The coffee pot is on its last leg again.

Which feels personal, honestly.

I’m home from vacation but my body didn’t get the memo. My sleep schedule is wrecked, my skin is mad at the sun, my brain is already sprinting ahead to unpacking, work, homeschool rhythms, and getting everyone back into the shape of our real life. I should feel refreshed. Instead, I feel… crowded.

Vacations are supposed to be magic.

And they are just not always for me.

My kids light up when we travel. Their joy is loud and pure and contagious. Kris loves flying. Loves it. He looks out the window like a kid seeing the world for the first time, every time. I love that about him. Truly. Watching him experience wonder makes me love him more.

But I’m a car-ride girl.

I like knowing where I am. I like routines. I like home.

When we first got together, this wasn’t something we ever discussed. We barely had two dimes to rub together. Back then, vacations weren’t even on the menu. I made more money than he did. We would’ve been comfortable if it had been just us.

But then we became us all ten kids, the chaos, the love, the calling.

My career took the back seat without ceremony. I didn’t mourn it out loud. I just shifted. Focused on the family. On surviving. Then Kris lost his job, and we made the scariest and best decision we’ve ever made: we started our own company.

We worked obscene hours. Still do. Winters are terrifying. Some months feel like standing on a frozen river hoping the ice holds. But we always find a way…together.

Then I launched my author career.

It hit fast. Slowed. Picked back up. Tyler’s books lit a fire I didn’t expect, and suddenly this thing I built in stolen hours is helping carry us. We’re hoping the next book really knocks it out of the park. Dark humor is my love language, after all.

Now we can afford vacations.

So we plan them carefully. A year ahead. Paid off a little at a time like a layaway dream. Because we still can’t just drop money we choreograph it.

And because of that, I want it to be perfect.

Perfect memories. Perfect balance. Everyone sees what they want to see. Everyone feels like it was worth it.

But here’s the quiet truth I don’t say out loud:

By the end of every trip, I realize I would’ve been happier at home.

Not because I don’t love my family. Not because I’m ungrateful. But because my nervous system prefers small magic.

A day at the pool.

The zoo.

Bowling.

A night away.

I think I’m a one-day wonder, not a destination girl.

Maybe it’s because I didn’t grow up taking trips. Maybe I learned early that magic lives in neighborhoods, not landmarks. That safety lives in knowing where your socks are.

I don’t know the psychology. I just know this:

Watching my husband and children soak up joy brings me joy. Even when I’m tired. Even when my body protests. Even when I’m counting the hours until I’m back in my routine.

And maybe that’s where the women before me come in.

I think about my Nanny. About Jenny Wiley. About strong women who didn’t chase “getting away” but made meaning where they stood. Women who endured. Who stayed. Who built lives from the ground up without applause or passports.

Their version of rest wasn’t escape.

It was survival with grace.

My idea of a vacation isn’t a resort or a flight or a packed itinerary.

It’s a day off work.

Sitting by the pool.

Kris not talking about work every five minutes.

Both of us fully there.

That’s my magic.

And today, that’s enough.

A Small Grace (and a Pot on the Stove)

When we come home from somewhere loud and far away, I don’t need fireworks or souvenirs to feel grounded.

I need a pot on the stove.

There’s something sacred about making the same meal I’ve made a hundred times muscle memory taking over while my nervous system exhales. I think women like my Nanny understood this without naming it. So did women like Jenny Wiley. Comfort wasn’t indulgence. It was survival. It was how you reminded yourself you were home.

So tonight, grace looks like chili.

Not fancy chili.

Not “vacation chili.”

Just chili that knows where it belongs.

Beans included.

Pasta absolutely not. (I said what I said.)

Because coming home isn’t about impressing anyone. It’s about feeding the people you love and reminding yourself that this, this life, this kitchen, this routine, is still good.

Sometimes the holiest thing you can do is stir a pot and let the world wait. out my recipe page and get yourself some comfort and grace.

Check out my recipe page and lose yourself in the comfort of chili