Mother’s Day marked my last one in this house. I thought I was ready—the packing, the logistics, the countdown. But I wasn’t prepared for how many layers of my life would start unraveling all at once.

Monday night, I gathered three of my dearest friends, my Baseball Sisterhood, for what was our last night under this roof. We weren’t just team moms. For years, we were in the thick of raising our amazing kids: travel ball, heartbreaks, dugout drama, carpool chaos, and the long, beautiful slog of raising boys into men. These women have shown up for every chapter, hard ones included. And this one is proving to be no exception.

Saying goodbye to them felt like the first tear in the fabric of this life I’ve worked so hard to stitch together. We hugged, we cried, and we knew, no matter how strong our bond is, this marks the end of something we can’t get back.  What we built will never leave us, but what we shared in our baseball days is shifting. That truth hit me harder than I expected.

And that was just the beginning of the goodbyes, taking advantage of each remaining day, the next evening cracked my heart a little wider, in the softest, most beautiful way.

Two of my dearest friends, my ride-or-die women for almost 20 years, showed up for one last birthday happy hour before everything changes.

The kind of happy hour that usually happened without a second thought: five minutes away, a glass of wine in hand, kicking off our shoes in someone’s living room as we swapped life updates, laughed about our kids’ latest chaos, and commiserated over the cruel comedy of menopause. These women have been my sounding boards, my soft place to land, and my truest supporters, especially in the moments when I wasn’t sure I could hold it all together.

Fortunately, it wasn’t goodbye, not entirely, we have travel plans ahead, and we’ll find ways to keep showing up for each other even if it’s across time zones instead of neighborhoods. But it was the last easy moment. The last “free for happy hour” hangout. The end of an era of proximity and spontaneity. And that truth sat quietly between us as we raised our glasses—equal parts celebration and for me silent mourning for what’s shifting.

And then, like life often does, more unraveling came.

The relationship I’d held onto with quiet hope shifted again…not in a dramatic explosion, but in a tender, truthful unraveling. Deep down, I have known he wasn’t my forever person. We’re in different places, moving at different paces, and carrying different visions of what’s next. But that couldn’t stop me from falling in love with him. From wishing there was a way. From needing what he could give; comfort, connection, the soft landing I craved in the middle of so much uncertainty.

It wasn’t denial…it was holding onto a serendipitous spark that stirred something real and rare, something we never saw coming but deeply felt. And letting go of that, even gently, still aches.

And just as my personal life felt like it was cracking open, work followed suit.

And as if emotional upheaval weren’t enough, work has thrown its own set of curveballs. Leadership challenges. Organizational changes. Uncertainty about what the next step even looks like. I’ve built a reputation as someone who leads from the front, but what do you do when you don’t even know where the path is leading?

So here I am. Potentially without a home. Professionally untethered. Emotionally bruised. Sitting in a half-packed house with too many browser tabs open and too few answers in sight.

But here’s what I know: the wine bottles are lined up, and my metaphorical AK-47 is still by my side, because the fight is not over yet. I’ve still got 13 days of hard goodbyes ahead. Thirteen days of peeling back the layers of a life lived in these walls, emptying the house, closing doors that have held both chaos and comfort. I’m trying to pave a path forward in my career, all while staring down the wide-open unknown of where I’ll land next in this big, beautiful, overwhelming country.

I’m exhausted. Bruised. Some days, I am more broken than bold. But I’m still herestill showing up, still leading, still loving, still laughing, even if sometimes it’s just to keep from crying. I’m holding space for grief, for hope, and for the terrifying wonder of what comes next.

As I say goodbye to the people and pieces that carried me, I know it’s my turn now—to carry myself. To clear space not just in my home, but in my heart and in the story, I’m still learning how to tell.

This isn’t the polished reinvention I once imagined. It’s messier than that, it’s a little heartbreak, a little hustle, and a whole lot of holding my own hand in the dark. But still, I flirt with my future—not from certainty, but from the fierce refusal to stay stuck in what no longer fits.