Kat Presley

I’m Kat Presley -
writer, founder,
homemaker, romantic.
A woman who lives by scent,
sensation, and soul.
I’ve been a caregiver, a maker,
a quiet storm behind the scenes.
but these days,
I’m building something
with more shape.
Something that holds,
honors, and elevates
the way we move through life.
It starts with laundry
- the most intimate of rituals -
and expands in every direction
where beauty and care belong.
I believe in softness
with structure.
In nourishment
as a form of leadership.
In business
that remembers the earth.
And in the kind
of everyday magic
that smells like clean sheets,
warm bread,
and fresh air after rain.
If you’ve landed here,
maybe you’re like me -
a little wild,
deeply loving,
serious about what matters.
Welcome.
Let’s make something meaningful.

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.

June 15, 2025

Rectangles, Water, and the Shape of My Future

I began working on the app.Well,
learning how
to work on the app.
So far, it’s just a rectangle.
But it’s a start.
It’s Father’s Day.
And though I usually rest on Sundays,
the fathers in my life are working,
or spending time with their own.
So I am here, learning.
Taking quiet steps forward.
If I stay on track,
I think I can have
a prototype ready
for a developer
by the end of the month.
Fingers crossed.
Heart open.
But now I’m questioning the name.I love
CloudHåus Conscious Laundry Co.
for a local presence -
earthy, warm, intentional.
But I’m not sure
if CloudHåus
is the right name
for a national app.
So today,
I’ll begin exploring.
I’ll also touch the website again.
Dust it off.
Tuck a few things in place.
And maybe, just maybe,
start taking clients next week.
I can use that to fund the app.
At least a little.
A loan
might still be necessary.
But I’ll wait and see
what magic this momentum brings.
Today is the first day
of my three-day water fast.
I eased into it
like stepping into cold water
with reverence.
Weeks of intermittent fasting.
Then one meal a day.
Then a day
of slow-simmered vegetables.
Then one of soup,
one of broth,
and now:
just water.
Monday and Tuesday
will be the same.
And then I’ll inch back out -
broth, soup, veggies.
A gentle rise
after a slow descent.
When it's complete,
Jarrod is making me
his cheddar biscuits.
Slider buns
for a simple
smashed hamburger.
Just meat and biscuit -
like God intended.
I’m surprisingly comfortable
in the fast so far.
The rhythm suits me.
On veggie day,
I had one bowl and was full.
On soup day, two.
Yesterday, just two cups of broth.
I don’t eat past 7 PM,
and I think that’s been
the quiet anchor.
I weighed in this morning
at 261.9,
down from 298.3
in December.
Life is good right now.
The kittens are getting big.
More affectionate than ever
since their neutering.
Soft and needy
in the best ways.
Jarrod and I
are more in love than ever.
It feels… right.
For a long time,
I held a fear close
that if the “right” opportunity came,
I’d leave him.
But I’ve grown.And I see now -
he isn’t holding me back.
He fits.
And he would fit
into the life I am aligning with.
Him, golfing
out on the green
with the guys.
Me, wrapped
in steam and rose oil
at the spa
with the women I love.
Simple.
Adventurous.
Loving.
Independent.
Passionate.
Grounded.
I can already feel
the rhythm of our future.
Soft mornings.
Long kisses.
Matching momentum.
The only thing
I wrestle with now
is the idea
of changing my name.
Callahan is a good name.
It sounds sweet with Kat.
With Katie.
But Presley…
Presley is iconic.
It suits me.
Maybe I’ll hold
a Surname Ceremony
soon.
Light a candle,
ask the stars,
and let the right choice
reveal itself to me.

June 14, 2025

CEO, Baby!

