The house had no floors when we bought it. My dad had laid every single one. We were finishing, polishing, days away from the varnish. So the footprints stood out like a shout. To me, they felt violent. In your face. Intrusive. Someone had been tracing our steps, waiting for us to leave, then walking right through what we had built.

They took my dad's equipment. They took anything of value — which wasn't much. He rebuilt. We rebuilt. But those footprints never left my memory.

Something about those binoculars reminded me of my grandpa. He was my favorite. And I was his. He was quiet and kind, but he also had a very sad part to him. He fought in the war, went through concentration camps and then through the Gulag. And yet, he'd find joy in me and my childhood silliness.

Last year, I told my story on stage for the first time. It was humbling and nerve-wracking. But once I did it, something shifted—I felt more alive than I had in months. And unexpectedly, more stories started coming to me. That's what happens when we share: we don't just give our stories away, we discover more of them. We discover more of ourselves. Join Stories We Carry, a monthly storytelling circle where presence matters more than perfection.

I told everyone to pause and reflect. Then I didn't sleep for days. The Reclaim Marathon has been amazing—witnessing women come into alignment with themselves for the first time. But the depth of those sacred conversations keeps fading behind the work they require after. Which breaks my heart a little. Here's what I'm doing about it.

When you can't take them to Paris, bring Paris home. A heartfelt story about creating unforgettable birthday celebrations on any budget—featuring construction paper tuxedos, homemade French menus, and the kind of magic that proves the best gifts aren't bought, they're made. Discover how one family transformed their home into a week-long Parisian experience that cost almost nothing but meant everything.