Tiny Footprints in the Sand

A return to what actually matters

Yesterday, I was standing on the beach with my daughter and my grandsons, watching tiny footprints form in the sand. Small, uneven, imperfect steps—the kind that only exist for a moment before the tide quietly washes them away. And it hit me in a way I couldn’t ignore this is why I’m building my life differently.

I didn’t always question how life was structured. In many ways, I was raised inside something rare. As a child, I spent my days going to work with my grandparents. My grandfather-built hotels, and I would ride along with him to job sites—stopping along the way for little treats, sitting in on conversations, being part of his world. But what I remember most wasn’t just what he built. It was how he lived. His career allowed space for family, for presence, for moments that didn’t feel rushed or squeezed in between everything else. Those memories stayed with me.

After college, I went to work for his company. I loved my job. It didn’t pay the most, but it gave me something far more valuable at the time—balance. As a single mom, I was able to be there for my daughters: sports, church, the everyday moments that matter more than anything else when you look back. My career was remote before remote was even a thing, and it worked for me.

But life shifted. After my grandfather passed, the company changed hands, and it became clear that I needed to move on. What I didn’t fully realize at the time was what I would be leaving behind. The roles I stepped into became bigger, more corporate, more structured. And with that, I lost something I hadn’t realized was so essential—my time, my space, and my sense of being connected to my own life.

Over time, I began to feel it. The pressure. The misalignment. The quiet sense that something wasn’t right. Later, I would understand more about myself, including the role ADHD played in how I function, how I work, and why certain environments weren’t just uncomfortable—they were unsustainable. What I once thought was a luxury—working remotely—was actually a necessity.

And then life expanded again. I became a Mimi, and everything sharpened. Because suddenly, I wasn’t just thinking about my time—I was watching tiny footprints form in the sand again. And I knew: these moments don’t wait. They don’t pause, they don’t reschedule, and they don’t come back.

People say, “that’s just how life is.” That you work, that you miss things, that you catch what you can. But I’ve seen a different way. I was raised in it, and I know it exists. And I also know this—being single is not a limitation on the quality of my life. It’s an opportunity to design it intentionally.

So I made a decision. Not all at once, not perfectly, but clearly. If I didn’t bet on myself, I was agreeing to a life where I would miss the moments that matter most. And I’m no longer willing to do that.

We live in a time where something different is possible. Where you can build, create, shift, and design—not from pressure, but from alignment.

For me, that means building a life where I have space. Space to be present. Space to experience my family as it’s happening, not just hear about it later. Because those tiny footprints don’t stay small for long.

You don’t need to change everything overnight. But you do get to ask yourself: what moments matter enough that you’re willing to build your life around them?

Because in the end, it’s never just about time. It’s about what you chose to be there for while you had it.