The only online publication for women in Greater Cincinnati
Editor in Chic

by -

Our Editor in Chic shares a letter to her daughter about what she brought back from their recent beach vacation (that wasn’t covered in sand).

Our Editor-in-Chic shares a letter to her daughter about their recent vacation to Myrtle Beach, her first as a parent.
Our Editor-in-Chic’s daughter, Lola, as she sees the ocean for the first time

I’ve been going to Myrtle Beach for the past two decades with my parents, and this was my first year going AS a parent.

It was an out-of-body experience to show you the ocean that I remember as a little girl asking “Are we there yet?” a million times on the way… sticking my head out the window like a dog to smell the sea air once we got close… not even waiting to get in a swimsuit to run out and touch the ocean once we got there… and taking a bottle of sand and shells home when we had to leave so I could look at and feel the ocean until we went again the next year.

There I was, holding you, showing you that very ocean, watching your eyes widen with amazement at the roaring waves and endless sandy beaches (which you soon tried to eat).

It was different being there as a mommy. And I’m not talking about the 18 million extra bags of stuff you have to carry down to the beach to keep a toddler entertained, rested and shaded all day. It was different because you were experiencing something new. We were making such amazing memories together. And it was an entire week of uninterrupted family time.

I’ve always appreciated my time on the beach a little more. Even as a teen, I’d get up unusually early (especially for a teen!) to run on the beach. The tide is too high and it gets too hot if you do it too late. Plus, I didn’t want to waste prime sunning hours! (ah, the days of not worrying about wrinkles!)

This year, I still got up early to run, but I appreciated my time on the beach in a different way. Each day I would think “Oh, only x-amount of days left! We better make the most of it” I would do things like pack our lunches and extra drinks so we didn’t waste precious beach time going back up to the room. I’d pack a toy you hadn’t seen before just to see the surprise on your face, or plan somewhere new for us to go so we could make new memories. And when little things would pop up that I’d normally complain about or pick a fight over, I just let them slide because I didn’t want to sour the day. As a result, it was THE most relaxing, fun and genuinely enjoyable week we’ve had in YEARS!

It got me thinking that I need to be in a “vacation state of mind” more often. Why not do little things to spend more time together? Why not proactively look for ways to make life more fun? Why complain when you know it’ll sour the day?

So, even though we can’t always physically be on vacation, I’m going to make more of an effort to stay there mentally. Although I will miss seeing you try to eat the sand every day. That was pretty funny.

by -

Our Editor in Chic shares a letter to her daughter about a childhood song that holds an even deeper meaning for their family.

062215LOLA

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are grey…”

I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve sang that song to you in the past 10, almost 11, months. I’d be writing this from our million dollar beachfront mansion if that gives you any idea.

It’s a song my mom always sang to me, but that’s not necessarily why I always sing it to you. I sing it because it’s true. You’ve been such a bright light of happiness for our family in our darkest hours, and you even manage to lighten up the ones that aren’t dark at all.

You and daddy on his FIRST Father's Day!
You and daddy on his FIRST Father’s Day!

Just as an example, last week, when the family was over celebrating your daddy’s first Father’s Day, I couldn’t help but notice that everyone in the room was just watching you and smiling. The way you study each little toy, randomly point at people, shout out big happy noises, and then give your bashful little smile to someone. You have become the light of all of our lives.

You did that before you even arrived. I found out I was pregnant with you right around the same time your daddy found out about needing all his surgeries. I just remember there being such an onslaught of bad news but I just kept thinking “It’s ok. We can handle it. I’m pregnant!”

Knowing that your little life was there growing made us know that we would get through whatever came our way because now we had a greater purpose. We were creating a little life, our next generation, and we were going to get as healthy as possible to do that and enjoy it. You were the little light at the end of that dark tunnel.

Then, when you did arrive, your daddy was going through a different set of surgeries and recovery. But he wanted to hold you and keep up with you, so he got stronger and more mobile so he could hold you, take care of you, and be an active part of your life. You were the sunshine that gave him the energy he needed to recover.

Father’s Day was one of the first times that we have been able to enjoy a family get-together here at the house when your daddy wasn’t in a wheelchair, walker, or using a cane. I had a little moment where I realized this and just said a little mental thank you to you.

