The dream felt less like watching something happen and more like witnessing something sacred. A moment where love was so present that it filled the entire space. When I woke up, the dream stayed with me for days. It felt too vivid to ignore and too strange to fully explain. About two weeks later, I found out I was pregnant with our daughter Gracie. Maybe it was just the wild mystery of hormones. Maybe it was my mind weaving together the quiet inspirations I had been absorbing for years. Or maybe it was simply one of those strange moments where the human heart recognizes beauty so deeply that it echoes into places we don’t fully understand. Either way, the image of that light never really left me. And over time it became something I recognized again and again whenever I saw their family sharing pieces of their life with the world. That same light. When the news came that James was battling cancer, it felt like the kind of moment that makes the whole world pause for a second. When he passed, the sadness rippled outward in ways that were hard to explain. Not just because of the loss of a public figure. But because it felt like the world had lost someone who genuinely believed in kindness, presence, and family. Someone who believed that life was meant to be lived with intention. In the days that followed, I saw a video one of their daughters shared. It was one of those moments that stops you in your tracks. She spoke calmly, thoughtfully, with a kind of wisdom that seemed far older than her years. At one point she said something that struck me deeply. She talked about how people often say, “I know what you’re going through,” when someone loses a parent. And she gently explained that they don’t. Because every grief is different. Every loss is its own story. She was right. I lost my own father years ago, and even now I would never presume to understand the exact shape of the grief she carries. Grief has a strange way of revealing both the best and the hardest parts of the human heart. I know that from experience. When I lost my own dad, it broke me in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time. Loss invites many voices into the room. Comfort, questions, memories, and sometimes opinions that were never really needed in the first place. But grief doesn’t need commentary. It needs kindness and light. There was another profound moment in her message that stayed with me even more. She spoke about something her dad had told her. He told her to keep believing in miracles. Even when things didn’t turn out the way everyone had hoped. And when she said those words, something inside me shifted. Because suddenly it felt so obvious. The miracle he believed in was sitting right there in front of the camera. In her courage. In her calm. In the wisdom she was sharing with the world. She is the miracle. All of them are. The love he poured into the world didn’t disappear when he left it. It lives on in the family he helped raise. In the light that still shines through his children. And in the quiet strength that continues to ripple outward through the lives he touched. It’s strange how words and songs follow us through life. Sometimes they arrive during ordinary moments and attach themselves to memories so quietly that we don’t even notice at the time. And suddenly an entire season of life unfolds again in the space of a few notes. Now that silly TV show intro carries something else. A reminder. A reminder that life moves quickly, that love matters deeply, and that the moments we share with the people we care about are never as small as they seem at the time. That familiar line still drifts through my mind sometimes. A reminder that if you look hard enough you really can find beauty and light in the dark. I don’t want to wait for our lives to be over. Maybe that’s the quiet lesson hidden inside all of this. Not to wait. Not to wait to tell people they matter. Not to wait to recognize the light in the lives around us. James seemed to understand that instinctively. Through the way he loved his family. Through the way he showed up as a husband and a father. Through the kindness and presence people continue to describe whenever they speak about him. Even someone who never had the chance to meet him can see the constellation he left behind. A constellation made of love, courage, and the beautiful family who carries that light forward. And sometimes, when the world feels heavy, it’s comforting to remember that light has a way of traveling farther than we ever realize.

I don’t remember deciding to look in the mirror. I was already there, half awake, the house finally quiet in that fragile way it gets after a feeding. Same bathroom. Same light. A body that no longer belonged only to me, still learning its new outline. I tilted my head, not with panic, not even sadness just habit. Like checking a bruise you already know is there. Like waiting for an apology that isn’t coming. What annoyed me wasn’t what I saw. It was how quickly my brain tried to narrate it. The subtle inventory. The mental before and after photos. The unspoken timeline of when I was supposed to “feel like myself again.” I remember thinking, with a tired little laugh, Wow. I just made a human. And I’m still doing this. Still scanning. Still measuring. Still standing here as if my body hadn’t just done something borderline miraculous. And the most unsettling part wasn’t the criticism it was how normal it all felt. Like this was just part of motherhood. Like this quiet self surveillance was simply another thing you were supposed to carry. I didn’t necessarily feel it all at once. There was no dramatic breaking point. It was more like a quiet irritation that refused to go away. The kind that taps you on the shoulder while you’re trying to move on. I remember standing there thinking how strange it was that my body could do something as massive as bringing a whole person into the world and somehow still be treated like a problem to solve. How quickly the conversation had shifted from look what you did to okay, now fix it. I hadn’t failed at anything. And yet, the language in my head sounded like I had. That’s when something finally clicked not so much with anger or rage, but with clarity. This wasn’t intuition. This wasn’t health. This wasn’t even coming from me. It was inheritance. Passed down quietly. Polished to sound responsible. Framed as care. And once I saw that, I couldn’t unsee it. Katie this is where you enter the story… Someone who said the thing out loud that I had only felt in pieces. Someone who named the difference between discipline and disconnection. Between health and harm. Healthy Is the New Skinny didn’t tell me what to do with my body. It asked a