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
Dear Steffany , I think about you more often than you’d expect, and always with the kind of warmth reserved for someone who once changed my life with a puppy. We haven’t seen each other in years, but your light has never dimmed in my memory. I still remember Tuesday Morning those days of post high-school chaos and low-wage camaraderie mostly because of how bright you made them. You were the fun one. The outgoing one. A newlywed, a new mama beaming with pride over your baby boy Josh. You had this spark that made people feel lucky to be near it. I don’t think I ever told you just how much that meant to me. We bonded over music, over laughter, and especially over animals. You had your sweet miniature dachshunds Lilo & Stitch and I had Atticus. We talked about our dogs like they were family because, well, they were. You knew how much Atticus meant to me, and that I hoped to raise his bloodline alongside mine. What you did next was one of the kindest, most generous surprises of my life. Right around my 21st birthday, you and Jamie cooked up a plan. I thought I was getting fish for my birthday,literally. A fish tank! We were at Petco, and I was fully expecting goldfish or guppies or something simple and sweet. But then we turned the corner… and there you were. Holding the most beautiful little dapple dachshund I’d ever seen. Matilda. My jaw dropped. My heart burst. You smiled that big, excited smile like you knew exactly what you were giving me not just a puppy, but something much, much deeper. Matilda was everything. She was pure joy, wild energy, and perfect sweetness all rolled into one tiny creature. She was deeply loved every single day of her life. Her time with us was too short cut short by illness but she lived fully, fearlessly, and with so much love surrounding her. She had three beautiful sons: Frankenstein (Frankie), Bruce Wayne, and Charlie. Frankie and Bruce Wayne stayed with us Frankie lived to be almost 13, and Bruce made it to 15 and a half. Eventually, Frankie had a daughter: Penny. A beautiful dapple just like her grandmother. Penny still lives with us today. She’s grown up alongside our kids. She’s part of the family, just like Matilda was. And often when I look at her, I think of you. Of Lilo and Stitch. Of how much light you shared by trusting me with that little soul. That legacy still runs through our house on tiny paws and wagging tails and it all traces back to you. I found you on Facebook years later, and I’ve followed along ever since watching you go viral with your incredible cake creations, laughing at your hilarious TikToks, and feeling constant admiration for the strength, creativity, and joy you radiate. Even while facing health challenges, you’ve remained fierce, fun, and inspiring as hell. You’ve always had that spark. I don’t think it ever went out it just got stronger. So, Steffany , thank you. Thank you for being the light in a random retail job that turned out to be anything but ordinary. Thank you for Matilda, for the surprise, for the love, and for trusting me with a piece of your heart. Thank you for being the kind of person who stays with someone long after the shift ends. You are amazing. You always have been. And I’m lucky to have known you. With so much love, Lauren
Dear Toren, The internet can be loud, cold, and cruel. But then every once in a while someone like you shows up. And suddenly, it feels like stars are breaking through the static. I don’t remember exactly when I found you but I remember the feeling. A sudden hush in my chest. The way my breath caught on the truth of your presence your light, real light, the kind that can’t be filtered, pouring through my screen and into my soul. You weren’t performing. You were being. And there is so much power in that. In a world of noise, you and your mom carry something sacred: an unfiltered, unflinching, unstoppable joy the kind that comes not from pretending to be okay, but from loving yourself exactly as you are and letting that love ripple outward. Watching you… listening to you… I saw pieces of my son. And in your mom, I saw myself. The hopes. The fears. The sacred fire of trying to raise a child with everything you have and then some. The kind of love that rearranges you from the inside out. The kind that says, “I see you. I hear you. And I’m staying with you.” And while we’re here can I just say? Your fashion sense is unmatched. Every outfit is a moment. Every accessory, a small act of liberation. You express joy, truth, and color before you’ve even said a word. It’s art. Because of you, I’ve learned more about how to love my children. Because of you, I’ve softened toward myself. Because of you, I’ve started to understand: the things I once labeled as “too much” were never flaws just parts of my light trying to break free. You’ve reminded me that neurodivergence isn’t a detour. It’s a map. A divine, detailed map to a new kind of wholeness one where nothing has to be hidden or fixed to be loved. You shine, Toren. You and Serenity Christine are so beautiful your inner light shines bright beyond the surface. In every sea shanty. In every moment of humor, honesty, hope. In every word Serenity wraps around you like a song. And you remind the rest of us every day that being yourself isn’t just enough. It’s everything. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. Keep shining. With Love, Lauren Searching for Stars
