Every house has a breaking point.
Ours happens to be cream carpet.

Over the years, I’ve learned there are two kinds of home stories: the ones you plan to tell, and the ones that show up uninvited—usually with stains. When you live long enough in one place, the floor becomes a quiet witness. It records everything.

Which is how I landed here, thinking about carpet disasters—because of course that’s where this story goes.

Burns.
Spills.
Pets.
Kids.
Wine.

That moment when you know: Yep. That carpet’s done.

When we built our house about twenty years ago, hardwood covered the main part of the home. Cream carpet filled the library, dining room, and three bedrooms. Now you probably already know…Cream carpet is unforgiving.
The one truth about cream carpet, though, is that it never surprises you. It’s either clean…or filthy.

The Towels We Keep

I still have the first two towels my mom bought me when I left for college. They’re thin now—somewhere between threadbare and this-could-be-a-washcloth—but they’ve earned their place. I reach for them when I’m dyeing my hair, bathing the dogs, or doing anything else that might leave me emotionally scarred. They’re not the current colors, not stylish, and definitely not “guest towel approved,” but they stay steady. Solid. Loyal. The golden retrievers of my linen world.

And then there’s my linen closet.

Closets, Scents, and Clotheslines

I love a neat linen closet with the same devotion most people give a well-organized pantry. But half the items in there haven’t been used once in this house—and we’ve lived here for 22 years. Some of them didn’t get used in the house before this one either, yet there they sit: two sets of white sheer curtains for mystery windows, mismatched flat sheets from an ancient full-size bed, and boxes of attachments for shavers that vanished years ago. If those shavers ever reappeared, I’d probably just close the drawer and walk away.

My son Luka, his wife Rosa, and their three babies—three-year-old Junior, 18-month-old Asher, and six-month-old Rosea—currently live with us. When I’m in my work area doing my daily TikTok LIVE, the chaos drifts up from the kitchen and family room like background music: running feet, balls bouncing off walls, cars launching over the upstairs railing and smacking the floor like tiny plastic stunt performers.

Yesterday, after finishing a LIVE, I headed upstairs into an unexpected quiet. Everyone had tucked themselves away in their room, cozy in their little nest. I walked into my bedroom, turned toward the bathroom… and stopped in my tracks at the doorway of the walk-in closet.

There, on the carpet, sat a tangled heap of necklaces.

Years ago, I turned a large window screen into a jewelry holder. It hangs in our master bath, covered in earrings. Little cup hooks line the bottom for my necklaces… many, many necklaces. I stared at the mess and wondered if the whole collection fell or just a portion. A quick glance around the corner answered that: only the bottom row of hooks sat empty. The heap held about twenty necklaces—beads, chains, charms, the whole knotted party—resting there like it planned to stay awhile.

And now, more than 24 hours later, it’s still there.

Some couples have romantic stories about dancing in the kitchen or sunset walks by the lake.
Craig and I? We have a story that involves tools, tractors, and just a hint of disaster.

Craig and I built our home back in 2002. The only things we hired out were the basement excavation, plumbing, wall texture, and the first coat of primer and white paint. Over the years, Craig has continued to build, repair, and improve everything around our place—inside and out. No matter how big the project or how new the challenge, he always figures it out. He’s confident, capable, and calm… until I get involved. That’s when disaster tends to pull up a lawn chair and make itself comfortable.

Case in point: the cottonwood incident.
We had an old cottonwood—dead as a doornail and leaning toward the house. Craig decided it was time to take it down. Armed with his trusty John Deere compact tractor, he was ready for action.

This was going to be a two-person job. I lifted him in the tractor bucket so he could tie a heavy rope around the highest part of the trunk he could reach. Then I lowered him safely to the ground, and he grabbed his chainsaw. I figured my part was done, so I started heading toward the house.