better question altogether: What if the problem was never your body in the first place? That question rearranged everything. You gave me language where there had only been pressure. You replaced noise with permission. You handed me tools not commandments and trusted me enough to use them. And that trust mattered. Because the moment I stopped fighting my body, I started listening to it. And the moment I started listening, I realized how long it had been trying to take care of me. It felt like getting this beautiful window. Not to change myself or crawl through but to finally see clearly. I kept thinking about how these things actually get passed down. Not through lectures. Not through rules. But through the tiny stuff. The comments made in passing. The jokes you barely even realize are jokes. The way you talk to yourself when you think no one is listening. Especially kids. Especially daughters. It hit me one night, sitting on the edge of the bed, that someday they wouldn’t need me to explain any of this to them. They would just pick it up. The same way I did. The same way most of us did. Quietly. Without consent. That realization felt clarifying. Not heavy. Just honest. Some patterns don’t need a big exit. They just don’t get invited into the next room. And because of you, Katie, I found the strength to stop fighting myself. To stop trying to fit my body into some mold it was never meant to belong in the first place. To me, you are truly one of the most beautiful women and souls in this universe! Beautiful is the woman who breaks cycles. Beautiful is the voice that replaces shame with truth. Beautiful is someone whose work doesn’t just inspire it liberates. Thank you for changing how I live inside my body. Thank you for changing how I mother. Thank you for helping me choose health over punishment, presence over performance, and confidence that doesn’t ask permission. You saved me in ways you may never know. Thank you so much for opening the window. I’m raising the next generation with it wide open to limitless views of beauty! Lauren

For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a mother. It’s one of my earliest memories...that knowing. Long before I understood how fragile futures could be, or how quickly a body can turn against the stories you carry inside it. In 2011, my husband and I saw two pink lines on a test we never expected to turn positive. And almost just as quickly, everything unraveled. There was bleeding. Bed rest. Words spoken softly by doctors that landed like doors closing. A ruptured tube. Emergency surgery. A body barely saved in time and a future suddenly put into question. What followed was a kind of quiet devastation. Not just grief, but a fog. A stillness where days blurred together and getting out of bed felt optional. My sewing machine sat untouched. The parts of me that loved creating, thrift-store treasure hunting, making something beautiful out of almost nothing they went quiet too. Around that time, I found someone who believed in getting up anyway. I don’t remember the exact moment I found her only that I did. Somewhere in the haze, I stumbled onto a blog. Onto refashioning. Onto creativity that didn’t ask permission or require perfection. Onto a woman who showed up daily with humor, intelligence, kindness, and a sense of play and made something beautiful no matter what the day looked like. Her name was Jillian. She embodied a philosophy I already knew by heart one that my cousin Alisha used to live by and repeat often: Get up. Dress up. Show up. Jillian didn’t do it loudly. She did it her way. Through thrifted dresses and careful stitches. Through learning and sharing. Through smiling at the camera with a softness that felt real. She showed that even a day at home could still be a day you showed up for. And slowly almost without realizing it I did too. Her website was genuinely great! Thoughtfully designed, beautiful, functional, and easy to follow. The way she explained each refashion made learning feel accessible instead of intimidating. I learned so much from her details and descriptions. She was a truly gifted teacher, and her work absolutely leveled up my upcycling and thrifting skills. I started checking in every day. She refashioned clothes, loved thrifting, and had a dachshund named Douglas. Honestly, that alone would’ve pulled me in. The rest though…her beauty, light and the soul of her project just added more layers of awe. There was joy in the way she moved, in the way she explained what she was doing, in the way she treated clothing not as something precious or untouchable, but as raw material for play. Even on ordinary days, even when she was staying home she showed up as herself. Fully dressed. Fully present. Fully in it. Watching her felt like permission. Permission to take up space again. Permission to care. Permission to make something simply because it felt good to make. She wasn’t chasing perfection. She was practicing presence. And in doing so, she reminded me of a part of myself I had misplaced... the part that loved creativity for its own sake. The part that knew how to make something beautiful out of almost nothing. Slowly, my feet hit the floor again. I dusted off my sewing machine. I went back to thrift stores and started treasure hunting the way I used to curious, playful, unafraid. I remembered how good it felt to learn something new, to craft, to sew, to stitch, to reshape. For the first time in a long time, I felt like myself again. I didn’t know you, Jillian. But I knew your presence. I knew your rhythm. I knew the way you showed up day after day with creativity, humor, and steadiness. I knew the way you stood in your body and let it be seen, unpolished and unapologetic. I knew the joy you carried into ordinary moments. Watching you felt like witnessing a kind of wholeness. Not perfection. Just presence. The kind that says this life is worth showing up for, even on hard days. You didn’t know what I was carrying when I found you. You didn’t know how hard it was for my feet to hit the floor, or how much of myself I had lost in that season. But you reached me anyway. You helped me remember how to stand up again. How to get dressed for my own life. How to show up — not for an audience, but for myself. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. Thank you for living your creativity out loud. Thank you for making space for joy. Thank you for finding beauty in disaster. Thank you for helping me find my way back to the heart of myself. My feet hit the floor and I plugged my sewing machine in again because of you! This light you left behind is real. And it’s still moving. In loving memory of Jillian Owens (1982–2021). Forever Refashionista.