Hello There Elyse , I just wanted to take a moment to say something I’ve thought a hundred times but never said out loud: thank you. I first found your videos sometime during the post pandemic haze...that weird stretch of days when everything still felt heavy, uncertain, a little upside down. And there you were. A bright, hilarious, original spark in the middle of it all. It felt like stumbling across a light left on in a room you didn’t realize you needed to find. You stood out immediately not just because you’re funny (though you are, brilliantly so), but because you’re real. Your energy, your storytelling, the way your whole face and spirit move when you talk it’s magic. It’s the kind of thing you can’t fake, and it’s rare. You made heavy days feel lighter without pretending the weight wasn’t there. As someone who’s struggled with anxiety on and off my whole life, I can’t tell you how much it meant and still means to see someone show up the way you do. Brave. Honest. Still funny. Still kind. Still human. On days when it felt like the dark was winning, you reminded me it wasn’t. Sometimes just by being you. Sometimes just by posting anything at all. And there’s something else you said once, something that rooted itself deep in my heart and stayed: “If I’m too much, go find less.” That spirit — that fierce, funny, beautiful refusal to shrink lit something up in me. Thank you for showing us that it’s not just okay to take up space it’s necessary. It’s needed. It’s powerful. I’ve also been inspired by you as a mother. Watching you walk through hard seasons like your son’s heart surgery with courage and love has been incredibly moving. You manage to hold hope and humor and honesty all in the same hand, and it’s beautiful. It matters. It shows. And while I’m at it, I have to say: your Office themed pregnancy announcement? Absolutely fantastic, just perfect. Totally impressive! In a world that sometimes asks for polish over truth, you keep choosing truth. You keep choosing light. You remind the rest of us that it’s okay to be a little messy, a little awkward, a little human and that there’s still so much joy to be found in all of it. So thank you, Elyse . Thank you for being a light when it was hard. Thank you for being a reminder that even when the world feels heavy, it’s still a great day to be alive. You’re one of the stars people find when they need to remember that. Keep shining. We’re so glad you’re here. With lots of love & light, Lauren
Dear Joy , Some people move through this world leaving quiet trails of light, never knowing just how far their glow will reach. You are one of them. I found your Instagram around 2012, at a time when I was trying to find my way back to myself. Life had left me shaken, grief had settled in places I didn’t know it could reach, and I was rebuilding, piece by piece. In that season of searching, I stumbled across your world the way you wrote, the way you saw beauty in the imperfect, the way you carried light even in the hardest moments. And somehow, through the small miracle of timing, it reached me when I needed it most. I remember watching as you and your family traveled, in that adorable camper with the painted flowers, moving from place to place, gathering moments like keepsakes. Your words weren’t just captions beneath images; they were soft lanterns, reminders to be present, to see the story unfolding in the life I was already living. At the time, my husband and I were passing through Texas and Arkansas, and I remember you pausing in Hope, finding hope in Hope. And I felt connected to that as if we were both moving through similar landscapes, both looking for something unseen but deeply felt. Over the years, I have watched your journey, and in turn, you have shaped my own. You have inspired me as a mother... to embrace imperfection, to let love and presence be enough. You have reminded me that beauty is not in the flawless moments but in the honest ones. Your photography, your storytelling, the way you have carried on through hardship...it has been a quiet encouragement, a permission slip to create, to feel, to keep moving forward. I don’t know if you realize how much light you have given. But I want you to know this: You have been a light to me. You have made me a better human. And for that, I am endlessly grateful. May you always find stars in the darkest skies and feel the same warmth you so freely share. With love and light, -Lauren
