This season of life feels a bit like sitting alone at a small table in a French bistro just before dusk.
Except the bistro table is actually my patio table.
And if we're being honest, the romantic French music isn't drifting through the streets of Paris—it's coming from my Sonos speakers while I hide on the porch swing from my children and their sitter for twenty uninterrupted minutes.
The air is warm. The doors are open. Somewhere in the distance, Jacques Brel is playing. A lawn mower starts. A chainsaw follows. Someone is blowing leaves despite there not being a single leaf in sight.
Yet somehow it all blends together.
And for the first time in a long time, I don't feel like I'm rushing toward anything.
And if I'm being completely honest, the feeling is probably less Parisian local and more Emily in Paris.
Mostly because when I was actually in Paris, I walked into a café and confidently ordered an espresso.
The gentleman behind the counter looked at me and said, "No."
I looked at the espresso machine directly behind him and tried again.
Again, "No."
To this day, I am convinced my accent was so aggressively American that he simply decided I was not getting an espresso that day.
So when I picture myself in a charming French café, I have to laugh. Real Paris and imaginary Paris are very different places.
Real Paris politely reminds you that you're American.
My version of Paris lives on a Connecticut porch swing with French music playing through a Sonos speaker, hydrangeas blooming in the garden, and just enough peace and quiet before someone inevitably yells, "Mom!"
And honestly, I prefer this version.
Lately I've found myself craving this feeling, only to catch myself moments later planning six months into the future, rearranging furniture in my head, researching gardens, redesigning websites, or dreaming up the next business idea.
The cycle is familiar.
Build.
Plan.
Improve.
Repeat.
But lately I've noticed that my favorite moments aren't found there.
They happen when I'm writing.
When I'm playing music.
When I'm sitting quietly with a cup of coffee that somehow hasn't gone cold yet.
Not achievement.
Not productivity.
Not another box checked off a never-ending list.
Just presence.
As a single mother of two, that feeling has become surprisingly precious.
For so many years I was simply surviving. Solving problems. Putting out fires. Taking care of everyone else. Moving from one challenge to the next without ever really stopping long enough to ask myself how I felt about any of it.
Now, in this next chapter, I've consciously chosen to surround myself with beauty.
Fresh flowers on the counter.
A garden I'm slowly building.
A home that feels welcoming.
Music playing in the background.
Beautiful things that remind me that life isn't only about getting through the day.
But every so often I need the reminder that even while creating beauty around me, I am still human too.
I'm still a mom who loses her patience.
A woman who gets overwhelmed.
Someone who occasionally hides outside just to hear herself think.
Someone who doesn't always have it figured out.
The truth is that life right now is beautifully messy.
There are children growing faster than I can keep up with.
Businesses being built.
Homes being decorated.
Gardens being planted.
Dreams being rearranged.
And constant reminders that I cannot possibly do everything at once.
Some days I feel as though I'm conducting an orchestra where every musician is playing a different piece of music, and need to go stand by stand to figure out where we are going all wrong.
The dishes need to be done.
The emails need answers.
The laundry somehow reproduces overnight.
The children need me.
The work needs me.
The house needs me.
And somewhere in all of that, I am trying to find myself too.
Perhaps that is why I keep returning to this French bistro state of mind.
Not because I want to escape my life.
But because I want to slow down enough to fully experience it.
Because beauty isn't actually found in Paris.
It's found in the ordinary moments we decide to notice.
The morning coffee.
The porch swing.
The summer air.
The laughter coming from inside the house.
The child asking you to watch one more trick.
The song playing through the speakers.
The garden that still has more weeds than flowers.
The moments that cannot be scheduled.
The moments that cannot be purchased.
The moments that remind us we are alive.
As a musician, I spent years believing every performance led to another performance. Every accomplishment led to another goal. Yet some of the most memorable moments were never the concerts themselves.
They were the walks afterward.
The conversations.
The quiet moments when nobody was trying to become anything.
Just being.
Motherhood has taught me the same lesson, though I often resist it.
The moments my children will remember most likely won't be the perfectly planned activities or the immaculate house.
They will remember summer evenings.
Spontaneous ice cream runs.
Stories before bed.
Laughter over absolutely nothing.
The moments that cannot be scheduled.
The moments that feel a little bit like sitting in a French bistro with nowhere else to be.
So perhaps this chapter isn't about having everything figured out.
Perhaps it's about learning to linger.
To leave a few things unfinished.
To let the garden grow slowly.
To drink the coffee while it's still hot.
To stop saving the good candles.
To enjoy the home before it's perfect.
To embrace the beautiful contradiction of building a future while fully inhabiting the present.
Right now life feels uncertain, exciting, exhausting, hopeful, and incredibly full.
And maybe that's enough.
Maybe this moment—messy, imperfect, beautiful, loud, and wonderfully ordinary—is exactly the one I've been waiting for.
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