You are the reason the stars still shine for me. Every piece of this project is stitched together with love, memory, and the hope that you’ll one day understand how much light you brought into my life even on the darkest days. These stories were born from songs that raised me, moments that shaped me, and the people who loved me into being. But more than anything, they are a map back to you. I want you to know where you came from not just the names or dates, but the sounds, the feelings, the truths that lived between the lines. I want you to see that even in chaos, there was meaning. Even in loss, there was music. And even in silence, there was a voice still learning how to speak. You are the next verse. The brightest spark. The living proof that love continues, and stories matter. One day, when you’re older, I hope you read these pieces and feel seen. I hope you laugh at the weird bits, feel brave in the tender ones, and find yourself in the echoes. I hope it reminds you that life doesn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful... that broken things can still shine, and that your story, whatever it becomes, is worthy of light. And if ever you forget how much I love you—  press play. I’ll be right here, in the music. In the pause between the notes. In the stars overhead. Love always, Mom

Dear Danny Go (and Mindy Mango), We weren’t looking for you but somehow, you found us. It was in the recommended section on Happy Kids TV. Jaxon clicked on it for his sister Maggie, and just like that, something magic happened in our living room. The colors, the energy, the fun costumes, the absolute joy of it all we were hooked. Not just the kids. Jamie and I too. It didn’t take long before Danny Go! wasn’t just something our kids watched it became something we danced to, sang along with, laughed through. Something that made us all feel lighter. There’s something rare and magical about a show that doesn’t just entertain your kids, but actually pulls you in too. For us, Danny Go! is that magic. Whether it’s “ The Floor is Lava ” or any of the countless jams we’ve rewatched again and again, it’s more than background noise it’s an invitation. To move, to play, to be present. We’ve turned living rooms into obstacle courses, let loose in the kitchen, and found ourselves grinning and dancing when we thought we were too tired to do anything at all. It’s a way to reset a rough day, a cranky morning, or a bedtime full of wiggles . It’s become a happy place. At first, Danny Go! was just this bright, silly, joyful thing we all loved. But then I started learning more about you, Daniel and Mindy, about your son Isaac, about the love and resilience at the heart of it all. And suddenly, it wasn’t just fun anymore. It was inspiring. The kind of inspiring that sinks in deep because you recognize something in it. I too know what it means to be moved by your children to do something that matters. In its essence Searching for Stars was born from that same place wanting to create light because of the light our kids bring us every day. Knowing what Danny Go! came from... knowing the beauty and bravery behind it just makes every song, every dance, every goofy costume feel even more meaningful. It’s not just a show. It’s a gift. Thank you so very much. For the joy. For the music and movement. For the way you’ve turned your story into something so bright and full of life. Thank you for making something that brings my kids happiness, and for letting that happiness spill over to the rest of us too. You’ve given us more than a show. You’ve given us a reason to dance when we’re tired, to laugh when we need it most, and to remember that play matters maybe even more than we think. You remind us that joy is a kind of medicine, and that silly, colorful, creative love can be a force for good in the world. From one parent trying to build something inspired by their children to another: thank you for the light you’ve made. You’ve brightened our living room and our hearts. With love and gratitude, Lauren

Okay, so I asked God for a sign this week… and I didn’t make it easy on Him. I had just seen this video about asking for a sign, about how God answers, about how He delights in it… and something in me just… recognized that. Like, oh. I’ve felt that before. Lindsey, it was your video. And the second I heard it, I remembered something. I remembered a time, years ago, back in that early, foggy, pinkless season of motherhood, when I had asked for a sign too. I had prayed, really specifically… really honestly… “God, just show me I’m okay. Show me I’m on the right path.” And I asked for a blue butterfly. I didn’t see it right away. I waited. I wondered if I had imagined the whole idea in the first place. And then, not long after, life moved us somewhere new. A new place, new energy… the kind of move that feels exciting and terrifying all at once. They handed us the keys… and right there on them… was a blue butterfly. And I remember feeling that same quiet recognition. Like… okay. And then, a couple months after that, with prayers inside us building for a second child, we went to a park. One of those ordinary days that turns into something you don’t forget. And there were butterflies everywhere. Hundreds of them. Yellow, filling the air, lifting all at once like something out of a dream. And right in the middle of it… one blue butterfly. I just stood there, overwhelmed, because I knew. I knew I had been heard. Nearly one year to the day later, our second child was born. And then… life kept moving. Time passed. Things got busy. Full. Loud. Beautiful… but a little hazy, too. Somewhere along the way, I think I stopped asking like that. Fast forward. I’m sitting with my kids on New Year’s Eve, going into 2025, talking about goals and dreams. The kind of things you say out loud but don’t always fully claim. “I’ve always wanted to write.” And my daughter, so sure, so certain, just looked at me and said, “Then make it your New Year’s resolution.” And something about the way she said it… she didn’t question it. she didn’t overthink it. She just… believed it was possible. So I did. I started building something I’ve carried in pieces since I was in high school. Old notebooks, scattered thoughts, songs, memories… things I’ve never really known how to explain out loud. And for the first time, it felt like someone actually got it. So I got to work. Writing with a baby asleep on my chest… voice notes, typed drafts, music playing in the background… piecing together old memories with new ones. And I love it. I really do. But if I’m being honest… I started to wonder. Is this meaningful? Is this worth the time? Is this something good… or just something I want? And more than anything… I wanted to know if it was something God saw as good. Not just something that looked meaningful… but something that was. So I sat down, quietly, and I prayed. And I said, “God, if this is something I’m supposed to keep building… if I’m on the right path… if this is your will for me… please just show me. Give me a sign.” And I paused… because I knew I couldn’t ask for something easy. I had asked for butterflies before and blue jays have been unusually common in our backyard lately. I needed something specific. Something I wouldn’t just brush off. I looked over… and saw this little pink and white poodle sitting on my daughter’s shelf. And I laughed a little and said, “Okay God… show me a poodle.” almost sarcastically thinking… well, this one’s going to take a little more effort. But of course… Not even 48 hours later, we ran into Burlington. We were just there to grab socks and shoes for my toddler, her sandals were bothering her. Quick in, quick out. We ended up wandering a little. We’re headed to checkout… and my husband steps down an aisle, picks something up, and goes, “Okay, I know this is ridiculous… but we need this for the office.” And he had no idea. Nothing about my prayer. Nothing about the poodle. I’m barely paying attention yet. And then he turns it around. It’s a painting. Of a poodle. Not just a poodle… a poodle in a full business suit… sitting at a desk… reading a newspaper. I just… stopped. A business professional poodle, for the office we’re building together, a space where I can write. Like everything in me went quiet for a second. Because of all the things in the world I could have asked for… of all the ways that prayer could have been answered… it was that. I remember thinking, smiling, fighting back tears of joy… of course it is. Because I had asked for something specific. And apparently… He has a sense of humor. Also, just to make sure I didn’t miss it… because let’s be real, God definitely knows how to show out… the very next place we went… was Petco. And there was this real poodle. Then again. And again. Every aisle I turned… I kept running into it. And that feeling came back. The same one from before. Quiet. Certain. seen. beloved. Lindsey… Thank you so much, you reminded me to ask. You reminded me that God doesn’t just hear us… He answers. Not always in big, overwhelming ways… but in ways we’ll recognize. In ways that feel personal. Specific. Sometimes even funny… like they were meant just for us. And Lindsey… I just want you to know how much I appreciate all of what you’re doing. Your energy, your humor, the way you show up so fully as yourself… it matters more than you probably realize. You make people laugh, you make motherhood feel seen, and you bring light into spaces that can feel heavy sometimes. But there is also so much more than that… God really radiates through you. In the way you speak, in the way you encourage, in the way you remind people to keep going and to keep believing. It’s powerful. And it’s beautiful to witness. What you’ve created with “get your pink back”… that message, that reminder… it’s reaching people. It’s lifting people. It’s giving something back to women who feel like they’ve poured everything out. And that matters. It really does. I’m so grateful I came across your video when I did. And I’m really looking forward to everything you create next… especially your writing. You’re doing something good here. Keep going. Please never stop casting your light into the world… it really does break through the darkness.

