Hi…remember me? I have a lot to update you on, but this week I felt compelled to start with what’s been on my mind after retiring from influencing after eight (!!!) years.

This January, I didn’t post. I had no collaborations. I received no credible inquiries, no dopamine-inducing likes & comments, and worst of all—no e-credits (goodbye, goodbye, goodbye to the hundreds of dollars a month to spend on whatever I wanted…).

It was a hard month for a whole bag of reasons, but I felt freer than I have in years. I still worked my freelance gig, but the hours were contained and manageable—nothing like the “flexibility” and “freedom” content creating once promised.

Quick disclaimer: The wonderfully offline among you must be exhausted by influencers talking about how much they hate influencing. But we are addicted to influencing, and then, if we quit, we are addicted to talking about it. I promise I’ll stop soon. :)

I think continuing as an influencer would have been my biggest parenting regret.

This thought has haunted me for the past few months, and it’s something I feel conflicted sharing because at one point this job transformed our lives. I absolutely believe God used that season to stabilize us financially. We now have lots of time together as a family, no debt, and even margin—eight years ago, we were absolutely not on track for any of those things.

I absolutely love marketing—I have my own freelance business—and I still cringe a little when my favorite pastors reference social media and our addiction to overconsumption because my brain is wired to strategize and optimize. For me, the work is surrendering outcomes and discerning how to do it honorably, knowing that my personal formation is more valuable than any amount of money or success. My brain may love marketing, but my soul is exhausted.

A job is just a job—my Instagram was like another baby.

Even when the baby is sleeping, I’m thinking about him! But I don’t want to think about myself that much anymore. I don’t want to be the star of my family photos. I don’t want to be shopping for my son and considering which item will get more clicks. I don’t want to invent recipes for “content” when I’d rather cook the same meal in an ugly pot without a tripod in my face. I don’t want to snap a picture every time we go to the park, just in case I “need” it. I don’t want to process everything happening in the world for strangers when my priority is to be patient, non-anxious, and available to my family.

Before being a mother, I wasn’t ready to admit my limitations. I attack problems with 30,000 pound solutions. Nothing is impossible when you’re willing to run into the same wall again and again—but a day into motherhood, it was clear that approach was not going to work.

It’s humbling how much time and mental clarity I instantly got back.

If I were still influencing, my days would look very different. Time I now spend lazily on the floor with my son in my (unattractive) pj’s would be spent staging content. I’d be brainstorming Reels while reading him books. I wouldn’t be able to compartmentalize work like I easily do with my freelancing gig.

It’s unsettling to know you’re living in possibly the most precious days of your life. My family, my community, our stability—it’s a gift that I haven’t always had and absolutely cherish daily. Knowing that it won’t last forever makes me want to cut out everything non-essential, even if that means missing out on amazing “opportunities.”

When I gave my energy to my family first, I found that there wasn’t any left for social media.

I finally accepted that no amount of money is worth the time, clutter, and emotional exhaustion of my job relying on my privacy, personality, and constant creativity.

Will I ever come back? Crazier things have happened! But I am ready to close this eight-year chapter for the foreseeable future. Not because influencing is shameful or incompatible with motherhood, but because I personally can’t sustain it and I know I don’t need it. What I really need is less noise and ambition, fewer voices and distractions. I can Brick my phone, but I can’t Brick my brain!

Now what of Mother Memos?

Well, I have plenty to say about life lately, and none of it has to do with life-changing products or how-to’s. Just little ole me navigating motherhood and life with Jesus.

If you enjoyed this, you might like How I Accidentally Became an Influencer & Why I Quit the Job Everyone Apparently Wants. And if you’re ready for me to stop talking about this, I think I’ve hit my quota for a while.

If you got this far, thank you for reading, and don’t be afraid to quit a good thing that’s no longer good for you!

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I love reading the little activities other moms come up with, so I thought it’d be fun to share a few of ours. These are his favorite things—and I guess they’re some of mine too!

1. Coffee & Trucks
   Lucky for me, my favorite coffee shop sits on the perfect corner for truck-watching during the workweek. We’ll sit there for over an hour, me sipping my coffee, him enjoying his snack. It got even more fun when he learned to pump his arm and get them to honk. He squeals with delight!
   

