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The assassination of Charlie Kirk has left me shaken in ways I can hardly put into words. I don’t want to draw comparisons that don’t belong, but the words of Anne Wilson’s song echo in my mind: “Who changed the world when His blood was spilled? Who takes His own cross up a hill?”

In so many ways, I believe the world will be changed by Charlie’s blood being spilled. He bore his cross with courage and conviction, carrying it faithfully and wholeheartedly in the name of Christ. He was hated for his beliefs, mocked for his boldness, and yet he never wavered. For that, he paid the ultimate price. Charlie was martyred.

And yet, what deepens the wound is not just the loss of his life, but the cultural numbness that followed. To see people sharing the graphic video of his attack—carelessly, thoughtlessly, as if it were nothing more than shock-value content—is an act of cruelty in itself. One day, Charlie’s children may stumble across that video. That thought makes my stomach turn.

This is not just brutality. This is sickness. This is a world so desensitized that we cannot even recognize the sacredness of life. And it enrages me.

On March 17, I turned 46.

It’s a strange number. Not quite a milestone, but far enough along the timeline to make you pause. People ask, “How does it feel?” and I honestly don’t know how to answer that. I don’t feel 46. But then again, what should 46 feel like?

There’s no textbook description for this age. No clean, universal definition. Some of us are raising children. Some are burying parents. Some are reinventing careers or navigating health issues. Some are chasing dreams we set down years ago, now finally brave enough to pick them up again. Forty-six doesn’t come with a rulebook—it comes with stories. Lots of them.

That’s the most profound realization I’ve had this year: my greatest strength is not in how young I can stay, or how much I can still do, but in what I’ve lived through. The experiences. The heartbreaks. The doubts. The faith. The lessons I learned the hard way and the ones I learned by watching others fall and rise again. That’s where my real power lies now—in the hard-earned wisdom of all the ages I’ve already been.

I don’t resent getting older. I don’t want to go back. But I am becoming increasingly aware of my mortality, of the finite nature of all this. The clock ticks louder in midlife, not in a panicked way, but in a purposeful one. Time feels like it’s speeding up, and suddenly every moment is asking to be noticed.

I’m trying to slow down where I can. To be present. To laugh without distraction. To see the people I love more clearly. To soak in the ordinary. Because these are the days I’ll want back someday—the ones I’m living right now.

46 isn’t old. It’s not young either. It’s a bridge between who I’ve been and who I’m becoming. And standing in that in-between space is sacred. It’s humbling. It’s beautiful.

So this year, my birthday wish isn’t for more time—it’s for deeper time. More intentional, more meaningful, more alive. I don’t want to just exist. I want to live—fully, truthfully, and gratefully.

Because I’ve never felt more me than I do right now.

And maybe that’s exactly what 46 feels like.

Well, it’s been a minute, hasn’t it? I didn’t mean to disappear, but life has been a whirlwind lately. Work has been busy, I spent a week in Texas, and things haven’t slowed down since I got back. I keep waiting for a lull, but at this point, I think I need to accept that my “normal” is just organized chaos.

Between keeping up with work, making sure the boys are where they need to be, and attempting to maintain some level of order in my house (a battle I’m slowly losing), I feel like I’m running on fumes. And just when I thought I had a handle on things, Owen left for his class trip to Washington, D.C., early Sunday morning—right as daylight saving time ended. Nothing like losing an hour of sleep and sending a kid off on a big trip to completely throw off my schedule.

So, yeah, I know this isn’t the most exciting update. No dramatic stories, no major catastrophes—just the usual hustle of work, parenting, and trying to keep my head above water. But honestly? Sometimes the mundane is better than total chaos.

Loving my Catholic faith while rejecting its patriarchal structures is a constant tug-of-war. I find deep meaning in the teachings of Jesus—the radical compassion, the call to justice, the insistence that the last shall be first. But when I look at how the Church has evolved, I can’t help but wonder: did Jesus really intend for His Church to become a system that marginalizes half of humanity?