Fate, Flow, and Falling on My Face

Today I’m writing about fate. Honestly? I don’t know what to believe. I’d like to imagine I’m an enlightened mix of Taoist serenity and Stoic strength, but let’s be real—I’m probably just a Taoist soul trying to look Stoic while holding a cup of coffee and a mild existential crisis.

Deep down, I’m all about flow, trust, and surrender. But I also crave structure, purpose, and the illusion of control. The Taoist in me says, “Let go, Lisa. Flow with the current.” Meanwhile, the Stoic side crosses her arms and mutters, “Yeah, but did you pack a paddle?”

This tension between floating and steering has been the theme of my life.

When I was 27, my husband at the time, Tom, and I decided it was time to start a family. I thought it would be simple—romantic even. You know, candlelight, love, a little Celine Dion in the background. Instead, fate apparently said, “Cute plan, kid. Watch this.”

I was having coffee with a friend last week when the topic of camping came up. We laughed about tent disasters, shared our favorite campfire foods, and swapped stories about building the perfect fire. That’s when I learned something shocking—not everyone naturally knows how to build and maintain a fire! Who knew?

I’ve practiced my fire-making skills in all kinds of places—camping trips with my family, Girl Scout retreats, and right at home in the wood-burning fireplaces of my childhood houses. I was always the one scavenging for twigs, breaking up kindling, and making sure the logs burned evenly. There’s something satisfying about coaxing a spark into steady warmth.

But my knack for fire is both a blessing and a bit of a curse. My focus on the flames sometimes means I forget to notice other, smaller… shall we say, less responsible fire enthusiasts nearby.

WWhen people say “hair is an accessory,” I nod in agreement… I always say it myself. But do I believe it? I mean really believe it? That phrase sounds empowering—like we’re in control, using hair to express our personality, our mood, our stage in life. But in truth? My hair has often felt more like a battleground than an accessory. A place where my inhibitions were front and center.

Let’s rewind.

As a little girl, I adored my long hair. I was proud of how it cascaded down my back and hit the seat of the chair when I sat. The longer, the better. Then came second grade, 1972, and my mom decided to chop her own hair into a trendy pixie shag. I begged—begged—to do the same. After enough pleading, she gave in.

But here’s the catch: we didn’t go to a fancy salon where someone might coax out the best version of this new “do.” Nope—we went to a family friend who was a barber. A man. I got my long hair hacked off in a backyard barber chair. And every eight weeks for the next decade, I returned to that chair, getting “shaped up.”

And that’s where the hair-based inhibition really began.

We had my dad’s funeral last weekend. Afterward, I spent a few days in bed with flu-like symptoms—because clearly, grief wasn’t enough of a challenge on its own. One thought kept swirling around in my head during those achy, medicine-head days: a piece of writing I had considered sharing at his memorial service.

Becoming a teacher was something my dad had a philosophical problem with. (He had opinions—big ones.) But as that writing pointed out, teaching was what I felt compelled to do—twice.

And you know what? I was a damn good teacher. I loved it all: creating lessons, working with the kids, assessments, planning, parent-teacher conferences, back-to-school nights—you name it, I was in my element. So much so that I stuck with it for a full 30 years.

Back in the day, teachers with that kind of experience weren’t unicorns; they were practically the norm. But lately, I keep meeting people who went to school for teaching but never taught, or who once taught but ran screaming from the profession.

I remember being home with my mom on a Friday morning. I was little—really little. She was getting ready to go to the office and sighed, “I wish I didn’t have to go to work.”
I thought the same thing: I wish you didn’t have to go either.

But I was headed to my grandma’s house, and honestly, that softened the blow. Grandma’s house was the best. She made the world’s greatest buttered noodles and cut summer sausage into perfect little coins. I got to watch all my favorite shows and play Kings in the Corner and Go Fish on demand—basically a four-year-old’s dream of luxury and power.