2. Stroller Bike Rides
   I found the most amazing stroller bike on Facebook Marketplace (my kryptonite) for a steal. My parents picked it up for me (thanks, Dad!), and now it’s Oliver’s favorite thing in the world. He can control the steering, and it helps us continue our neighborhood walk routine now that his regular stroller is nowhere near as exciting.

   

3. Ramps!
   Like any first time mom, I wanted all of the “best” toys for my boy, thinking that he’d be lost in a world of creative play. Turns out, it takes a while for kids to learn those independent skills and some are more extroverted than others, wanting Mom to join in at all times… While he’ll occasionally use his indoor wooden slide as an actual slide, he’ll play with it forever as a ramp for all of his cars to see how far they can go. The slide I’d imagined as an indoor jungle gym has taken on a new life as a ramp for all of his vehicles!
   

4. Train Screen Time
   I thought I’d be a no screen time mom—then I realized I actually wanted to be a mom with low screen time myself and no devices for the kids. It turns out, watching something on TV together can actually be really special and sometimes incredibly helpful (like when Mom is under the weather). We’ve enjoyed many YouTube videos of trains on rainy afternoons. Literally just different montages of steam-trains…and Oliver couldn’t be more captivated.
   

5. Transporters & Ferries
   As far as toys, it’s pretty obvious: Buy cars and trucks. But what I’ve noticed Oliver enjoys the most are the vehicles that transport other vehicles. Imagine that. He will spend a solid thirty minutes loading up his car transporter, and in the bath, he has a ferry to ship his all-weather cars across his tiny sea.
   

6. Books About Cars
   Self explanatory. Richard Scarry books are our absolute favorites, but we’ve spent many hours reading through First 100 Trucks, Goodnight Goodnight Construction Site, and the Little Blue Truck series to name a few.
   

7. Mini Road Trips
   If you have a transportation kid, it sure does make car rides a lot easier, and I don’t take that for granted. As long as the car is moving, he’s happy riding along (most of the time). I love hearing his little “woah” when we pass a bus and big “WOAH” when a semi-truck is behind us. If he starts getting fussy, it helps for me to point out and name the vehicles.
   

8. Transportation Sounds
   I’ve found some great stories on Spotify like the Thomas The Train collection. Sometimes I’ll play those in the car or during wind-down time. He also enjoys literal car sounds. There are so many playlists full of sounds of different vintage cars and racecars and trucks. He loves listening and mimicking every noise.
   

9. Duplo Train Legos
   Oliver’s most used toys are his Duplo Train Legos. It took him a while to figure out how to attach the trains, so he’d have me do that part, but now he can click them together himself. It’s amazing! They’re the first toy I pull out every morning, and it’s a great little post-breakfast routine.
   

10. Paper Airplanes
    He thinks I am the coolest when I make him a paper airplane, and he loves watching them fly. It is the most entertaining activity for both of us, and he enjoys throwing them around for the rest of the day. The simplest joys are really the most delightful!
    

If you have a transportation kid, you know the type. No other toy will do! I’d love to hear your favorite activities to keep your truck-obsessed toddler entertained.

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“A waiting person is a patient person. The word patience means the willingness to stay where we are and live the situation out to the full in the belief that something hidden there will manifest itself to us.”

— Henri Nouwen

Growing up, Advent meant a daily dose of chocolate (and maybe two, if I could manage to sneak a second from my little brother. It meant “how many days until Christmas?” It meant presents were coming, and oh yes, Jesus too.

But it didn’t mean waiting. And if it did, the waiting was merely an inconvenience, a nuisance—a dragged-out holiday season at best.

This December, my life revolves around waiting. So much so that it’s almost become a joke. Another “opportunity” to wait arises, and in my most irreverent moments, my response is “that’s so Advent-coded.” (We work with teenagers.)

I’m waiting for big things, small things, things that will get answers soon, things that may never hear one.

In our Advent devotional, Aaron and I were both struck by this quote from Henri Nouwen:

“A waiting person is a patient person. The word patience means the willingness to stay where we are and live the situation out to the full in the belief that something hidden there will manifest itself to us.”

I’ve been chewing on this all week, and the part that sticks out to me most is the something hidden.

How often am I withholding from Oliver what he wants because it’s not good for him, in exchange for something better, or because he will grow from not having it? If only he knew, I often think to myself, but he is so focused on what he wants that he can’t see anything else.

How relatable! It’s humbling to recognize myself in my toddler.