A Thank You to Chuck Norris Chuck Norris doesn’t just inspire people he roundhouse kicks inspiration directly into their lives. I have never met Chuck Norris. But somehow, the man has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. And honestly? I owe him a thank you. Some people grow up with childhood heroes movie stars, athletes, cartoon characters. Me? I grew up with Walker, Texas Ranger. It was my granny’s favorite show, and that meant it was our show. If Walker was on, the world could wait. And if Chuck Norris said something was important, you listened. Which is why one completely normal day, in the middle of my childhood, Chuck Norris unknowingly changed my life. The Day Chuck Norris Pulled Me Out of Class I was about 11 or 12, going through a rough patch my family was on edge due to some pretty serious circumstances, and life felt uncertain. But on this one particular day, I was sitting in school, minding my own business, when I got called to the office. Now, let me set the scene: this had never happened before. My mind immediately jumped to panic mode. Had something happened to my dad? Was I in trouble? Was I about to be abducted by secret government agents? Turns out, none of the above. I walked into the office, and there sat my granny, looking dead serious. And then she said, “I was watching Walker, Texas Ranger today, and at the end of the episode, Chuck Norris said that kids should do karate.” Now, if anyone else had said this, it might have seemed random . But this was my granny. And this was Chuck Norris. She proceeded to tell me that she had seen a flyer for karate lessons at the Methodist Church and, since Chuck Norris personally recommended it (as far as she was concerned), she wanted to sign me up. She would pay for it, take me to my lessons, tournaments, everything. So I did it. And you know what? It helped me so much. Karate taught me discipline, confidence, awareness, and strength. But even more than that, it gave me treasured memories with my granny. She never missed a class. She never hesitated to be there for me. And all because Chuck Norris gave her the idea. The Total Gym Obsession (And My Baby Workout Partner) Fast forward a few years: I’m in high school, and late-night TV is infomercial gold. And the best of the best? The Total Gym commercial. I was obsessed. I wanted one so bad. Chuck Norris made that thing look like the ultimate workout. Forget a normal gym—I wanted the Chuck Norris way. Years later, after I had my first baby, Jaxon, I told my husband Jamie that I deserved a present for having his child. Naturally, I asked for a Total Gym. Jamie delivered. And so did the Total Gym. Not only did it help me get into the best shape of my life—even better than before having a baby—but it became a special bonding time with my son. Jaxon loved it. He hated being rocked in a chair, but if I laid back on the Total Gym, holding him in my arms while doing squats, and sang to him? He was out like a light. I literally sang my babies to sleep on a Chuck Norris workout machine. I have photos, videos, and countless memories of this. And now? Jaxon and Maggie love using the Total Gym, too. Chuck Norris workouts have officially become a family legacy. Post-Baby #3 & The Roundhouse Kick to My Gut Health Now, after my third pregnancy , I was feeling the weight of time. Recovery was slower, energy was lower, and I needed something extra. Enter: Chuck Norris’ Roundhouse green juice and probiotic. Embarrassingly enough to admit I have struggled with gut health probably my entire life. But this? Game changer. Chuck Norris doesn’t sell health products. He sells bottled invincibility. Between the Total Gym, proper diet, exercise, and this probiotic, I have felt stronger, more energized, and healthier than I could have imagined. And yes, I fully believe that Chuck Norris himself has something to do with that. The Shirt, The Legend, The Roundhouse Kick of Gratitude Jamie once had a Chuck Norris t-shirt I gifted him that read: “Chuck Norris doesn’t break hearts. He breaks legs.” He loved that shirt. He wore it until it literally fell apart. And when it did? I saved it to make a t-shirt quilt. Chuck Norris, you’ve been more than just a Texas icon—you’ve been an unexpected mentor, a source of strength, and a legend in my life. Because of you, my granny walked into my school and signed me up for karate. Because of you, I got in the best shape of my life and somehow turned a piece of workout equipment into a lullaby for my babies. Because of you, I found strength in every season of my life before kids, after kids, and even now, as I chase them around. I may never get the chance to meet you. But if I do, I’ll shake your hand, look you in the eye, and say thank you. And then I’ll probably embarrass myself by crying. Chuck Norris doesn’t just inspire he leaves a roundhouse-kick sized impact on people’s lives and footprints of strength wherever he stands.
