Kat Presley
Hi, I’m Kat - word-weaver, sourdough sorceress, mama, and long-time lover to one amazing man.
For 25 years, I was the one neighbors & friends called when their pets needed care and love.
Now, I’m bringing that same devotion into something new: creating a soulful, high-touch laundry service right here in my hometown.I live for beauty in the everyday - fresh bread, handwritten notes, clean sheets, and deep love.
I’m a life-long entrepreneur, currently in bloom -
tending to my family, my business, and my world with tenderness and fire.If you're drawn to warmth, depth of spirit, or just a soft place to land, you’re in the right place.
Let’s unfold something lovely together.
Core Values
Softness as strength
Beauty as birthright
Honesty as liberation
Slowness as sustainability
Connection as currency
Sovereignty as wealth
Connect With Me
Whether it’s about clean laundry,
creative magic,
or kindred energy,
you’re warmly invited to reach out.
I’d love to connect with you.
May 15, 2025
I am so grateful
for this sweet, little life.The kind of life
that doesn’t shout,
but hums.
Warm and rhythmic.
Held.Business is picking up -
each week’s payout
has doubled the last,
proof that the work I’m pouring in
is rising, like dough
in a warm kitchen.And Sil just started her first job!
We’re so proud of her.
Her initiative, her glow.
She got ready
for her first day
- all puffed-up and shiny -
and I thought,
that’s my baby.
Growing wings.I talked to her yesterday
about working for CloudHåus someday -
maybe not now,
but later,
when her heart is ready
to dip into something
family-grown.
She was totally on board.
And I let myself
dream a little.A family business.
A generational offering.
Passed like a love letter
from hand to hand,
evolving with each new age.
I can almost see it.But today…
today is slower.
Softer.I think I’m coming down
with something.
It’s been teasing me
for days -
a throat tickle here,
a headache whisper there.
This morning, I woke up
feeling foggy, half-charged,
and not in a romantic, dreamy way.Jarrod’s feeling it too.
We’re a matched set, apparently.
Aching but affectionate.I hesitated
even writing this down -
as if naming the feeling
would breathe more life into it.
But this journal of mine
isn’t just for the sunlit days.
It’s not a brochure.
It’s a truth place.So here’s my truth:
I don’t feel well.
But I feel cared for.Jarrod made me tea
before leaving for work,
kissed my forehead,
and issued strict orders:
Turn on the humidifier.
Drink the tea. Rest.
I plan to be
an obedient patient.
Mostly.I’m supposed to
take Sil to work this afternoon,
but I’m hoping Jarrod
picks up that baton.
Fingers crossed.
(It’s a short baton. I swear.)Tomorrow should be
the last day we have to take her
for a while, at least -
her grandparents,
who live right behind her,
are almost back from vacation.
A few more drives,
a few more yawns,
and then rest.There’s not too much
to share today.
Life is good.
We’ve got two
graduation parties this weekend,
plus a hangout
with Kameron on Saturday -
and you know
I’m always excited for that.Otherwise, it’s fasting,
hydrating, and resting.
Doctor(Jarrod)’s orders.
And honestly?
I’m happy to comply.Sometimes the best part
of a sweet life
is being allowed
to pause in it.
To curl up in a big bed
with a cup of something warm,
and know that
you are loved.
May 15, 2025
My mother wrote me back.She reached out on the one platform
she wasn’t blocked on -
a newer Instagram account,
one she’s only ever used
to send me videos.
I rarely watch them,
but I feel them
as the last thin thread
connecting us still.My letter had been clear:
no messages.
Only a handwritten reply,
if a reply at all.
But I suppose she needed
to get her immediate feelings out
as she felt them.
That’s always been an issue.
The urgency.
The flood.
The inability to sit with a feeling
without giving it a microphone.It was not a reply
I expected
but the kind that rings
like a bell in a faraway room -
beautiful at first,
then dissonant
the longer you listen.At first,
her message was tender,
trembling,
an apology -
raw, reaching, human.
She said the words
I once begged to hear.
And I heard them.But then,
after a few hours,
the pendulum swung.
Her righteousness crept back in,
cloaked in divinity,
declaring distance as God’s will,
denying me my joy
because it came from emotion,
and not from her idea
of heaven.I blocked her.
Not out of rage,
not even sadness.
Just… knowing.I know now that what she does,
she does with full belief.
Her truth is hers.
Her righteousness, real to her.
And I don’t fault her for it.
I don’t drag her image
into my pain.I release her.
I free her from the role
of villain in my story.
I love her from afar.
I reclaim the pen.Because here’s my truth:My joy doesn’t need validation.
My peace doesn’t need permission.
And my healing doesn’t need an audience.I am not angry.
I am free.And oh,
what a time to be free.CloudHåus is blooming.
Five orders in two weeks,
a return client already (twice!),
and the smile on my face
when I realized
that the dream
I spoke into the air
was now riding trunk
in my real-life car...
that moment
was worth more than gold.How these memories
have washed me clean
in pride and purpose.The house is full again.