We so rarely have to wait for anything anymore. Some of the things I’m waiting for wouldn’t have even been available to most of humanity. We are terrible at waiting, and we hate waiting because we don’t know how to live in the mystery.

We’re a hide-and-seek family—we play morning, afternoon, and evening, and all of the moments in between. When Aaron or I come home, we can almost always find the other hidden somewhere with Oliver. Upon opening the door, you’ll hear a burst of giggles.

On his best days, Oliver can stay in place—while letting out a melody of squeals, of course. But when we first started playing, he’d immediately run out of his hiding place to be found.

The more we played, the more he learned that the game is more fun if you wait where you are and let the finder do a bit of pretend seeking.

The something hidden is the joy in Oliver’s eyes, the way his feet kick back and forth with delight, the look him and his dad share when he peeks from behind the couch.

Now, as I am confronted daily with more what if’s and wonderings, I want to ask myself: What things are hidden around me?

Instead of rushing ahead to new/more/different information.

Instead of jumping to reactions or decisions.

Instead of analyzing and rehashing and ideating and imagining and forecasting.

Where can I find the hidden things—and how much better will waiting for them be than indulging in my short-term perceived sense of control?

There’s no better time to start looking.

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Dear Chloe,

You know by now that a birthday holds a lot of hope—you’ve had quite a few of them so far.

Hope for new, and more, and better. Hope for finally.

But you also know that this list of hopes gets more grounded with every gray root that sprouts up. Less imaginative, more pragmatic. More sensible, less childlike.

Getting a six-pack is trimmed down to starting a semi-regular Pilates habit. Adding ten new clients becomes maintain current workload without crashing out.

It’s not that the dreams get smaller over time, but that my willingness to surrender what’s necessary pales in comparison. “What I wouldn’t give for _______” becomes “I wouldn’t give _______ for anything.” What I’m confident I can accomplish in this life grows bigger every year, just never as big as my list of non-negotiables.

It’s cruel that only in becoming a mother did I realize all that I am capable of achieving. Unfortunately, I would never spend this boundless potential on anything but washing unlimited berries or cracking the code to a perfect nap schedule.

I am fearless in the face of danger, resilient to rejection, and limitless in my ability to generate solutions, though I funnel most of this creative energy into trying to convince a tiny person to eat vegetables.

What’s worse is the influence that this ketchup addict has had on me. Where I used to spend all my time on lucrative business opportunities, monetizing my every move, I now find myself enjoying building with Legos (for free, with no plan to scale).

I’m taking up new hobbies that feel too late to start. I bought a camera and spend less than 1% of the time I am playing with it thinking about how to start my 12th side hustle. My son holds up a Hot Wheel and goes, “Vroom.” I take a picture of the light hitting the side of his face that I’ll never post. One day, I might slide it behind a sheet of plastic in a book that maybe a dozen people will ever thumb through.

Young people have so much passion, so many fantasies. At 23, the question “What do you want?” cues a lengthy monologue. At 33, it mainly applies to what we’re having for dinner.

At 23, you thought you were too old to start. At 33, you’ve realized that life is at its best as a beginner, from watching the best one around.

At this point, my hopes and dreams and desires have all been dashed—then surpassed in the most unimaginable ways. I wouldn’t want the life I dreamed up in my youth. Now I pray that if I stand still, not much will change, and time won't move too quickly.

So when I blow out my figurative 33 candles, I know nothing will come to mind except that I might keep doing it all every day, and then watch it start over the next.

This year, I will attempt to fail as freely as a child, shorten my reactions to those of a distractible toddler (on a good day), and hope as wildly as a boy whose biggest dream is to go to the park with both his mom and his dad.

With Love,
Chloe

Photo by Emmy Withrow

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Unless I’m struck by creative lightning in the middle of the night, I’ll be taking a pause from Mother Memos next week to celebrate and rest and all that fun stuff, but I’ll be back in your inboxes in December. Also, I have no desire to compete with Black Friday emails and the inevitable bulk deleting that will occur.

I hope my fellow Americans enjoy their Thanksgiving (and yes, I do have a few international subscribers, not to brag or anything!!).

So I made a list of all of the ways I hope to do Christmas differently this year. None of these ideas is revolutionary—unless I actually put them into practice.

A Stress-Free Christmas

Planning in advance helps lower my stress levels—until something goes wrong. Then, it’s up to me to steady my reaction and let go of what doesn’t matter. Which I can’t do if I don’t start my days with God and leave plenty of margin in our lives.