You Taught Me Beauty Even When We Were Drowning in Disaster: A Letter of Light for My Mom Mother and daughter relationships … it’s not always simple. Ours hasn’t been. We’ve lived through seasons that were heavy. Times when we didn’t understand each other. Moments that felt bigger than either of us knew how to handle. Days that felt like they might break us! You were diagnosed with bipolar disorder when I was young. Less than a year after you divorced my dad, and the same year your mom died while she was the only lifeline to our sanity. It was part of our life whether I understood it or not at the time. Looking back now, I can see that you were carrying more than I ever could have understood. Pain, loss, and things that don’t just disappear because life keeps moving forward. And still, you kept going. Imperfectly in motion… most days. I always seem to travel back in my mind to this one beautiful memory. It was Halloween, and the carnival had set up in our small town like it did every year. It had always been my favorite part of the season, that and the homecoming dance. But that year was different. We had no money. You were in bed, recovering from surgery, hurting, exhausted, heartbroken and carrying more than most should ever have to. I remember coming into your room and telling you it was okay. That we didn’t have to go. You were lying there nibbling saltine crackers, barely able to move. But you got up. You started digging through the house. Lifting chair cushions. Emptying old purses. Checking pockets. Looking anywhere you thought there might be something left behind. We found fourteen dollars and some change. And we went. We didn’t have much, but it was enough. And somehow, it became one of the best fall memories I have. You chose to get up. You chose to push through pain, through exhaustion, through everything you were carrying, just to give me those moments. You showed up for me when it would have been easier not to. And that matters more than I think you knew then. You also told me I was beautiful. I remember that too. Mornings before school, standing there in whatever version of myself I had put together, and you would look at me and tell me I was pretty. That I looked good. That you were proud of me. You grew up in a time where beauty had rules. Where thin meant pretty. Where anything outside of that felt like something to fix or hide. And even with that, you still tried to give me something softer. You tried to build me up. You taught me beauty even when we were drowning in disaster. I didn’t understand that then. But I do now. The other day, I was sitting in the bath and noticed the veins on my legs. The kind that come with time. With life. With three pregnancies. With everything the body carries. And I didn’t hate them. I actually thought they were kind of beautiful. And instead of seeing something to hide, I thought of you. I remembered being little and noticing the same thing on you. The way they looked like constellations to me. Like little lines of light. Something interesting. Something beautiful. That never changed. Somewhere along the way, the world tried to teach different definitions of beauty but my opinion has always remained the same. And I think you had something to do with that. We haven’t always agreed. We still don’t. We see things differently sometimes. We come from different generations, different experiences, different ways of understanding the world. But I can see that you were trying, even when it felt impossible, even on days when you had mostly given up otherwise. Trying to love me. Trying to build me up. Trying to give me something steady, even when it felt like we were running on quick sand! And whether you meant to or not, mostly it worked. Now I’m a Mom. And that changes everything. In a way that makes things clearer. I understand things from a different perspective than I did before. I understand how much we carry. How easy it is to fall short. How complicated love can be when you are still learning to love yourself… while also trying to raise someone else! I see now how much we carry without meaning to. How things pass through us. How easily they repeat if we don’t stop and look at them. Time keeps moving. Everything shifts, even when we don’t notice it happening. It always does. One season into the next. One version of us into another. You don’t always notice it while you’re in it. All we are is dust in the wind. And still… somehow, what we give each other is eternal. What we choose to carry forward still matters. What we soften, what we heal, what we change, even a little, still matters. It ripples. I know I won’t get everything right either. I already don’t. I know there will be things my daughters will one day have to come to terms with in their own time. Things I wish I could do better. Things I am still learning. Hope isn’t something that just breaks and disappears. It doesn’t work like that. It comes back. It repeats. It finds its way in again and again, even when you think it’s gone. Everything moves. Everything spirals. Things come and go. But somehow, hope restores. So I hope they always know they are loved. May they always have the courage within themselves to be themselves. I hope they feel understood. I hope they grow up strong, knowing they are allowed to take up space. Not for being perfect. Not for fitting into some mold. Just for being exactly who they are. I hope they know they are aloud to make mistakes. To change. To become something new over and over again without thinking they missed their chance. Because that’s what we do. We carry what we were given. And then, little by little, we decide what to do with it. And through all of it… through everything that changed, and everything that didn’t, I hope they feel seen. I hope they know that being human means getting things wrong sometimes. That mistakes are not the end of the story. That they’re part of how we learn, grow, and keep evolving. Just like we did. Just like we’re still doing! And through all of it, through everything we have been and everything we are still growing into… I truly am grateful that your my mom.

