First Post: The Blog I Never Thought I’d Write

Two years ago today, I was jumping up and down with excitement over the new trailer hitch my husband, Brandon, installed on our Sprinter van—affectionately named Gertrude. Gertie for short. The hitch was for our mountain bike rack so we could hit trails across the U.S., living out our slow-travel dreams.

One year ago today, I was in the ER with my youngest daughter, Grace, trying to find answers for her sudden, intense, and mysterious pain.

Today, I’m writing this first blog post from a hospital room in Salt Lake City—two states away from home in Montana—eating yet another hospital cafeteria grilled cheese, while Grace receives another round of chemotherapy.

This isn’t the blog I thought I’d be writing.
But it’s exactly the one I needed to start.

I spent almost a decade building a life I wouldn’t need a vacation from. I got my real estate license—against the advice of literally everyone I knew—and poured everything into my business. It paid off. I opened my own brokerage, mentored some incredible agents, and built a career that gave me pride and freedom.

Then I started buying properties. Again, against all advice.

“It’s too risky!”
“You’ll go bankrupt!”
“Tenants are a nightmare!”
“You have no idea what you’re doing!” (Okay, that part was true. But who does at first?)

Still, I did it anyway.

Eventually, I met Brandon. After we got married, I asked him to leave his six-figure mining job to start a construction company to help renovate my growing portfolio. He said yes. Fast forward six years: we now own 20 doors in two states. That’s not what this blog is about, but it’s part of the story.

I was building a future of financial freedom and slow travel. We’d travel the world once Grace graduated. In the meantime, we could still take short trips and keep building the dream. Until everything changed.

Grace’s health spiraled, and the mystery only deepened. ER visits. Medications. Misdiagnoses. Eventually, doctors referred her to neurology for suspected psychological causes—a polite way of saying, “We have no clue.”

Then, one last imaging scan revealed a tumor—an accidental find. The spine and tumor specialists declared it benign and non-aggressive. We exhaled. We named the tumor Bruce (as in Bruce Lee—because it was kicking her butt). And we celebrated. We finally had answers.

Surgery was scheduled. The tumor would be removed from behind her liver and spine, her spinal column fused back together. Grace was excited to get back to cartwheels and softball. I was excited to leave town again without fearing the next ER trip.

Then the surgeon walked into the room the day after her surgery and asked her dad and me to step out. He led us down the hall into a dimly lit conference room with two small couches. I knew immediately.

He looked at Grace’s dad, then said, “I’m sorry, but it isn’t benign. Your daughter has cancer.”

I floated out of my body.

I don’t remember much after that—just curling into the couch, numb, while the words floated by. When it ended, I turned to Grace’s dad—whom I hadn’t hugged in 15 years—and simply said, “We have to stop fighting.” We both broke down.

Grace needed 9 months of chemo and radiation. Our small town in Montana didn’t have pediatric oncology. So we packed up and relocated to Salt Lake City, six hours away from everything I loved—my husband, my older daughters, my granddaughter, my dogs, my work, my life.

And that’s where this blog begins.

We’ll skip the five months where I was too numb to function. Where I mourned my expectations and watched everything I’d worked for unravel.

But I didn’t cancel my dreams. I just pressed pause.

Life reroutes us sometimes—without GPS or warning. And that’s why After the Before exists.

We’re starting in the middle, where things are messy, uncertain, and far from the plan. This is a space to reflect, process, and maybe help someone else who’s living in-between, too.

I’m not traveling full-time yet, but I’m preparing. I’m not living the dream, but I’m still dreaming. And I’m living, really living—right here, in the now.

Here’s what to expect from this blog:

• Honest reflections on caregiving, cancer, and midlife curveballs
• Travel dreams, planning tips, and budget strategies
• Stories from a life being rebuilt from the inside out
• Humor, healing, hope, and hard truths
• Creative sparks, book recs, local adventures
• Future podcast episodes and community connections

It won’t be perfect. It won’t always be pretty. But it will be real.

Thanks for being here. Truly.

Let’s begin, After the Before.