Here’s how we hope to do this practically:

• Not maxing out the calendar — We’re being very selective about what we commit to, prioritizing moments with our community over saying yes to everything. It’s really hard for me to miss a special seasonal thing, but I will end up overwhelmed if I try.

• Limiting travel — We used to visit every family member and friend we could fit in. Since we were flying from out of state, lugging suitcases full of gifts, it felt like we were wasting the trip if we didn’t. Now we limit travel and host mid-December instead of right before Christmas. I know that doesn’t work for everyone, but spreading the visits out has made a big difference.

• Sharing the load — Finding ways for everyone to contribute is easy; letting go of control can be much harder. One example of this is our upcoming Friendsgiving with our Home Group, where everyone brings a dish. Or a Secret Santa, where you only need to buy a gift for one person. Whoever is hosting knows we will all pitch in before and after.

• Planning a dedicated day to decorate — In the past, we’ve squeezed in decorations here and there or set them up on an already jam-packed day. This year, we are dedicating a whole day to make it a slow, and hopefully enjoyable, process. Putting up ornaments might be a little tricky with a one-and-a-half-year-old, so expectations will be low in terms of “productivity.”

An Affordable Christmas

This is the part of the year where it’s easy to “loosen the purse strings” and let the contents of the bag roll away into the gutter. It’s not easy, but we’re trying to be especially thoughtful with what’s left of the year and significantly limit our budget. I’ve already found myself wanting to break our spending freeze at least a dozen times. It’s on sale! It’s only $12! It’s almost sold out! But this practice is helping me prioritize the important things.

Here’s how we hope to do this practically:

• Cutting out extras — Too many lattes (my kryptonite), unnecessary decorations in our Target runs, and takeout. There will be plenty of moments for feasting this season, and I can go a year without adding anything to our holiday collection aside from handmade treasures.

• Meal planning out of the freezer — If you’re anything like me, your freezer has quite a stash around this time of year. I’ve been going through the contents and choosing meals based on what we already have, even if they’re simple and boring. We can save the extra delicious dinners for the main days of celebration.

• Shopping with sentimentality — This year, I’m going to bookstores, local shops, and using my good old-fashioned brain instead of online gift guides that all look the same. I want our gifts to feel personal, and I don’t want to fall victim to a purchase just because something is on sale.

An Actually Joyful Christmas

How often do we get to the end of the Christmas season feeling exhausted, burnt out, and disconnected? It takes work to cultivate joy and step out of some of the unhelpful habits that build up throughout the year.

Here’s how we hope to do this practically:

• Playing Christmas music morning and night — And yes, we’ve already started! Switching between the classics and our favorite Christmas worship albums throughout the day keeps us all in the lightest mood.

• No work or technology in the evenings — Just fires, books, crafts, and Christmas movies. I am terrible at turning off my brain at the end of the night, so setting a hard and fast rule helps me stay present. We’re going to be reading Waiting for Jesus by Rich Villodas together, so we’ll plan time for that before bed too.

• Writing letters & making gifts — So much of what holds me back from giving sentimental gifts is when I compare what I can create to someone who makes a career out of DIY-themed Reels. Trying to make everything Pinterest-worthy takes the fun out of the most unique and thoughtful gifts.

• Practicing generosity — While we are cutting spending in many areas, we want to be looking for ways we can bless the people around us. Making meals, dropping off treats, and giving gift cards will be more memorable and meaningful than any indulgence.

How much of what we do during the Christmas season is rooted in pressure or obligation, and how much do we actually want to do? Where’s the line between binging and feasting? How can I offer my family the best gift of all, being non-anxious, present, and at peace? I’m going to give it my best shot—let’s see how I do!

How are you making your Christmas stress-free, affordable, and joyful this year?

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Before we moved into this house, we were in a tiny, one-bedroom apartment—an Airbnb, really, generously offered by a family from our church. We needed a space to land in a very difficult place to afford; it wouldn’t be forever.

We lived there for three years, paying below-market rent, regularly throwing gallons of money at our debt, and savoring the hustle and bustle of living downtown (albeit in a remarkably small town, but still, if you squint, it might as well be the West Village!).