Thank you for being the little flicker of light leading us through that dark tunnel. Our sunshine when skies were grey. And now, the absolute light of our lives. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

by -

For our annual Men's Issue, our Editor in Chic writes a letter to her daughter about the superman who lives with them.

11406828_10153524618546282_3505204440919648601_nI have to share a little secret with you: Superman lives here.

Yes, I know you’ll hear that Clark Kent lives in Metropolis and works for the Daily Planet. I’m talking about a different Superman, though. The one you call daddy.

Your daddy has absolutely amazed me over the past two years. He has been through so much with his RA-related double hip and double knee replacements, and all the therapy that goes with it. There were several times we both wondered if this was it. Was this all the disease left behind? Damaged joints, scarred body, and atrophied muscles?

Pete after his two mile walk to Venice Beach
Pete after his two mile walk to Venice Beach

These were questions that no science book or doctor could answer. It was really up to your dad to answer. Through his actions, dedication, and perseverance. He was the one to decide what was left of his body. How he would rise up from these ashes. How he would fight to make the most of what he has.

Over the past three weeks, your dad has absolutely shocked me with how far he’s come. About a month ago, he mentioned that a friend of his – Nancy Cartwright, the voice of Bart Simpson – invited him to a charity poker tournament at her house in LA. This is something he’s been invited to several times over the past few years, but hasn’t been able to go because of pain, surgeries or recovery. But this year, he actually could. I wasn’t able to go though, so if he went, he’d need to travel alone.

Pete and Nancy Cartwright
Pete and Nancy Cartwright

This is a man who just a few months ago needed help getting into the shower, dressing himself, and had to be hoisted into his car every morning for work. Could he carry his own bags, get them in and out of his car, be walking and on his feet all day like travel often requires? Neither one of us were sure, but figured there was only one way to find out so he booked the trip.

Next thing I know, not only did he have no issues with bags and travel, he’s texting me a picture of him on Venice beach, where he walked TWO miles. I about fell over. Overwhelmed with pride for how hard he was pushing himself to get better, and joy that we could travel again — something we haven’t been able to do for two years.

I know you won’t know or remember any of the pain or difficulty he’s been through in the past couple of years. In a way, that’s a good thing. He wants to be strong and active for you — you’ve been such a huge inspiration for him to recover so quickly.

But I want you to know that he’s our Superman. He’s doing the impossible. Making miracles happen. All right under our roof. Oh, and judging from how you get anything you want from him already, I can see that you’re his kryptonite. 🙂

by -

Our Editor in Chic shares a letter to her daughter about how they're celebrating instead of quitting. Keep reading to find out why.

36dbff0dfc13c01682d9a80790f23934Today is a big day. After having double knee replacements 10 weeks ago, your daddy returned to work today.

Watching him walk down the hall this morning — standing tall, hair slicked back and dressed to the nines in a dapper suit — my heart swelled with pride. Just a few months ago, that same man walked (if you could call it that) wincing in pain with each step, after hours (yes, hours) of he and I both working to get him ready for the day.

He’s. Come. So. Far.

The difference was drastic this morning since it was his first day back, and I can easily contrast it with that arduous last day 10 weeks ago. But it was the in between that was difficult. It was difficult because Pete had to work SO hard, and so consistently, for the slow and steady progress.

We live in an instant gratification world where anything you want is at your fingertips. So quickly. So easily. Satisfaction guaranteed. But some things in life (especially recovery) aren’t like that.

There are mornings where moving is the last thing you want to do, but you have to because scar tissue will form — forever limiting your use. Then, when you do move, you can only bend a couple degrees (if any) more than the last time they checked, and it feels like a whole lotta work for nothing. Haven’t I been through enough? Haven’t I hurt enough? Haven’t I worked hard enough? 

The answer is no. There have been million times where Pete and I both wanted to say “ENOUGH ALREADY!” when it comes to battling this horrible RA. Then we realized — It’s a slow process, but quitting won’t speed it up.

We want to be fun, active parents. We want to show you the world together. And this recovery — albeit painfully slow — is the only way to get there.

So we’ve been celebrating the small victories, like being able to bend his knees two degrees more than yesterday… being able to shower again…. going out to eat as a family again… walking without a cane or crutches… and today, going to work again. These are all simple things most people take for granted every day, but they’re big accomplishments for Pete.