It’s official.
I’m the CEO of
CloudHåus Conscious Laundry Co.
Not in theory.
Not in spirit.
But on paper...
legally.
I got the LLC.
The EIN.
I’m just waiting
on the bank
to open the gate,
and then we’re off.
Most of the puzzle is in place now.
Edges clicking into edges.
The picture becoming clear.
Another shift:
I’ve decided to model CloudHåus
after a popular laundry app.
A gig economy framework,
but one with real roots.
The difference?
We’re built on care.
On consciousness.
We use only eco-friendly products.
We train our Laundry Liaisons
like they’re stepping
into a calling -
because they are.
And yes,
we charge a premium.
Because we’re worth it.
Because our skin, our clothes,
and our planet
deserve better
than bargain-bin bubbles.
The goal is big -
every continental U.S. state
by the end of 2028.
I like that, it rhymes.
Shouldn’t be too hard, right?
... <.<
But truly…
I believe it.
I believe in us.The app is next.
The website will hold the vision local,
but my dream is national.
Global.
Celestial, even.
Atlanta first.
Savannah right behind it.
This week, I’m learning how
to make a prototype.
Something I can take
to a developer
with clarity
and confidence.
And yes,
I still have to find
the developer.
But I’ll get there.
Step by step.
This baby’s
going to blossom.
I can feel it.
I haven’t seen Sil in a while.
Between travel
and tunnel-vision focus on CH,
I’ve started to ache for her.
That soft pull of presence
I’ve been missing.
Maybe I’ll see her tomorrow
for Father’s Day.
Maybe we can all meet up;
her, Jared, Jarrod, Ed, Lisa, me.
Or if not, maybe Monday.
I just want to be near her.
Tell her everything.
Show her what I’m building.
Because
when she looks at me
with that spark
of pride in her eyes,
something in me
catches flame.
Her belief in me
is fuel.
It’s the kind of ignition
you can’t buy.
Just wait until she sees what I’ve made.CloudHåus is coming.
And when it lands,
she’ll know:
Mom built this.

June 6, 2025

When the Stain Lifts and the Spiral Softens

The stain came out.
No spiral.
No shame-loop.
No apology typed
with trembling hands.
Just a white carpet,
clean again...
or clean enough.
Which, in this life,
counts as a win.
I worked on it for days:
Saturday - the crime.
Sunday and Monday -
the penance.
Tuesday -
the carpet cleaner arrived.
And by Wednesday,
the spot was
invisible.
Like it had forgiven me.
That feels like magic.
Or maybe just persistence.
Either way, I’ll take it.
Jarrod came over Thursday,
brought warmth and snacks,
and stayed the night.
We laid around,
watched Love Island,
sweated it out in the sauna,
then made love in the heat
like our bodies
were fusing together
with every bead of sweat
and breathless yes.
He said he’d be leaving
in the morning -
tire appointment.
I teased him:
“You can't just love me
and leave me.”
He laughed,
and canceled it.
We had more time.
I wanted to ask
for one more night, too.
Just one more.
But I didn’t.
Not at first.
I felt that nervous tremble -
the kind that sounds like:
you’re being too much,
asking too much,
needing too much.
But it kept growing
until the wanting
became unbearable.
And I finally asked.
He said no.Not cruelly.
Not coldly.
Just… no.
And still, my heart heard:
Maybe he’s using me.
Maybe I bore him.
Maybe he stayed longer
because he felt bad
and not because
he wanted to.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t try to
twist his arm.
I even said,
“I just want to share
what’s coming up.
You should still go home after.”
(which was a lie)I just didn’t want
to look desperate.
I wanted to look soft,
but brave.
He stayed until six.
We finalized the logo
together.
It’s good.
Really good.
And I’m proud of it.
And of me.
But I’m noticing
this pattern in me -
of stalling,
avoiding the next step,
by dreaming too big
to continue.
Why do I think
what comes next
has to be a commercial space
- transit vans,
stacked sets,
a six-figure loan -
when I’ve got
a Volvo from the 90s,
an outhouse laundry room
that makes me itch,
and not one single
paying client
on the CloudHåus platform?
Where is this pressure coming from
to burst onto the scene
already perfect?
Why am I ashamed
to start where I am?
The truth is,
I don’t want
to renovate a space
I don’t own.
But I also don’t want
to wait forever
for something pristine.
I could start small,
grow slowly,
upgrade with each win -
brick by brick.
But that doesn’t excite me.
And I want to be excited.
I want to market hard,
go wide,
hit the ground running,
and have the systems
to handle it.
And maybe I will.
Maybe I’ll find a way
to leap instead of crawl.
But today,
I feel stuck.
Naming it helps.
Because stuck
isn’t the end;
it’s just a place
to push off from.
I will continue.
Even if it’s messy.
Even if it’s late.
Even if I’m scared.
I will continue...
because moving forward
is a kind of bravery.
And I’m braver now
than I’ve ever been.