With a Little Love and Some Tenderness: A Letter of Light for Becky Greer With a little love and some tenderness. That’s what it takes, isn’t it? Not just to raise children, but to shape them. To steady them. To leave something behind that lasts longer than the moment itself. We talk a lot about our mothers when we talk about who we become and rightfully so. But, there are other women too... the ones who stand beside them. The ones who show up in the background, in the inbetween, in the everyday moments that don’t seem big at the time. The ones who fill in the gaps, step into ordinary days, and leave fingerprints all over a childhood without ever needing credit for it. You were one of those women for me. I remember you as light. Summer. Baseball somewhere in the distance. Music playing with the windows down. That kind of 90s joy that felt easy and full and alive. You had the most beautiful smile, the kind that made everything feel a little more fun, a little more possible. You were creative in ways that stuck. I still think about the way you wrapped birthday presents in newspaper comics, like even the outside of the gift deserved to be part of the magic. But what stays with me most is the way you cared. I had long, thick hair, and brushing it was always a battle. Tears, frustration, the whole thing. I can still see you sitting down with my mom, calm and sure, saying, “Liz, you’re doing it wrong,” then showing her how to start at the bottom and work her way up. Taking something overwhelming and turning it into something gentle. I think about that almost every time I brush my daughter’s hair. That small moment didn’t stay small. It kept going. From you, to my mom, to me, and now to both my daughters. You helped shape me, not in some loud obvious way... but in the quiet kind of way that actually lasts. I have this vivid memory I can almost still see so clearly. Like a safe place in my mind I often wander… My mom was in the hospital. It was a hard season. My brother and I stayed with different families, trying to keep some sense of normal. But I remember begging to stay at your house. I just wanted to be there. With you. With my brother. In that space that felt safe and fun and full of life. And they let me! I remember homemade Mickey Mouse pancakes in the morning. I remember you brushing my hair, gentle and patient. I remember sitting in the living room watching the Ewok movie, just feeling… okay. Taken care of. Like everything was going to be alright, safe and steady in a way that settled deep emotionally and stayed with me. That kind of tenderness doesn’t fade. It follows you. It shows up later when you’re making pancakes for your own kids, when you’re brushing their hair, when you’re trying to create that same feeling of comfort and steadiness for them. You gave that kind of care without making it a big thing. You just lived it. Every Christmas, like clockwork. That peanut butter fudge that didn’t stand a chance in our house. My dad and I would practically race to it, hover over it like it was gold, knowing it wouldn’t last more than a day or two. It was that good. And now, not every year but close to it, I make it too. Somewhere along the way, it became part of my rhythm. Something I carry forward without even thinking about why. Something that reminds me of you and that time and that feeling. The feeling of pure joy and nostalgia. The feeling of genuine gratitude. Because of you our family ended up with weenie dogs. Our very first one traced back to your house! It’s funny how something like that can become a such a huge part of your life, like a thread that keeps weaving through the years. How often even the smallest things are the ones that last the longest. And somewhere in the middle of all that, you took us to our first real concert. Dishwalla, The Refreshments, and Chalk Farm. I didn’t know it then, but that night unlocked something in me. A love for music that would go on to shape who I was becoming. A rhythm I’ve been following ever since. You were an incredible boy mom. Strong, fun, creative, full of life. But you were also something more than that. You were part of the village that helped raise us. Part of the constellation of women who shaped the way I see the world, the way I care for my own children, the way I move through memory and meaning now. I don’t know if people always realize the impact they have when they’re just being themselves. But I do. And I carry it with me. You left behind patterns. Ways of loving. Ways of showing up. Ways of making a child feel seen, safe, and at home. I don’t think those things ever really disappear. They just keep moving forward, showing up in new places, in new hands, in new generations. So thank you. For the love you gave so easily. For the tenderness you carried into ordinary moments and made them matter. For the joy, the creativity, the steadiness, and the care. With a little love and some tenderness. That’s what you gave. It never left. It’s still moving. It just keeps spiraling outward, finding its way into the lives it touches next.

*A letter of light for Rosey Blair* Okay this is going to sound oddly specific but stay with me... You remind me of a very particular kind of feeling. The kind that lives somewhere between fall air, soft lighting, and a childhood movie that most people forgot existed, but the ones who remember it? Oh we remember. The 1987 Chipmunk Adventure! Which I did not expect to ever connect to another adult human about, and yet here I am. There’s just something about that movie the movement, the music, the chaos, the fun, the outfits, the chipettes... like being in motion and color and sound at the same time. And watching you feels like that again in a weirdly beautiful , full circle way. Not in a “this is aesthetic content” way more like a “this is a person who actually lives inside her life” way. And ironically that’s what makes your aesthetic top notch in my opinion. Cozy but not fake. Honest and raw but not too harsh. Funny without trying to perform funny. (which is rarer than people think) There’s a warmth in how you show up that feels familiar in a way I can’t fully explain but definitely recognize. I came across you scrolling my phone, postpartum, trying to find my footing again. At the time I was in that weird in between space, relearning my body, trying to feel like myself inside something that had completely changed... yet again. And you showed up in your space on instagram in a way that felt real. Authentic. Original. Not “perfect body positivity” not curated confidence just a woman existing in her body dressing it, living in it, laughing in it and making that feel normal again. Healthy. Beautiful. Fun! Something I really grew to respect about you was that you didn’t stay frozen in one version of that message or yourself just to make people comfortable. You shifted. And I really admire the way you talk about Changing your mind. Leaving spaces that don’t feel right anymore. Figuring out that loving yourself isn’t one fixed version it evolves. That kind of honesty is quietly powerful and extremely profound. You evolved and changed your mind out loud. And people always have something to say when a woman does that... but you stayed steady anyway. That kind of self trust? That’s the part people don’t talk about enough. That’s what bravery looks like in real time! You don’t just create content, you create an honest space for people to re-meet themselves in whatever version they’re currently in. It’s the kind of magic that doesn’t need to be announced it just exists, and people feel it when they orbit around it. You didn’t just show up on my feed, you showed up in a moment where I needed to feel like myself again. Like a song you forgot you loved until it comes back on and suddenly you remember everything. And somehow through outfits, honesty, humor, book reviews and a lot of zany ingenuity... you saved parts of my girlhood that likely make me a better mother. Thanks so much for being you! Thanks for being real. Thanks for taking up space, your energy’s reach is more powerful than you ever might have imagined. P.S... I have to add this because it lives rent free in my brain! That Taylor Swift workout series you did?!? absolutely unhinged in the best way It was funny and chaotic and somehow still motivating… I'm not deep in Taylor Swift knowledge territory, but it made me pause and go “okay wait... there’s something here.” The way she owns her work, reclaims it, redraws the line that I own me energy it felt incredibly aligned with what you were doing too. With love, light and gratitude, Stay Weird! -Lauren “I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship.” -Louisa May Alcott