Sil and her friends
fill the rooms.
A home,
singing with laughter.
And my heart?
A cathedral.I cooked today.
Garlic, mushrooms, asparagus,
chicken and rice,
and the way those kids
ate it like it was magic?
Yes.
That’s my love language.I wear my grandmother’s gift
with pride:
to serve, to feed, to be fed
by the glow in someone else’s eyes.
Praise, affection,
the feeling of need,
these don’t make me weak.
They make me her.
They make me me.I’m two months ahead
in my budget,
chipping away at the plan.
Fewer odd jobs soon.
More CloudHåus.
More Blairsville soul-healing.
More Woodstock sweet joy.
This is the life I’m growing.
Intentionally.As for content creation?
Ah, that funny dream.
Me, in my ripped tee,
braless,
talking to a camera
like someone’s all-too-comfy
second cousin.
It scares me.
But maybe not as much
as it used to.
Maybe my voice
will carry the story
before my face ever needs to.
And maybe, just maybe,
no one will riot.
Maybe they'll see me
and stay.But that’s for another day.Today, I am whole.
Soft with pride.
Fed with laughter.
And held
- not by approval,
not by religion -
but by the hallowed home
I’ve built with my own hands.
May 11, 2025
Today is Mother’s Day.
And while I did not
hold my mother’s hand,
nor hear my child’s footsteps
in the house,
I felt whole.
I felt full.I wrote a letter to my mother -
the one I’ve been carrying
in my chest
like folded parchment.
Handwritten,
pressed alongside a daffodil card
and delivered to her mailbox
like a prayer
tucked beneath the door.It felt good.
Not loud-good,
not performative.
Just clean.
Like doing something sacred
without needing to be seen.At home, Rip and Kip
- our newly-neutered,
slightly wobbly fools -
have been little fountains
of adorableness.
Loopy, tender, hilarious.
They keep forgetting
which way their legs bend,
but their affection hasn’t stopped
since they came home.
Their warmth is a balm.And the laundry service -
CloudHåus, our labor of love -
has now served four orders
in two weeks.
One client even returned.
A quiet victory,
but loud in my heart.
Proof that what I’m building
holds water.Yesterday, I picked up Sil
and her friends -
I mentioned, “I’ve gotta swing by
and grab a pickup.”
She gasped.
Eyes widened
ever-so slightly.
That moment when a dream
stops being theory
and becomes your grandmother’s hands,
doing the work.I overheard her telling Bradley,
“My mom started a laundry business.”
And oh...
I don’t think she meant
to light me up like that.
But she did.
A spark, right down
to the roots of me.To be seen by your child
as someone becoming.
That’s the real Mother’s Day gift.And so,
even without the formal fanfare
- even without brunches, bouquets,
or big declarations -
I feel celebrated.I am proud of myself.
I am proud of Jarrod.
I am proud of our days -
quiet, rhythmic, unhurried.
Filled with the kind of peace
you have to earn.All of my nows are beautiful.This life,
this bittersweet symphony,
is heavy on the holy -
the kind of holy
you don’t just find in churches,
but in kitchens, and in cars,
in whispered dreams
and return clients,
in the way your child says your name
with awe.
May 8, 2025
I used to think
truth was something sharp.
A clean, clear blade
that cut through confusion,
righteous in its clarity.But now I know -
there’s a difference
between being honest
and being kind.
Between transparency
and tenderness.
Between telling it like it is
and asking myself,
“Does this need to be said?”
“Does this need to be said by me?”
“Does this need to be said right now?”I’m learning.
Relearning, really.
How to speak
so my words can land
like bridges
instead of bombs.It wasn’t just my tone.
Not just body language.
It was the words themselves -
the ones I chose,
the timing I ignored,
the stories I clung to
because they felt more correct
than connected.I thought I was being real.
I thought truth had to sting
to be true.
But now I know truth can be
reframed, softened, selected.
Not in the name of avoidance,
but in the name of care.I can tell the truth
and still choose
which part to place
in someone’s hands.Not every thought
deserves an amplifier.
Not every reaction
is worth its ripple.
Not every discomfort
needs an audience.These days, I’m a student -
again, always.
Grateful for the voices
who teach with patience:
psychologists, poets, partners,
my own still self
when I get quiet enough
to hear her.It’s already showing.
Jarrod and I -
we’re laughing more.
Touching more.
Tense less.
And when we don't see
eye to eye,
we argue like artists,
not enemies.There’s a grace in this.
A practice.Love deserves better
than my reflexes.So I pause.
I breathe.
I remember that being right
is not the same as being close.
And I begin again.
With a gentler voice.
With more of my heart
in my mouth.
With love,
finally, in the delivery.
May 4, 2025
I live in the kind of family
you can’t diagram
in a textbook.
No clean lines,
no dotted labels.
Just people who love each other
in real time.There’s me -
the mother.
There’s Sil -
our daughter,
my heartbeat in teenage form.
There’s Jarrod -
my partner of a decade,
not a husband,
but something steadier
than a title.