It wasn’t until years later—when I became a mother myself—that I understood that feeling in my mom’s voice. I spent what felt like entire decades flying around the house like a feral squirrel in yoga pants, trying to feed everyone, keep things semi-clean, and still make it to school on time to teach a class. Between the school year, summer school, and the endless parade of kid-related responsibilities, every week felt…full. Very full. I often just wanted life to slow down for five minutes—preferably while someone else unloaded the dishwasher.

Here’s the scenario: I’m living alone in a small cabin up in Door County. It’s just me, and for once, I have total control over my surroundings. The cabin is modestly furnished with a bed, bathroom, kitchen, and all the basics for daily living. But I get to bring along my personal essentials—the little luxuries that make life truly mine.

I have always been excited about a new school year. Whether I was a student or a teacher, September was filled with promise and excited anticipation. That isn’t to say that I wasn’t tired, burned out, and grumpy by May. By the time spring rolled around, I’d be dreaming of a “Teachers Gone Wild” vacation package—complete with all-you-can-eat snacks and a strict “No Grading Papers” policy.

This excitement was especially strong when changing school levels. Transitioning from elementary school, middle school, high school, and college were times that I could recreate or reimagine the person I wanted to be. Or at least that’s what I told myself every August when I was in denial about the impending chaos.

I’ve already written recently about my wardrobe dreams when I moved from 6th grade at Washington Elementary to Beaver Dam Jr. High. I expected my new clothes to create a new person. Cool Levi’s corduroy pants and fresh shirts would wow my friends. Kids would be drawn to my aesthetic and want to be my friend. Little did I know that middle school was the time of life when girls would gossip all day and then go home and write “notes” in the evening. They would then pass them out the next day to recap and memorialize the previous day’s drama. Who knew that “Note-Passing 101” was a required middle school course?

Summertime memories are a mixed bag. People always believe that a benefit of being a teacher is the fact that you get your summer off.

In my experience, it is anything but. The end of the school year came, and the next week I was back in the classroom with a different bunch of kids. You see, I often taught summer school. For many years I would jump right back into the thick of things with barely a breath. But the big difference was the pace and pressure of educational expectations. I was able to teach FUN classes, classes that I would have loved to take as a kid.

I can’t watch scary movies. It doesn’t matter how unrealistic or far-fetched the premise—they freak me out.

The Origin of My Fear

It all started when I was a small child. I heard the story called “People Can Lick Too.” The story goes like this: One night, a woman heard a constant dripping noise. She got up to check the faucet—no drips. When she got back into bed, she hung her hand over the side. Her faithful dog licked her hand reassuringly. The next morning, she woke to find her dog dead, dripping blood in the shower. A small note beside the bed read, “people can lick too.”

Picture this: a motley crew of kids, their laughter echoing through the air as they tumble through a day bursting with adventures. After the sun dips below the horizon, they gather around a crackling campfire, their faces illuminated by the dancing flames, sharing stories and marshmallows under the starlit sky. It makes me stop, take a deep breath, and sigh…there’s nothing better.

“Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it.” –Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

I first encountered this quote on a trip to the Boundary Waters in northern Minnesota. The small tan spiral-bound notebook we each received at the trip’s start included it, presumably to inspire us during and after the adventure.

The book contains famous quotes covering leadership, nature, and education, but this one stood out to me. It struck me as truth, resonating deeply and filling me with hope.

It’s been 30 years since I first read this quote. Reflecting on the years in between, I believe the word “boldness” is the secret sauce.

You are born into a family. You don’t get to pick. Right?

In my case, when I was a young woman, I had to decide if I wanted a family–or not…

I met my first husband, Tom, in college. We were both attending a small fundamentalist, evangelical church. It was a bible study. We dated/courted throughout our four years in school under our church elders’ careful watch and counsel.

One of the commitments we were both excited about was building our family. We planned to have as many children as the Lord would bless us with–maybe 13. It sounded like a good number to shoot for. It was fun that this number freaked our parents out. (You may question our taste in humor here.)