For Kimberly, and the beautiful family who carries James’s light forward, There are moments in life when someone we have never met still manages to leave a quiet imprint on our story. A kindness, a presence, a way of loving the world that travels farther than we realize. Your husband was one of those rare people whose light reached beyond the boundaries of his own life and found its way into the hearts of strangers like me. This letter comes from that place. Years ago, in 2011, I went through an ectopic pregnancy that nearly took my life. I lost the baby and part of my fallopian tube, and the doctors warned me that I might never be able to have children. What followed was a long, strange, and disorienting season of healing. My body was recovering from surgery, and my heart was trying to make sense of a kind of grief that is difficult to explain to anyone who hasn’t lived it. The curtains stayed closed most days during that time. Not always because it was night outside, but because it was a dark season inside. Sometimes grief has a way of dimming the world for a while. Jamie and I spent those months mostly in bed, binge-watching TV while life slowly stitched itself back together around us. During those months of bed rest, when the world felt very small and very quiet, I found myself returning to old reruns of Dawson’s Creek. It was something simple. Familiar. A small pocket of comfort on days when everything else felt uncertain. Jamie sat beside me through every episode. We watched the entire series together during that season of healing, and without realizing it, the show became tied to that memory of love sitting quietly beside me in the dark. Sometimes a television show becomes more than a television show. Sometimes a song becomes tied to a season of life so deeply that years later it still echoes through memory like a quiet lighthouse. The funny thing is that when we streamed it on Netflix, the original theme song wasn’t even there. Licensing had changed somewhere along the way, and a completely different intro played instead. Jamie and I both looked at each other immediately. “Wait… that’s not the song.” Anyone who grew up with Dawson’s Creek knows the real one. That opening melody is practically etched into memory. And even though the version we watched that year was different, the echo of the original still lived somewhere in the background. At the time it was just a television show. Eventually, I would realize it had quietly become something else entirely. Years passed. Life moved forward the way it does, slowly and then all at once. And somewhere along the way another small thread of inspiration appeared on a tiny pixelated app we like to call Instagram. The path that led me there actually started with another artist whose work has inspired me for years. Christina Sutra has this beautiful, earthy creative spirit that radiates kindness and imagination through everything she makes. One day she shared something with genuine excitement. Kimberly Vanderbeek had reposted one of her reels. She shared a video afterward about what a cool world it is when creativity and kindness cross paths like that. Curious, I clicked over to Kimberly’s page. And almost immediately I understood the excitement. Kimberly’s page carried a kind of calm that’s hard to describe unless you’ve felt it. There was a groundedness there. A quiet sense of presence. Motherhood, nature, spirituality, family life all woven together in a way that felt sincere and unforced. The kind of energy that makes you pause for a moment and breathe a little slower. I followed her almost immediately. For a long time, that’s all it was. A quiet corner of the internet where I occasionally stopped to absorb a little bit of peace. Over time, through her posts, I began to see glimpses of her husband as well. James. At first it was just small moments. A reflection here, a story about fatherhood there, a glimpse of family life. But the thing that kept standing out was the way he spoke about the people he loved. There was a softness to it. A sincerity. The kind of presence that doesn’t try to perform goodness but simply lives it. And the more I watched their world unfold through those little windows of social media, the more something about it felt familiar. Not because I knew them. I didn’t. But because the love between them was visible in the quiet ways that real love tends to show itself. In the way he looked at her. In the way she spoke about their family. In the way their children moved through the world. Curious, thoughtful, grounded. You could feel that they were building something beautiful together. A life full of intention. A life full of light. And sometimes when you witness that kind of love from the outside, it does something strange to the heart. It reminds you of the places in your own life where love has quietly carried you through the hardest seasons. For me, those memories went all the way back to that dark bedroom in 2011. Back to Jamie sitting beside me while Dawson’s Creek played softly in the background and the world slowly started to come back into focus again. Not long after I had been following their story for a while, something strange happened. The kind of strange that you don’t quite know what to do with afterward. A few years ago I had one of the most vivid dreams I can remember. In the dream I was standing in a quiet room filled with warm light. Kimberly was there, in a bathtub, giving birth. The room felt calm and peaceful in a way that dreams rarely feel. Everything moved slowly, like time itself had softened. James was beside her. He was holding her shoulders, brushing her hair back, kissing the top of her head, and whispering encouragement while she breathed through the moment. There was nothing frantic or fearful in the scene. Only steadiness. Love. The kind of calm strength that makes the world feel safe. From where I stood, I could see her shoulders above the water and his hands gently resting around her. And behind them was this incredible light. Not harsh. Not blinding. Just a radiant warmth pouring into the room like sunrise. The dream felt less like watching something happen and more like witnessing something sacred. A moment where love was so present that it filled the entire space. When I woke up, the dream stayed with me for days. It felt too vivid to ignore and too strange to fully explain. About two weeks later, I found out I was pregnant with our daughter Gracie. Maybe it was just the wild mystery of hormones. Maybe it was my mind weaving together the quiet inspirations I had been absorbing for years. Or maybe it was simply one of those strange moments where the human heart recognizes beauty so deeply that it echoes into places we don’t fully understand. Either way, the image of that light never really left me. And over time it became something I recognized again and again whenever I saw their family sharing pieces of their life with the world. That same light. When the news came that James was battling cancer, it felt like the kind of moment that makes the whole world pause for a second. When he passed, the sadness rippled outward in ways that were hard to explain. Not just because of the loss of a public figure. But because it felt like the world had lost someone who genuinely believed in kindness, presence, and family. Someone who believed that life was meant to be lived with intention. In the days that followed, I saw