One winter, we were hit with a storm that flooded our parks, our freeway, our local veterinarian’s office. My husband was stuck in a three-week jury selection process for a murder trial, driving those dangerous roads by day and catching up on his missed work in the evenings. It was a horrible month, that January of 2023, as I huddled inside our barely one-bedroom, feeling frustrated and resentful. Were we going to live trapped inside this fishbowl forever?

Across town, the storm was doing its damage, beating down on that oak tree I didn’t know existed, until one night it fell—flat onto the house.

It barely missed the original fireplace, instead landing squarely on the dining room, turning a small breakfast nook into an open concept. Fortunately for the tenant, she was safely sleeping in the furthest room down the hall. Unfortunately for the tenant, the renovations took nine months, during which she found another place to live, one that had a working roof and whose living space hadn’t just been crushed to bits.

Back in our Airbnb, we jumped from our winter blues into a will-they-won’t-they process of potentially buying a small townhome, convinced that our mortgage would be lower than the abysmally high rent prices we were seeing (we were wrong). We got pregnant and imagined bringing our little boy home to something of our very own.

And then, close to the start of my third trimester, we felt like God was telling us to pause on the whole thing. I had peace, but also a sense of confusion and mild disappointment.

In my sadness, I would have never suspected that we were about to get a call from our generous Airbnb landlord, who was finishing up a long, nine-month project—An oak tree had fallen on a house! He connected us with our current (also generous) landlord, and we settled in just before the holidays.

And that’s the story of how we moved into our very first single-family home. It’s one of my favorites to tell—we don’t often have the privilege of discovering the parallel story being told in our lives, whether in the moment or in hindsight.

When I’m in the backyard watching Oliver run around and I start wishing there were still a big oak tree back there—so he’d have a swing or some shade or just a little privacy—I have to remind myself that the only reason we even live here is because that tree fell in the first place.

I didn’t know it had fallen, that a home was being rebuilt, or that a spot was opening up for us—I just knew I was tired of living in a tiny apartment and feeling like nothing would ever change.

So now, when I find myself spiraling about timelines, next steps, or searching for greener grass, I try to remember that there is another story being told, and one day I might have the whole picture. I’ll only ever know my side in real time, but all of these stories will end up woven together.

I guess that’s what a home is, after all: A story layered over a story layered over a story.

If God can use an old oak tree to solve our housing problem, perhaps I can shift my fear about the future into a faithful curiosity about what might already be in motion.

We moved into our house two Halloweens ago, and now every year it feels like a celebration of God’s provision in our lives!

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I typically journal a rambling mess of prayers before bed, but I shocked myself the other night to see that I hadn’t written anything since September. My very regular habit of solitude and prayer at night had turned into me muttering a few words as I grasped at consciousness.

Part of that is because of the desperation in these last long evenings of the year—squeezing in playdates, dinner with friends, and a walk around the neighborhood while the golden light pours down our streets and into our windows. Soon, it will be terribly dark and cold, and we’ll all be trapped inside, so we soak up these last few weeks like kids on the day before school starts.

Another reason for this interruption is that I decided to start this Substack, and I really would like to write weekly, but I can’t devote every evening to writing and rewriting and reading and rereading like I did for that last post. Even though it was quite fun, it was also emotionally exhausting, and I haven’t watched TV for like two weeks. I still haven’t finished Wicked Night on Dancing With The Stars—your girl needs a break.

So this week, and probably most weeks, you’re not going to get a profound essay or my innermost thoughts. Which is why this little thing here is called Mother Memos, anyway—it’s just a weekly-ish reflection on motherhood, faith, and everyday life in the style of your best friend’s rambling voice notes.

Emphasis on the rambling!

Except here, I can cut out all of my filler words and sound slightly smarter than I do when I talk.

This week, Elizabeth and I “borrowed” sand from the beach for our sandboxes. I am regularly, gently teased for how many excuses I will make to avoid going to the beach despite living 20 minutes away (I know, I am disgusting!). But I have to say—loading up her truck with our two boys, her two dogs, and ten ten-gallon buckets was actually completely amazing and reminded me of one of my favorite truths in motherhood: The more moms, the better.

I can easily isolate when I’m feeling overwhelmed by the endless everything—laundry, dishes, snacks. But it only takes one more mom to turn a task you dread into an adventure. In one day, a group of five of us moms entertained eight children, filled an enormous sandbox, and made a cardboard train for a Halloween costume—all of which would have sat on my to-do list indefinitely had I tried to do them myself.

(It does help to have very talented friends.)