That’s because these small victories represent progress. Small steps toward where we want to be eventually. This isn’t where we want to be — but we’re closer to it than yesterday. This isn’t instant. This isn’t easy. Satisfaction isn’t guaranteed. But it’s worth it. And that’s why we won’t quit.

by -

d49372109464bdebdb29e0075f7de065It’s only fitting that I planned to write this letter about Balance two weeks ago, but life got too crazy and I never found the time.

I wanted to write about it because my friend and fellow business owner (and “Amy” club member) Amy Kirchen just announced that she was going to close her boutique to focus on being a mom while her daughters were still little. She’s a tenacious, talented, hard-working woman. But she’s also a mom of two. She figured she can always re-open later, but she can never re-open these years with her girls.

I can’t imagine how difficult it was to make that decision, but now as a working mom, I understand why I would CONSTANTLY see articles about “work-life balance” in all my women’s magazines. That’s the thing though. We talk about balance as if there’s some formula, trick or method to navigate our way to this enigmatic place.

I just read an article where Ivanka Trump was interviewed about being a working mom, and it stuck with me because it’s so true. She said “People obsess too much about balance. A scale is only in balance for a brief second. Inevitably the pendulum swings. It’s impossible to maintain. Rather than obsess over perfect balance, I like to focus on my priorities.”

That’s how you have to think about balance. It’s a constant give and take. Letting go and holding on. Imagine balance as that ever-fluctuating scale rather than a destination.

Now, I say this taking my own advice as a work in progress. I’ve always been a “yes” person, always taking on more responsibilities than I should, and getting MUCH less sleep than I needed. But I want you to have the best of me not the rest of me. So, I’m working on my balancing act, or should I say my prioritizing act.

by -

Our Editor in Chic shares a letter to her daughter about the lessons that running - and not running - has taught her through the years.

Our Editor-in-Chic shares life lessons  for her daughter.

It seems counter-intuitive, but it’s true: “If running is difficult, run more.”

You know, that thing that makes your legs scream for mercy, pores spew sweat, and lungs strain for air? Yeah, do more of that.

Sounds crazy, right? Well, the thing is, the more you run, the better you get at it. It feels difficult at first – if not impossible – but the more you do it, the easier it becomes, and the more you can accomplish.

I’ve been running since I was really young. We lived in the country and it was a way for me to explore. Not only my surroundings, but also my capabilities. I was always so proud to come home and tell my parents how far I went on a run.

I eventually ran track and cross country through middle and high school. Then in college, I ran my first marathon. It was somewhat of an accident how it happened though, and it wasn’t pretty, but I did it.

It all started when three friends and I decided to run a marathon relay. The race was broken up into four parts where each runner did about six miles each, and I was assigned to the first leg of the race.

I trained a little harder for it than I should have because I didn’t want to run too slow and disappoint my teammates. So, come race day, I was interested to see how far I could run. I decided I’d just keep running until I couldn’t run any more and then I’d walk the rest of the course.

BANG! The race began, adrenaline was high, and I focused on running those first six miles hard for my teammates! Before I knew it, my six miles were up and I had tagged my friend to start her leg. I kept running as planned and figured it wouldn’t be long before I puttered out. All the sudden, I was passing mile marker 13 and was already halfway through the marathon!

I couldn’t believe I had just run a half marathon. At this point, I was definitely feeling the pain, but I figured if I had run half, I could run the other half (made sense at the time). At mile marker 20, with six miles left in the course, I was feeling really rough, but I told myself this was the final leg and I was on the home stretch.

Four and a half hours after starting what began as just a six mile race, I was beginning mile 26. My body felt like it was stuck in quick sand and everything hurt, but everyone was cheering for the runners and I couldn’t stop on the last mile! I remember being in tears – happy, so incredibly proud of me tears – as I crossed the finish line, frantically looking for a place to collapse and rest.

And rest I did. I couldn’t walk for the next few days, I lost both of my big toe nails, and endured lots of other unmentionables. But I couldn’t have been happier.

I ran two more marathons (actually training for them) and lots of other 5Ks and 15Ks in the years that followed. I liked the structure that training gave me; it gave me a goal to work toward, rather than just working out.

It became less of a workout and more of a hobby. Just something I always did. A big part of my life. It was the one thing I could do at the end of the day to truly wind down; the one thing that would get my blood pumping in the morning; the one thing that would make me close my laptop and take a mental break from everything for a while.