a video one of their daughters shared. It was one of those moments that stops you in your tracks. She spoke calmly, thoughtfully, with a kind of wisdom that seemed far older than her years. At one point she said something that struck me deeply. She talked about how people often say, “I know what you’re going through,” when someone loses a parent. And she gently explained that they don’t. Because every grief is different. Every loss is its own story. She was right. I lost my own father years ago, and even now I would never presume to understand the exact shape of the grief she carries. Grief has a strange way of revealing both the best and the hardest parts of the human heart. I know that from experience. When I lost my own dad, it broke me in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time. Loss invites many voices into the room. Comfort, questions, memories, and sometimes opinions that were never really needed in the first place. But grief doesn’t need commentary. It needs kindness and light. There was another profound moment in her message that stayed with me even more. She spoke about something her dad had told her. He told her to keep believing in miracles. Even when things didn’t turn out the way everyone had hoped. And when she said those words, something inside me shifted. Because suddenly it felt so obvious. The miracle he believed in was sitting right there in front of the camera. In her courage. In her calm. In the wisdom she was sharing with the world. She is the miracle. All of them are. The love he poured into the world didn’t disappear when he left it. It lives on in the family he helped raise. In the light that still shines through his children. And in the quiet strength that continues to ripple outward through the lives he touched. It’s strange how words and songs follow us through life. Sometimes they arrive during ordinary moments and attach themselves to memories so quietly that we don’t even notice at the time. And suddenly an entire season of life unfolds again in the space of a few notes. Now that silly TV show intro carries something else. A reminder. A reminder that life moves quickly, that love matters deeply, and that the moments we share with the people we care about are never as small as they seem at the time. That familiar line still drifts through my mind sometimes. A reminder that if you look hard enough you really can find beauty and light in the dark. I don’t want to wait for our lives to be over. Maybe that’s the quiet lesson hidden inside all of this. Not to wait. Not to wait to tell people they matter. Not to wait to recognize the light in the lives around us. James seemed to understand that instinctively. Through the way he loved his family. Through the way he showed up as a husband and a father. Through the kindness and presence people continue to describe whenever they speak about him. Even someone who never had the chance to meet him can see the constellation he left behind. A constellation made of love, courage, and the beautiful family who carries that light forward. And sometimes, when the world feels heavy, it’s comforting to remember that light has a way of traveling farther than we ever realize.

I don’t remember deciding to look in the mirror. I was already there, half awake, the house finally quiet in that fragile way it gets after a feeding. Same bathroom. Same light. A body that no longer belonged only to me, still learning its new outline. I tilted my head, not with panic, not even sadness just habit. Like checking a bruise you already know is there. Like waiting for an apology that isn’t coming. What annoyed me wasn’t what I saw. It was how quickly my brain tried to narrate it. The subtle inventory. The mental before and after photos. The unspoken timeline of when I was supposed to “feel like myself again.” I remember thinking, with a tired little laugh, Wow. I just made a human. And I’m still doing this. Still scanning. Still measuring. Still standing here as if my body hadn’t just done something borderline miraculous. And the most unsettling part wasn’t the criticism it was how normal it all felt. Like this was just part of motherhood. Like this quiet self surveillance was simply another thing you were supposed to carry. I didn’t necessarily feel it all at once. There was no dramatic breaking point. It was more like a quiet irritation that refused to go away. The kind that taps you on the shoulder while you’re trying to move on. I remember standing there thinking how strange it was that my body could do something as massive as bringing a whole person into the world and somehow still be treated like a problem to solve. How quickly the conversation had shifted from look what you did to okay, now fix it. I hadn’t failed at anything. And yet, the language in my head sounded like I had. That’s when something finally clicked not so much with anger or rage, but with clarity. This wasn’t intuition. This wasn’t health. This wasn’t even coming from me. It was inheritance. Passed down quietly. Polished to sound responsible. Framed as care. And once I saw that, I couldn’t unsee it. Katie this is where you enter the story… Someone who said the thing out loud that I had only felt in pieces. Someone who named the difference between discipline and disconnection. Between health and harm. Healthy Is the New Skinny didn’t tell me what to do with my body. It asked a better question altogether: What if the problem was never your body in the first place? That question rearranged everything. You gave me language where there had only been pressure. You replaced noise with permission. You handed me tools not commandments and trusted me enough to use them. And that trust mattered. Because the moment I stopped fighting my body, I started listening to it. And the moment I started listening, I realized how long it had been trying to take care of me. It felt like getting this beautiful window. Not to change myself or crawl through but to finally see clearly. I kept thinking about how these things actually get passed down. Not through lectures. Not through rules. But through the tiny stuff. The comments made in passing. The jokes you barely even realize are jokes. The way you talk to yourself when you think no one is listening. Especially kids. Especially daughters. It hit me one night, sitting on the edge of the bed, that someday they wouldn’t need me to explain any of this to them. They would just pick it up. The same way I did. The same way most of us did. Quietly. Without consent. That realization felt clarifying. Not heavy. Just honest. Some patterns don’t need a big exit. They just don’t get invited into the next room. And because of you, Katie, I found the strength to stop fighting myself. To stop trying to fit my body into some mold it was never meant to belong in the first place. To me, you are truly one of the most beautiful women and souls in this universe! Beautiful is the woman who breaks cycles. Beautiful is the voice that replaces shame with truth. Beautiful is someone whose work doesn’t just inspire it liberates. Thank you for changing how I live inside my body. Thank you for changing how I mother. Thank you for helping me choose health over punishment, presence over performance, and confidence that doesn’t ask permission. You saved me in ways you may never know. Thank you so much for opening the window. I’m raising the next generation with it wide open to limitless views of beauty! Lauren