The children were amazed by our workout for the day—carrying buckets of sand up my driveway and across the yard.

Another moment from this week: Family photos (insert shiver down my spine). This is your reminder that it’s almost too late to get a photo you like for your Christmas card, and it’s also a reminder that you should keep your expectations extremely low if you hope to get a photo of your one-and-a-half-year-old who doesn’t yet understand how to be bribed. Thankfully, my photographer is a mom who took the five good minutes we had and ran with them!

Photo by the great Tiffany Nieman. You’d never know Oliver was acting as though he’d been kidnapped.

The rest of my days were spent in the magical monotony of motherhood—changing diapers and making towers and knocking them down and all those moments that I’ll sob over remembering!

And now, somehow, we’re onto a new week—this one where I try to keep Oliver away from Halloween candy and survive the time change just as I’d nailed down our new schedule. But when I start worrying about all of the things I can’t control or the things I haven’t finished or the things I’ll never get to, most of the time—instead of battening down the hatches—all it takes is another mom (and a coffee) to get swept right back up in the wonder of these years.

The more moms, the better.

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“The only two questions, at any moment of choice in life, are what the price is and whether or not it’s worth paying.”

— Oliver Burkeman

Not What You’d Expect from a Digital Detox

Mere months after our wedding, my husband Aaron and I decided to quit our jobs and move across the country—leaving boring ‘ole California for the most exciting state in the union: Kentucky.

I wasn’t thrilled, but it was our first big adventure, and even dishes sound romantic to a newlywed. Aaron had been accepted to a Master’s program at Asbury Theological Seminary. Meanwhile, I thought it would be easy to quit teaching and make a huge career change.

It wasn’t.

Kentucky is lovely, but it’s not exactly drowning in job openings for former middle school teachers who are wildly unqualified for virtually any job other than teaching middle school.

Just before we set off, I deactivated all of my social media accounts and went dark. This was 2017, and no influencer had yet graced my feed, so my reasons were less about the debilitating effects of the internet and more about potential FOMO. How could I go from sharing my sunset film dumps and Montecito coffee shops to…Kentucky?

A year into my digital fast, I’d found a job and a few friends, and I decided to dip my toe back into Instagram—not to reconnect socially, but to start a tiny vintage resale account. It didn’t take long to discover that when I posted photos of myself wearing the clothes, engagement soared. I had accidentally become an influencer.

My first photo spot in our very simple rental in a tiny town of five thousand people. Just a white wall, a tripod, and a dream. Can you believe it was once this easy to grow a following?

The Influencer Gold Rush

Perhaps that was always the problem—I never intended to become an influencer. I was just posting everyday outfits with long, rambling captions, unaware that “authenticity” would soon become a marketing tactic. I kept my personal life close to my chest: I didn’t want to share my newly unglamorous reality, and I was ill-equipped to navigate the nuanced waters of translating my faith for an “audience.”

But I had struck gold at exactly the right time. I grew thousands of followers a month without sharing much more than mirror selfies. I discovered that I had a knack for negotiating with brands (one paid me almost a thousand dollars a month to simply tag their products in-feed once a week). Meanwhile, I leveraged my side hustle success to earn a full-time marketing role.

You’d think we were rolling in it!

(We were not.)

We had six figures of student debt, a car payment, and were taking on more loans to cover our rent and my husband’s program. We went from barely making ends meet to dumping tens of thousands of dollars on our debt. Nothing really changed about our lifestyle except that I got free clothes and we treated ourselves to coffee now and then.

I regularly pinched myself, all the while wondering when this magical well would run dry. We were still so far from our goal. I didn’t need it to work forever—but I was going to mine it as long as I could.

Motherhood Broke the Spell (and Me)

In 2024, in the third trimester of my pregnancy, Aaron and I sat in our one-bedroom apartment and clicked “submit” on our final loan balance. After seven years of juggling brand deals, freelance clients, and full-time work, we were debt-free.

I thought freedom would feel like a deep breath. Instead, I realized my life had become a spreadsheet of deliverables. Without this seemingly impossible goal, I didn’t have the motivation to keep running. My burnout was bone-deep.

Then my son was born, and I re-entered survival mode—although this time it wasn’t financial. It was physical, emotional, cellular. He had colic (and other issues we would discover later), and nothing soothed him except motion and noise turned up to almost violent levels. So I rocked him over the vacuum. Then bounced him on a yoga ball. Then walked circles around our living room. If I stopped, he screamed.