June 4, 2025

Of Names, Vows, and Legal Entities

I filed the LLC today.
Just me.
My name.
My dream.
Stamped into state records -
etched now in ink
instead of air.
A breath
- clung to my lungs -
finally exhaled.
But now
I’m circling the question:
Do I keep it this way?
Or do I let him in?
Jarrod and I have been together
over a decade.
We’ve lived, loved,
fallen apart, come back stronger,
relearned each other
in so many seasons
that it feels like
we’ve already been married
in everything but name.
And yet…
we are not.
And so
the paperwork matters.
The lines between
mine and ours.
The titles.
The legalities.
The ghost of the future
watching me fill out the form.
He once mentioned
- softly, offhand -
that he assumed
I’d own CloudHåus alone.
And maybe he’s right.
Maybe that’s safest.
Because this?
This has been my vision.
My blueprint.
My lifeline.
He’ll help, of course.
He already does.
Maybe as COO,
maybe in spirit,
but not, necessarily,
on paper.
Because we are not married.
And paper matters.
I don’t want
to be cynical,
but I also don’t want
to be naïve.
I built this
with my bare hands,
and protecting it
doesn’t mean
I love him less.
But still...
there’s something else here.
Something heavier.
Like an echo trying
to become a prophecy.
I’m scared.
Not of sharing.
But of what happens
if trials come,
and I use them
as an escape hatch.
We’re good now.
Really good.
But I know myself.
And some part of me wonders
when I reach safety,
will I leave?
That question hurts.
But it sits there,
honest and heavy.
I want us to work.
To really work.
To not just cohabitate,
but cocreate.
And oh, how I want
to marry him.
Not for the tax benefits.
Not for the Facebook status.
But because I want
the world to see us
vow something eternal.
Yes, it’s performative.
But it’s also sacred.
I want the anchor.
I want the weight.
I want the name, the ring,
the witness.
Because “boyfriend”
feels like a placeholder.
“Partner” feels safe
but distant.
“Husband”
feels like gravity.
And I’ve lived
too long in the clouds
not to crave something
that holds me close
when the winds pick up.
So maybe the LLC
is a metaphor.
Maybe keeping it
in my name
is an act
of self-preservation.
A parachute.
An if.
Or maybe…
maybe adding him
would be its own
kind of vow.
A signature that says,
we are building something together.
Something real.
Something legal.
Something lasting.
But I don’t know yet.I’m ready to commit.
To everything.
My health. My family.
My business.
My love.
I’m ready to be all-in.
Not halfway.
Not one foot out.
And yet, here I am,
still asking
the same question
in a dozen different ways:
Do I build this for us?
Or do I build it
just for me,
in case us doesn't last?
Maybe that’s the real fear.
That if I give him the title,
I’ll lose the company.
Or worse -
lose myself.
But maybe that’s
how every vow begins:
with a terrifying leap
into something
we hope
won’t break.

June 4, 2025

Becoming Real in Real Time

It’s dawning on me:
I can share
what’s happening in my life
- what I think, feel, dream -
without obligation,
without backlash.
And I don’t have to do it
every day to be seen
or prove that I’m present.
I could get into a rhythm -
set up a camera,
record little moments…
but honestly?
Writing is my truth-teller.
It slows me down,
lets me hear myself think.
There’s more honesty here
than I could ever say aloud.
I’ve always feared judgment.
Not from strangers,
but from the echo...
the invisible chorus in my head
that waits for a flaw to feast on.
I’m trying to curate
a peaceful life.
A life with less conflict,
more ease,
more space to bloom.
And still,
as I write that,
a flicker of doubt:
Would avoiding friction
rob me of transformation?
Would never falling
mean never flying?
I don’t know.
But for now,
I choose softness.
I choose the path
of least anxiety.
I choose what feels
like home.
Speaking of home -
Serenbe continues
to cast its spell.
These days here
have been magical.
Clean. Productive. Clear.
I feel lighter in this space.
Like the house itself
exhales for me.
I want an office like this one
- bright and warm -
somewhere my ideas
feel welcome.
That’s when I feel best:
when I’m building something.
CloudHåus is almost ready.
It’s right there,
beneath my fingertips.
I made a little
fantasy chart:
everyone I’d want to work with,
from family to friends.
I gave them all titles:
Sil as Client Experience & Operations Director.
Bradley as Creative Director.
Jarrod as COO.
Me as CEO, of course.
And in this dream,
we work and live
together daily.
A little village of talent, heart,
and shared purpose.
Even Jared
- Sil’s dad -
called last night.
He’s dreaming
of the mountains,
talking about starting
a roofing company
with his best friend.
They say not to work with friends,
but here I am
fantasizing about building
my business
on the backs
of every person I love.
There’s someone else, too -
a friend I follow online.
There’s been this
persistent voice in me saying,
She’s your match. Ask her.
But she’s got her own dream.
Her own build.
And I do things differently.
Still, I crave
that go-go-go energy.
That shared fire.
That co-visioning spark.
Maybe, instead of recruiting,
I can call her in.
Not her specifically,
but the right one.
The person who says:
Yes, I see it too. Let’s make it real.
Jarrod will be that,
eventually.
I know that.
Once the fruits
of my labor ripen,
he’ll step in
and help harvest.
He’s already so invested,
he just doesn’t act yet
like he understands
how much he’s gonna love
being in the garden with me.
Today is Day 3
of a 14-day detox.
Nothing major to report,
except some dizziness yesterday.
Blood pressure?
Low? High?
Something in between?
It worried me.
What if something
happened to me
while I was here alone?
It’s a silly fear,
but not an unfamiliar one.
My grandmother
was a hypochondriac.
Some of that
trickled down to me.
This fear that something
is always just about
to go wrong.
That I might stop breathing
mid-thought.
That I’ll go out
with the laundry undone.
And yet...
I'm healthier than ever.
155 days sober.
2,401 to go.
That’s the goal.
I used to wish for death.
Used to plan for it.
Used to speak to it
like an old friend.
But now?
Now I want to live forever.
I want to build.
Not just for myself,
but for everyone I love.
Whether that looks like
security and presence,
or job titles and paychecks,
I want to give my family
something solid,
something warm,
something lasting.
I want to live in connection.
To share space.
To love louder.
To waste nothing -
not time, not tenderness,
not a single good day.
I used to look back
and wince.
Now I look forward
and open.