When we began infertility treatments, my doctor told me to stop any strenuous activity and relax. He didn’t have to tell me twice. I completely stopped running that day, and for the past two years, I didn’t do anything more than a brisk walk. Even that was on a rare day because I was scared of a high heart rate jeopardizing my treatment results or the pregnancy once I did get pregnant.

About a month after you were born, I remember trying to run down our driveway to get the mail because it was raining, and I was completely shocked with how bizarre it felt. Not only was I winded by the time I reached the end of our drive, but I felt like someone had rearranged all the muscles in my body and it just didn’t work the same any more. Something that had become so second nature to me was now so foreign and unpleasant.

I wondered if I’d ever be able to run again. It was such a big part of my life before, and it made me sad to see it slipping away. So, I decided to do something about it. I got a workout DVD and had to start on Level 1 doing the modified versions. I was mortified that I – a former marathon runner – was that weak, but I knew I had to start somewhere. Eventually, I was able to do Level 1 without the modifications, and move up to Level 2, then 3.

We joined a gym a couple months ago, and I started walking an incline with a short run at the end. I did five minutes at first, and eventually got up to doing a 10 minute run at the end of a walk. Then yesterday happened.

It was a gorgeous, blue sky, crisp air, Spring-like day. As I sipped my coffee looking out the window, I thought “Today would be a great day for a run.” It’s a thought I’ve had often over the past two years, but always put it back on the shelf because I wasn’t allowed to run. But yesterday I didn’t shelve it. I decided to do what I did many years ago and just run. See how far I could go. Surprise myself.

So, I put on my running shoes and headed out that door figuring I’d get winded after a few minutes. But I didn’t. I passed the spot where I usually walked to. Then, I passed the spot I had gone on my longest walk to last year. I saw a road in the distance and thought “See if you can go that far.” And then I did. I couldn’t believe it.

Once I reached my goal destination, I turned around and headed home, unsure if I’d be able to continue running the whole way back. But I figured I’d try – I had run the first half, why not the second, right? After running non-stop the entire time, going about three miles total, I ran down our driveway cheering “I did it! I did it! I did it!” All the way into the house – I couldn’t wait to tell Pete.

He’s been “running” is own race lately – making similar progress – in his battle with RA, and all his arthritis-related surgeries. While recovery hurts, he just keeps at it, and it hurts a little less the next time because he’s stronger. He’s now able to do things he hasn’t been able to do in months, and he’s slowly but surely getting his mobility back.

So, keep that in mind, no matter what your race is, or where you’re headed: “If running is difficult, run more.” You might just surprise yourself.

by -

Everyone said raising a child goes quickly. Our Editor in Chic shares a letter to her daughter about how true that’s turning out to be and what she plans to do about it.

030915LOLAWhenever I sit down to write these letters to you, my first thought is always “I can’t wait until she reads this one day.” But I stopped myself this time.

As a new mom, I bought a sea of books before your big arrival, and drowned myself in information. I wanted to prepare in every way I could. So, now that you’re finally here, it’s like the pages are all coming to life before me. All your little developments are unfolding like the chapters of my books said they would.

I’ve found myself saying “I can’t wait” a lot these past few months. “I can’t wait until she can wear this…go here… do this… say that” …and the list goes on.

But the truth is I can – and should – wait. This is the one chance I get to raise you. This is the one time in my life where you’re completely dependent on me. These are the years I’ll have on repeat in my mind when you’re long moved out and living your life as an adult. Why be impatient and wish it all away?

I know I’m not technically wishing these moments away. But every time I say “I can’t wait” for something, I’m not just enjoying the moment. A part of my mind is already turning the page on the next chapter. I’m anticipating “what’s next,” instead of soaking up where you are right now, what you’re doing, and how special it is that I get to share it with you.

Today, during a feeding, you grabbed the bottle and held it yourself. I asked myself – with welled up eyes – was that the last bottle I’ll ever get to hold for you? I would have cherished the prior feeding had I known it would be my last. That’s when it hit me: I’ve been so caught up in the excitement of all your new developments that I failed to realize many of your “firsts” come with a “last” of something else. I never know when these delicate transitions are coming, either.

You can apply that to just about anything in life, though. You usually never know when you’ll have a first or a last, but you spend a lot of time anticipating them both. It prevents you from being able to cherish, soak in, and enjoy each moment as if it’s your last.