There’s an argument that men and women are simply different, that our roles in faith and society should reflect these differences. Fine. But difference does not mean hierarchy. It does not mean exclusion. It does not mean that women, who were present at the foot of the cross, who were the first witnesses to the resurrection, who led in the early Church, should be relegated to the background while men make all the decisions.

The Church claims to uphold the dignity of women while simultaneously limiting our influence. Women can educate, organize, nurture, and serve—but we cannot lead at the highest levels. We are good enough to be saints but not priests. We can be the backbone of parishes, the first teachers of faith in the home, but we cannot be decision-makers in the Church’s most sacred spaces.

And yet, despite this frustration, I stay. I stay because I believe the Church is more than its flaws. I stay because faith is not about blind obedience to human institutions but about seeking truth, even when it challenges authority. I stay because I believe that change is possible, that women’s voices must continue to rise, and that the love of Christ is not limited by outdated structures.

If Jesus broke barriers in His time, why should we accept them in ours? If He welcomed women as disciples, why should we accept a Church that excludes them from leadership? The contradiction is maddening, but the faith itself—the message of love, justice, and redemption—is worth fighting for.

So, I will continue to challenge, question, and push for a Church that reflects the true spirit of Christ—a Church where women are not just silent supporters but active, empowered leaders. I refuse to believe that God created women with intellect, passion, and spiritual gifts only to see them sidelined. My faith is not in an institution’s flawed traditions but in a God who calls us all—male and female—to build His kingdom together, as equals.

At some point, feminism took a turn. We fought to be equal to men, and in doing so, we stepped onto a path built by and for them. We entered their workforce, adapted to their schedules, and structured our lives around their systems. But in this pursuit of equality, did we really win anything—or did we just inherit the right to be overworked and underappreciated?

Men have long dictated the pace of the world. Work from 9 to 5. Retire at 65. Push through exhaustion. Show up, no matter what. This timeline was never designed for the female body or experience. It leaves no space for pregnancy, no consideration for the unpredictability of motherhood, no allowance for the upheaval of menopause. Instead, we are expected to fold these realities into the margins, cramming them into schedules that were never made to hold them.

And what did we gain for it? The right to do too much for too little.

We secured the freedom to pursue careers while still bearing the weight of domestic expectations. We broke glass ceilings only to find ourselves drowning in the shards—balancing full-time jobs, caregiving, and the emotional labor that still disproportionately falls on us. The wage gap remains, the motherhood penalty persists, and “having it all” often translates to having no rest.

This isn’t to say that feminism has failed. The right to vote, access to education, and legal protections against discrimination are undeniable victories. But the framework of equality we pursued was built on a flawed foundation. We asked for a seat at the table, but we never questioned why the table was set the way it was.

Real progress won’t come from squeezing women into a system that wasn’t designed for us. It will come from dismantling the expectations that force us to fit into it. From reimagining work schedules, caregiving responsibilities, and success itself—not just for women, but for everyone.

Because true equality isn’t about living on men’s time. It’s about creating a world where women’s time, women’s rhythms, and women’s lives are valued just as much as men’s. And we’re not there yet.

What do you think? Have we gained true progress, or just a heavier workload?

Valentine’s Day changes after 23 years of marriage. Gone are the days of dinners at fancy, darkly lit restaurants. Now, it’s more like takeout from your favorite Chinese place while you watch Netflix in your pajamas, trying to keep the dogs from stealing your egg rolls. And you know what? That’s just fine.

When you’ve been married for over two decades, love isn’t always big gestures and heart-shaped boxes of chocolates. Love is knowing your partner’s coffee order by heart and brewing the first cup before they wake up. It’s taking the dogs out in the freezing cold because you know they had a rough day at work. It’s tag-teaming the chaos of life with kids, jobs, and the never-ending to-do list, finding joy in the middle of the madness.

And, boy, is there madness. With three kids, Valentine’s Day morning might begin with a frantic search for that one shirt they must wear to school, the one that’s probably been under their bed for three weeks. By the time you’ve packed lunches, wrangled the dogs, and settled into work, Cupid’s magic feels more like chaos than romance.