June 2, 2025

Suburbia, Stains & the Spirit of CloudHåus

I got a last-minute booking
in Serenbe.
THE Serenbe.
That soft, magical
fold in the world
where everything feels
a little more enchanted.
And Raz
- sweet Raz -
is softer than ever
this third time around.
He’s been velcroed to my side,
exhaling joy in slow, steady rhythms,
just needing to be close.
I love it.
I love him.
Today, though…
the jungle has been mowed.
Yesterday the whole neighborhood
looked like vines might
swallow it whole.
Now?
Landscapers everywhere.
The Great Trim.
It’s as if all of suburbia
got the memo:
School’s out.
Time to clean up for the tourists.
Back to perfection.
I made lemonade for the crew
because Southern hospitality
is both reflex and rebellion.
And honestly?
They felt more like my people
than the family I’m working for.
There’s something about
the dirt, the sweat,
the no-bullshit eye contact.
Familiar ground.
I keep trying
to imagine myself living
in a place like this.
And I can see it...
sort of.
But I still feel the tug
of the ordinary.
The blue-collar.
The side of town
where people wear their stories
on their sleeves.
Growing up, I always felt
caught in between.
Too poor for rich people.
Too rich for poor people.
Not in money,
but in manner.
We were poor, for sure,
but I was taught
to act like I wasn’t.
To tilt my chin up.
To hunt for a man
with money
like he was a prize
you had to pretend
you were born worthy of.
It shaped me.
Still echoes.
Oh, and speaking of shaping me -
no one told me
the housekeepers were coming today.
So there I was:
no bra,
a little weepy
- thanks to
Bone Thugs-N-Harmony's
callback appearance on the
'Everybody's Live with John Mulaney'
finale
-
a white carpet
STAIN SOAKING OUT UPSTAIRS
(a simple wipe-up gone horrifically wrong)
and a little… herbal evidence
left on the patio.
Not my most polished
professional moment.
They headed upstairs
immediately.
I grabbed Raz
and booked it for the porch,
trying to look casual
while internally screaming.
Luckily, this was a private request -
no platform, no review,
just an odd gig
through a thread of trust.
Which doesn’t excuse the stain
(I’m treating & dabbing daily, I swear),
but at least it gave me the grace
not to spiral into shame.
Jarrod came by yesterday,
bringing all the things I asked for -
my Snap Judgment shirt,
some pineapple,
the Squatty Potty…
and all the kisses I’ll need
until Thursday.
Hopefully.
Though if I run low,
I might track him
on Life360,
just happen to be in Newnan
or Peachtree City
at the same time,
and swoon into his arms
like a woman in a Hallmark movie.
That’s not creepy, right?
That’s just love... with GPS.
And - drumroll -
we finally landed on a name
for the laundry service.
After spiraling through dozens,
tugging ideas inside out,
questioning every syllable,
we came back full circle.
CloudHåus Laundry Service.I know.
All that effort
just to come back
to where we started.
But now it feels chosen.
Not just cute or personal,
but clear.
It may not scream “laundry”
to a search engine,
but it sings to me.
And we’ll put our energy
into making it known -
through love, craft,
and good marketing.
Still, I wonder:
is it sellable?
Does it sound like a brand
someone would buy one day?
Or have we branded ourselves
into legacy by default?
Maybe that’s okay.
Maybe it’s meant to stay
in the family.
To grow with Sil
if she wants it.
To stretch into generations
of warm linen and lineage.
Or maybe it won’t matter at all.
Names change.
Dreams evolve.
And CloudHåus...
well, it does sound cool.
Clean.
Modern.
Sophisticated, even.
So we ride with it.
We wear the name
like silk on a breezy day.
And if the wind ever shifts,
we’ll rename the ship mid-sail.
For now, CloudHåus forever.