Yesterday’s the past, tomorrow’s the future, but today is a gift. That’s why it’s called the present. So, the next time you find yourself saying “I can’t wait,” softly whisper back with a “Yes, I can” and just enjoy.

by -

Our Editor in Chic shares a letter to her daughter about being stuck in a rut and the only way to get out (other than calling AAA).

030215LOLAI’m going to regret telling you this when you start driving, but I was towed out of our driveway TWICE today. Yes, within a five hour period, I (who actually thought I was a good driver until today) got stuck two separate times and had to call two separate tow trucks to help get me out.

The first time was annoying. I was taking you to an appointment, and all the sudden my tires started spinning. I thought “no big deal” and was determined to get it going again. We had things to do, places to be, and I wasn’t going to let this stop me.

In the five years of owning my car, I’ve grown to know it and read it very well. Ahem… at least, that’s what I thought.

Reverse, forward. Reverse, forward. The further I slid, slid, slid. Before I knew it, I had completely slid off the driveway and down into a big ditch next to it.

“Well,” I thought, “this stinks, but we need to get to that appointment! It’s time to put some elbow grease into this situation!”

I ran to our garage and pulled out the biggest shovel and bag of salt we had. I dug the snow out around each tire, poured the salt, and got back in my car fully confident I’d drive right out of that mess.

Nope. I just dug big muddy ruts with my tires in the process. I eventually got out to assess the situation and it looked like complete mayhem. Sliding tire tracks, skid marks, hastily shoveled out holes, random salt patches, and mud everywhere. Kind of embarrassing.

I finally gave up, unsnapped your car seat from the car, and headed back to the house. My determination and ingenuity felt more and more deflated with each step.

It was a rare time in my life where my hard work and quick thinking didn’t get me out of a situation. That’s always worked in the past.

So I called AAA and got a tow truck out to tow me out onto the road. I headed to our appointment and had no problems getting there or back. But then, I turned into our driveway and immediately started to slide again… almost in the same exact spot!

Again, I thought I could figure it out. The other time surely must have just been a fluke. I couldn’t possibly get stuck again. In the same spot. In my own driveway.

Reverse, forward. Reverse, forward. Further I slid, slid, slid. Before I knew it, I was back where I had been just a few short hours ago.

This time, though, I wasn’t just annoyed. I was furious. Furious at the snow. Furious at my car. Furious at myself for getting stuck again. Furious that I couldn’t figure it out. Again.

I called another tow truck to come get me. But this time was different. The tow truck driver was talkative. At first I was too furious to listen. I was too focused on getting my car out of these stupid ruts. Ruts that I had created.

But the more he talked, the more I could tell he was a car buff. He started asking if I had ever used the paddle shift option on my car. He said it could work wonders in this kind of weather.

Really, dude? You’re talking to a gal who calls this car her second home. But, no, I hadn’t used the paddle shift. I actually didn’t know it even had that option.

After he pulled my car out of the ditch, he asked if I wanted to drive it down our driveway to the garage or if I wanted him to. The hard-headed, determined, slightly feminist me wanted to say “no thanks” and hop in my car and do it myself.

But me doing it “my way” is what got me into trouble in the first place. Maybe it was time to learn a new way. So, much as it hurt my pride to say it, I told him he could drive me to our garage.

Once in the car, he taught me how to use the new option on my car. I couldn’t believe it, but it actually worked. When the wheels started spinning in the slick spot that sent me off the drive twice before, he shifted down and eased right past it.

No more sliding, no more reverse and forward, no more frustration, and no more ruts. I learned a new way, and therefore got new results.

So, keep this in mind: You can’t solve problems by using the same kind of thinking you used when you created them. That goes for any kind of rut, physical, mental or just a ditch in your driveway.

by -

Our Editor in Chic shares a letter to her daughter that explains where the grass is truly greener.

022315LOLAI remember my first garden. Well, technically it was my sandbox. But I planted radish seeds in it once, and they surprisingly grew, so we called it my garden.

My parents were so shocked that anything grew in it because, for one, it was a sandbox. No soil, just sand. It was also in the shade, and a fairly long walk from our house so it wasn’t necessarily easy to get to.

This poor little “garden” had everything stacked against it. I had every excuse for it not to work. But I saw gardens in magazines and wanted one so badly.

