Wildflower, not Wallflower

I sent the email to my principal about not returning to teach in April of 2025.

That’s crazy.

Even crazier is the passage of time in one year. I feel like I’ve lived several years inside that one alone.

Just before the start of 2025, I discovered some intense information about my personal relationships, which meant I began in January with just me and the dog. I shoveled the driveway during an actual blizzard, sat at home watching "Goodfellas," drank tea, and rubbed Vaseline on my newest tattoo.

I began therapy again. I developed a brand-new weeklong class session with a coworker. I published the art and literary magazine and the final news magazine. I attended my grandmother’s funeral, finished my last yearbook, and shared margaritas with colleagues at the end-of-year celebration.

I traveled to Minnesota on back-to-back weekends, treated an old friend to a birthday dinner, signed up for ultimate frisbee summer league, got engaged, and turned 30.

I “golfed.” I started a new job, recognized some toxicity, left the job, joined a second fantasy football league (which I would go on to lose epically and now look forward to the punishment this upcoming year), received a formal diagnosis for Combined Type ADHD (which sounds like a Pokémon evolution), and ran a few 5Ks.

I began volunteering at Wayside Waifs, started wedding plans, wrote a few blogs (four, I think—more than I’ve allowed myself to write since writing was required for school), read more fiction (after years of being obligated to devour academic tomes), kept playing soccer, and experienced a terrible phenomenon called “turf toe” due to the sports and the running.

I hopped in on a Boston bachelorette and met some fabulous new girlypops. I applied to at least 70 jobs, navigated at least 50 rejections and non-responses with relative poise and humor, and trekked through the mountains for the Bernese Mountain Dog Parade in Breckenridge, Colorado—once again swearing off travel through said mountains after altitude sickness, vomiting, and crying on the car ride in a snowstorm.

I depleted funds, found work where I could, cried a bunch, laughed some more, listened (several times) to The Life of a Showgirl, called more friends, walked a lot, and showed up for quite a few Wednesday trivia nights.

The point is: so much happened.

Currently, the biggest cloud swirling overhead is the question of my career.

Sometimes, after an interview or a rejection email, I reconsider that decision in April. Was it the right one? Did I make a huge mistake? What kind of intuition leads you to where you go next?

It doesn’t really matter, because it already happened. All I can do is keep making decisions that move me forward.

Which is funny, because that’s actually a skill I’ve developed over time. Maybe it was the parade of shitty boyfriends, or the friendships I shouldn’t have begun in the first place, or maybe it’s just the ritual tearing of a date off the calendar. Either way, I’m pretty good at cutting off and moving on—and that has always worked for me.

If it were just my dog and me right now, I’d probably be looking at careers in St. Louis or Chicago. I’d be envisioning a newer, “grander” life and a different adventure to try.

But I’m looking in Kansas City, because it’s different now. Now I have a partner and a house and friends and connections and a life (though, notably, I still don’t have a primary care physician). I’ve built my life. I’ve assembled my own family like a less-obsessive Dr. Frankenstein—sewing together people and places that matter to me and creating something real, living, and deeply loved.

I’ve put down roots, as they say.

That’s huge.

I used to think slowing down meant settling—that settling in was actually settling for something less than ideal. I was certain I’d feel unhappy or unfulfilled if I ever stopped literally moving forward. Being open to movement and big change is part of who I am. The drive to live a long life full of grandeur, wonder, and new experiences is how I move through this world, and how I keep wonder alive.

But in 2025, I recognized the beauty of building a home base. A nest. A circle of meaning that wraps you in safety, warmth, and simpler pleasures. From there, I can still go forth. It doesn’t mean I’ve given up on my dreams or on seeing the world—it just means I can move forward in quieter, less visible ways, too. The high school version of me - heck, probably the undergrad and grad school version of me, too – would be absolutely baffled and maybe even deeply troubled by this discovery.

When I moved back to Kansas City nearly six years ago, I didn’t realize I was planting seeds I’d actually get to see grow.

Before that, I was an early twenty-something—rightfully and appropriately running around, trying my best, being authentically myself, and tossing seeds across the country that I’d never watch break the soil. There is something beautiful about that, too.

Turns out, it takes time to grow a garden. And I actually really like mine.

I was never a wallflower. I’m still not. I’ve always been a wildflower—resilient, adaptable, thriving wherever I landed. But now, as 2026 begins, I’ve become someone who cultivates what matters. I plant with intention. I prune without guilt. I’m building a sanctuary, not a spectacle.

I don’t need to run anymore to prove I’m growing. I can see it happening right here.

And for the first time, that feels like more than enough.

Photo by: Me. I took this picture.