Is my child ready for summer camp? Readiness isn’t about age. It’s about support, exposure, and how we lead kids through discomfort.

It rained on Christmas Eve.
And on Christmas Day.

Rain. At 9,318 feet.

In my twenty years of living here, I don’t know that I’ve ever experienced that. Snow, yes. Cold, definitely. But rain—on Christmas—felt unsettling in a way I couldn’t quite name.

I blinked, and suddenly it’s December.

The past six weeks were a whirlwind—five conferences, thousands of miles, and more name tags, microphones, and hallway conversations than I could possibly count. Every fall, I know this rhythm is coming, and somehow it still surprises me. I left Silverton in late October when everything was brown and waiting for winter, and I returned to snow creeping down from the high peaks and a quiet that feels earned.

Silverton in late fall is a study in patience. Everything is brown—fields, hills, rooftops. The town holds its breath, waiting for snow, for the season to shift. I’m busy, restless, reflective. There’s a quiet that hums louder than the usual clatter of summer, and it makes me notice the small things: the way light hits the mountains, the bark on the aspens, the promise in the air.

This past weekend, Phen came home for the first time since heading off to boarding school. It was so nice. My mama's heart felt regulated for the first time since he left, with all my babies under the same roof. Knowing the next time he might be home is Christmas — and that he will certainly need his winter gear before then — we had an annual hurdle to tackle.

One of the most important things about raising kids in a small town is getting out. Perspective matters. Experience matters. Getting outside our box matters.

While many of us chose life in a tiny community for its simplicity and lack of flash, kids need more. They need to see, do, and feel things beyond dirt streets and multigenerational hockey games.

This past weekend was the 31st Telluride Blues & Brews Festival—three days of music that can bring tears to your eyes and fill your soul. I’ve been going with a group of girlfriends for nearly a decade now. Different women, all from across the Southwest, ranging in age from early 40s to late 60s. Together we camp, dance, cook beautiful meals, make art, cast spells, and share what’s really going on in our lives.

When I think of Silverton, I think of the mountains, the seasons, and our library.

For years, Jackie was our librarian, and we used to joke that we had the loudest librarian ever. Jackie retired not long ago, but her spirit of welcome still lingers in the stacks. Our new librarian, Misti, has stepped in with her own kind of magic—energy, creativity, and a spark that lights up the building every day.

Groceries, groceries, groceries. Out here, food isn’t just a shopping list — it’s logistics, planning, and survival. Living in Silverton means the nearest “normal” grocery store is at least an hour away, whether north to Montrose or south to Durango. That’s not exactly a quick midweek errand.

This was the first week with all three kids back in school—and the first week with Phen gone. It wasn’t an immediate adjustment. Monday, after dropping him off, I was wrecked. I cried ugly tears and let myself feel it all.

But here in my forties, I’ve learned to practice grace with myself. I took a walk. I called my mom. I sat in his room for a while. And then I pulled myself together enough to be present when the other two came home. That was my daily practice—falling apart a little, and then finding my way back.