Nursing was the only time my body was still, and that’s when I disappeared into my phone.

I have so much compassion for that version of myself. I was in love with my son but overwhelmed by the whiplash of my newborn experience being nothing like I’d imagined. And even without the colic, postpartum depression, or sleep-deprived hallucinations, I had no goals or deadlines on the horizon. I didn’t know who I was without striving.

Motherhood stripped away my ability to outrun myself. I couldn’t hide behind productivity or distraction anymore, not when a little human was watching me become who I would be to him.

Taking Off the Golden Handcuffs

Could I create without consuming? Could I keep a healthy distance from my phone and still make a living online? I didn’t want my son growing up looking at the side of my face while I stared at a screen. I hated how much time I was losing to my phone, how quickly a day disappeared when I was scrolling between soon-to-be cherished memories.

I flirted with the idea of doing all the best-practice influencer things one last time, but I couldn’t get myself to follow through. I made content calendars that sat collecting digital dust. I even tried to talk myself back into it—It’s flexible, it’s good money, people claim this is their dream job.

But the more I thought about “showing up,” the more my body resisted. Over the years, I had built a small marketing and PR business. I’d come out of those client meetings alive and full of energy, only to see my tripod in the corner and shiver. Then boxes of free clothes and elaborate skincare routines would appear at my doorstep and instead of feeling incredibly fortunate, which I was, I felt trapped, like I had to stay on this hamster wheel.

I had kept my Instagram afloat for eight years—through cross-country moves, health issues, and job changes—and I wasn’t afraid of hard work. I just didn’t want it to be my whole life anymore.

I had prayed since the beginning about what to do with my account, how God wanted me to use it, if at all, and whether it was still mine to steward. I never got a dramatic answer, just a quiet, growing discontent I could no longer ignore.

Influencing isn’t evil, but it no longer fit the life I wanted.

My Life Is Not an Aesthetic

Eventually, my son went from crying 90% of the limited time he was awake to 50% to barely at all. My hair started growing back. Leaving the house no longer felt like preparing for a cross-country expedition. I went out for drinks with friends. Aaron and I could watch a show after bedtime without Oliver waking up before the episode ended.

And with that tiny bit of space, a more challenging question rose to the surface: What do I actually want?

I knew the answer wasn’t social media. It wasn’t even entrepreneurship. What I really wanted wasn’t more money or more stuff. I wanted to build a life I truly enjoyed.

Motherhood had stripped me of any illusion of control. It forced me to define what I value, how I spend my time, and what story I’m telling my son with my actions, not just my words.

I didn’t want a slow aesthetic—I wanted a truly slow life. I wanted to enjoy my own existence again, without turning everything into content or strategy.

I lost my “why” for influencing when we paid off our debt. Sure, it was fun. It changed our lives financially. It gave us the freedom that allows me to stay home with my son. But fun isn’t the same thing as purpose. And success—especially online—is a fickle lover.

Which Brings Us to Mother Memos

I also wanted a creative outlet that didn’t immediately become a side hustle. For me, that is writing. My relationship with social media is complicated; my relationship with writing has always been easy.

Naturally, I did the most avoidant thing possible—I swore I’d never make a Substack. I rolled my eyes at “yet another platform.” Which, in hindsight, was an obvious sign: resistance sometimes reveals what we’re afraid to admit we actually want.

One night, I opened my Instagram archive and scrolled all the way back to the early days, before the strategy and the brand deals and the audience. My early captions were a rambling mess, but I loved writing them. I had always been writing; I just got distracted by monetizing it.

These days, I keep social media blocked other than when I’m working. I spend the mornings playing with Legos or walking the neighborhood or drinking coffee with friends while the kids destroy one of our homes. I usually forget to take photos.

I am equal parts overjoyed and terrified to launch this Substack, Mother Memos, but it feels like coming back to the beginning, now with an arsenal of wisdom. I’m excited to stretch myself and hopefully sharpen my mom brain. I want to connect with other women working to live a life aligned with their values, which this season so mercifully brings into focus.

More than anything, I don’t want to do anything out of obligation anymore, too afraid to lose something good to aim for something great. At some point, you stop asking what something gives you and finally ask what it costs.

How sweet it is to be at an age where you can look back at your old self with fondness and affection, rather than pointing out her flaws, inexperience, and naivety.