For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a mother. It’s one of my earliest memories...that knowing. Long before I understood how fragile futures could be, or how quickly a body can turn against the stories you carry inside it. In 2011, my husband and I saw two pink lines on a test we never expected to turn positive. And almost just as quickly, everything unraveled. There was bleeding. Bed rest. Words spoken softly by doctors that landed like doors closing. A ruptured tube. Emergency surgery. A body barely saved in time and a future suddenly put into question. What followed was a kind of quiet devastation. Not just grief, but a fog. A stillness where days blurred together and getting out of bed felt optional. My sewing machine sat untouched. The parts of me that loved creating, thrift-store treasure hunting, making something beautiful out of almost nothing they went quiet too. Around that time, I found someone who believed in getting up anyway. I don’t remember the exact moment I found her only that I did. Somewhere in the haze, I stumbled onto a blog. Onto refashioning. Onto creativity that didn’t ask permission or require perfection. Onto a woman who showed up daily with humor, intelligence, kindness, and a sense of play and made something beautiful no matter what the day looked like. Her name was Jillian. She embodied a philosophy I already knew by heart one that my cousin Alisha used to live by and repeat often: Get up. Dress up. Show up. Jillian didn’t do it loudly. She did it her way. Through thrifted dresses and careful stitches. Through learning and sharing. Through smiling at the camera with a softness that felt real. She showed that even a day at home could still be a day you showed up for. And slowly almost without realizing it I did too. Her website was genuinely great! Thoughtfully designed, beautiful, functional, and easy to follow. The way she explained each refashion made learning feel accessible instead of intimidating. I learned so much from her details and descriptions. She was a truly gifted teacher, and her work absolutely leveled up my upcycling and thrifting skills. I started checking in every day. She refashioned clothes, loved thrifting, and had a dachshund named Douglas. Honestly, that alone would’ve pulled me in. The rest though…her beauty, light and the soul of her project just added more layers of awe. There was joy in the way she moved, in the way she explained what she was doing, in the way she treated clothing not as something precious or untouchable, but as raw material for play. Even on ordinary days, even when she was staying home she showed up as herself. Fully dressed. Fully present. Fully in it. Watching her felt like permission. Permission to take up space again. Permission to care. Permission to make something simply because it felt good to make. She wasn’t chasing perfection. She was practicing presence. And in doing so, she reminded me of a part of myself I had misplaced... the part that loved creativity for its own sake. The part that knew how to make something beautiful out of almost nothing. Slowly, my feet hit the floor again. I dusted off my sewing machine. I went back to thrift stores and started treasure hunting the way I used to curious, playful, unafraid. I remembered how good it felt to learn something new, to craft, to sew, to stitch, to reshape. For the first time in a long time, I felt like myself again. I didn’t know you, Jillian. But I knew your presence. I knew your rhythm. I knew the way you showed up day after day with creativity, humor, and steadiness. I knew the way you stood in your body and let it be seen, unpolished and unapologetic. I knew the joy you carried into ordinary moments. Watching you felt like witnessing a kind of wholeness. Not perfection. Just presence. The kind that says this life is worth showing up for, even on hard days. You didn’t know what I was carrying when I found you. You didn’t know how hard it was for my feet to hit the floor, or how much of myself I had lost in that season. But you reached me anyway. You helped me remember how to stand up again. How to get dressed for my own life. How to show up — not for an audience, but for myself. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. Thank you for living your creativity out loud. Thank you for making space for joy. Thank you for finding beauty in disaster. Thank you for helping me find my way back to the heart of myself. My feet hit the floor and I plugged my sewing machine in again because of you! This light you left behind is real. And it’s still moving. In loving memory of Jillian Owens (1982–2021). Forever Refashionista.

You are the reason the stars still shine for me. Every piece of this project is stitched together with love, memory, and the hope that you’ll one day understand how much light you brought into my life even on the darkest days. These stories were born from songs that raised me, moments that shaped me, and the people who loved me into being. But more than anything, they are a map back to you. I want you to know where you came from not just the names or dates, but the sounds, the feelings, the truths that lived between the lines. I want you to see that even in chaos, there was meaning. Even in loss, there was music. And even in silence, there was a voice still learning how to speak. You are the next verse. The brightest spark. The living proof that love continues, and stories matter. One day, when you’re older, I hope you read these pieces and feel seen. I hope you laugh at the weird bits, feel brave in the tender ones, and find yourself in the echoes. I hope it reminds you that life doesn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful... that broken things can still shine, and that your story, whatever it becomes, is worthy of light. And if ever you forget how much I love you—  press play. I’ll be right here, in the music. In the pause between the notes. In the stars overhead. Love always, Mom

Dear Danny Go (and Mindy Mango), We weren’t looking for you but somehow, you found us. It was in the recommended section on Happy Kids TV. Jaxon clicked on it for his sister Maggie, and just like that, something magic happened in our living room. The colors, the energy, the fun costumes, the absolute joy of it all we were hooked. Not just the kids. Jamie and I too. It didn’t take long before Danny Go! wasn’t just something our kids watched it became something we danced to, sang along with, laughed through. Something that made us all feel lighter. There’s something rare and magical about a show that doesn’t just entertain your kids, but actually pulls you in too. For us, Danny Go! is that magic. Whether it’s “ The Floor is Lava ” or any of the countless jams we’ve rewatched again and again, it’s more than background noise it’s an invitation. To move, to play, to be present. We’ve turned living rooms into obstacle courses, let loose in the kitchen, and found ourselves grinning and dancing when we thought we were too tired to do anything at all. It’s a way to reset a rough day, a cranky morning, or a bedtime full of wiggles . It’s become a happy place. At first, Danny Go! was just this bright, silly, joyful thing we all loved. But then I started learning more about you, Daniel and Mindy, about your son Isaac, about the love and resilience at the heart of it all. And suddenly, it wasn’t just fun anymore. It was inspiring. The kind of inspiring that sinks in deep because you recognize something in it. I too know what it means to be moved by your children to do something that matters. In its essence Searching for Stars was born from that same place wanting to create light because of the light our kids bring us every day. Knowing what Danny Go! came from... knowing the beauty and bravery behind it just makes every song, every dance, every goofy costume feel even more meaningful. It’s not just a show. It’s a gift. Thank you so very much. For the joy. For the music and movement. For the way you’ve turned your story into something so bright and full of life. Thank you for making something that brings my kids happiness, and for letting that happiness spill over to the rest of us too. You’ve given us more than a show. You’ve given us a reason to dance when we’re tired, to laugh when we need it most, and to remember that play matters maybe even more than we think. You remind us that joy is a kind of medicine, and that silly, colorful, creative love can be a force for good in the world. From one parent trying to build something inspired by their children to another: thank you for the light you’ve made. You’ve brightened our living room and our hearts. With love and gratitude, Lauren