May 28, 2025

In Between the Bubbles and the Becomings

We changed directions again.
Just a little.
The name of the laundry service
is close to being born
- I can feel it kicking -
but it hasn’t landed yet.
Still tumbling around
in the womb of my imagination.
Meanwhile, I’m in Atlanta.
Cat-sitting.
Six of them.
Six feline frequencies,
each with their own
gravitational pull.
It’s amazing
how different they are -
like running a tiny kingdom
where everyone’s royalty
and no one shares a throne.
The humans I’m staying for?
They have like
two hundred bottles of wine.
At least.
Offered them to me,
so generously.
And I smiled,
because if I did drink,
what a glorious
dilemma it would be:
red or white?
But I don’t.
Not anymore.
And man,
do I love this clarity.
This whole-bodied sobriety.
The way my thoughts
stay with me
instead of scattering
into dark corners
or showing up
in 2AM texts
to old ghosts.
Still, I’ve wished
- sometimes -
for the ability to sip gently,
to uncork
without unraveling,
to taste
without tumbling.
But I’m grateful
for my line in the sand.
I’ve made peace
with my peace.
Jarrod’s coming over soon.
And I’m looking forward
to the weight of him,
the warmth,
the way we make love
like it’s a ritual.
Freshly laundered sheets
beneath us -
thank you, cat pee incident.
It wasn’t ideal,
but it got me cleaning everything
top to tail.
Bless the mess.
The kitties are too sweet
to stay mad at anyway.
Honestly, I don’t really know
what I’m doing right now.
Not in the big way.
The structural, mapped-out way.
I was deep
into designing
CloudHåus Organic Café & Laundry Lounge
room by room,
menu by menu,
towel by towel.
And then we paused.
Shifted.
Pivoted again.
I think I stopped moving
because the next step
is a leap.
A physical location.
Real capital.
And I only have
the shadow of a clue
where that money
will come from.
Would it be okay to ask a client
to co-sign a loan?
What if they already mentioned investing?
Does that shift the moral math?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
But more and more,
I want to call it in,
not chase it down.
Learn the mechanics
of allowing instead of
always scheming.
Maybe I’ll study
manifestation later.
Or maybe Jarrod and I
will weave our own little spell -
you know,
the hands-on kind.
Either way, it's time
to log off and log in
to whatever comes next.
For now:
tea, cats, sex magic,
and the flicker of a dream
I’m still naming.

May 24, 2025

When the Itch Becomes the Spark

Lately, I’ve been seeing
a lot of those videos.
The ones that make
your stomach flip,
make your feet twitch
under the table,
make you mutter,
Okay, okay… it’s time.
They’ve got me thinking:
We need to get CloudHaus
off the ground.
Not someday.
Not eventually.
Now.
We need a space.
We need machines.
We need to start thinking
like people who own
a real-ass business -
because we do.
And I can feel it
buzzing in my bones:
we’ve already outgrown the nest.
But goodness, it’s overwhelming.The budget is...
let’s call it imaginative.
The commercial options
are a sea I don’t yet know
how to swim.
And the moment we take
that first step,
I know the world
will start moving faster.
Which is thrilling.
And terrifying.
So I’m diving back
into my YouTube education.
How to open a laundromat.
How to scale
on scraps.
How to fund
without fear.
I’ve got the itch to begin -
and working through
a third party
just isn’t scratching it
anymore.
I want our own.
Our own hum.
Our own rhythm.
Our own door
with a name on it.
And that name…That’s the other thing.I’m thinking about
changing it.
CloudHåus is cute.
It’s dreamy.
It’s got a whisper to it.
But maybe we need
something that shouts,
or at least sings,
“We do laundry
and we do it better.”
I want a name that sticks.
That stands out.
That’s clear.
Because we’re about to be
out there in the world,
and clarity is kind
when you're trying
to be found.
So I’m gonna go sit with that -
toss some names around,
try some new faces
on this dream of mine.
I’ll keep you posted
as it shapes itself.
But just know:
we are moving.
We are building.
We are coming.
And I’m so excited to see
what we become.

May 19, 2025

Slow Days, Sweet Dreams

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

The Fire, The Feast, and The Forgiveness

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

The Quiet Glory of Mother’s Day

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

What I Meant to Say

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 necessary 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
that 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

A Love Poem for Our Unusual Life

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 had 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 the 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

Coming to Feel Comfortable in the Gratitude I Hold

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 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.