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“Breathe In, Begin Again”

Inspired by The Three Questions by Leo Tolstoy

There’s a hush that falls over the studio before the first brushstroke touches the page. It's not silence—it’s presence. The kind that can only be found when I pause long enough to breathe in.

To inspire, after all, is to breathe in. Not just air, but meaning. Moment. Purpose.

And when I do, I remember:

I don’t need to know everything.

I just need to be here—with the brush in my hand, the quilt in progress, the coffee cooling beside me, and my dog curled up on the rug.

This breath is my answer to Tolstoy’s questions.

This moment is the only one that matters.

And the right thing to do?

Is to keep showing up—gently, mindfully, and fully alive.

I used to believe strength meant holding it all together—every detail, every expectation, every cracked seam in the story. But somewhere between grief, goodbye, and starting over, I discovered strength can also be soft… stitched together with threads of hope, creativity, and quiet courage.

This past year didn’t go the way I planned. It unraveled. My mother passed, my family fractured, my business shifted, and life asked me to begin again in ways I never imagined.

But hidden in the unraveling? I found pieces of myself I thought I lost—my love for color, creating, faith, and building spaces that feel safe and honest. Spaces where it’s okay to rest, dream, and heal.

The quilt on the bench. The coffee by my side. The pups at my feet. The wildflowers blooming where life once felt barren. It’s all part of this story I’m still stitching together—the softer, braver, beautifully imperfect side of grit.

“We can bloom, even in the undone.”

We often see the polished quilts, the finished projects, and the picture-perfect results… but rarely the messy middle where learning happens. Today, I’m sharing the real side of my creative journey—figuring out the art of longarm quilting with my Handi Quilter Amara 20. Spoiler alert: it’s humbling, imperfect, and exactly where growth begins.

 “The Seeds Are Still Cosmos”

This morning, nestled between the pages of an old garden journal, I found them—heirloom Cosmos seeds, carefully saved by my father and gifted to me years ago. As I held them, the Holy Spirit whispered, “They’re still Cosmos.”

And yet, they hadn’t bloomed. Not because they lacked purpose, but because they had never been planted.

In that moment, I saw myself in those seeds—full of beauty, potential, and design—but waiting. Waiting for surrender, for faith, for the right soil.

Seeds are just flowers in waiting.
And our souls?
They’re gardens ready to bloom—when we choose to plant them in God.

Let the hard soil be broken.
Let the weeds be cleared.
Let the good ground rise in us again.

It’s time to plant what He has given you.
Because the seeds are still Cosmos.
And they were made to bloom.

The studio smells of dust, coffee, and quiet hope. Sunlight spills through tall windows onto barnwood floors, where a loyal pup naps between half-unpacked boxes. On the table—a chipped mug, a pair of reader glasses, and the weight of beginning again. Faded brick walls bear witness to every past season, but it’s the weathered mural of a blue bee in a wildflower garden—chipped, but still bright—that reminds her: beauty doesn’t disappear, it just softens with time.

Today, as I built Blue Bee ladders in the woodshop, I couldn't help but think of my Grandpa Addison—covered in sawdust, crafting beauty from scraps. A farmer by day and a woodworker by heart, he was my first example of what it meant to be both a maker and an entrepreneur. Honestly, he was my first customer. With each board I sanded and stained, I felt his legacy guiding my hands. Grandpa, I hope I'm making you proud.

Excerpt for Blog: Reclaiming Home: Trusting the Hands That Help Build

Reclaiming home is more than a renovation project—it’s a soul-deep process of letting go, leaning in, and trusting again. For me, it meant peeling back the layers of fear and disappointment, then choosing to believe that beauty could be built again—even with help from strangers. I hired professionals, not just for their skill, but because I needed to trust someone outside myself to carry the vision I could barely put into words. With every brushstroke, patched wall, and thoughtful detail, my house became more than a structure. It became a soft place to land, shaped by trusted hands and fueled by courage I didn't know I still had.

Ever wonder why some quilts just work—like they have rhythm, flow, and purpose? It’s not just about picking pretty prints; it’s about the volume they speak. In my latest blog post, I’m breaking down the magic behind high, medium, and low-volume fabrics, sharing the secret ratio that brings harmony, and how to mix bold prints with quiet backgrounds (plus when to throw in a solid for good measure).
Let your quilt tell a story—not shout or whisper the whole time.

Stuck in a creative rut? You’re not alone. Your spark isn’t gone—it’s just waiting for space to breathe. Step away, play, and create just for YOU. The magic returns when you stop forcing and start feeling.

“I never knew how much fear could be wrapped up in something as simple as picking a paint color. But creating a home—my home—has stirred up every past wound about safety, belonging, and permanence. This week, I take a step toward reclaiming my space. Not just with color, but with courage. I’m allowing myself to take up space, rewrite old stories, and build a sanctuary from hope instead of fear.”

Even in silence, my energy speaks.
I don’t blend. I don’t bend to fit.
And while that makes life more complicated, it also makes it more mine.

 I love my family. And I love the quiet, creative life I’m building. This isn’t a contradiction—it’s my truth. I’m learning that I can love deeply and still need space. I can show up with heart and still protect my peace. This is my season of holding the AND: honoring both love and limits.