And there’s Jared -
Sil’s father, my friend,
the other half of a parenting rhythm
that’s worked for seventeen years.(Yes, Jarrod and Jared. Yes, pronounced the same. Yes, we’ve survived it.)It shouldn’t be this easy,
but it is.
Somehow, we made a constellation
out of a situation
most people fumble.
Jarrod’s been in Sil’s life
since she was seven.
He’s never tried to be her dad.
He’s been her...
something else -
a big brother
with father-figure instincts,
a soft place to land,
a co-conspirator
in dry wit and deep chats.
She’s told him things
she couldn’t tell me,
and in return,
I’ve gotten a stronger bond with her,
braided through his patience.How could I not be grateful?We tried a fast,
Jarrod and I -
a water-only three-day stillness.
But his body
pushed back hard
that first night,
a rebellion
of caffeine and sugar ghosts,
so we paused.
We’ll try again,
one night at a time,
stretching the discipline
into devotion.
Making it slow,
like a kiss drawn out
over weeks.To break the fast,
I devoured a can
of Justin’s soup
and an egg sandwich
on a bun that tasted
like wet styrofoam
and regret.
It sat in my belly like betrayal.Then the next day,
I fell face-first
into a buttery theater cliché:
a tub of popcorn
(extra oil, thank you),
a bag of M&Ms,
a few illicit sips
of regular Pepsi.
Thunderbolts on screen,
thunderclaps in my gut.I’m not mad at myself.
I’m just... recalibrating.
What happens in the theater
stays in the theater.
But damn,
I feel like I smoked a pack
of neon candy cigarettes.Today is Sunday,
and normally I rest -
no work,
just stillness and stretching.
But I’m making postcards
for the laundry service,
and somehow it feels
like play.
Like scissors and glue
in kindergarten.
Like vision, made tangible.
So I let it count as joy.We’ve been loving our new room.
A king bed, finally.
The luxury of space
and closeness.
We’ve made love
like teenagers with secrets.
There’s a reverence
in how we touch each other lately.
Not just fire, but freedom.
Room to breathe,
to drift,
to return.And oh, how I love
this little life.
This beautiful, woven,
not-quite-normal rhythm of ours.
With laughter echoing
off hallway walls,
cats divebombing the laundry,
Justin humming in the kitchen,
Jarrod bubbling with quiet magic.I know not every day
will feel this golden.
And I want to write those days too -
the hard, the hollow, the heavy.
But today?Today I am bursting.
Not from sugar,
not from shame,
but from the joy of being here.
Alive.
In love.
At home.
May 2, 2025
There’s a stillness that moves in
when gratitude settles
in your bones.
Not the kind
you have to reach for,
or remind yourself of -
but the kind
that curls up beside you
like a content cat,
purring softly
into your everyday moments.
That’s where I feel myself
landing lately.
Not chasing peace,
but discovering
I’ve been living in it
all along.Our home is so full
of life and love,
I can’t help but marvel.
Rip and Kip
- those tiny fuzzy wrestlers -
are always either tangled
in sleep or chaos,
snuggling with the force of magnets
or performing aerial stunts
that could qualify
for Olympic scores.
Their joy is so present,
so unapologetic -
it spills into the room
like sunlight.The whole space hums
with warmth.
Over the years,
Jarrod and I have quietly,
intentionally,
curated a home
that feels like a sanctuary.
One that's seen
dozens of rearrangements
(including today’s room switch between Sil and us)
yet with every change
it gets closer to the truth
of who we are becoming.
Like the house is growing with us.When Sil is here
- or when her friends pile in
with laughter in their eyes
- or when Serenity and Ramey
come barreling through the door
with that magical energy
children carry -
it’s like the walls smile.
There’s this buzz
of creativity and joy
that fills the air,
unspoken but unmistakable.
It feels like
what I imagine
a happy memory would sound like
if it had a heartbeat.Even Justin
- who mostly stays in the background -
adds to the sense of safety
and wholeness here.
He’s a quiet guardian;
always present,
never imposing.
His presence gives me
the freedom to unfold,
knowing I’m held.And then there’s Jarrod.
My partner in everything.
We’ve been through enough
versions of love
to know
it doesn’t survive on autopilot.
Somehow,
we’re always finding new ways
to stoke the flame.
To say
I see you. I still choose you.
It never stops feeling
like magic.Even the small things
- like the glass bottles I bought recently -
make life feel touched
with a little more luxury.
Every cucumber water
or homemade kombucha
feels intentional...
pretty, even.
And then there's the scent of bread,
always.
Like the house
is breathing warmth.Today marks the beginning
of something new
between Jarrod and me:
a 3-day, water-only fast.
It’s my second time,
but our first time doing it
together.
There’s something beautiful
about committing
to this kind of challenge;
not just to reset the body,
but to deepen
the connection.
Day one is already
more than halfway through
and I feel…
light.
Focused. Curious.
I’m not craving anything
except more of this -
this presence,
this ease,
this quiet celebration of life.I don’t need anything
to be different,
to feel grateful.
I just need to remember
how good it already is.