I remember visiting my radishes each day, bringing them water — never looking at other plants to notice they were in soil not sand, or if they were bigger than my little radishes. I just watered watered watered, and loved seeing the little green sprouts get bigger every day. Then, eventually, that proud moment when my parents said my radishes were big enough to pick!

We pulled them out of the ground and I couldn’t believe I had grown them all by myself. I think I stared at them for hours – so proud – before I finally caved and ate one. I’ll never forget that day.

Somehow along the way, though, I forgot the lessons this little garden taught me. With the huge hurdles we’ve had to clear lately, it’s been tough to not look at everyone else’s “garden.” I started looking at other people’s soil. Their plants. Their harvests. Why did gardening seem so much easier for them than it did for us? Did I have a black thumb?

There was one woman in particular who seemed to have it all: healthy family, lots of kids, nice house, traveled often, great job, etc. From an outsider’s perspective, their life just looked effortless and happy. Like a beautiful, self-watering garden full of huge, fruitful plants. Who wouldn’t be jealous of that?

Last week, I had a business meeting with this woman. I even thought “It must be so nice to be her” when she welcomed me in to her perfectly organized office, shook my hand with her perfectly manicured nails, and smiled at me with her perfect Hollywood smile. Then, about 15 minutes into the conversation, she poured out her heart to me. She hadn’t been happy in years and she had just told her husband she wanted a divorce. Life had been secretly crumbling behind the facade she kept so well-manicured.

I was shocked. It was like learning that the dream gardens in my magazines as a kid were really a bunch of silk plants stuck in dirt (which they very well might have been). And here it had me – a person who somehow made radishes grow in a shady pile of sand – wondering if I had a black thumb. In reality, I made something really special happen when I focused on my own little plants. I willed those little radishes to grow with lots of love and water. Your daddy and I did the same thing – despite all odds, we willed our special little family to grow with lots of love and strength. We just needed to keep doing that and not worry about anything else.

So, keep that in mind when you feel the urge to compare your life to others. While it might look like it from afar, the grass isn’t always greener on the other side of the fence. But the grass will always be greener where you water it, even if it’s just a few radishes in the sand.

by -

Our Editor in Chic shares a letter to her daughter about taking the journey of life one step at a time - literally and figuratively - even if you have to learn how to walk all over again.

021615LOLA1Yes, you’re the newborn in the house, but it’s your daddy who learned how to walk this week.

He had total knee replacements on both legs a few days ago. Since then, I’ve seen him come out of surgery, visit with therapists, and take his first steps with his new knees.

The funny thing is that when the therapists had him on the side of the bed ready for those first steps, they said his goal was to just walk two steps. They began counting down, and before they could even say “2…1,” your dad was already lifting up.

He couldn’t wait. He had waited long enough. Years of waiting, actually. He was ready to walk again. Ready to finally enjoy life again. And it all started with these steps.

He didn’t stop once he got going, either. Not only did he do the two “goal” steps, but he walked all the way to the door and back. Probably a good 20 steps total.

I’m not going to lie, the happy tears were flowing witnessing all of this. It was a spiritual experience to see him get out of that bed and begin walking without the crunching and pain of his bone-on-bone old knees. Yes, he still had pain. But it was different pain. It was post-surgery pain. Not when-will-this-end pain.

021615LOLA2
Pete taking his first steps after surgery!

I cried because he was on the other side of the pain. I cried because he exceeded the therapist’s goal. Moreso, though, I cried because he pushed past his fear. His fear of not being able to reach the goal, handle the pain, or worse – falling.

Over the past year, as his rheumatoid arthritis worsened, I’ve watched him become more fearful of getting up, standing, walking and falling. It was so good to see him push past all of that and know these were the first steps of the rest of his life, and our life together as a family.

He wasn’t thinking about his limitations or all the therapy still ahead of him. He wasn’t thinking about the countdown or the goal. He wasn’t thinking about all the fears that have held him back before. He was thinking about pushing himself as much as he could in that very moment, whether that meant one step, two steps, or 20.

Seeing him get up out of the bed and walk to the door without fear was like watching him float… soar… fly. Made my heart so full to witness.

So, keep that in mind as you stare down a moment in life that scares you. Just focus on taking that first step. Don’t worry about falling. Because, my love, you might just fly instead.