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
Dear Steffany , I think about you more often than you’d expect, and always with the kind of warmth reserved for someone who once changed my life with a puppy. We haven’t seen each other in years, but your light has never dimmed in my memory. I still remember Tuesday Morning those days of post high-school chaos and low-wage camaraderie mostly because of how bright you made them. You were the fun one. The outgoing one. A newlywed, a new mama beaming with pride over your baby boy Josh. You had this spark that made people feel lucky to be near it. I don’t think I ever told you just how much that meant to me. We bonded over music, over laughter, and especially over animals. You had your sweet miniature dachshunds Lilo & Stitch and I had Atticus. We talked about our dogs like they were family because, well, they were. You knew how much Atticus meant to me, and that I hoped to raise his bloodline alongside mine. What you did next was one of the kindest, most generous surprises of my life. Right around my 21st birthday, you and Jamie cooked up a plan. I thought I was getting fish for my birthday,literally. A fish tank! We were at Petco, and I was fully expecting goldfish or guppies or something simple and sweet. But then we turned the corner… and there you were. Holding the most beautiful little dapple dachshund I’d ever seen. Matilda. My jaw dropped. My heart burst. You smiled that big, excited smile like you knew exactly what you were giving me not just a puppy, but something much, much deeper. Matilda was everything. She was pure joy, wild energy, and perfect sweetness all rolled into one tiny creature. She was deeply loved every single day of her life. Her time with us was too short cut short by illness but she lived fully, fearlessly, and with so much love surrounding her. She had three beautiful sons: Frankenstein (Frankie), Bruce Wayne, and Charlie. Frankie and Bruce Wayne stayed with us Frankie lived to be almost 13, and Bruce made it to 15 and a half. Eventually, Frankie had a daughter: Penny. A beautiful dapple just like her grandmother. Penny still lives with us today. She’s grown up alongside our kids. She’s part of the family, just like Matilda was. And often when I look at her, I think of you. Of Lilo and Stitch. Of how much light you shared by trusting me with that little soul. That legacy still runs through our house on tiny paws and wagging tails and it all traces back to you. I found you on Facebook years later, and I’ve followed along ever since watching you go viral with your incredible cake creations, laughing at your hilarious TikToks, and feeling constant admiration for the strength, creativity, and joy you radiate. Even while facing health challenges, you’ve remained fierce, fun, and inspiring as hell. You’ve always had that spark. I don’t think it ever went out it just got stronger. So, Steffany , thank you. Thank you for being the light in a random retail job that turned out to be anything but ordinary. Thank you for Matilda, for the surprise, for the love, and for trusting me with a piece of your heart. Thank you for being the kind of person who stays with someone long after the shift ends. You are amazing. You always have been. And I’m lucky to have known you. With so much love, Lauren
Dear Toren, The internet can be loud, cold, and cruel. But then every once in a while someone like you shows up. And suddenly, it feels like stars are breaking through the static. I don’t remember exactly when I found you but I remember the feeling. A sudden hush in my chest. The way my breath caught on the truth of your presence your light, real light, the kind that can’t be filtered, pouring through my screen and into my soul. You weren’t performing. You were being. And there is so much power in that. In a world of noise, you and your mom carry something sacred: an unfiltered, unflinching, unstoppable joy the kind that comes not from pretending to be okay, but from loving yourself exactly as you are and letting that love ripple outward. Watching you… listening to you… I saw pieces of my son. And in your mom, I saw myself. The hopes. The fears. The sacred fire of trying to raise a child with everything you have and then some. The kind of love that rearranges you from the inside out. The kind that says, “I see you. I hear you. And I’m staying with you.” And while we’re here can I just say? Your fashion sense is unmatched. Every outfit is a moment. Every accessory, a small act of liberation. You express joy, truth, and color before you’ve even said a word. It’s art. Because of you, I’ve learned more about how to love my children. Because of you, I’ve softened toward myself. Because of you, I’ve started to understand: the things I once labeled as “too much” were never flaws just parts of my light trying to break free. You’ve reminded me that neurodivergence isn’t a detour. It’s a map. A divine, detailed map to a new kind of wholeness one where nothing has to be hidden or fixed to be loved. You shine, Toren. You and Serenity Christine are so beautiful your inner light shines bright beyond the surface. In every sea shanty. In every moment of humor, honesty, hope. In every word Serenity wraps around you like a song. And you remind the rest of us every day that being yourself isn’t just enough. It’s everything. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. Keep shining. With Love, Lauren Searching for Stars