But that’s the beauty of it, isn’t it? The over-hyped, Hallmark version of Valentine’s Day doesn’t hold a candle to the real thing. Real love isn’t about grand displays. It’s in the shared laughter, the inside jokes, and the quiet moments where you look at each other and think, “I’d choose you all over again.”

Valentine’s Day gives us a chance to pause and remember why we started this journey together in the first place. It’s not about how many roses you get or how expensive the dinner is. It’s about taking a moment to say, “Hey, I still like you,” even when you’re folding laundry or picking up after the dogs… again.

So, this Valentine’s Day, embrace the chaos. Laugh at the imperfect moments. Celebrate with your kids, your dogs, and your partner in crime. Love doesn’t have to be picture-perfect to be perfect for you. ❤️

Let’s talk about a special breed of mother: the Sancti-Mommy. You know the type. She’s the self-appointed Queen of All Things Parenting, here to bestow her infinite wisdom upon you—whether you asked for it or not. She’s got strong opinions on everything—screen time (none, ever), organic-only diets (of course), and the absolute worst offense: how you are raising your child.

I’ve been in the trenches of motherhood for quite a while. I’ve raised a child to adulthood, and I’m currently wrangling a teenager and a pre-teen. I’ve done the sleepless nights, the tantrums, the school drama, the sports schedules, and the why-do-they-keep-eating-like-I’m-feeding-a-small-army phase. And yet, despite my literal decades of experience, I still somehow find myself dealing with these high-horse-riding moms who act like their way is the only way.

Honestly? I’m over it.

Who Are the Sancti-Mommies?

Sancti-mommies come in various flavors, including but not limited to:

• The Natural Mama – If your child has ever had a processed snack, you might as well hand over your mom card. She ground her own baby food from day one and will let you know it. Repeatedly.
• The Screen-Free Saint – Her child has never watched TV, played video games, or touched an iPad. (You’ve also never seen this woman alone in a room with her kids for more than ten minutes, so… interesting.)
• The Competitive Crafter – Homemade Halloween costumes? Always. Bake sale? From scratch. School projects? Museum-quality. You, with your store-bought cupcakes? Shame.
• The Sports-Obsessed Strategist – Her kid is obviously going pro in three different sports, and if your child isn’t specializing at age 6, well, enjoy your mediocrity.
• The Gentle-Parenting Guru – Everything is a “teachable moment,” and if you ever raise your voice, you’re a monster. Consequences? No, no. “We just talk through our feelings.” (Meanwhile, her kid is running wild at Target, knocking over displays.)

Why Do They Do This?

Simple: insecurity. Parenting is hard, and instead of admitting they’re winging it (like the rest of us), sancti-mommies double down on their “perfect” approach. If they convince themselves their way is the way, then they don’t have to sit with the reality that, deep down, no one has this whole parenting thing figured out.

How to Deal With Them (Without Losing Your Sanity)

1. Recognize That Their Judgment Says More About Them Than You

Their need to be right doesn’t make you wrong. Their loud opinions don’t override your lived experience. Just because they say something with confidence doesn’t mean it’s true.

2. Smile, Nod, and Keep It Moving

Sometimes, the best response is no response. Let them talk, let them judge, and then go right back to doing whatever works best for you and your family.

3. Deploy the Power of Sarcasm (When Necessary)

When a sancti-mommy makes a particularly bold statement, a simple “Wow, you must be exhausted from being right all the time” works wonders.

4. Don’t Engage in the One-Up Game

Resist the urge to defend yourself or explain your choices. You owe them nothing. Your kid, your rules. End of discussion.

5. Find Your People

Not every mom is like this. Seek out the ones who understand that we’re all just doing our best. Those are the moms you want in your corner.

6. Trust Yourself

I’ve been doing this mom thing long enough to know that there is no one right way. If your kid is happy, healthy, and loved, you’re doing great. Period.

Final Thoughts

Sancti-mommies will always exist. They will always have opinions, and they will always find something to criticize. But here’s the thing—they don’t matter. Your kids won’t remember whether you followed the latest parenting trends. They’ll remember how you made them feel, the love you gave them, and the memories you created together.

So let the sancti-mommies judge. You’ve got more important things to do—like enjoying the chaos of raising actual human beings.