Rediscovering life after kids with purpose and passion

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June always shows up loud—sun blazing, graduation caps flying, and bugs that act like they pay rent.

This time last year, my daughter was walking across the stage in her graduation gown. This year? She’s working at a summer camp. Somewhere between then and now, she packed her bags, got some new boundaries, and is living life on her own terms. 

My son? He’s also off living his life, doing that early-twenties dance between “I got this” and “wait—how do taxes work again?”

And me? I just celebrated my birthday on June 1st—another lap around the sun. And instead of cake (okay, maybe in addition to cake), I gave myself the best gift: finishing a huge project that had my whole heart in it.

It’s the kind of work I couldn’t have done when my kids were younger—not because I didn’t have the hustle (trust me, I studied for both my insurance licenses while working two jobs). 

But that was survival mode. 

That was do-what-pays-the-bills mode. 

That wasn’t passion, it was math. Bills due > Dreams deferred.

Now? I get to work from a different place—one that’s rooted in purpose, joy, and, dare I say… fun.

There’s something wild about working in a field that doesn’t fit neatly in a checkbox. I’m not a teacher, nurse, accountant, or lawyer (though shoutout to all of you who are). I’m a death doula, a writer, a guide, a human trying to make meaning out of both the beautiful and the brutal.

And yes, my work is a little unconventional. No one grows up saying, “I want to talk about death and grief and planning for the end.” But here I am. Doing work I love. 

And here’s the kicker: my kids are proud of me. 

That part gets me every time. 

I know they see me following my heart now in a way I didn’t let myself when they were little. 

Back then, anything that felt indulgent—rest, creativity, dreams—got filed under “maybe someday.”

But now it is someday.

And what’s wild is… I realize I wasn’t just raising them. I was growing up too. 

We learned how to do life together. We stumbled, figured it out, made messes, made magic. 

They taught me about presence, patience, TikTok, and how to laugh even when I wanted to scream into a pillow.

And now that the house is quieter, and nobody’s asking what’s for dinner (or if I can Venmo them for a snack – well, they still ask for that), I’m learning how to be with myself again. 

Not “Mom-me,” just me. 

The woman who still dances in the kitchen when nobody’s watching. Who cries at TikToks about Tiki, the brave foster dog that’s taking over the internet. Who lights up over a good project.

So this June, while my daughter is off being a camp counselor and my son is doing grown-up things out in the world, I’m here. 

Rediscovering who I am now. Still their mom. Always their mom. 

But also… more.

And that “more” is something I’m finally giving myself permission to explore.