Hello There Elyse , I just wanted to take a moment to say something I’ve thought a hundred times but never said out loud: thank you. I first found your videos sometime during the post pandemic haze...that weird stretch of days when everything still felt heavy, uncertain, a little upside down. And there you were. A bright, hilarious, original spark in the middle of it all. It felt like stumbling across a light left on in a room you didn’t realize you needed to find. You stood out immediately not just because you’re funny (though you are, brilliantly so), but because you’re real. Your energy, your storytelling, the way your whole face and spirit move when you talk it’s magic. It’s the kind of thing you can’t fake, and it’s rare. You made heavy days feel lighter without pretending the weight wasn’t there. As someone who’s struggled with anxiety on and off my whole life, I can’t tell you how much it meant and still means to see someone show up the way you do. Brave. Honest. Still funny. Still kind. Still human. On days when it felt like the dark was winning, you reminded me it wasn’t. Sometimes just by being you. Sometimes just by posting anything at all. And there’s something else you said once, something that rooted itself deep in my heart and stayed: “If I’m too much, go find less.” That spirit — that fierce, funny, beautiful refusal to shrink lit something up in me. Thank you for showing us that it’s not just okay to take up space it’s necessary. It’s needed. It’s powerful. I’ve also been inspired by you as a mother. Watching you walk through hard seasons like your son’s heart surgery with courage and love has been incredibly moving. You manage to hold hope and humor and honesty all in the same hand, and it’s beautiful. It matters. It shows. And while I’m at it, I have to say: your Office themed pregnancy announcement? Absolutely fantastic, just perfect. Totally impressive! In a world that sometimes asks for polish over truth, you keep choosing truth. You keep choosing light. You remind the rest of us that it’s okay to be a little messy, a little awkward, a little human and that there’s still so much joy to be found in all of it. So thank you, Elyse . Thank you for being a light when it was hard. Thank you for being a reminder that even when the world feels heavy, it’s still a great day to be alive. You’re one of the stars people find when they need to remember that. Keep shining. We’re so glad you’re here. With lots of love & light, Lauren
Dear Joy , Some people move through this world leaving quiet trails of light, never knowing just how far their glow will reach. You are one of them. I found your Instagram around 2012, at a time when I was trying to find my way back to myself. Life had left me shaken, grief had settled in places I didn’t know it could reach, and I was rebuilding, piece by piece. In that season of searching, I stumbled across your world the way you wrote, the way you saw beauty in the imperfect, the way you carried light even in the hardest moments. And somehow, through the small miracle of timing, it reached me when I needed it most. I remember watching as you and your family traveled, in that adorable camper with the painted flowers, moving from place to place, gathering moments like keepsakes. Your words weren’t just captions beneath images; they were soft lanterns, reminders to be present, to see the story unfolding in the life I was already living. At the time, my husband and I were passing through Texas and Arkansas, and I remember you pausing in Hope, finding hope in Hope. And I felt connected to that as if we were both moving through similar landscapes, both looking for something unseen but deeply felt. Over the years, I have watched your journey, and in turn, you have shaped my own. You have inspired me as a mother... to embrace imperfection, to let love and presence be enough. You have reminded me that beauty is not in the flawless moments but in the honest ones. Your photography, your storytelling, the way you have carried on through hardship...it has been a quiet encouragement, a permission slip to create, to feel, to keep moving forward. I don’t know if you realize how much light you have given. But I want you to know this: You have been a light to me. You have made me a better human. And for that, I am endlessly grateful. May you always find stars in the darkest skies and feel the same warmth you so freely share. With love and light, -Lauren
