All in Life Lessons

Let the light out

If you’ve ever imagined what life could be like as a successful creative—a writer or artist, or perhaps an entrepreneur—you’ve likely measured your own accomplishments (or lack of), against the staggering height of those who’ve “made it.” It could be Andy Warhol or J.K. Rowling. Maybe Elon Musk. If you’re like me, you look at all of the accomplishments these people have achieved over the course of their lives, and you experience a couple of different things.

Deferred farewells & regret

A very dear part of my childhood slipped away this past May.

My uncle, William (Billy) Gibbons, or Uncle Buddha as we called him, passed away suddenly in my old bedroom at my dad’s house here in Arkansas. He was 62. He’d been living with my dad for a few years, taking care of my dog, Bella, while I was off living my life in Dallas. The crazy thing is, it had been years since the Gibbons brothers—Billy, Kenny, and my dad, Phillip—had been together, and they got to see each other for a final time, out of the blue, before Billy passed.

What it means to be human: stop being so hard on yourself


In recent weeks, I've come to realize the consequences of not leading a creative life. There's an emptiness that darkens the sunny places—motherhood, my relationship, even the pride I feel in being productive at work. If I'm pouring all the love and energy within me to be a good mom and supportive and complementary partner—if I'm pouring all the effort and output within me into my job, when does that all run out? What's left?

Monday morning at the office

Monday morning. I jolt to my blaring alarm, fumbling snooze several times, and then I lift myself out of bed to conquer the day. An act of false courage. I shuffle over to my closet and stare in. I stare in, wearily scanning my wardrobe, completely aware that I'm over it all.  I'm over it all, and I'm screaming on the inside at what a coward I am.

Paradigm shift

Old thinking

As I did laundry Sunday afternoon, scooping up the contents of the washing machine and tossing them routinely into the dryer, my mind fast-forwarded to Monday morning at the office—the pangs I always felt as I recognized yet another mid-month was approaching, and here it was, now x months since I had sat down and dedicated some time, some of my precious time, to writing something out. Just writing a little something out, and yet somehow sharing everything with the world. Everything that matters in that moment, anyway.