A Thank You to Chuck Norris Chuck Norris doesn’t just inspire people he roundhouse kicks inspiration directly into their lives. I have never met Chuck Norris. But somehow, the man has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. And honestly? I owe him a thank you. Some people grow up with childhood heroes movie stars, athletes, cartoon characters. Me? I grew up with Walker, Texas Ranger. It was my granny’s favorite show, and that meant it was our show. If Walker was on, the world could wait. And if Chuck Norris said something was important, you listened. Which is why one completely normal day, in the middle of my childhood, Chuck Norris unknowingly changed my life. The Day Chuck Norris Pulled Me Out of Class I was about 11 or 12, going through a rough patch my family was on edge due to some pretty serious circumstances, and life felt uncertain. But on this one particular day, I was sitting in school, minding my own business, when I got called to the office. Now, let me set the scene: this had never happened before. My mind immediately jumped to panic mode. Had something happened to my dad? Was I in trouble? Was I about to be abducted by secret government agents? Turns out, none of the above. I walked into the office, and there sat my granny, looking dead serious. And then she said, “I was watching Walker, Texas Ranger today, and at the end of the episode, Chuck Norris said that kids should do karate.” Now, if anyone else had said this, it might have seemed random . But this was my granny. And this was Chuck Norris. She proceeded to tell me that she had seen a flyer for karate lessons at the Methodist Church and, since Chuck Norris personally recommended it (as far as she was concerned), she wanted to sign me up. She would pay for it, take me to my lessons, tournaments, everything. So I did it. And you know what? It helped me so much. Karate taught me discipline, confidence, awareness, and strength. But even more than that, it gave me treasured memories with my granny. She never missed a class. She never hesitated to be there for me. And all because Chuck Norris gave her the idea. The Total Gym Obsession (And My Baby Workout Partner) Fast forward a few years: I’m in high school, and late-night TV is infomercial gold. And the best of the best? The Total Gym commercial. I was obsessed. I wanted one so bad. Chuck Norris made that thing look like the ultimate workout. Forget a normal gym—I wanted the Chuck Norris way. Years later, after I had my first baby, Jaxon, I told my husband Jamie that I deserved a present for having his child. Naturally, I asked for a Total Gym. Jamie delivered. And so did the Total Gym. Not only did it help me get into the best shape of my life—even better than before having a baby—but it became a special bonding time with my son. Jaxon loved it. He hated being rocked in a chair, but if I laid back on the Total Gym, holding him in my arms while doing squats, and sang to him? He was out like a light. I literally sang my babies to sleep on a Chuck Norris workout machine. I have photos, videos, and countless memories of this. And now? Jaxon and Maggie love using the Total Gym, too. Chuck Norris workouts have officially become a family legacy. Post-Baby #3 & The Roundhouse Kick to My Gut Health Now, after my third pregnancy , I was feeling the weight of time. Recovery was slower, energy was lower, and I needed something extra. Enter: Chuck Norris’ Roundhouse green juice and probiotic. Embarrassingly enough to admit I have struggled with gut health probably my entire life. But this? Game changer. Chuck Norris doesn’t sell health products. He sells bottled invincibility. Between the Total Gym, proper diet, exercise, and this probiotic, I have felt stronger, more energized, and healthier than I could have imagined. And yes, I fully believe that Chuck Norris himself has something to do with that. The Shirt, The Legend, The Roundhouse Kick of Gratitude Jamie once had a Chuck Norris t-shirt I gifted him that read: “Chuck Norris doesn’t break hearts. He breaks legs.” He loved that shirt. He wore it until it literally fell apart. And when it did? I saved it to make a t-shirt quilt. Chuck Norris, you’ve been more than just a Texas icon—you’ve been an unexpected mentor, a source of strength, and a legend in my life. Because of you, my granny walked into my school and signed me up for karate. Because of you, I got in the best shape of my life and somehow turned a piece of workout equipment into a lullaby for my babies. Because of you, I found strength in every season of my life before kids, after kids, and even now, as I chase them around. I may never get the chance to meet you. But if I do, I’ll shake your hand, look you in the eye, and say thank you. And then I’ll probably embarrass myself by crying. Chuck Norris doesn’t just inspire he leaves a roundhouse-kick sized impact on people’s lives and footprints of strength wherever he stands.
